The Sinner in Mississippi

by D L Lane

  “Because I can and will make things for you miserable.”

  A malevolent smile curled the corners of her lips. “Oh, now, Thayer, you are delusional. Just because you were born a male and I a female, doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t make things miserable for you.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose you could try.”

  Not getting the response I suspected she’d been looking for, Catherine stomped around me. “You don’t have any idea who you are dealing with.”

  I moved quickly to step back in front of her. “I know exactly who I’m dealing with. A lying, conniving, venom-filled creature, and it doesn’t make one bit of difference what your father is neck-deep into or who it is you think you know. Your threats are pathetic. And if you believe I don’t know all those same ‘unscrupulous types’ you were so happy to toss out to frighten my employee, you would be mistaken.”

  “Geraldine Bonny is going to pay,” she spat.

  “No. You are. The engagement is off. I want you out of my house straight away. To look at you sickens me.”

  She tossed her hand up, the three and a half-carat emerald I’d unenthusiastically given her six months ago sparkling in the lamplight. “I’m keeping the ring!”

  “Consider it a parting gift.”

  Her nostrils flared. “You’ll be sorry you messed with me.”

  “Trust me, I already am.”

  Wrapping my fingers around her arm, I marched her out of my office, and toward a gaping Ms. Bauman, where I briefly stopped. If I’d had more time, I would have made better arrangements, but the two male staff who were on the estate would have to do. Besides, Charles was a big man who had been a street fighter in his rough and tumbled youth. He could handle the likes of Catherine Carrington.

  “Call for Charles and Rene, then send them upstairs with haste,” I said, catching her composure pop back in place.

  “Consider it done, Mr. King.”

  With that, I tugged Catherine up the stairs to her room, opened the door, and towed her in as she protested to the very end, trying to yank herself free.

  “Let loose of me, you brute!”

  I was happy to. The woman made my skin crawl. “Pack your things!”

  Back straight, head held high; she glowered at me. “No!”

  “Why bother with obstinance at this point?”

  My mother, who must have seen us, came waltzing in. “Have you lost your wits, Thayer Drayton King, marching your fiancée through the house as if she were a common criminal?”

  “She’s no longer my fiancée. Catherine will be leaving immediately.”

  Lips parted, she gasped.

  “Mother, King,” Catherine said sweetly, batting her eyelashes—her face no longer livid but filled with a sad expression that was nothing but a ruse. “Thayer believes something horrible, and I can’t convince him he’s mistaken.”

  She sauntered over to my mother, grabbing her hand with both of hers. “Actually, I’m concerned about his mental state.”

  Blue eyes as wide as saucers, Mother stared at her. “While I will agree his earlier actions with you are out of character, I find it hard to believe my son is not within his right mind.”

  The mask of fake concern Catherine wore cracked, but ever the actress she rebounded quickly, putting on a wide smile. “Being overworked and lack of sleep can do strange things to a person, and Thayer isn’t himself.”

  “Mr. King,” Charles called from his position at the open door. “Ms. Bauman said you required my assistance.”

  “Yes,” I said, allowing him entrance. “Ms. Carrington is leaving. I need you and Mr. LaCroix to make sure she packs everything that is hers in this room. Then escort her out of the house the moment she has finished the task. No detours.”

  His gaze bounced from me to Catherine, then back to me. “All right. Where will we be escorting her to?”

  “The airstrip. One of our planes will be there, awaiting your arrival.” I glanced back at my mother, who said nothing but was taking it all in—Catherine beside her, lip curling. “And make sure you escort her onto the plane and watch her leave Louisiana.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Mother,” I said, “you and I will speak soon, but for now, I must make some calls.” Turning, I started to leave, then stopped, glancing back. “Catherine, I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, but we both know I’d be lying.”

  Her filthy expletives hit my back as I closed the bedroom door.

  ***

  October 16, 1936

  “Excuse me, Mr. King,” Ms. Bauman said as she approached the table where I was taking my morning meal. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but you asked to be notified when Ms. Singleton roused.”

  Dropping my napkin, I stood to my feet. “She’s awake?”

  “Not fully, but she is coming around, and I thought you would want to be there when she opens her eyes.”

  “Yes, yes. Thank you.”

  She inclined her head.

  “Mother, we will continue our conversation later in the day.”

  “Over tea this afternoon, perhaps?”

  “I will make every effort to join you.”

  She nodded. “I know you will, son.”

  “Have a good rest of your morning,” I said before bounding out of the sunroom, taking the shortest distance to the stairs, then taking them two at a time until I reached my destination.

  Slowly, as not to disturb her, I cracked my bedroom door open, peeked inside, and then went in.

  Mississippi was moaning and mumbling incomprehensible things as I pulled up a chair to the side of the bed, taking her cold hand in my warm one, squeezing it. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

  Side to side, she twisted, as if having a bad dream, and she probably was, but seeing her do something other than lying still like a statue carved in marble, was progress.

  “Mississippi, wake up, and look at me.”

  Her left eyelid, the one not swollen, fluttered. Opened. Closed. Opened again.

  “I’m right here,” I said, leaning over to look into her face. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake.”

  She stared at me, no recollection on her face.

  “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Nothing.

  I scowled. It was as she was looking right through me, even though Mississippi’s gaze was trained on mine.

  “Are you feeling any more rested?”

  No response.

  Raising my hand, I snapped my fingers in front of her face, and she blinked. It might have been a small thing, but at least it was a response. I was worried she’d for some strange reason lost her eyesight.

  “Will you speak to me?”

  Her expression remained vacant.

  “Say something. Anything,” I pled, but to no avail.

  With a sigh, I sat back in my chair, not releasing her hand. “All right, Mississippi. I’ll sit right here, and when you’re ready to tell me something, I’ll be eager to listen.”

  ***

  October 21, 1936

  “Thayer,” my mother called, striding with purpose into the library where I was scanning books, looking for something to read to Mississippi, who had yet to speak, or even acknowledge me or anyone else taking care of her. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” I asked, before returning my attention to the shelf in front of me. Perhaps Mississippi would like Ann of Green Gables.

  “Reynard Carrington has been taken into custody.”

  “Custody?” Curiosity piqued, I turned, and though I had my suspicions, I asked, “What has he been accused of?”

  Mother patted her chest. “Illegal gambling, blackmail, and...”

  “And?”

  “Running a prostitution racket!”

  All at once, her legs gave, and she plopped down on the chair unceremoniously.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, going to her.

  She waved a hand in front of her flushed cheeks. “I don’t know what to think. Your father is beside him
self. There’s even talk Reynard has ties to the Luciano crime family.”

  Now that was surprising.

  “Since the sentencing of Lucky back in June, who has been heading up their syndicate, I wonder.”

  “I wouldn’t have any notion of such things.”

  “Sorry, just thinking out loud.” I glanced down at her, concerned by my mother’s dark-red complexion. “Can I get you something? Maybe a cool drink would help calm your nerves.”

  “Yes.” She reached and patted the hand I’d placed on her shoulder. “Ring for Ms. Bonny and have her bring me a glass of brandy.”

  My eyes went wide. “Spirits at this hour in the morning?”

  She slumped. “If there ever is a time to indulge, this would be it, son.”

  “One glass,” I said, turning for the door to ring the house bell.

  “Son, I want you to stay away from Catherine.”

  “That won’t be a problem. I’ve already told you how I feel about her, and my opinion won’t be changing.”

  “Good,” she said firmness in her tone. “Your father has already started putting distance between him and Reynard personally, and on a professional level has cut all ties with him as well.”

  Placing her hand over her eyes, she said, “Thank heavens you insisted on a long engagement, Thayer.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Can you imagine the scandal it would have caused us if you and she were man and wife when this awful mess happened?”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t have been pretty,” I said, but regardless of dodging a bullet with the gossipmongers and such, I was ecstatic to be free of the vicious woman.

  “I can assure you,” Mother said, “the entire Carrington family will be disgraced.”

  ***

  Thayer’s Journal Entry, the 22nd of October, 1936

  It took a few days and several conversations with people who knew of the Singletons, but Danny Joe was laid to rest under an overcast sky, buried in the plot alongside his mother. I must purchase Mrs. Singleton a proper headstone; only a small wooden cross marks her final resting place. Myself, the pastor from Bethel Baptist Church, where Mississippi’s mother had been a member, and Officer LeBlanc were the only people in attendance. Danny Joe was only twenty, just four years younger than I. Such a sad ending to his life. An ending Mississippi isn’t aware of yet. I haven’t had the heart to tell her while she’s been in such a non-responsive state. And I fear, when she does come back to herself, the news might cause a setback.

  ***

  Thayer’s Journal Entry, the 8th of November, 1936

  The fire I adore in Mississippi is gone—she is gone, borderline catatonic. I’ve been hoping with time things would improve, but the passing of days has been more of the same, she’s never snapped out of it. It breaks my heart to see her lying in bed or sitting in a chair staring out the window—absent. Ms. Bauman takes care of her like a small child, dressing her, doing her hair, putting on her shoes—Mississippi moving enough to complete the tasks, but placing no effort into helping herself. Doctor Rhymes is also at a loss. If this continues, I’m not sure what to do.

  ***

  November 14, 1936

  “Mississippi,” I said, squatting by the lounge she was on.

  No response.

  “Please, tell me what I can do, and I will do it. I hate seeing you this way.”

  Brushing a few red/brown curls from her face, my fingers strummed along the curve of her slender neck. Goosebumps cropped up on her arms, but she never twitched, gazing out the window in the sunroom somewhere far away.

  “Please.” I brought her hand to my lips and pressed a kiss in the middle of her soft palm. “Speak to me.”

  Nothing.

  ***

  Thayer’s Journal Entry, the 26th of November, 1936

  Ms. Bauman brought Mississippi into the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner, leading her by the arm. It’s as if the trauma she’d suffered turned a seventeen-year-old girl into an eighty-seven-year-old woman, shuffling her feet. Sitting where placed. Moving where she’s led. Silent. No matter what I try, I cannot reach her and, I’m beginning to worry, I never will.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was Brontë

  December 19, 1936

  Standing inside the doorway of the sunroom, another piece of hope I barely clung to, cracked. That day, like every other since James Henry brought her to me, I’d come to check on Mississippi the first chance I could, wanting to see improvement of any kind, and finding none.

  It was as though Mississippi didn’t want to exist, and to some extent, she didn’t.

  Slumped in a chair, her back to me, facing the window, she sat with a blanket around her shoulders as still and as silent as a sculpture while Ms. Bauman, who was seated facing her, read a book aloud. I hadn’t given up reading to her either, but I’d been called away on business that morning, and my housekeeper was kind enough to continue the daily tradition in my stead.

  “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger,” Ms. Bauman read.

  “I like that.”

  Mississippi’s voice caused my heart to stop and my breath to seize as my housekeeper looked at me—a smile stretching across her face. I had read book after book, and it was Brontë that penetrated, breaking the weeks of silence. And while her voice had been flat with no inflections, I was elated. The beautiful broken girl had finally spoken!

  I had to grab the doorframe because as much as I wanted to rush to her side, I needed to remain where I was, not interrupt the moment.

  “Emily Brontë is one of my favorite authors, and Wuthering Heights is my favorite book,” Ms. Bauman said, as though having a conversation with Mississippi wasn’t a monumental breakthrough, and they were partaking in an everyday chat.

  “My mama used to read to me.” Mississippi’s words had no emotion as she remained unmoved.

  Ms. Bauman glanced at me as if to make sure I was still there, witnessing.

  As if anything could budge me from the spot!

  “Tell me,” she said. “What did your mother read?”

  Leaning in, eagerly awaiting a response, my heart pounded a bump-bump beat in my chest.

  “Passages from her Bible, but it’s no more.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “I don’t know what my daddy did with it.”

  This was the second time I’d heard her speak of that Bible, and I intended to find it. Come hell or high water, Mississippi, I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.

  ***

  December 20, 1936

  Striding into the county jailhouse, I found who I was looking for. My objective? To cash in a favor owed to see the one person I never wanted to lay eyes upon again.

  “Deputy Lamont,” I said in greeting as we shook hands.

  “Mr. King, what brings you in?”

  Dropping my hand from his, I went straight to the point. “I’m here to speak with Bruce Singleton.”

  “Whelp”—he took off his hat, leaving chaotic tufts of silver hair standing—“now, you know you’re here outside of normal visitation hours.”

  Nodding, I said, “I’m aware, but I’m calling in your marker.”

  Lamont glanced around. “Guess you picked a good day for that.”

  “How so?”

  “The sheriff isn’t in, so I can sneak you back without anyone the wiser.”

  “Then, let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, the disheveled man was seated across from me—smirk on his too-thin face.

  “What brings ya down my way, Mr. King?” Bruce asked in his slow drawl.

  “You’re in possession of something that rightfully belongs to Mississippi, and I want to know where it is.”

  He leaned back in his metal chair, tossing his left leg out, dropping his cuffed wrists between his spread thighs as if he were on the front porch enjoying the
day, and I had come for a social call.

  “Well, I’m-a thinkin’... Since you’re the one who got me tossed in the clink, you’re the one who can get me out.”

  Scowling, I asked, “What makes you think I had anything to do with your current incarceration?”

  “The boys thought Mississippi ratted on me, but she’s too dumb to have the information the coppers needed.”

  I ground my teeth together. “The boys? As in the two men who abused your daughter?”

  He gave a pitying shake of his head. “I heard a little somethin’ ’bout that. James Henry is in pretty deep now.”

  Muscle twitching under my eye, I attempted not to shout. “And what of Mississippi? Do you have any care for what happened to her?”

  “The girl probably pushed ’em too far and got herself in over her head.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I balled my hands, holding my tongue. I needed this despicable man’s cooperation.

  “Sippi’s always had a sassy mouth.”

  “Those two men tortured and molested your only daughter, Bruce.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Oh, but I know.” I thumped a fist to my chest. “I’m the one who carried Mississippi’s bloody and battered little body into my house. I’m the one James Henry told what he saw.” Fury was rattling my bones, causing me to shake, and I did something I’d probably regret once I had a moment to reason. “If your oldest son had been any longer bringing Mississippi to me, I’d be burying her alongside your wife and other son.”

  He flinched but recovered quickly. “There’s nothin’ I can do ’bout what happened now, is there?”

  “You could attempt to locate your heart—if you possess one.” I started to get up and leave. I’d do what I needed to do to find what I was looking for another way.

  “Don’t go so soon,” he said, an evil so intense it radiated from his skin. “We never finished our talk; you gettin’ me sidetracked and all.”

  “I’m done speaking to you.”

  He ignored me and continued with, “So, I’m-a thinkin, Sippi opened those pretty lips, tellin’ you some things which got you to askin’ questions and pullin’ some strings.”