Black Orchid Blues

by Persia Walker

  An antique scrolled writing desk sat in one corner. Bookshelves banked an adjoining wall, covered with rows of leather-bound books, some of whose titles appeared to be in German.

  Phyllis Bernard perched on the simple sofa, crocheting, her legs neatly crossed at the ankles. Her back was ramrod straight, her glasses resting on the tip of her nose. She was shaped like a pear and a bit plumper than I remembered. Her eyes widened when I walked in. It wasn’t just surprise; it was alarm. She smiled, but it took obvious effort.

  “Oh, Mrs. Price,” she said, rising. “What a surprise.”

  “She says she has news for us,” Dr. Bernard explained. “Something to do with that box.” He gestured toward it.

  “It was left on my doorstep,” I said. “Sometime late last night.”

  Phyllis Bernard’s gaze met her husband’s.

  “The package wasn’t addressed, so I opened it,” I continued. “Once I did, I realized that it was meant for you.”

  I could’ve told them the contents. I nearly did, but I wanted to see their reactions. I didn’t feel good about not warning them, but I did think it for the best. I held the parcel out to Dr. Bernard, but he made no move to take it.

  “What’s in it that made you decide to come here?”

  “A letter.”

  His face showed indecision, fear, and resentment. And why not? He was caught up in a bad game against players who’d stop at nothing to win.

  “Dr. Bernard?” I prompted.

  “Alfred,” his wife said. “Go on.”

  He accepted the box with an expression of distaste and held it at arm’s length. Did he already have an inkling of what was inside? He eased down on the couch, his wife and daughter at either side. They looked sick with fear.

  Dr. Bernard balled his hands into fists and sucked in his breath, like a man about to dive into dark, deep, and icy waters. His fingertips grazed the lid of the box, then lifted it. He removed the letter, read it, and glanced at me. “You shouldn’t have read this.”

  He hadn’t even questioned why someone should address such a letter to him. Clearly, he knew what it was about from his lack of surprise.

  “The box was on my doorstep,” I said. “No address, no nothing. I assumed it was meant for me. There was nothing to change that assumption. Until I saw the letter. By then, it was too late. I’d already seen what it covered.”

  Their gazes returned to the box. Dr. Bernard pushed the letter aside, removed the separation paper, and revealed the stained linen. He grabbed a pencil and used it to flip back the corners.

  Sheila cried out and Phyllis Bernard shrank back with a sob. Dr. Bernard, the clinician, took a long, hard look at the disarticulated member and then slammed the box shut. For a moment, he sat perfectly still, his jaw working, his eyes full of cold rage.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Price, that they’ve gotten you involved in this. No one …” He swallowed. “No one deserves …” He blinked, his voice so thick that he couldn’t finish, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Do you recognize it?” I asked.

  He shook his head and waved me off. “No—please. No questions. I am so sorry that you had to see this, but please, I can’t say any more.”

  “So you do know Queenie Lovetree,” I said.

  “Queenie who?” Phyllis Bernard asked.

  “Queenie Lovetree,” I repeated. “It’s his finger.”

  Her face remained blank.

  Now I was confused. “He’s a drag queen, works down at the Cinnamon Club. Some people know him as the Black Orchid.”

  Phyllis Bernard shook her head. “I don’t understand. What’s—”

  “Queenie was kidnapped the other night. You must’ve heard about it,” I said.

  No answer.

  I stared at each of them in turn. They maintained a noncommittal silence.

  “He was wearing that ring,” I said, “or one just like it.”

  “A coincidence,” Phyllis Bernard said.

  “Not likely.”

  I waited for them to respond, but Sheila turned away and Phyllis Bernard lowered her gaze. Dr. Bernard was the only one to hold steady. His eyes were as hard as stone. No answers there.

  “Junior,” I said. “It’s Junior, isn’t it?”

  The tension in the room, already bad, jumped another notch.

  “Why would you say something like that?” Sheila said.

  “Because it makes sense. He’s the right age, and he’s apparently not here. Furthermore,” I gestured toward the family photographs on the piano top, “those pictures, the man at your side. I didn’t remember much about him, but the instant I saw that picture, it hit me that he looked extraordinarily familiar.”

  “Of course he does. You’ve met him.”

  “Yes, I have. Two nights ago, at the Cinnamon Club, before he was kidnapped. That picture. That’s exactly how Queenie would look without makeup and dressed as a man.”

  “How dare you!” Sheila was indignant. “To suggest that—”

  “I’m not suggesting. I’m stating that it’s your husband they’ve got. He and Queenie Lovetree are—”

  “No, please! Please don’t say that!”

  “Why not? Because it’s true?” I paused. “Are you telling me that it’s not? Honestly?”

  Sheila blinked like a deer caught in headlights, then shot a frightened glance at her father. His look clearly said, Keep your mouth shut.

  “You just wouldn’t understand,” she murmured. Tears slipped down her face in rapid succession.

  “Try me.”

  “It’s not my husband,” she said. “It’s his brother.”

  She gestured toward the piano. “That’s his picture over there. They look very similar.” She glanced at her parents again. “It’s Billy who sings at the Cinnamon Club, Mrs. Price. The family’s not proud of it. So, we—we don’t talk about it.” She’d balled up her handkerchief. She couldn’t bring herself to look at me.

  Her father stepped in. “I didn’t want her to tell you, but now that she has, I can see in your face that you don’t believe her.”

  I didn’t know what to believe. “Well, then, where is Junior?”

  “On a business trip.”

  “Does he know what’s happened?”

  “We’ve been in contact. He’s on his way back.”

  I peered again at the photograph.

  “What you’re seeing is a family resemblance,” Dr. Bernard said. “When we first met William, my wife and I, we thought he and Junior were twins. They’re not. William is a year younger.”

  I walked over to the piano to take a closer look. There were two black-and-white pictures of what appeared to be the same young man, one of him alone and one of him standing next to Sheila. “Which one is William?”

  “Neither,” Dr. Bernard said. “They’re both of Junior.”

  I reached for one of the pictures. “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  I picked it up, studied it for several seconds, mentally applying Queenie’s makeup to the face, adding the wig and the costume. It definitely worked. There were also marked differences, however. There was something about the eyes that I couldn’t quite figure out. Overall, Queenie’s face was leaner, the cheekbones higher, the lips fuller than that of the man in the photo. But those changes could’ve been the result of expertly applied makeup, or lighting, or simply that the photo’s subject had lost weight. I set the picture down.

  “How do you tell them apart?” I asked.

  “The eyes. Junior’s are dark. William’s are light, almost golden.”

  Yes, that’s what I’d sensed in the photo. Even if I didn’t have a picture of William, I had a mental one of Queenie and knew that one of his most stunning characteristics were his golden eyes.

  “But the main difference is in their personalities,” Dr. Bernard said. “They’re like night and day. You can’t mix them up. Junior is calm and dependable, a man of taste and discernment. William, on the other hand …” He made
an exasperated sound meant to cover the rest. Then he gave me a cynical smile.

  “Mrs. Price, I do understand. The idea that a transvestite might be our son-in-law is just too plump a duck for you to resist. But believe me, that’s not the case.” He paused. “Naturally, we don’t entertain William or his kind in our home. But he’s related by marriage, so we stand by him. For the sake of our daughter and her husband, we will do whatever’s necessary to ensure William’s safe return.”

  I had to admit it: Dr. Bernard was right. I’d really liked the idea that the flamboyant and outrageous transvestite known as Queenie Lovetree was married to the only daughter of Strivers’ Row’s most conservative pair. The idea that it was Sheila’s brother-in-law who’d been kidnapped was a whole lot less sexy, but it certainly made more sense.

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “So you’re saying that Queenie is part of the family—but only to a degree?”

  The three of them nodded.

  “Then why did the kidnappers contact you instead of Junior’s family?”

  Sheila answered: “My husband and his brother, they don’t really have any family left, and what there is … well, they wouldn’t be able to meet the kidnappers’ demands. Understand?”

  I could accept that. “When did you first hear from them?”

  “A telephone call that night,” Dr. Bernard said.

  “It was so late,” Phyllis Bernard said. “They told us they had William and they demanded money.”

  “We didn’t want to believe them,” Sheila added.

  “You know how it is,” Dr. Bernard went on. “That could’ve been a prank call. It could’ve been from anyone.”

  “And so we refused,” Phyllis Bernard said. “God help us, we—” A sob broke from her. “Oh, Alfred, we’re responsible for this, don’t you see? If we’d just gone ahead and paid, then—”

  “We didn’t know, Phyllis. We just didn’t know.” Dr. Bernard turned back to me. “Please, let us handle this. Please—don’t tell anyone about this. We know now that they’ll kill him. We’ll need a little time to get the money together, but we will, and then we’ll pay and they’ll let him go.”

  I sensed that he said this more to reassure his family than to convince me.

  “I beg you not to put any of this in your column,” Phyllis Bernard said. “Alfred and I … we’re so sorry you had to be brought into this, but we’ll take it from here.”

  “But that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do, try to handle it on your own.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” Dr. Bernard repeated. “It was some horrible mistake that this package arrived on your doorstep.”

  “I’m not sure it was.”

  “What?” Dr. Bernard’s lips parted in surprise. His family stared.

  “I’m not sure it was a mistake,” I said. “I was there when he was kidnapped. Now a package containing his finger just happens to land on my doorstep, and I just happen to live across the street from you.”

  “What are you saying?” Dr. Bernard asked.

  “That I think the kidnappers want my involvement.”

  “But why?” Phyllis Bernard looked both horrified and stunned. Sheila just stood there with her mouth open in a state of fear and shock.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Most kidnappers like to work in secret. Obviously, this one doesn’t.”

  “But the letter, the phone call …” Sheila started.

  “Both times, he said not to tell anyone,” Dr. Bernard said.

  “Naturally. But look at what he’s done. Kidnappers usually nab their victims in secret, but this guy chose to do it in a crowded nightclub, before a slew of witnesses, right in front of a reporter—”

  “He couldn’t have known you’d be there,” Dr. Bernard said.

  “He didn’t have to. He knew the club would be packed.”

  It was hard to tell if my words were sinking in. The Bernards seemed shell-shocked.

  “Even if he didn’t know who I was that night, he must’ve found out since then. The package on my doorstep then becomes an incredible coincidence. At first, I tried to tell myself it was a house number mix-up. But I don’t buy it. I believe the kidnapper, or kidnappers, left the box there intentionally. Whoever is behind this wants the story covered.”

  The worry on the Bernards’ faces deepened.

  “Pardon me, but your explanation’s more than a bit self-serving,” Dr. Bernard said.

  “When do you expect your husband back?” I asked Sheila.

  “Tomorrow. We hope.” Sheila glanced at her father, looking for help, or confirmation, or both. He gave a barely perceptible nod and she continued. “Junior will be horrified when he …” Her eyes went to the box. “When he finds out what they’ve done to Billy.”

  “Junior wanted us to pay,” Dr. Bernard said. “He begged me, but I held out. And this box is the result.” He took a deep breath. “We can’t take another chance on doing the wrong thing.”

  Guilt and fear were driving their decision and that was never a good thing, but it was to be expected. What could I do about it? I had promised myself that I would abide by their wishes, at least for now. Perhaps I could help them in another way: get them thinking.

  “I know you’d like to be alone,” I said, “but I’d like to ask you one more question.” I looked at each of them, trying to make eye contact. “Who else knew William’s secret?”

  “I don’t know,” Sheila said. “I’ve been racking my brains since this whole thing started. Billy’s a good man, a really great guy. I know he’s a little different, but I don’t see why anyone would want to hurt him—I mean, not because he’d done anything to them, for sure.”

  “You misunderstood my question. I’m trying to figure out if the kidnappers knew who they were taking. If we know that they were aware of Queenie’s identity beforehand, then we can narrow down the number of people who might be responsible.”

  “The fact is, we can’t say when they found out,” Dr. Bernard said. “All we know is that they did. That’s what’s important. Furthermore, my wife and I, we don’t really know all that much about William, his friends, or what he does. We were totally surprised when the kidnapper called us. We didn’t even know that someone named Queenie Lovetree existed, or that she’d, I mean he’d, been kidnapped. Not until we heard it on the radio. Normally, we just don’t have anything to do with those kinds of people. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I think I do.”

  A clock chimed the hour somewhere deep inside the house. Time was a-moving.

  I pressed them: “Are you absolutely sure that you want to try to take care of this yourselves and not take it to the police? You do realize that the kidnappers are counting on you to refuse the kind of expert help you need, right?”

  I could have saved my breath. The Bernards remained resolute. Dr. Bernard got to his feet with a polite little smile that just about telegraphed what he’d say next.

  “We appreciate your help. We really do. But we will take care of this on our own. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to ask you to go. We don’t have much time and we’ve got plenty to attend to.”

  He started to show me out. Then the telephone rang and everyone froze. All eyes went to the receiver, which sat on a small table lamp next to the sofa. Dr. Bernard strode back across the room and put the candlestick phone to his ear.

  “Yes?” His body stiffened and his eyes shot over to me. He made a waving gesture, indicating that he wanted me to leave. I stayed put. Irritated, he half-turned and lowered his voice. “Yes, I received it … No, there was no problem with the delivery. No one else has seen it.”

  Again, he glared back at me and tried to shoo me out. I ignored it. I was going to listen till there was nothing left to hear. As he grew increasingly frantic, Phyllis Bernard started toward me, obviously intending to usher me out, but an exclamation from Dr. Bernard stopped her in her tracks and riveted all attention back on the conversation.

  “Twenty-five thousand!” he ro
ared. “But that’s five thousand more than—” His hand tightened on the receiver. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I don’t have that kind of money—”

  I moved closer, trying to listen in—Dr. Bernard was too upset to even attempt to stop me—but I couldn’t hear the kidnapper’s voice clearly.

  Dr. Bernard turned away and hunched over the phone; his voice was desperate. “And then what? What do I do? … But—… No, you can’t! You can’t just—”

  There was a click. It was so loud, even I heard it. The line had gone dead.

  Bernard stared at the receiver, then slowly lowered it back to its cradle. For a long moment he stood there, looking down at the phone. Finally, he raised his eyes to me, their expression bitter.

  “So now you know. You have all the confirmation you came for. What are you going to do with it?”

  Sheila stood in the center of the room, wringing her handkerchief, tears glistening in her eyes.

  So much love for her brother-in-law. Under other circumstances, I would’ve wondered whether she was having an affair with him. But if I was confident of anything, it was that Queenie only slept with men.

  Then again, Queenie might’ve swung both ways. What did I know?

  I started to say something, but changed my mind and turned to go. Sheila followed me out and opened the front door. As I exited the house, she whispered, “Please, you won’t write anything or tell anyone, will you? You won’t do anything that’ll get him killed?”

  I tilted my head. “One last question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did people ever call you Janie? Is that your middle name?”

  Sheila frowned. “No. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing. It was just a thought.”

  CHAPTER 17

  It was around eleven when I got to the newsroom. The place was bustling. I glanced down the main aisle between the cluttered desks and saw Sam at his, work piled high on either side, his office door open. I dropped my coat in my chair and went over to him. He spoke without looking up. “Close the door.”