Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? Read online

  Madalyn also didn't know how the flight would be for her. She hadn't had a calm stomach since she started chemotherapy. In the car, they could stop at will. So Cecil threw a few things in a couple of bags for them, locked up the house, put on the alarm, left a note for Mrs. Baker next door to retrieve their papers every day, and then they hit the road.

  “Maddie, no matter what we find when we get to New York, we can handle it,” said Cecil. “You can do this. We've been through so much.”

  “Yes, baby. I know. I just pray that Ritz is alive. We should have never let all that time pass between us. Nothing should have kept us from speaking. Life is too short to be small.”

  Cecil let silence hang in the air. He didn't want to contemplate the brevity of life, not with his Maddie fighting for hers and now his niece, the girl he raised as his own daughter, lying in a hospital room, perhaps dead. It was almost too much for him. Cecil was never big on emotions. He was an old-school man. He provided for his family and was the pillar of the household. He was a God-fearing man of little words.

  But the events of the past year— from not hearing from or seeing Ritz to Maddie's cancer to now the shooting and possible death of Ritz— was so much more than Cecil thought he could handle. He was a strong man. He had to be as the oldest boy in a family of twelve, growing up on a farm in South Carolina. He picked cotton. He milked cows. He hauled hay. Back then, children were treated more like slaves. He never talked back to his parents, because the consequences were too great. They didn't have child welfare agencies back then, and if they did, no one was going out to the sticks and backwoods of Columbia to check on some Negro kids. And there wasn't a phone to call 911. So Cecil learned to work hard, keep his head down, and not expect too much.

  He met Madalyn, this elegant, beautiful woman who gave him hope that he could have more out of this life. He left his life in South Carolina and embarked on a new adventure. He still worked hard and kept his head down, but with Madalyn he got to play. Madalyn loved to travel. Cecil had never been north of North Carolina or west of Tennessee until he met Madalyn. Together they went to Vegas, all along the strip. They went to Los Angeles and Arizona. He saw the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. Madalyn loved the islands, which Cecil grew to appreciate. Having worked in the hot sun most of his childhood, the idea of sitting in the hot sun didn't appeal to him much. But doing things with Madalyn made it all right. He climbed Dunn's River Falls, got on Jet Skis, and once even took a helicopter ride.

  “Life is for living!” Madalyn would say. “So let's live, baby. Let's live!”

  To watch her now, slowed down by sickness, broke Cecil's heart. And when her sister Gina died and little Ritz came to live with them, it gave him another source of fulfillment. He knew Madalyn could never have children and he married her anyway. He told her he grew up with enough children that the idea of fatherhood was kind of beaten out of him. But that wasn't exactly true. He loved Madalyn enough to sacrifice his desire to be a father. And while the sadness that brought Ritz to their home could not be overlooked, the joy little Ritz gave them more than made up for it. Cecil thought Madalyn was a bundle of energy. Ritz just about wore him out— but in the best way possible.

  As Cecil drove up I-95, he looked over at Maddie, who was napping, with her head on a pillow against the window, and he wondered if either of his girls would ever be back to their old form. He hoped so.

  3

  Detective Tom Pelov grabbed Tracee gently by the arm and led her to a waiting area in an out-of-the-way part of the hospital. Pelov had investigated more than five homicides in the last six months out of this hospital and knew every nook and cranny in it. He motioned for Chas to follow.

  Tracee was on the brink of hysterics and couldn't hold herself together.

  “Is she… is she…” Tracee managed between shrieks of tears. “Is she dead?!”

  “Please, ma'am. Please calm down,” said Detective Pelov. “If we are going to find out who did this to your friend, I need you to be calm and clearheaded. I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Don't tell me to calm down! My friend has been shot! No one is giving us any answers! We can't get in to see her. And now you— Detective Homicide— want to ask us some questions? I think you better give us some answers first! Is Ritz dead?!”

  “No.…”

  “Good!”

  “But… she's not out of the woods, either,” said Detective Pelov. “I'm on this case because we believe that the goal of the shooter was to kill Miss Harper. We believe that person is still out there and that they will try again. I need you to help me. Now, I'm sorry, what are your names and what is your relationship to the victim?”

  “The victim's name is Ritz Harper!” Tracee said, sniffling. She was sick and tired of all of the Jane Doe, victim stuff. “I am Tracee Remington, her best friend. I just came in town from Florida. Ritz was supposed to pick me up at the airport. Then I call got a call from Chas here at the hospital. I have no idea what's going on or who would do something like this to Ritz.”

  Chas was standing next to Tracee with his arms folded. He was remarkably calm and collected. He didn't want to talk to the detective. He didn't want to be at the hospital. He had business to attend to, but he couldn't look like he had someplace to go.

  Detective Pelov had flipped open his notepad and was jotting down notes as Tracee spoke. He didn't look up when he asked Chas what his relationship was to the victim.

  “I'm the executive producer of Ritz's radio show,” Chas said.

  “Do you know who may have shot Miss Harper?”

  “I can't say that I do. You know her show is very provocative. She gets threats all the time. She's made a lot of folks mad.”

  “Who threatened her and when?”

  “Wow,” said Chas, looking up in the air as if he were counting those who had threatened Ritz. “That list is long. But I don't think any of them were serious.”

  “Obviously, at least one was serious. We need to follow all of the leads. Now, where were you when Miss Harper was shot?”

  “I was in the studio, finishing up some business.”

  “Is that your normal routine?”

  Chas hesitated. His weekday routine was to walk Ritz to her car. The two would often hang out after the show and plan the next day or the next week.

  “Um, yeah. I sometimes stay behind and make some phone calls, books some guests, things like that.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No, our intern, Jamie, was there,” Chas said.

  “Okay. I need the names and contact numbers of everyone who works on the show. I also need some copies of the last week of shows. Perhaps there will be some clues in that. And if you can give me the contact information for the guests from the last couple of weeks, that would be very helpful, too.”

  “Do you have any leads?” Tracee butted in.

  “There were some witnesses. We may have a partial plate and description of a vehicle. But that's it. Miss Harper's level of celebrity and notoriety actually makes this case harder.

  The shooter could be literally anyone— a fan, a disgruntled guest, a friend or family member of a caller, or even someone she worked with. From what I hear, she wasn't very nice.”

  Tracee shot him an angry look.

  “You don't know her. And I would appreciate it if you would keep your opinions to yourself!”

  “It's not my opinion, ma'am,” Detective Pelov said. “These are just the facts. You asked me a question. I simply answered you.”

  “Is there anything else we can help you with?” said Chas, looking at his watch. “I have a few things to tie up.”

  “Okay, that will be all,” said Detective Pelov. “But please keep your cell phone on. I may need to contact you with some follow-up questions. Thank you both for your time.”

  Pelov put his notebook in his jacket pocket and walked away. Chas gave Tracee a hug and told her that he had to head over to the studio to prepare some sort of program to put in Ritz's time slot.<
br />
  “You're leaving me here?” she said.

  “I'm just a phone call away,” said Chas, holding his Treo up. “If you need me, just call me. Besides, Ritz's family will be here soon.”

  Tracee's eyes were bloodshot from crying and lack of sleep. She was tired from the inside out and confused. She grabbed Chas's forearm.

  “Do you have any idea who did this?” She looked him in his eyes.

  “Baby, I wish I did. Don't worry, the cops will find whoever it is. And look around at all the security. No one is getting in here to do it again.”

  Tracee hadn't noticed, but there was a police officer at every entrance and exit of the hospital. No one could get in without having their bags checked and signing his or her name in a book. But was it enough? Would the shooter come back and try again?

  4

  The building that housed WHOT was abuzz. Reporters from every single news outlet— from television to print— flooded the lobby. They couldn't get by security in the lobby because everyone needed a pass to reach any floor. A few clever reporters managed to sneak their way to the thirty-eighth floor of the building with the hopes of finding a staircase leading to the thirty-ninth floor. It was a good plan, except that WHOT was prepared with its own security on the thirty-ninth floor, providing a dead end.

  Many of the reporters even tried to bribe the security officers, hoping to just talk to anyone about the notorious Ritz Harper. They had already combed the neighborhood looking for witnesses, or anyone who could shed light on what happened the night before— the night Ritz Harper was shot on a New York City street.

  “What are we going to do, Ernest?” asked Abigail Gogel, the station manager of WHOT. WHOT was started by Abigail's grandfather. The Gogel family was black but had passed for white until very recently. Abigail's grandfather was able to build an empire as a white man. Abigail was about five-three and very plump, with pale, white skin. She dyed her hair a reddish color that looked very unnatural. She could pass for a Jewish bubuLa. But every now and then, when it was convenient, Abigail would let people know she was black— like when there were minority grants or awards to get.

  The station her grandfather built was bought out eight years before by a major media conglomerate that had affiliates in fifty markets. The one stipulation of the sale was that there had to be a Gogel in a well-placed position in the company. Abigail had been married twice to white men and had two sons, but she had never changed her last name.

  “My family worked hard for this name and I am never going to give it up,” she said to her second husband. That marriage lasted only three years. She had been single for twelve.

  Abigail wasn't the most bright or savvy businesswoman. She had power because of her family legacy. The only hope of restoring any dignity to the Gogel name would be her son, Jonathan, a recent graduate of the New School who was working at the station in production. He wanted to learn the business from the bottom to the top. He wisely wanted to understand every aspect of radio. But for now, his mother was in charge. Well, sort of.

  “Ernest, what are we going to do?!”

  Ernest Ruffin, whom everyone called Ruff, had the title of program director, but he was really the general manager. He handled the day-to-day issues, from the sales department to dealing with the interns to making sure the transmitter was functioning.

  “Miss Gogel, don't worry. Ritz's producer has put together two weeks' worth of Best of shows,” said Ruff. “Those will do very well, because there's so much attention right now around Ritz and the shooting that her fans are salivating to hear her voice. We have a meeting planned for later today to discuss what happens after the two weeks.”

  “What's her status? Is she expected to make it?”

  “Um, we don't know. But it doesn't look good,” said Ruff. “She took a lot of bullets in some vital places. We have a few prospects who can take her spot if that's what needs to happen.”

  “To be honest with you, she always made me nervous. And now with the shooting, even if she survives, perhaps we should think of replacing her,” said Abigail. “She's got too much— what do the young people say?— drama around her. My grandfather built this station with a dignified vision, and I'm not about to let some loose cannon take it down. Let's seriously look for her replacement. What about Vivica Fox? Or Mo'Nique. I saw her filling in on The View and she was bold and had a lot to say. She has a name, and I think she could handle this job.”

  Ruff didn't show any expression. He was a master at wearing masks. It's why he was able to survive for the last fifteen years as program director. That was considered a lifetime in a business that was changing quickly and where program directors were beginning to take a backseat to “the talent.”

  Ruff was firmly in power. Everyone thought he was on their side and confided in him. He knew where all of the skeletons were buried at WHOT. That alone made him invaluable to Abigail Gogel. Ruff was also smart enough to never let her know how powerful he actually was. He pretended to defer to her on everything.

  “Yes, Miss Gogel. That's a great idea,” he said. “I will contact Mo'Nique's agent and see if she can fill in. If she rocks it, we should move forward with your plan. As a matter of fact, let's have Vivica Fox do one week, Mo'Nique do another week, and that hot-ass columnist Michelle Davis, the one they use as a correspondent on Fox all the time, let's try her one week. She's feisty. I think she and Ritz are friendly, too. She did a couple of pieces on Ritz, so I know she'll do Ritz a favor.”

  “I love it!” Abigail said. “We can promote these divas to death.… I mean, you know what I mean. We can get some real publicity for all of this. The best thing Ritz Harper could have done for us might have been getting herself shot.”

  “That's cold, Miss Gogel. That's cold.”

  Ruff had a smile on his face, but he didn't like Abigail. In fact, he couldn't stand her. He thought she was a dumb, fat bitch. But she never knew it. He had no intentions of replacing Ritz. Unless she died. He wanted his star back in her seat, making him look good. He knew if Ritz ever did come back, she would be bigger and better than before. He was pulling for a full recovery.

  As Ruff retreated to his office, he noticed that a huge box had been delivered. He opened it to find twelve bottles of

  George Vesselle champagne. It was a rosé that sold for two hundred and fifty-nine dollars a bottle. A note inside read:

  Sorry to hear about your loss. Here is something to help you soothe your pain a bit. Feel free to share it with the folks at the station. And if you need anything, a fill-in for Ritz Harper in particular, I am available.

  Keep in touch,

  Michelle Davis

  Michelle Davis? Speak of the devil!

  “What a classy lady,” Ruff said to himself. “Now if she's half as good on the radio as she is on television, we may be onto something.”

  And what an opportunist, he thought, shaking his head. Michelle Davis already had Ritz dead, buried, and replaced— by Michelle Davis.

  Ruff hadn't really thought that far in advance. He was just hoping Ritz would make it. They had enough material to do Best of.shows. But for how long? They would need a fill-in— maybe a replacement if Ritz didn't pull through.

  Michelle Davis?

  Ruff tucked her card into his daily planner, put one of the bottles of George Vesselle in his office refrigerator to chill, and smiled.

  She was definitely more than a possibility.

  5

  Tracee was on hour number twenty. Twenty straight hours of no sleep, no food, and very little information.

  The first two hours, Tracee hadn't even seen Ritz. She wasn't allowed in because she wasn't next of kin, but she called Ritz's aunt and uncle and waited for them to drive up from Virginia. Chas was with her for a bit, but he disappeared. Then there was the detective— homicide detective— who scared the shit out of her, having her think Ritz was dead. He was, however, one of the few bright spots in her evening, because he came back to the hospital and stayed with her and comforte
d her. At least he was trying to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  No one knew anything, and if they did, they weren't telling Tracee anything about Ritz's progress or condition. It was frustrating.

  When Madalyn and Cecil arrived, Tracee immediately noticed how haggard Aunt Madalyn looked. She gave them both a huge hug and they sat down in the waiting area, hoping a doctor would come by.

  “How was your trip?” asked Tracee, straining to make small talk to keep her mind and theirs, too, off the serious issues before them.

  “Oh, it wasn't too bad,” said Cecil. “There wasn't much traffic. We made it in just six hours, which is pretty good.”

  Aside from Madalyn's appearance, another strange thing that Tracee noticed was the silence. Ritz's Aunt Madalyn was known for having the gift of gab. She could talk twenty-four/seven about any- and everything, but she hadn't said more than two words since she arrived. At first Tracee thought that Aunt Madalyn was taking the shooting really hard. But there seemed to be something else.

  “Are you okay, Aunt Madalyn? What's the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing, baby. Nothing for you to worry about,” Madalyn said, seeing the lines of concern etching their way across Tracee's brow.

  “I'm going to go find a doctor, but I think you guys need to go someplace and rest. Ritz is going to need your strength,” Tracee said. “You're more than welcome to stay at my loft. I have plenty of room and I would love to have you. It may be a bit dusty, though. I haven't been there in a while.”