by Beth White
“I’m not that fragile.” Schuyler shoved his chair away from the table and rose. His father’s last hour had been spent on that balcony. Running away would not change the fact that he was gone. “Let’s go.”
seven
“YOU’RE GOING TO MEET ME HERE in an hour, aren’t you?” Aurora glared at Joelle for all the world as if she were the elder, by at least a couple of decades. In fact, at that moment she bore an uncanny resemblance to Winifred Pierce McGowan at her most autocratic.
They stood outside the Whitmore Emporium, just down from the hitching lot where they had left the wagon.
“I said I would. I’m going to the post office.” Joelle scooted across the street before Aurora could argue. She would go to the post office—after she stopped by the newspaper office.
No one except Levi knew of her hidden penchant for journalism. A couple of months ago, he’d caught her coming out of the building that housed the Journal, when she was supposed to be shopping for ball dress materials. The trouble with Levi was that he noticed everything. Also, he had a perfectly charming, insidious way of eliciting information that one had sworn never to reveal.
It was a skill that Joelle was determined to learn, as it seemed eminently useful to the job of reporting.
Fetching up outside the newspaper office, Joelle straightened her hat and looked down with new diffidence at her attire. Perhaps Aurora was right, and she should at least look like she hadn’t come down to her last penny when visiting her one real source of personal income. Would her editor be more or less likely to pay her what she was worth if she appeared not to need payment?
That being a question she felt unprepared to tackle—and rather beyond her control at any event—she pasted on her best bright smile and pushed open the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. McCanless! How are you today?”
“Well, if it isn’t the Concerned Citizen!” McCanless took off his spectacles and propped them atop his balding head. “Have you another opinion article for me today? That last was quite a doozy. Advertisements are up this week.”
Joelle looked over her shoulder to make sure she had not been followed in. “I have two articles, but neither is an opinion piece. One is a society report of the opera I attended on Monday, and the reception for Miss Fabio. The other is heavily researched, with quotes from several scholarly sources. I have been corresponding with professors at Harvard and Yale, as well as the Medical College of Louisiana.”
“Have you now? Let me see.” McCanless extended an ink-stained hand.
Joelle pulled her articles from her pocket and handed them over. As the editor lowered his glasses and began to read, she wandered about the office, picking things up and examining them. There were piles of books everywhere—Journey to the Center of the Earth and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti, Lorna Doone, and tucked behind a cigar case, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl—
“Mr. McCanless, have you read this?” Joelle turned with the Harriet Jacobs memoir in her hand.
“What’s that? No, my wife handed it to me and said I should read it. Extremist claptrap.”
“Could I borrow it?”
He shrugged. “You can have it.” He stabbed her article, lying on his desk, with a penknife. “You seem to have a soft spot for black folk.”
She lifted her chin. “Matter of fact, I do. The ones I know, anyway. Which is why I believe they deserve an education.”
“Sure they do. Just not on my dime. They got to work for it, just like I did.”
Joelle thought about ten-year-old Tee-Toc Weber, clambering on the roofs of Daughtry House Hotel from four a.m. until high noon, then spending his lunch hour in the kitchen pantry learning to read and write and do sums. “I never suggested they didn’t need to work to earn an education. The point of my article is that Negroes can learn as easily as we can, and they should not be prevented from doing so, if we want that section of the electorate to cast informed votes.”
McCanless removed his spectacles and rubbed his forehead, leaving a purple smear between his eyebrows. He looked mildly satanic. “This is a well-written piece, Miss Daughtry. And it’s going to stir enough controversy—which sells papers—that I’m willing to print it. But you won’t be taken seriously if you continue to publish anonymously. I think we should create a pseudonym for you.”
“A pseudonym?”
“Yes, a male pseudonym, to be precise. We’ll say you’re from . . . over in Hernando. Far enough away, but close enough to a Yankee stronghold that you’re not likely to be weaseled out.”
Joelle tried to find holes in the suggestion. “That would be lying. I’m fixing to marry a preacher.”
The editor laughed. “Soon as you get married and start having babies of your own, you’re going to be too busy to educate black children or write much more than your weekly grocery list. Why not enjoy your freedom while you’ve got it? Women have been taking pen names for decades. I know how much you admire Mrs. Alcott. Even she did it.”
“Mr. McCanless, I’m tired of hiding what I write. It’s exhausting.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “It’s as much for my sake as yours. The stuff about the railroad is common dialogue and needs to be debated publicly. But this—” He thumped the papers in his hand. “If anyone suspects I’m paying a female to nudge public opinion in this liberal direction, we could both be socially ostracized, if not in actual physical danger.”
Joelle laughed, but when the editor failed to respond with so much as a smile, she realized he was serious. “Mr. McCanless! People already think Selah and I are half crazy, hiring our former slaves as employees. I hardly think one article—”
“That there, young lady, is the problem. You’re hardly thinking. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. If you want me to buy this piece, it’s going to be under the name of . . . T. M. Hanson. Contributor from DeSoto County. There you go.”
Joelle thought about the books and paper and ink and chalk she needed for her class. She thought about how much she wanted that article in print. She thought about Aurora waiting for her at the Emporium.
“I don’t have time to argue with you,” she finally said. “Just give me the money, and you can assign the article whatever byline you wish.” Perhaps she’d caved in too quickly, but she was not argumentative by nature—except with certain obnoxious dandies—and she didn’t want to cause Aurora to ask nosy questions.
A few minutes later, she left the office, wadding a roll of banknotes into her reticule. Having learned her lesson from that fateful encounter with Levi, she looked both ways to make sure the sidewalk was clear before making her way to the post office.
This was most likely a pointless errand, since Wyatt always brought the mail home with him after school, but she’d used it for her excuse to shake Aurora long enough to deliver her article. She’d have to at least show her face to Mr. Carpenter, the postal agent and Tupelo’s only trained telegraph operator. Otherwise, Aurora would somehow dig her subterfuge out of her and ask a hundred questions, and Lord knows Joelle was a terrible liar. Gil would probably consider that a virtue, but it was downright inconvenient at times.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter!” The hissing and chugging of steam, the screech of brakes, and the sound of cargo slamming into cars and onto wagons followed her into the little office next to the train station. She shut the door behind her, glad to escape the smoke and congestion of the terminal. “How are you today?”
A slight, sandy-gray-haired man turned from his occupation at the telegraph key. “I’m happy as a pig in slop to see you,” he said, leaning on the counter, a smile on his genial, clever face.
Joelle had always liked the postmaster, who had been a friend of their family since she was big enough to sit in her mama’s lap and come to town. He’d never failed to produce a stash of horehound drops from under the counter for her and her sisters, and Joelle had a well-known fondness for the strong flavor.
“Has Wyatt come by for the
mail yet?” She stopped short of the counter, already turning to head back to the Emporium.
“Yes. But wait—Miss Joelle, there’s a telegram for you!”
“What?” She reversed direction once more. “For me?”
“Yes, it’s from your sister. She says she’s—but here, read it for yourself.” Carpenter handed her a sealed telegram and watched her handle it gingerly. “It won’t explode,” he added with a smile. “I’m glad you came in, since Wyatt has already come and gone. Now I won’t have to send someone all the way out to Ithaca—I mean, Daughtry House.”
“Indeed,” she said dubiously, breaking the seal. “I hope nothing’s wrong.” She read the telegram and looked up at the postmaster, feeling a smile break out on her face. “Selah’s coming home! Oh, I missed her so much!” She’d grown to love and appreciate Aurora’s bossy little self, but there was nobody like calm, wise, practical Selah.
“It’s odd she’s returning to Tupelo without her husband. Especially considering this wire he just sent to her.” He handed Joelle a second envelope, addressed to Selah Riggins. “You’ll make sure she gets it, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir, of course I will.” Joelle poked both telegrams into her reticule. Levi had cautioned her about Mr. Carpenter’s tendency to share contents of private correspondence. That was illegal, of course, and he could get into trouble if it were proved. She didn’t want to believe her old friend would betray the sworn confidentiality of his post. “I’m not sure what their plans are at the moment. I’ll just have to ask her when I see her, won’t I? Her train will arrive tonight, so I’m sure we’ll see you when we come back for her. Thank you for the good news, Mr. Carpenter! Good afternoon!” She bobbed a quick curtsey and flitted out the door onto the boardwalk.
One thing was clear: Levi had gone to help Schuyler, and Selah was coming home to occupy herself in his absence.
Joelle broke into a little jig of happiness. Selah was coming home!
Tuscaloosa County Sheriff Conrad Stevens wiped his dripping face with a large handkerchief he’d pulled from his coat pocket. There wasn’t much humidity on this mild May morning, even standing in the sun that flooded the balcony, but Schuyler supposed the middle-aged law officer’s portly bulk under a wool suit could create the sweat beading his high forehead and dampening the heavy beard and mustache.
Or perhaps it was the pressure of dealing with an assassination and riot upsetting the peace of his jurisdiction.
“Professional rioters,” Stevens growled, stuffing the handkerchief back into its pocket. “You never saw such a mess in your life.”
Levi, leaning against the back wall of the balcony with his notebook and pencil in hand, straightened. “What do you mean, professional rioters?”
“Listen at that accent.” Stevens glanced at Schuyler. “Why you want to bring a Yankee into this?”
Schuyler shrugged. “Smartest Yankee I know. He’s . . . my lawyer.” He knew not to volunteer Levi’s connection to the Pinkerton Agency.
“Fair enough.” Stevens picked through his words. “Hard to say where this thing started. Well, obviously it happened at that cursed rally on Monday—the one your pa spoke at—but I got a feeling it goes back even further than that. Comin’ and goin’ between here and Montgomery, folks trying to get the mayor replaced.” The sheriff took out his handkerchief to mop the top of his head. “Like I said, it’s a big mess.”
Schuyler rolled his shoulders, trying to relax. He had to keep a clear head. “What’s all this got to do with my father’s murder?”
“I’m getting there, hold your horses.” Stevens hitched up his pants. “Your pa had been invited to make a speech at this rally sponsored by the mayor—that’s Mr. Thad Samuel,” he said to Levi, who was taking notes. “The idea was to promote Alabama ‘coming out of isolation, trying to heal up the wounds left by the war.’” He was clearly quoting someone else’s rhetoric, and his broad face reddened in some unidentified emotion. “Now, I’m not saying he’s wrong. But I’d warned the mayor it was a mistake to bring in a white politician from the southern part of the state, not to mention those two colored Lincolnites. Turns out I was right. The longer your pa talked, the more restless the crowd got. I was standing on the porch below with my deputy, trying to keep people from busting into the hotel.”
“Wait,” Levi said. “Names. Who were the other speakers, the two freedmen?”
Stevens seemed to consider how many more details he should share. “One was a state legislator from Randolph County, a Reverend Josiah Thomas, the other a militia officer named Sion Perkins. Both were well dressed and well spoken, I have to admit—I met them when they arrived that morning. But your father was first on the program, the idea being to warm up the crowd with a couple of jokes and what-not. Then Perkins starts in with how ‘Ku-Kluxing has got to stop.’” The handkerchief reappeared. “Hoo-boy. That was not well received from a colored man in a uniform. There was armed white men in the crowd, and they didn’t look friendly. But the Negroes started hollering agreement. Before I could stop it, pushing and shoving commenced, gun butts started swinging, and then there was a shot fired. All, uh, perdition broke loose. Women was screaming, more gunshots, and the riot rolled. My deputy and me gave the signal to a few men I’d temporarily deputized ahead of time. We all waded in and tried to break it up. Seemed like it took forever, but the whole thing probably only lasted ten minutes.”
“What about the men up here?” Imagining that wild scene below as his father must have seen it, Schuyler leaned on the balcony rail, trying to catch his breath. “One of those gunshots was aimed this way.”
“Beaumont,” Levi said quietly, “I’ll ask the questions.”
“I’m all right.” Schuyler straightened.
“I got up here as fast as I could,” Stevens said. “But by then your father was dead. Mayor Samuel tried to stop the bleeding, but the shot had gone to the heart. Another bullet grazed the Reverend’s arm. Perkins wasn’t hit at all.”
“Injuries in the crowd?” Levi asked.
“Bumps and bruises on a handful of white folk. Three Negroes injured by gunfire. Two more dead.”
Levi nodded. “Tell me about the men in custody. You said they’re in bad shape. I assume they were identified as starting the violence?”
“Not yet. I’m getting there. So, yeah, I interviewed witnesses until nightfall. And then things got worse. Somebody comes running to the jail, hollering that the mayor’s livery stable is on fire. I go running down there, and it’s a madhouse, horses screaming, flames threatening to jump to adjacent buildings.” The sheriff’s face blanched at the memory. “I swear I didn’t know but what the whole town was gonna burn down. Fortunately, the firemen got the livery under control before anything else caught.”
Meanwhile, his father lay in the mortuary—while Schuyler attended an opera and flirted with an entertainer at a Memphis luxury hotel. Wasn’t he just the most outstanding son God ever created?
Stevens didn’t seem to notice his agitation. “It was near two o’clock in the morning before everything calmed down again. Next morning somebody reported having seen Thomas, Perkins, and a white schoolteacher named Lemuel Frye skulking around the livery before dark. Mr. Frye had been involved in some sort of racial to-do earlier in the spring. So I brought ’em all three in for questioning. The federal circuit judge will be in town Monday morning for a hearing.”
Schuyler looked at Levi. “I’ll have to take my father’s body back to Mobile.”
“Like I said, I’ll go with you to talk to your brother, then come back here for the hearing if I need to.” Levi tucked his notebook back inside his jacket. “Are you ready to go to the mortuary?”
Schuyler looked down at his hands, clenched on the balcony rail. “I’ll never be ready for that, but let’s get it over with.”
eight
JOELLE PAUSED OUTSIDE THE EMPORIUM. She couldn’t wait to tell Aurora that Selah was coming. But patronizing the Whitmores’ establishment had become awkward f
or the Daughtrys, ever since Levi had mortally insulted Mrs. Whitmore at the ball they’d held at Ithaca to introduce the hotel to the community. Of course Elberta Whitmore more than earned the insult with her sniggering remarks about Selah and ThomasAnne. And Levi could be excused by his love-drunk condition.
Still, the prospect of purchasing salt and woolen goods from a woman who glared at one with the gimlet eye of Medusa was bound to put a damper on a body’s eagerness to shop.
Taking a deep breath, she went inside and stopped in her tracks. “Gil! What are you doing here?”
“I’m buying socks. Fortunately, once I have a wife, I won’t have to purchase them myself.” Gil smiled at Joelle, as if she should take that as a compliment.
“You’re not expecting me to knit your socks? Are you? Because I don’t know how to knit. I’d probably stab myself—”
His face fell. “I was teasing, Joelle.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t recognize . . .” She peered up at him. He’d never been known to joke about anything. Now how was she to determine what was a spiritual comment and what was supposed to be funny? “Never mind, I was just surprised. I mean, I was going to visit your house. Though, now that I think about it, maybe that wouldn’t be proper, since we aren’t married yet.” And she was babbling. That was the thing about conversation. Either she couldn’t think of anything to say, or she didn’t know when to stop.
“You were coming to visit me?” Now he looked happy again. “We can go to the parsonage if you like. Bring Aurora along for a chaperone, and we’ll all have tea.”
“Aurora is not finished shopping yet,” Aurora said from the other side of a stack of wooden crates. They were all stamped with the label “Limburger,” and they smelled like feet.
No wonder Joelle’s eyes were watering. She’d thought it was Gil. Relieved that she wasn’t going to be sleeping with the most odiferous human in Mississippi, she looked over the crates and found her petite little sister frowning at a row of fabric bolts. “You’ve been here for more than an hour. Are you in a coma from cheese fumes?”
