A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1)

by Danny Gardner

  “The Reverend’s boy,” McWhirter said, without really looking at him. “Fine achievement for your people.”

  “Thank you. Where’s the body,” George said. His jowls tensed atop his shirt collar.

  “Upstairs,” McWhirter said. “In the bathroom.”

  “Always the bathroom,” Ned said.

  McWhirter led the two into the house. As they walked through the foyer, they could see the family’s colored servants, all in uniform, milling about. They seemed aloof. As if being there was a waste of their time.

  “We’ll need to question everyone,” Ned said.

  As they climbed the large staircase to the second floor, he noticed a woman down the hall, peering out through a bedroom door.

  “That means everyone,” George said.

  “Understood, Sheriff,” McWhirter said. He visibly bristled at George’s authoritative tone.

  S.E. Pettingill’s mortal coil lay on the tiled floor of the hall bathroom underneath a satin bed sheet. George and Ned gave McWhirter the side-eye.

  “He was lying there,” McWhirter said. “Naked.”

  “We only received an anonymous tip,” George said. “We never got a call from the family.”

  “The Pettingill’s are important people, Deputy,” McWhirter said. “I have my duties.”

  George leaned in on the attorney. He fixed fierce eyes upon him. Ned stepped in.

  “This normal?”

  “He’s been known to tie one on now and again,” McWhirter said.

  “We’ve fetched him from the dives in Sugartown a lot more than now and again,” George said.

  “There’s a night shift housekeeper named Hattie.” McWhirter cut his eyes. “She takes care of Clarissa Pettingill. She may know something.”

  “Where is she now?” asked George.

  “She lives off the grounds,” McWhirter said.

  “Any other household staff live off the grounds?”

  “No,” McWhirter said. George and Ned looked at each other.

  “Time to ask the staff what they may know,” George said. McWhirter looked over to Ned Reilly.

  “Is that absolutely necessary? Most of them weren’t on duty—”

  “Sheriff said to get the staff together,” Ned said. McWhirter shuffled off. “Frickin’ asshole.”

  George walked through the bathroom taking in the crime scene. He reached into the large double-pedestal bathtub and ran his finger across the porcelain. It squeaked. He rubbed his fingers together.

  “Dry as a bone.”

  “Maybe they cleaned it after they made the master decent.”

  Stacks of folded cotton bath towels lay in a credenza, but none were on the floor or draped over the bath. George knelt and lifted up the sheet on Pettingill’s body. His lips were blue. His eyes were wide open, staring up at nothing.

  “He’s supposed to look as if he’d fallen,” George said.

  “That your medical opinion, Reverend?”

  Southville County Coroner Bobby Shaeffer walked into the bathroom. He was carrying a black medical bag, dressed in a tan linen suit, no tie, and a white handkerchief around his neck. Sweat ran down his face. He was out of breath from the stairs.

  “Doc,” Ned said.

  “Humid as a son-of-a-bitch out there, Deputy,” Shaeffer said. “Sheriff, please unhand my corpse.”

  George stepped away. Shaeffer walked over.

  “He was strangled.”

  “Not until I say so,” Shaeffer said.

  “We need a time of death right away,” George said. He walked out.

  “Seems more pleasant than usual,” Shaeffer said.

  “This ain’t the usual,” Ned said. Shaeffer put on his pinch-frame glasses and waved Ned off.

  Ned stepped into the hallway to see George facing the bedroom at the long end. The door cracked. A woman inside peeked out, then shut the door.

  “Clarissa Pettingill,” Ned said.

  “We know each other. My father—”

  “Right.”

  “Perhaps you should start on the staff,” George said.

  “Right.”

  Ned descended the stairs, where he found a teenage Negro woman in a maid’s uniform in the lobby.

  “Mr. McWhirter told me to fetch you to the dining room,” she said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dorothy.”

  “Got a last name, Dorothy?”

  “Not around here, I don’t.”

  George knocked on the bedroom door.

  “Miss Pettingill.” He softened the tone of his preacher’s voice. “It’s Sheriff Stingley.”

  He heard nothing.

  “Clarissa. It’s Georgie. May we talk—”

  Clarissa Pettingill threw open the door and yanked him inside the room. George wasn’t a little man, but she had the strength of someone off her rocker. She slammed the door as if to save herself. To George’s surprise, hugged him tight. She wore a silk bed gown, although it was afternoon. Her salt and pepper hair was tousled, yet still flowed as if it was well-tended. She had put on makeup, obviously to receive a special guest.

  “It’s so good to see you, Georgie,” she said.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Remember when we used to play in these halls?”

  “I do. When our fathers would have one of those meetings.”

  “Only coloreds he’d let in the house,” she said. “Remember when you would sneak me kisses, Georgie?”

  George gently peeled Clarissa’s arms from his waist.

  “I’m here to find out what happened to your brother,” he said, sitting her down on her bed. He noticed dead roses in a vase on her valet. A tray of uneaten food sat on the nightstand.

  “Why are you cooped up in here?”

  “It’s what they do to the crazy ones.”

  “Crazy, like a fox,” George said. He patted her hands as if he were a reverend again, calling upon the sick.

  “He was seeing that colored housekeeper,” she whispered. “Hattie. She’s terribly mean. I know she switches my pills on me. That’s why I’m…”

  Clarissa twirled her finger around her ear.

  “Last night, I heard bumping around in the dark. I looked out my door, as I always do. I saw two large colored boys leave the bathroom.”

  “Did you see their faces?”

  “They were dark. It was dark. It’s not safe for me here, Georgie. The house workers all hate me.”

  “I’ll take care of things,” George said. He patted her hand again.

  “Town finally has a good man as sheriff,” she said. She lunged forward and hugged him around his neck. “Don’t you let them kill you, Georgie. They’ll never forgive you for being a nigger.”

  George stood up

  “Do come back to see me, Georgie.”

  George left the room, not saying a word.

  Ned Reilly was questioning the staff all together as George walked in the dining room.

  “Your real name,” said the Deputy.

  “Mister Pettingill calls—called—me Dobie,” said a youngish Negro fellow, dressed in a smock.

  “What’s your mother call you?”

  “Robert. Robert Peale. But I gotta go by Dobie at work.”

  Ned looked over at George.

  “Pettingill nicknamed all the staff. Each one, he’s callin’ something ridiculous. Like they’re children.”

  “I need to know about Hattie,” George said. “When’s the last time she’d been to work?”

  The staff all were silent.

  “A murder was committed,” George said. “Speak up.”

  The staff all looked at each other but didn’t say a word. Shaeffer walked in the doorway.

  “Sheriff Stingley.”

  George stepped into the hall. Ned continued the questioning.

  “You were right,” Shaeffer said. “Definitely strangled, but I’d guess somewhere off the grounds. He was brought back here post mortem. Abrasions on his heels indicated he w
as dragged. Imagine he died a day ago. He certainly died in his birthday suit. There’s more.”

  Shaeffer reached into his shirt pocket.

  “I found these in his mouth.”

  Shaeffer produced three pennies.

  “Not sure what it means,” he said.

  George returned to the dining room. Ned pulled him to the side.

  “Her house name is Hattie,” Ned said. “Real name is Merriam Robichaux. Early-twenties. She hasn’t been to work in a week. No one wants to say more.”

  “Does anyone want to tell us about Merriam’s and Pettingill’s relationship?” George asked. No one answered. Ned walked over to Robert.

  “We were getting along pretty good there, Robert,” he said. “I’d hate to have to arrest you.”

  “F-for what?”

  “Dunno,” Ned said. “I’ll figure out somethin’.”

  “Don’t think we won’t put an obstruction of justice charge on every one of you,” George said.

  Dorothy found the nerve to speak.

  “She and ol’ S.E. had a thang,” she said.

  “Shut up, Dorothy!” Robert said.

  “I ain’t goin’ to jail for that heifer!”

  “Why does everyone think they were involved?”

  “He liked her,” Robert said. “Let her live off the property. Only had to work at night. Only looked after the crazy sister.”

  “We all hated her ’cuz she didn’t have to do no real work,” Dorothy said.

  “There were two associates,” George said.

  “Her brother is likely one of ’em,” Dorothy said. “Don’t know the other. They live in one o’ dem apartments over the pawn shop.”

  “Majestic?” Ned said.

  “Yeah.”

  “He snuck out regularly to Sugartown,” said an older Negro man dressed in a white shirt and bowtie.

  “What’s your name,” George said.

  “S.E. call me Skipper. My real name is Walter. Walter Gibson.”

  “Tell us somethin’ we don’t know, Walter Gibson,” Ned said.

  “He been in the safe a whole lot,” Walter said. “Sometimes he has me run him to the bank in the middle of the day. Take his purse when he go out at night. Usually, he back in the safe the next mornin’.”

  “Someone is still not telling me something,” George said.

  “I’ll run to the jail,” Ned said. “Bring the paddy wagon over.”

  “She got a baby. Rumor is, could be S.E.’s.”

  George waved Ned into the hall.

  “Call the state boys. Ask for a couple of units to meet us at Majestic Loans. Make sure they keep it quiet. We don’t need this blowing apart the holiday.”

  “You can use the one in the kitchen,” Dorothy said, after eavesdropping.

  “We free to go?” Robert asked.

  George looked at them all. It was a harsh gaze. The kind that a righteous man who had enough of the world cast upon the brazen. He walked out, running into McWhirter in the foyer.

  “Sheriff?” he said.

  “Fire them all. Hire white folks.”

  George walked out the door and waited for Ned in the car.

  True to type, the Illinois State Police overdid it. Three units plus a paddy wagon. Barricades on both ends of the street. The troopers were talking through the loudspeaker up at the window when George and Ned arrived.

  “What’s all this?!” George said.

  “And you are?” said the lead uniform. His name tag read “Sgt. Burke.”

  “Southville County Sheriff George Stingley.” Burke blinked twice but didn’t say a word. The other uniforms chuckled. Ned stepped up.

  “I’m Deputy Ned Reilly,” he said. “I called you, but I didn’t ask for this.”

  “S.E. Pettingill is an—”

  “Important man,” Ned said. “Yeah, yeah, we know.”

  “We’re gonna need for you to step back.”

  “This is my jurisdiction, Sergeant,” George said. “I demand to know what’s going on here.”

  “As far as we can tell, one of ’em is dead. Shot by the other one. There’s a woman with a baby up there.”

  “Merriam Robichaux,” Ned said.

  “Yeah, well, whatever her name is, she’s a hostage,” Burke said.

  “She wouldn’t be a hostage if you didn’t come in, guns blazing.” George was livid. He snatched the microphone from Burke.

  “Hey, fella.”

  “Not fella! Sheriff,” George shouted in Burke’s face.

  “Step back,” Ned said. “We know how to handle this.”

  “Miss Robichaux!” George said. “This is Sheriff Stingley!”

  A dark face peered out from the curtains.

  “The sheriff is colored?” a male voice shouted.

  “I’m here with Deputy Ned Reilly,” George said. The face peered out of the curtains once more.

  “Deputy’s white.”

  “This doesn’t have to get any worse,” George said. “I’m coming up.”

  “Georgie,” Ned said.

  George handed him the microphone.

  “Give me five minutes,” he said. “If I don’t come down, they can come up.”

  George ran in the apartment building door next to the pawn shop.

  “Ya know, pally,” Burke said. “If you didn’t need us here—”

  “Shut up,” Ned said.

  George found the front door to the tiny single apartment wide open. By the door was an altar to Baron Samedi, trussed in cayenne peppers. A black wax candle shaped into a crucifix was burning. What appeared to be dried blood was in a saucer at the Baron’s feet. In bassinet by the kitchen sink cried a baby. He or she was wrapped in a hand-knitted blanket. A large colored man—dark-complected, portly—lay prone atop a murphy bed. He had a hole in his forehead. George could hear whimpering coming from the side of the tall icebox.

  “Help me, Sheriff!”

  Merriam Robichaux’s tear-soaked face peered out from the recess. She was the color of café au lait. She had large eyes, and wore her hair in a tight bun underneath a purple patterned head scarf. She spoke in thick creole dialect.

  “He killed my brother!” she said.

  “Imma kill you too, you double-dealin’ whore!”

  “State your name,” George said.

  “Buck!” said the man. “Buck Williams! And I been done wrong!”

  “Mr. Williams, there’s nothing left for you to do but give up!”

  “You the real sheriff?” Buck said. It was all George could do not to roll his eyes.

  “I am.”

  “So shoot this fool!” Merriam said.

  “Shut up, bitch!”

  “Mr. Williams, the Illinois State Police are outside,” George said. “You have about three minutes before they get up here. You will not survive.”

  “I wanna negotiate!” Buck said. He stepped out from the recess near the ice box. He had Merriam around the neck.

  “She led me on for weeks, tellin’ me she had some scam to take that fat cat for all we could get.”

  “It was workin’ fine, too,” Merriam said. “Until you killed him.”

  “I wouldn’t have you fuckin’ him on my bed!” Buck said.

  “Fool, you ain’t got shit around heah!”

  Buck clubbed her on the side of the head. The baby seemed to scream louder.

  “Be easy, Williams!” George said.

  “I said I wanna negotiate!”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to negotiate.”

  “That’s ’cuz you a nigger sheriff!” Buck said.

  “It’s because we already know everything,” George said. “You killed Pettingill in a fit of jealousy before you could finish the plan of blackmailing him over the child.”

  Merriam looked at George. She was contrite.

  “He was nice,” she said.

  “He was an asshole!” Buck said.

  “At least he was about sum’n,” she said. “At least he wanted to take care of his
baby.”

  “That deah is my baby!” Williams said.

  “Why did you take him back to his house?” George said. “Why didn’t you just dump him someplace?”

  “Folk usually come around heah lookin’ fo’ ’im,” Buck said. “That Skipper, what used to drive him around. The lawyer fella. We needed time!”

  “He didn’t believe the baby was his,” Merriam said, as she calmed down. “Said he knew we were hustlin’ him, but he didn’t care. He loved me.”

  “He loved yo’ cooze,” Buck said.

  “Shut up!” Merriam said. “We wuz supposed to divide up the loot and split. Buck and me were gonna go one way. Barry—my brother—was gonna go back to Baton Rouge. This idiot up and strangle S.E., right there on top of me.”

  “He was fuckin’ my woman!”

  “He had been fuckin’ me, fool!”

  “Put three pennies in him, like he special.”

  “I ain’t gonna have him cursin’ me from the next world!”

  “You killed Barry over the money,” George said.

  “They wuz gonna take my cut and split. Take my baby!”

  Buck waved the gun around again.

  “I said I wanna make a deal!”

  “Buck, do you want your baby to see his daddy die, right here in this apartment?”

  Buck began to panic. George spoke sincere words in his preacher’s baritone.

  “You’re right,” George said. “I am just a Negro sheriff. I can’t stop those white state troopers from killing you. Both of you.”

  George, looking at Merriam, nodded over to the bassinet.

  “All of you.”

  Merriam shuddered. Buck blinked his eyes rapidly as he attempted to think through the stress.

  “Let her go. Give me the gun,” George said. “For your child’s sake. Please.”

  George figured he reached Merriam, but figured on Buck keeping up the fight, except he immediately let go of Merriam, dropped the gun and dove onto the floor.

  “I give up!” Buck said. “Don’t kill me!”

  Buck looked as if a lynch-mob had come to get him. Merriam ran to the bassinet and picked up her crying child. George dove atop Buck and cuffed him. Ned Reilly was in the doorway, as white as ever.

  “Don’t kill me,” Buck said. George finally rolled his eyes.

  That afternoon, after a lunch run, Ned Reilly returned to the jail to find George behind closed doors in his office. He was having his ass chewed off by two fat cats from the bank. After all the what-for, they left. George walked out, ashen-faced.