Authors: Grace F. Edwards
No Time to Die
Praise for Grace F. Edwards’s
Mali Anderson Mysteries
“This excellent series spearheaded by engaging Mali Anderson, a tough ex-cop sister who knows Harlem’s streets and rhythms like the back of her palm, is remarkable for its richly rendered portraits and cityscapes.”
—
Booknews
from The Poisoned Pen
IF I SHOULD DIE
“A lush and riveting mystery.”
—
Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“Excellent … Edwards expertly creates characters who leap to instant, long-remembered life.”
—
Chicago Tribune Books
“Grace is a gifted writer who has mastered her craft. This is the best crime fiction about Harlem since Chester Himes.”
—Eleanor Taylor Bland
“A gorgeous, sassy heroine and a plot that doesn’t quit … V. I. Warshawski, look out!”
—
Woman’s Own
“With style, and her wise and elegant sleuth, Grace Edwards captures the mood and bittersweet flavor of contemporary Harlem.”
—Varlie Wilson Wesley, author of
Where Evil Sleeps
“Hard-hitting … vibrant … gritty.”
—
Publishers Weekly
A TOAST BEFORE DYING
“Impressive … The story is tense and expertly crafted.”
—Chicago Tribune
“The action is hot and the background cool, with the kind of down-home details only a native would know.”
—Belle
“A vividly told story bringing alive the streets of Harlem.”
—The Skanner
, Portland
“In her second mystery, Grace F. Edwards shows a great flair for the genre as well as an ability to plunge into the depths of human emotions and bonds.”
—
Sun-Sentinel
, Fort Lauderdale
“Keeps readers wondering until the very end.”
—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
“A
Toast Before Dying
is proof that Edwards is a writer worth watching—and reading.”
—
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
also by grace f. edwards
In the Shadow of the Peacock
If I Should Die
A Toast Before Dying
This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover edition.
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
.
NO TIME TO DIE
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Doubleday hardcover edition published July 1999 Bantam paperback edition / March 2000
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Grace F. Edwards.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 98-56014. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
eISBN: 978-0-307-78532-9
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
for the members of
the harlem writers guild
and
perri and simone
My thanks to the Harlem Writers Guild, Inc., especially Donis Ford, Bill Banks, Sarah Elizabeth Wright, Betty Ann Jackson, Sheila Doyle, and Alphonso Nicks for their insight, support, and friendship.
At eight o’clock 140th Street was unusually quiet for a Wednesday evening in June. And empty. The man made his way past the Mahalia Jackson school cradling the small package in the crook of his arm like a gift. He was of average height but his arms were well developed, unusually muscular in contrast to his thin, dark brown frame.
The light from the vacant school yard shone through the high chain-link fence to cast his fractured image on the pavement. His shadow stretched before him, longer and thinner, then faded altogether as he moved beyond the light.
Take it easy, Ache. Ain’t no need to rush. You know how you get. Nearly got caught last time. Easy
…
He turned onto Edgecombe Avenue and, except for a couple walking a small dog near St. Mark’s Church two blocks away, the avenue was also empty. Then he remembered the storm everyone said was coming. This made him smile as he approached the house, a well-kept five-story red brick walkup with a marble entrance.
He made his way up the short flight of steps carefully, then paused in the lobby as if he had come for a visit.
Here’s the bell. Check the time. Little past eight. Late, but not too. Intercom working
…
“Yes, Miss Hastings? I’m from the supermarket. A package was left out of your delivery and I thought I’d bring it over … No, ma’am. No trouble at all.”
The sound in his left ear seemed louder now, more distinct.
You see, Ache. She told you ain’t no trouble at all. Just open the door. Buzz us in … Yes
.
Carpeted hallway. Bitch livin’ large. But this is it. Walk slow. Quiet. Nobody’ll hear nuthin’
…
Not a sound … Now, don’t rush. Her door’s opening before we even knock
.
He stared at the woman standing before him, inhaled her faint jasmine scent, then felt the sweat gather again at the small of his back and in the folds of his shrunken scrotum.
Man, what a fine sister. Beautiful. Just the way I—
“Why, that’s very thoughtful of you. I didn’t even realize the box was missing.”
You hear that, Ache? She ain’t even know the box was missin’. Like she supposed to know. Shit! Take care of the bitch
…
“Okay! Okay!”
“What? Are you all right?”
He blinked, trying to bring her back in focus. Trying to remember what he’d come to do. The perfume, it threw him off.
“I mean—yes, ma’am, it happens like that sometimes. We forget things when we rushing. You probably woulda noticed it in the morning though—at breakfast.”
“You’re right. Thank you.”
She’s about to close the door … What you waitin’ for? Move in. Now
.
“Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?”
“Not at all. I remember seeing you at the checkout. Would you like some ice? Today was a real scorcher and that storm still hasn’t come. We need some relief soon. So hot so early in the season. This heat is a killer.”
Yeah, it sure is. Smile and say yeah. Follow through the living room. Make sure she’s alone. But you can feel it. You can usually tell … Not like that last place. When that dude answered the hall phone, had to back the fuck outta there fast … Yeah, so this is the kitchen … Shit, she lookin’ kinda solid, bigger than you thought, but not too tall. You can handle her … Wait till she turns her back, opens the freezer. Get her hands on the ice tray. That’s it. Now!
Piano. Wire. The. Best. Way. Loop it twice so ain’t no sound. Shit, she stronger … than she looked. Up against the fridge. Knee in her back. That’s it. Pull … tight
.
But she continued to struggle, twist, flail, and the man felt his grip loosening on the wire. The pounding in his throat reached his ears. His arms ached and for a split second he thought about letting go and using his razor, but he quickly reconsidered. Piano wire was the best.
Soldier of Fortune
said so. Always the best. Besides, it had worked all those other times …
Then the moment he’d planned, schemed, and dreamed about: he heard the hard snap and saw the spray of saliva streak red across the door of the fridge and the hood of the stove next to it. It painted the yellow canisters of sugar, flour, tea, and coffee and finally she dropped her arms and he felt her knees give way. A second later she sagged heavily against him.
That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. Tongue’s out. Purple. Way it supposed to be … Now things’ll be quiet again. Right, Ache? Things’ll be quiet. Go on, Ache. Let’s see how she do with her tongue hangin’ out. Remember how that last bitch did you? Go on. Show her
.
I rested my arms on the window and glanced out at a late afternoon sky that resembled rusted steel. Threatening clouds had been hanging low for three days now and so far the weatherman had not earned his keep.