The Sinner in Mississippi

by D L Lane

  “My town?”

  “No.” Placing his palm on my back Mr. King escorted me to the door. “We are going to my town.”

  “Won’t your fiancée be angry with you if you take me into Baton Rouge?”

  “She’s with my mother. They have decided to take a trip today, add to their wardrobes, so I expect them to be gone until this evening.”

  “Oh.”

  He glanced down at me, the tycoon gone, Thayer appearing. “Besides, Mississippi, I do not care if Catherine does upset herself.”

  I’d be paying the price if she did pitch a fit, not him, but spending time alone with Mr. King would be worth whatever meanness she dished up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  My very own bank book

  Seated in the back of the Duisenberg, Mr. King beside me, Charles pulled the car in front of a big building with a row of large windows mirroring our reflection. The sign above reading, National Bank of Baton Rouge.

  “We have arrived,” Mr. King said as his driver parked.

  Knowing I needed to wait, I smiled. Sure enough, Charles opened my door. “Ms. Singleton,” he said, holding out his large hand.

  I wrapped my fingers around his palm and slid out—one heeled shoe hitting the sidewalk, then the other.

  Straightening my coat and the pretty hat on my head, my escort held out his arm. “Shall we?”

  Looping my arm in his, Mr. King and I walked through the doors which someone opened for us from the inside, and we stepped in.

  Chandeliers sparkled overhead, and marble floors shined, but what drew my gaze was the tubby man with a head so bald it glowed as he waddled his way out of an office and over to us, smiling as if he’d seen a long, lost relative. “Mr. King, it’s good to see you. What may I do for you this afternoon?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilier.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “My companion,” Mr. King said, glancing down at me, “requires a bank account.”

  “I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”

  “I’m sure as the president of this bank, you are far too busy to concern yourself. We won’t mind waiting for one of the clerks.”

  Mr. Wilier waved a chubby hand. “No, no. I wouldn’t want you to wait. I will take care of you now.”

  Following along, my arm still entwined with Mr. King’s we took our seats in a large office.

  Twenty minutes later, I had my very own bank book and fifty dollars cash in my purse!

  “I’ll help you keep your ledger balance if you need the assistance,” Mr. King offered, helping me into the backseat of his car himself.

  “If you have the time to show me, I’d be grateful,” I said.

  Once we were all situated, Mr. King leaned forward. “Charles, I think refreshments are in order.”

  “Soda fountain or ice cream, sir?”

  Blue eyes met me. “You decide, Ms. Singleton.”

  Without any hesitation, I blurted out, “Ice cream,” making the man at my side smile.

  “You heard the lady, Charles. Ice cream it is.”

  ***

  September had faded into October, and Mr. King’s guests had gone, all but two—his mama, and his fiancée, who made it known to me she intended to stay on a while.

  “I saw you and Thayer talking in the hall this morning,” Catherine said, making me bristle.

  “We often talk,” I replied as if I hadn’t a care in the world.

  Her green eyes snapped. “If you think you’ll be getting rid of me anytime soon because Father left, you’re mistaken. I’m spending the holidays here.”

  I went back to my job. “How nice for you.”

  “I’m going to be speaking to him so that you know.”

  “To who? Your daddy?”

  “No, you imbecile. To Thayer.”

  I shrugged. “I assumed you talked with Mr. King daily.”

  “I do, but I’m going to be talking to him about you.”

  Refusing to take the bait, I cracked a grin and kept on dusting. “Enjoy your chat.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement. Ms. Carrington had flipped her hair and sniffed, tossing out her parting jab. “Enjoy your last day of employment, Ms. Singleton.”

  “Well, if I get tossed out on my backside, at least I won’t have to see you.”

  The woman’s little huffing/scream as she left my side, sent tendrils of joy through my heart.

  ***

  “Ms. Singleton, may I speak with you in my office?” Mr. King asked sometime after dinner, Catherine at his side as pleased as a smiling possum, her face aglow.

  Getting up from the chair I’d perched myself in to read, I put on the grin I didn’t feel. “Of course, sir.”

  The moment I passed him, he said, “This meeting doesn’t involve you, Catherine.”

  She whined, “But Thayer.”

  “You’ve said your piece. Now I’ll hear what Ms. Singleton has to say.”

  If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it. I’d left the two of them behind, and was waiting outside his office door when he arrived.

  “Mr. King,” I started, but he held up an imperious hand.

  “Not until we get inside.” Opening his door, he allowed me in, taking up the rear, closing the door behind us. “Sit down.”

  Swallowing, I took a seat.

  “Now, before you say anything else, Ms. Singleton, I’m going to speak.”

  I nodded.

  He combed his fingers through his midnight-colored hair, disrupting the strands. “Why is it Catherine came in here before the evening meal, arms flailing, yelling about you being hateful and rude to her, then went on a ten-minute rant telling me I should no longer retain you as an employee?”

  I remained mute.

  “You may answer now,” he said, still standing.

  “I suppose the best answer is the two of us don’t like each other much.”

  “I gathered,” he mumbled. “What I want to know is anything she said the truth?”

  Making sure my posture was straight, I said, “Yes.”

  “Which part?”

  I tapped my fingers on the arm of the chair. “All of it.”

  Mr. King seemed to deflate, half-sitting on the corner of his desk, half-standing. “All of it?”

  “Well, in my defense, I’ve just been protecting myself.”

  “So, you’re saying she started the feud between you?”

  “She threw the first blow,” I said.

  Mr. King got to his feet, jaw ticking. “Catherine struck you?”

  I waved my hand. “Not with her fists.”

  “With what?”

  “Her words.” I glanced out the window. “I think they were something like, ‘You no-account, poor white piece of trash.”

  “What?” Mr. King’s voice rose to an ear-piercing level.

  “After that, I smarted off,” I said, glancing back at him. “So do I need to leave?”

  “You’re not leaving this office or this house.” With one long stride, he came to me, hoisted me up, and hugged me to his chest.

  I did what I do—melted into him.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, chin resting on top of my head. “She won’t be saying anything hurtful to you again. I promise.”

  Palm resting on his hip, I said, “I don’t see how you can stop her.”

  “Don’t you concern yourself with the how, just know from this point on, Catherine Carrington will be on her best behavior when it comes to you.”

  “I’ll try to hold my tongue when I’m around her,” I said, as he released me from his hold. “But I can’t promise anything.”

  Mr. King broke into laughter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Surprise visitor

  October 12, 1936

  Standing outside, several feet from the back of the estate, I was taking my frustrations out by beating one of Mr. King’s ornate rugs, Catherine making me so mad steam was coming out my ears. She’d become sneakier in her cruel,
deceitful ways since my meeting with her fiancé, going as far as to push me. I almost tumbled down the stairs—the cleaning supplies in my hands flying. Cloths scattered and the tin of Mansion Antiseptic Polish bounced to the bottom rung and kept on going, rollin’ into the foyer where it came to rest.

  Laughing, that vicious woman had said, “That’s what you get for thinking you are somehow above the rules. All the servants use the back staircase, not the front!”

  Thwack, thwack, thwack!

  Pausing to catch my breath, I watched it cloud in front of me like fog. Louisiana weather in the middle of October was usually mild, bouncing around in the seventies, but not for the previous few days. The temperature had turned cold enough to put a chill into a person if you weren’t wearing a coat.

  Getting ready to take another swing, I halted—the broad head of the beater hoisted in midair. At first, I thought I was seeing things, but no, my brother came strolling up as bold as you please.

  “Danny Joe?” For once, I was glad Mr. King had business away from home. “What are you doing here?”

  Tugging the color of his ratty jacket up, he gave me his crooked grin. “Now, is that any way to greet family, Sippi?”

  Putting a hand on my hip, I lifted my chin. “If you were expecting joyful smiles and hugs, you’d be wrong.”

  “Naw, I wasn’t expectin’ any of those.” He rubbed his chapped, red hands together, hunching his shoulders and blowing inside the cup he’d made of them. “I walked all the way here. Think we could go inside and talk so I can get warm?”

  “No,” I snapped, but a twinge of guilt over my good fortune and his lack of, did make me waver, more so when he shivered. “I guess we can talk on the back porch. It’s covered and will get you out of the wind.”

  “Alright,” he said, trailing after me once I placed the tool down I’d been squeezing to death in my hand.

  “I’ll ask again,” I said as we made our way into the enclosure, “what are you doing here?”

  “You wouldn’t have anything to eat, would-ya?” He glanced down at his feet, the shoes he wore riddled with holes. “It’s been a while, and I’m starvin’.”

  “Stay here.” I held up a hand. “I mean it, Danny Joe, don’t you move an inch.”

  “I ain’t gonna budge.”

  Spinning around, I made my way inside, snuck down to the kitchen, and slipped through the door, happy no one was around.

  After a quick grab and run, I had some blueberry muffins, an apple, and a cheese sandwich on a plate, pouring a glass of milk to take with me, then I was outta there.

  “Here you go,” I said a few minutes later, handing the food over to my brother.

  Danny Joe grabbed the milk and downed it. His throat working overtime as the glug, glug, glug’s swirled around us.

  Top lip covered in a white mustache, he asked, “Could I have some more?”

  Popping up a finger, I said, “One more glass, but that’s all I can do.”

  He nodded.

  Another quick trip behind me, and he’d gobbled up everything by my return, working on the apple when I handed the re-filled glass over—my glance falling to his filthy fingernails.

  Swallowing, then wiping his lips with the back of his hand, Danny Joe stared at me. “You’re lookin’ good, Sippi. Filled out some.”

  I shrugged.

  “Mr. King must be takin’ real fine care of you.”

  “Mr. King is kind.”

  “I bet,” he mumbled.

  I crossed my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re a lot of things, but you ain’t dumb. Someone like Mr. King isn’t gonna give any Singleton, not even my pretty sister, the time of day if you ain’t givin’ him somethin’ in return.”

  My jaw dropped, though nothin’ my brother said should have shocked me. “Mr. King is engaged to be married!”

  “What does that matter?” He tossed the mangled apple core off the porch.

  “He’s not like that, and you shouldn’t be disparaging his good name.”

  “Dis-par-g, huh?”

  “Disparaging. It means to slander.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

  “To speak bad about someone,” I said.

  “Whatever, Sippi.” He glanced up at the ceiling of the porch. “Point being; no man is gonna pass up the chance for some hanky-panky, engaged, married, or otherwise.”

  I’d had enough. “Look, Danny Joe. I don’t got all day to argue with you. What do you—”

  “Daddy’s in jail.”

  I kept my eyes on him, not sure where this conversation was going; Daddy had been in jail a whole lot in my life, so what did another stay behind bars matter?

  My brother’s gaze darted to me. “You wouldn’t know anything ’bout that, would-ya?”

  Frowning, I asked, “Why would I know?”

  “’Cause he’s been in there a while.”

  We stared at each other.

  “A few days after Mr. King took you off our hands, in fact.”

  I tapped my foot. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  “There’s even talk ’bout Daddy being sent up to the big house this time.”

  He must have done something terrible, but I didn’t ask, remaining silent.

  Danny Joe squinted. “I’m-a sayin’, it seems to me and the boys, he got tossed in the clink for thievin’ after those coppers raided a spot nobody should know ’bout, but—”

  “Me?” I imagined my eyes were as wide as saucers. “You think I know where y’all kept your stolen goods, and I went and ratted on Daddy?”

  “Yup.”

  Any pity or goodwill I’d been feeling left me in a whoosh! “Leave!”

  Danny Joe stepped up to me, cold blue eyes peering down into my face. “You owe us, Sippi.”

  I poked a finger into his chest. “I don’t owe you, or Daddy, anything.”

  “You do, and it’s time to pay up.”

  “With what?” I tossed my hand in the air. “I don’t have any money.” I lied.

  “But that fancy-pants Mr. King does.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He ain’t gonna give me any money.”

  “But I saw you the other day, comin’ out of his big shiny car and going into the bank, all gussied up like one of those highfalutin’ ladies around town.”

  I glared at him. “What were you doing in Baton Rouge? Scoping out another joint to rob?”

  “Nunna you’re business.” He reached and grabbed hold of the hair I’d twisted into a bun. “But, I think you best be remembering where you come from.”

  “As if I could forget,” I spat.

  When he shook his wrist, my head went side-to-side since his grip remained latched onto me. “No more of this stupid conversation, you’re gonna get me some money.”

  “I don’t have any,” I said through gritted teeth.

  “I saw those other women, too. The ones who are stayin’ here with sparklin’ jewels around their necks.”

  He yanked my head back, loosening a grunt of pain from me.

  “It will be easy to take somethin’ from them,” he said. “I bet they’ll never even know anything’s gone missin’.”

  “I’m not stealing any jewelry from Mr. King’s guests, or anything else for that matter.” Stomping my foot on his toe, he let go of me, hopping back—rage distorting his face.

  “You’re gonna do it, and meet me down at Muller’s crossin’ around this time in two days, or I’m-a comin’ back.”

  His two crooked front teeth appeared, but his smile wasn’t friendly or brotherly. “And, Sippi, if I come back, I won’t be alone.”

  I tried to hide my reaction, but what he’d said sent a sharp spike of fear through my chest.

  “I hear-tale”—glancing at the house behind me with an almost wistful expression on his pointed features, Danny Joe continued as if we were having a casual chat—“fire can burn a place down real quick when it’s dry and cold out.”

  Those
evil eyes of his slipped back to me. “Be a shame if that sorta thing happened.” He lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “And who knows. If a fire got too outta control, lives might be lost.”

  I pulled my own meanness around me like a blanket and held on tight so that the fear wouldn’t show. “So, you’ve sunk low enough to make threats about burning down the home your sister is stayin’ in, wishing the doing kills her, too?”

  “Might not be you,” he drawled. “Maybe Mr. King would succumb to the flames.”

  “You disgust me!”

  “I’m just statin’ facts, Sippi.” He took two steps down the stairs, then turned, giving me a salute. “See-ya soon.”

  “I hope your toes fall off from frostbite!” I whisper/yelled, but Danny Joe was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I wasn’t, and never would be, a thief

  Pacing like a caged animal, I made my way up and down the long hallway, afraid to climb the stairs to the third floor where I shared a room with Ms. Bonny, ’cause I didn’t want to give away my distress while I chewed on the problem. Coming to a stop, I balled my fists, resting them on my temples, trying to come up with something—not knowing what in the world I was going to do.

  “Ahhh!” I started in again, my steps angrier.

  My brother’s threats weren’t idle. He’d do what he said, and do so with great pleasure. Of that, I was positive. But of all the things people said about me, having sticky fingers wasn’t one of them.

  I wasn’t, and never would be, a thief.

  There was no way I would take anything from Mr. King or his guests, and doing so wasn’t an option. On the other hand, I had to do something to put a stop to Danny Joe’s plans. I couldn’t allow anyone in the house to come to harm. Not even Catherine, a person I despised.

  ***

  Hours later, I was still pondering what to do as I scrubbed the bathroom floor. Maybe I should go to Mr. King, tell him my brother showed up, and spill the beans about my problem.

  The thought seemed a good one. After all, he hadn’t been wrong—Mr. King did have money, and he might give me some to get Danny Joe off my back, but...

  Don’t involve the man in your family troubles; he’s done enough.