Doing It To Death: Kendra Clayton Series, #6

By Angela Henry

Just when Kendra Clayton's life has finally calmed down, trouble finds her once again. A case of mistaken identity lands her smack in the middle of a beef between an ex-con named Dibb Bentley and Lewis Watts—her least favorite person on the planet. Dibb hid something in Lewis's house before he went to prison three decades ago. Now he's out. And he wants it back. Only Lewis claims he doesn't know what it is let alone where it could be. Then Dibb's dead body turns up in Lewis's trunk and he's promptly arrested. Lewis begs Kendra to help him. But she'd love nothing more than to walk away. Unfortunately, Kendra can't turn a blind eye when the evidence against Lewis just doesn't add up. And to make matters worse, she's become a target herself. To figure out what the killer wants, Kendra must dig into a thirty-year-old murder case revealing the seedy side of her beloved hometown. Helping Lewis also puts her at odds with sexy and infuriating homicide detective Blake Mason. When the threats against her life escalate, Mason insists she stay with him. But Kendra can't decide what she's more afraid of, a killer lurking in the shadows or her growing attraction to Mason.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Henry
• Release date: Nov 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201632236

Angela Henry

Angela Henry was once told that her past life careers included spy, researcher, and investigator. She stuck with what she knew because today she's a mystery writing library reference specialist, who loves to people-watch, and eavesdrop on conversations. When she's not working, writing, or practicing her stealth, she loves to travel, is a connoisseur of B horror movies, and a functioning anime addict. She lives in Ohio and is currently hard at work trying to meet her next deadline.

Book preview

Prologue

1973

Lewis Watts stood in the doorway of Pinky’s Bootleg Joint and surveyed the crowd. He recognized everyone in the room because he’d just been drinking with most of them at The Spot less than half an hour ago. When The Spot closed at two in the morning, everyone who wasn’t ready to go home, and still had money in their pockets, headed for Pinky’s, an after-hours bootleg joint. Leroy ‘Pinky’ Buford was an ex-bookie who let people party at his house when the bars closed. He sold watered down drinks, ran illegal card and crap games that everyone swore were rigged, and let scandalous couples who wanted hook up behind their significant other’s backs use the three bedrooms upstairs, all for a fee, of course.

Lewis lingered in the doorway a little longer, feeling a little put out that no one had noticed him. What was the use of making an entrance when nobody was watching? And Lewis loved to make an entrance. In fact, the only reason why he hadn’t arrived sooner was because he’d gone home and changed from his lemon yellow three-piece suit with the matching fur trimmed hat to a denim jumpsuit, complete with matching denim platform shoes with corked heels and an applejack cap cocked to the side of his head, a peacock feather adorning the brim. He’d even reapplied his Pierre Cardin cologne, which he wore so strong it preceded him into every room he entered.

A loud, drunken group behind him nudged Lewis through the door right into the last person in the world he wanted to see, Dibb Bentley, causing him to spill one of the two screwdrivers he’d been carrying. Dibb was a big dark-skinned man of about 6’2".  In a time when Afros and processed hair were all the rage, he was as bald as a cue ball, had a gold front tooth, hard, flat brown eyes, and thin lips that wore a perpetual sneer no matter what mood he was in. To Lewis, Dibb always looked like he was downwind of a manure truck. And the man was the biggest liar, cheat, and thief Lewis had even known. He was surprised to even see him at Pinky’s. Last Lewis had heard Dibb had been banned from the bootleg joint for using loaded dice during a craps game. Pinky was the only one allowed to cheat at Pinky’s.

Damn, man! You need to watch where the fuck you going! exclaimed Dibb, looking down at the orange stain spreading across the front of his white suede jumpsuit.  Everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped to stare, some with glittering excited eyes, hoping to watch big Dibb stomp the shit out of little Lewis Watts.

And Lewis’s heart had momentarily jumped into his throat at the sight of the big man’s ruined jumpsuit. But as far as Lewis was concerned, he’d done Dibb a favor. In his opinion, unless he was a mechanic, no man on the upside of two hundred pounds with a beer gut should be wearing a jumpsuit anyway.

My bad, man. It was an accident, said Lewis smoothly, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. Being a small man Lewis knew all too well how quickly things would go south if he showed the slightest bit of fear. Even if Dibb tried to grind him into a stain on the pumpkin shag carpet, Lewis would stand his ground and go down fighting with everything he had in him.

That all you got to say, motherfucker? This is a brand new jumpsuit. Dibb took a menacing step forward and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of Lewis’s neck. Still he didn’t move.

Here, said Lewis, forcing a laugh as he reached into his back pocket and pulled a crisp ten dollar bill from his wallet. Get you another drink, playa, and you can use the rest for the dry cleaners. Press N’ Go should be able to get that right out for you. Lewis doubted even Press N’ Go could get orange juice and vodka out of cheap white suede, but they could be the ones to tell Dibb that.

He shoved the ten into Dibb’s hand dismissively and tried to walk past him, but the big man wouldn’t let it go. If so many people hadn’t been around, he’d probably have taken the ten and left but it was standing room only in the hot crowded house and he had an image and a reputation to uphold, one that he wasn’t about to let some little Superfly wannabe chump test. He shoved Lewis back a step and was about to punch him when the crowd that had formed around the two men suddenly parted and an older man, not a whole lot taller than Lewis, wearing a black and blue plaid suit with a cigar dangling out of the corner of his mouth, stepped between the two men and forcefully shoved them apart.

Now, I know you two jive turkeys don’t think you gonna start some shit up in my house, do you? asked Pinky Buford, looking from one man to the other. He’d unbuttoned his suit jacket and placed his right hand on the handle of a gun that was sticking out of the waistband of his pants to let them know he meant business. Pinky could have cared less if Dibb and Lewis beat each other’s brains out. But tearing up his house and getting blood on his carpet was a no no.

Hey, man, I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble, Lewis said, throwing up his hands and taking a step back. I just came to get a drink. Dealing with Dibb was bad enough. But landing on Pinky Buford’s shit list would get him blacklisted from every club, bar and bootleg joint within a 50- mile radius of Willow.

Pinky turned his attention to Dibb, who just glared at him unblinking, until a woman rushed up grabbing his arm. It was Joyce Cooper—fine ass Joyce Cooper as most of the men in Willow referred to her. Tall with caramel-colored skin, dimples, and a body that wouldn’t quit, Joyce was easily the best-looking woman in the room. Tonight, she was wearing a blue maxi dress with a plunging halter neckline that barely contained her ample bosom. She wore her thick curly black hair tied back from her face with a gold and white silk scarf. And her gold hoop earrings were so big they almost touched her shoulders.

Baby, come on and let’s dance, said Joyce, who looked back at Lewis and Pinky and winked. She led Dibb through the crowd to the opposite side of the room where a small knot of people danced to Fred Wesley and the JB’s new song, Doing it To Death, featuring James Brown.

Lewis’s heart did a little flip-flop. He’d been in love with Joyce since junior high school. Joyce Cooper was the only woman Lewis had never had the nerve to ask out. She was also as sweet as she was stacked and Lewis could never understand just what the hell such a beautiful woman saw in big, dumb Dibb, who was instantly hypnotized by Joyce’s round ass and forgot about Lewis in a heartbeat.

That’s cat’s bad news, brotha, said Pinky, taking a puff of his cigar and blowing out a stream of fragrant smoke before buttoning up his suit jacket. Best to steer clear of him, if you know what’s good for you. He’s been here less than an hour and this is the second time I’ve had to get between him and some other mofo before they tore my house up. Pinky nodded his head towards a younger man leaned against the opposite wall with a scowl on his face as he watched Joyce and Dibb dancing. He was tall, thin and light-skinned with a big Afro and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He could have been handsome if it weren’t for his severely pitted acne-scarred skin. Lewis had seen him around town singing on street corners and thought his name was Otis.

What did he do to Dibb? asked Lewis. He didn’t really care. He was just trying to be polite and not get on Pinky’s bad side.

Best you don’t know, brother. Let’s just say there’s no honor amongst thieves.

I know that’s right, Lewis replied, barely able to hear his own voice over the pounding music. But Pinky had already disappeared into the crowd. Thankful for the reprieve, Lewis made a beeline straight for the bar in the basement to get a drink to calm his nerves and, if he was lucky, a foxy mama to warm his bed.

An hour, and numerous double shots of Olde Bourbon later, Lewis was so drunk he could barely feel his face as he lurched to the bathroom to relieve himself. Then all hell broke loose. The sound of multiple gunshots followed by a loud thud and shrieking screams. Lewis never made it to the bathroom. Instead, he was caught up in the wave of fleeing people. Someone had managed to get the old cellar door in the storage area open and soon Lewis found himself outside in the cool night air as people ran past him through the alley and down the street to get away from the house.

Minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance and bleary-eyed neighbors who’d been roused from sleep by all the noise were coming out of their houses to see what was going on. Lewis may have been drunk off his ass, but even drunk he was nobody’s fool. He kept right on walking and didn’t look back until he got to his Lincoln, which was parked at the end of the long dark alley. By the time he got behind the wheel, and fumbled in his pocket for the keys, two police cars had arrived, their flashing lights illuminating the gloom of the alley.

Lewis had barely turned the key in the ignition when a blood-streaked face suddenly appeared in his rearview mirror startling him so bad his full bladder let go and he wet himself. The acrid smell of piss instantly filled the car.

Just drive, said Dibb Bentley from the backseat as he pressed the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver to Lewis’s temple.

And Lewis did as he was told.

One

27 years later

If there’s one thing I love, it’s a man who knows how to make a woman feel special, beautiful, and appreciated. Too bad that wasn’t the kind of man who was sitting opposite me at the Red Dragon Chinese restaurant. It was my third date with Sam Pearson, and I was determined to make it my last as I was feeling anything but special, beautiful and appreciated. Instead, staring at Sam as he was berating our server for allegedly getting his order wrong, I was annoyed, embarrassed, and angry. Annoyed because he was thirty minutes late for our date, embarrassed because he was being loud and ignorant, and angry because I knew I’d have to leave the tip, since Sam looked for any excuse not to. Plus, he’d actually told me upon his late arrival that he’d forgotten he had a dinner date with me and acted like I should be grateful he even showed up at all.

So why in the hell was I out on a date with a guy like Sam in the first place? Well, that’s an easy one. I was lonely. It had been several months since my man Carl had dumped me and moved to Atlanta. My best friend Lynette was happily married to her second husband and pregnant with her third child. I’d heard through the grapevine that Detective Trish Harmon had taken my erstwhile crush Reverend Morris Rollins home to Cincinnati for Christmas to meet her family. And my beloved grandmother, Estelle Mays, had eloped on New Year’s Eve with her boyfriend, Leonard Duncan, and was away on a month-long Hawaiian honeymoon, leaving me to house sit.  

After ringing in the new millennium parked on the couch with a bottle of cheap champagne and Leonard’s dog Queenie snoring at my feet, I made a vow not to be alone again next New Year’s Eve. I’d let Lynette talk me into signing up for an online dating service called, of all things, Web of Love. Sam Pearson had been the first man to contact me, and his resemblance to my tall, dark, and handsome ex, Carl, kept me going out with him even after he proved himself to be an asshole. Carl was gone, and even though my head knew it was for the best, my heart was having a hard time letting go.

Kendra? said Sam, waving a hand in my face. You alright?

Sorry, what did you say?

I said, he began with an exasperated sigh, clearly upset that I hadn’t been hanging on to his every word. Is your food okay? Because they screwed up my order and I’m making them redo it.

Our server, who I recognized as the owner’s nephew, stood silently by our table with Sam’s rejected meal on a lacquered tray looking like it was just another day at the office. He peered at my plate of cashew chicken expectantly. So, I put a forkful in my mouth and gave the young man an enthusiastic smile.

Delicious as usual. Give my compliments to your uncle, I told him around my mouthful of food. Sam rolled his eyes and angrily drummed his fingers on the table. What? I said as he continued to glare at me.

It would be nice to get some kind of backup, Kendra.

Backup? You mean you wanted me to lie about my food so you wouldn’t be loud and wrong all by yourself?

Loud and… He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, while I continued to chow down. Look, I’m not like you, he said slowly. If something’s wrong I speak up. I told you on our first date that I’m brutally honest. I don’t pull any punches. I tell it like it is. I set my fork down and crossed my arms.

Not like me. You mean polite? He shook his head and looked away and I pressed on. I have no problem with honesty, Sam. But why does it have to be brutal? If something was wrong with your order, then of course you should let them know. It’s the rudeness your so-called honesty is wrapped in that I have a problem with.

Whatever, he mumbled. Apparently, he didn’t like honesty, brutal or otherwise, when it was directed at him.

Our server was back in five minutes with a fresh plate of food for Sam. He took a bite and grunted his approval to the server as he refreshed our drinks. We ate in silence for several long minutes while I contemplated just what I would say to let him know he didn’t need to call me again. I’d asked him to meet me at the restaurant and not pick me up because I didn’t want him expecting to be invited in when he dropped me off. This was our third date, lucky number three, and I knew he’d be expecting us to get busy. Not that the thought was entirely unappealing, because it had been months since I’d gotten laid. And like I said, he was good-looking. But I knew he’d unleash his brutal honesty on Mama’s house, her ancient TV, well-worn furniture, and rotary phone, and then I’d have to politely kick his ass.

For the rest of the evening things were tense. I made polite small talk, and Sam would simply nod or grunt a yes or no answer as he pretended to be too occupied with his food to even look up at me. He was pouting and it wasn’t cute at all. I think we were both just waiting for the evening to be over so we could say our goodbyes. And thankfully I didn't have to worry about being rude or hurting his feelings since it was obvious he was just as anxious to be rid of me.  Half an hour later, we were standing next to my car. Sam’s hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were slumped. I suspected he was finally starting to feel a little embarrassed about his behavior.

Well, it’s been real, he said, looking at his watch.

Very, I said and meant it. He’d pretended to have forgotten his wallet and stuck me with the check. But I had fun. My voice trailed off into a phony giggle.

Liar. He shook his head in amusement. Not only are you too polite but you’re a lousy liar.

I can think of much worse things to be. We both laughed awkwardly anxious to get this over with.

I held my hand out for him to shake, to show that there were no hard feelings, just as a car pulled into the parking lot. It was a black Toyota Camry. I froze. I recognized that car even though I hadn’t seen the driver in months. The car parked close to the front door and Sam let out a low whistle as police detective Blake Mason and a gorgeous young woman got out of the car. Mason was wearing a black leather jacket that had to have been custom made, since I couldn’t imagine him finding anything off the rack that would fit over his biceps, a tan sweater that molded to his pecs, and black jeans.

His companion was nearly as tall as he was, olive-skinned with sleek, dark brown hair cut in a stylish bob that fell to her jawline. Her green turtleneck sweater clung to her large breasts beneath her brown, suede bolero jacket. Her jeans were tight and her high-heeled ankle boots made me drool with envy.  They strolled into the restaurant so wrapped up in conversation they didn’t notice anyone else, including Sam and me standing a mere 20 feet away.

The last time I’d seen Blake Mason was when he was in the hospital, after he’d almost died from eating poisoned cookies meant for me. He was lucky and made a full recovery. I assumed we’d run into each other in town at some point. But I hadn’t laid eyes on him since that day at the hospital when he’d gently kissed me on the cheek to thank me for saving his life. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warm imprint of his lips on my cheek. And when I didn’t see or hear from him again, I assumed he was no longer working for the Willow Police Department and had gone back to wherever he’d come from. I was both disappointed and relieved. Mason had heartbreak written all over him, and I’d had my fair share.

Sam was wearing that goofy grin that men get when they see a beautiful woman and it annoyed me. He’d never looked at me like that. His hand was still in mine. Impulsively, and for reasons I still can’t quite understand, I pulled him towards me into a serious lip lock. He’d been caught completely by surprise and his body tensed for a few seconds in shock before he relaxed and leaned into it pulling me close. And to be brutally honest, he was a damned good kisser.

---

I was happy and relieved to wake up in an empty bed the next morning. Sam was highly pissed off when he left the night before after I’d invited him over so we could get busy and then changed my mind after he was all hot, naked and standing at attention. In my defense, I had every intention of going through with it. But I kept fantasizing about Carl whose face kept morphing into Mason’s.  It made for one freaky ménage a quatre and made me feel sleazy and slightly sick to my stomach. And the fact that I’d almost had a one-night stand at Mama’s house, in the same bed I slept in as a child—with the same faded cornflower blue comforter—made it even worse. He’d called me a cock-teasing bitch, among other things, as I rushed him out of the house in the dead of night. I didn’t care. I just hoped he wouldn’t call me again.

My sheets still smelled like Sam’s cologne, so I got up and stripped the bed, hoping to erase every trace of my date gone wrong.  I’m not sure who I was fooling. I’ve never been a casual sex kind of girl. Waking up alone after a night of passion would have made me feel even more sad and empty then if I’d kept my ass home last night.

After showering and putting on sweats, I took the bedding and headed down the stairs, stopping to let Queenie out into the backyard along the way. I tossed the bundle down the basement steps where it landed on top of the rest of my dirty laundry. By the time I got the paper from the front porch, pulled a box of cereal from the cabinet and a carton of milk from the fridge, Queenie was scratching at the back door.  I was busy scanning the front page of the Willow-News Gazette as I flung the screen door open to let the dog back in.

I didn’t notice when the screen door didn’t slam shut right away. In fact, I was so engrossed in the paper, I didn’t notice that the beagle had brought something in with her besides her rawhide bone until I heard heavy footsteps echoing behind the click of Queenie’s claws on the linoleum. Startled, I dropped the newspaper and stumbled back against the counter and stared at the stranger standing in Mama’s kitchen. He was a tall, heavyset, dark-skinned man over six feet tall, with sunken eyes and grey stubble dotting his cheeks. He wore a blue warm-up suit underneath a bulky green parka, a white baseball cap, and black trainers. I couldn’t tell how old he was. But if I had to guess would put him somewhere between late fifties to mid-sixties.

Sorry, he said, giving me a sheepish look. He held up his hands and took a step backwards. I knocked and when you flung the door open I assumed you were inviting me in. As he spoke, I saw the glint of a gold tooth.

Who are you? I asked when I finally found my voice.

Name’s Delbert Bentley. But folks just call me Dibb. He took a step forward and held out a meaty hand for me to shake. I eyed his hand dubiously before reaching out and giving it a quick shake vaguely wondering if I’d just shaken the hand that was about to strangle me.

Okay. Can I help you?

I was just lookin’ for a buddy of mine and someone told me you was his lady and might know where he is. You’re Kelly, right? He didn’t wait for my answer and started looking around like this so-called friend might pop out of one of the cabinets.

Was he talking about Carl? I guess he could be a friend of Carl’s but somehow I doubted it. I’d meet most of Carl’s friends and this man wasn’t one of them. Maybe he was someone Carl had represented in court or gave legal advice to when he was doing pro bono work for Holy Cross Ministries.

Actually, it's Kendra, and if you’re looking for Carl, he moved to Atlanta and I don't have his number. But I can give you his work address. Somehow admitting that I didn’t have my ex’s phone number and address embarrassed me. But it was true. The one and only letter I’d gotten from Carl since he’d moved to Atlanta was from his work address. I had no other way to get in contact with him.

Who’s Carl? asked my visitor, looking very confused, which made me confused.

Carl Brumfield? My ex? Didn’t you say you were looking for him?

Don’t know no one named Carl.

Well, are you looking for Leonard Duncan? I asked when it occurred to me he might be looking for Mama’s new husband.

Nope. I’m talking about Lewis Watts. You’re his woman, right?

Huh? Who in the hell would have told this man that I was short ass, processed hair having, pimp suit wearing, old enough to be my father Lewis Watts’s woman? This had to be some kind of sick joke.

Look Mr. Dubb… I began.

It’s Dibb, he corrected.

Okay, I said, taking a deep breath. I don’t know where you’re getting your information from or what kind of game you’re trying to play, but I am most certainly not Lewis Watts’s woman.

My bad, little sister, he said, chuckling softly at my outraged expression. But you kinda looked like you was his woman in this picture. He pulled a snapshot from the pocket of his coat and handed it to me. I stared at it suspiciously before taking it from him. Then I took a look at it and felt my face flush with embarrassment that it even existed in the first place, especially when I didn’t even remember posing for it. Actually, that's not exactly true. I remembered the pose. It was the camera I was a little foggy on since I’d been half drunk off fuzzy navels at the time.

In the picture I was dressed in a blue halter dress with a pimp hat complete with a pink feather sticking out of the brim, broken down over my left eye. I was sitting astride a Ducati motorcycle with Lewis standing next to me with his arm draped around my shoulders, while I wore a goofy grin on my face. It was the one and only piece of evidence that I had actually gone out on a date with Lewis Watts. But I’d had good reason, or so I thought at the time. Lewis had information