Blanche Among the Talented Tenth (Blanche White series Book 2)

by Barbara Neely

  “Blanche! I know you’re in there. I’m not leaving until you come out.”

  “Shit!” She was too old for this mess. She looked at herself in the mirror and was reassured that she at least still looked like herself. She smoothed her hair, straightened her dress, and went to the front door. Only the screen door was closed. She stared at him through it.

  “Didn’t you ever make a mistake?” he demanded to know. “Didn’t you ever have a dumb reaction to something unexpected?”

  Blanche opened the screen door and stepped out on the porch. Stu went on talking.

  “I know we can’t really pretend it never happened. And it’s probably not the last mistake I’ll make. But I really like you, Blanche, the way you handle yourself, the way you walk and look. Can’t we be…can’t we hang out together a little bit while you’re here?”

  Blanche searched his eyes and face for that unacceptable something else he wanted that a part of her insisted was there. She didn’t find it.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said.

  Stu grinned. “Fair enough. I’ll call you tomorrow. OK?” He grinned again and waved from the walkway.

  Blanche went inside and called Ardell.

  “Hummm. I got to admit he don’t seem like the man I hoped he was, but I like the way the boy apologizes. Anyway, he can’t help how he was raised.”

  “Maybe not,” Blanche told her. “But I bet there ain’t a hell of a lot else he’s still doin’ ’cause his mama told him to.”

  Ardell sucked her teeth. “You are one hard sister! You only going to be there another week or so. Sunset walks on the beach, candlelight dinners with a good-looking man with reason to be extra-nice. Enjoy, girlfriend. You ain’t signing on for life. You know how to play him.”

  “Well, I’ll see. I just wanted to let you know that the catch wasn’t just in my imagination.”

  When Ardell had agreed that Blanche had been right, Blanche told her about going to Faith’s with Mattie. “I had to help her. On account of what Madame Rosa said, for one thing.” Blanche explained, anticipating Ardell’s attitude.

  “Hummm. And if Madame Rosa wasn’t the reason why you had to stick your nose in other people’s business, you woulda found some other reason, like the phase of the moon or the day of the year, maybe.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ interested in people. No better way to learn what not to do in life. And you don’t exactly stop listening when I start telling you what’s happening up here.”

  “Hummm. You just watch your back, Blanche, you ain’t exactly among friends, you know.” Ardell hesitated a beat or two before asking, “You think maybe Mattie knows what she’s talking about?”

  Blanche grinned. She might not know much, but she knew her Ardell. “I don’t think so. I can see how Hank could kill Faith out of love for his wife, especially if he wasn't planning to be around to pay for it. I just don’t see no proof Carol had anything to do with it. The police and everybody but Mattie thinks Faith had an accident,” Blanche told her. “But I saw Hank’s note. He said he killed Faith.”

  “Hummm. That’s got to count for something, don’t it?”

  “Not with Mattie. She’s positive Carol did it and Hank covered for her in his suicide note.”

  “Damn, girl! That’s deep!”

  “Ain’t it?” And there’s more. She told Ardell about the box in the windup toy, but not about her plans to go get it later on—no sense plucking on Ardell’s last nerve, “From the sound of that box when we shook it, I’m bettin’ more folks than Hank and Carol got reason to be glad Faith’s not around.”

  “Hummm. Like I said, Blanche. You best be careful. You remember the last time you got mixed up in this kinda mess.”

  Blanche sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “This ain’t nothing like that, Ardell. Here, I’m just doing what Madame Rosa said I’m supposed to do. I ain’t really involved.”

  “Hummm. That’s what you. You just do like I say and be careful. And keep me posted,” Ardell added with a laugh.

  Blanche felt better when she got off the phone. She whistled a little while she altered the note she left to tell the children to put themselves to bed at the usual time without making Tina’s life a misery. It took her a few seconds to unlock Faith’s door. Her fingers were clumsy with thoughts of Stu and Ardell. It was darker inside the cottage than it was outside. She finally found the light and headed down the hall toward Faith’s room when it registered that one of the shadows she’d passed was not a chair or a lamp. She turned toward the living room. The light went out. As she opened her mouth to shout. She didn’t so much feel the blow as she heard the sound it made as her skull was jarred. The sound echoed through her body and loosened her joints. First her knees, then her ankles and back turned to gravy.

  TEN

  Mattie was a café con leche moon hanging full over Blanche’s head. Blanche smiled or thought she smiled. Maybe the smile was on the inside of her face. Mattie didn’t look like she was being smiled at.

  “Thank God! I was just about to call Sinclair. No! Don’t try to get up! I’ll get you some water, some…just lie there a moment.”

  “There” was Faith’s living room floor, and this was one of those rare occasions when Blanche was delighted to do as she was told. She wasn’t sure she could get up if she wanted to. Her body felt more like an idea than anything over which she had control. When Mattie came back, Blanche propped herself up on her right elbow. Her head spun as though she’d been riding a merry-go-round on the fast track. How did she get here? Oh yeah, the shadow. She sat up to a headache that began high on her forehead and pierced deep inside her brain. She gently touched the front of her head. There was a large, hot lump, like a small, taut, water-filled balloon attached to the front of her head, but there was no blood. Mattie handed her a glass of water. Blanche’s hand shook so badly she spilled part of it but managed eventually to get it to her lips.

  “I think you need to see Sinclair. I’m going to call him this minute.”

  Blanche tried to shake her head but her headache put a stop to that. “No, Mattie. I don’t need a doctor. I need some ice.”

  Mattie hesitated, eyeing the phone. Blanche understood Mattie’s impulse to call a doctor immediately: Mattie had always had the luxury of help—doctors, nannies, lawyers, housemaids, while Blanche needed to be sure it was necessary to pay a doctor when some ice and rest would be enough.

  “Come on, now. We’ve both treated enough knocked heads to know I’m all right. Get me some ice.”

  Mattie opened her mouth as if to protest, but didn’t. “All right. Then I’ll call Sinclair.”

  “Bring a flashlight, too.” Blanche called after her.

  Mattie brought ice in a dish towel and a small, black flashlight. Blanche applied the ice to her forehead.

  “Why’d you come looking for me?”

  Mattie sat on the coffee table close to Blanche. “I got tired of waiting. I called the Crowleys’. No answer, so I came here.” She flashed the light in Blanche’s eyes. “Yes, both pupils contracted. Did you see him, Blanche?”

  “No.”

  Mattie looked around the room. “I wonder if he took anything, or if you frightened him before he could steal? I’ll call Arthur. One of those private security people should be on the premises until Faith’s cottage is secured. The word is obviously out that it’s unoccupied.”

  It took Blanche a little while to understand that Mattie thought Blanche had interrupted a burglar. That wasn’t Blanche’s guess. Of course, Mattie was one of the owners, like the sort of people she worked for. They were always expecting someone to steal their stuff, as though they understood they shouldn’t have so much more than other people. At least Mattie didn’t suggest calling the police. They agreed about that.

  “What about the box?”

  “Of course. I should have thought of that!
”

  “Close the curtains first,” Blanche told her. She pulled herself up from the floor and into an armchair. Mattie went down the hall.

  “Good God!” Mattie came hurrying back to the living room. “Someone’s been in there!”

  Blanche eased slowly down the hall, careful not to aggravate her headache. The bathroom door was open. From the breeze blowing from the bathroom, it was likely that whoever had broken in had used the bathroom window.

  Faith’s bedroom looked as if it had been picked it up and shaken like a saltshaker. The quilt and sheets were jumbled together like unfolded wash. One pillow hung over the side of the bed. The nightstands’ drawers were ajar. The closet door was wide open. Dresses lay on the floor. The book basket had been knocked on its side. House and Garden, Home Beautiful, and a Laura Taylor catalog spilled across the floor.

  Mattie righted the basket. The metal box was still lodged firmly inside. Blanche grinned and offered Mattie some skin. Mattie hesitated, then shook Blanche’s hand, instead. Blanche stifled her chuckle and thought again about spotting Mattie points.

  “I hope he didn’t do all of this while I was conked out in the hall.”

  “What if you’d come to? He might have…!”

  “Exactly.” Anger began to roll in Blanche’s stomach. Some motherless fucker had hit her. Hit her! And could have killed her! This wasn’t the first time she’d been attacked. She’d been raped and mugged. She was too familiar with the feeling of separation from herself that came with having been rendered defenseless, but she wasn’t taking responsibility for shit that wasn’t her fault. Rage was beginning to burn holes in her belly.

  “We keep saying ‘he,’ Mattie pointed out. “Why?”

  Blanche closed her eyes and remembered the loud intake of breath that had accompanied the loud thump from inside her head. She’d turned her head and there had been the breath and a shape. Was the face covered?

  “You’re right. It could have been a woman. I didn’t see enough to tell. The light went out just before I was hit.”

  “You rest, my dear.” Mattie set the metal box in Blanche’s lap. “I’ll take a quick look around for the key and if I can’t find it, we’ll take the box, and blast it open if we have to.”

  “Are you sure there’s no small key on her key chain in her handbag? Let me see.”

  Mattie fetched Faith’s handbag from the floor where it lay in the closet with its contents scattered about. She looked at the key ring, then put it and the rest of Faith’s things back in the bag, and handed it to Blanche. “I’ll check all of her pockets,” Mattie said.

  Blanche set her ice pack and the metal box on the floor. She turned Faith’s handbag upside down and dumped the contents into her lap: compact, wallet, change purse, pill box, lipstick tube, tin of Altoids peppermints, and a leather-covered notebook with attached pen. She examined them all, opening, probing, shaking. She took up the bag itself. A good bag, a Carrie Henson, glove leather, lined with heavy canvaslike material. There were two inside zipper compartments. In the upper one Blanche found a Band-Aid, a pack of matches from the Occidental Grill in D.C., and a couple of safety pins. In the lower one was a folding toothbrush, a very small tube of toothpaste, a container of dental floss, and a couple of safety pins. Blanche scooped out the contents and examined the toothbrush case and the dental floss. She checked the bag to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. There was a safety pin still in the top zipper compartment. When she looked closer, she could see it was pinned to the lining in the bottom of the compartment. She lifted the handbag and shook it. Something that sounded like a small pebble bounced against the side of the bag, but Blanche could see nothing inside but the safety pin. She reached in and unfastened it from the lining. The pin both held together the edges of a hole in the lining and had a piece of strong brown string attached to it.

  “Mattie?”

  Mattie hurried to Blanche’s side.

  Blanche slowly pulled the pin and the attached string out of the bag. Mattie gasped when the other end of the string appeared with a small, sturdy key attached to it. She clapped her hands and laughed. “My dear, you are damned clever!”

  Mattie picked up the box and sat facing Blanche. She cradled the box protectively on her lap and held out her hand to Blanche for the key.

  The peppery smell of old paper rose from the box. There were a number of folded sheets and a small book inside. Mattie’s gnarled hand shook as she lifted a piece of paper and unfolded it. It had the slick surface of cheap copier paper. Mattie said it was a letter from the African-American Heritage and History Society addressed to Veronica. She read it aloud.

  “Dear Mrs. Tatterson:

  This is in response to your inquiry regarding your ancestors, the brothers, known as Moses and Cyrano, documented to have been the property of Gardner Hancock in 1702. As you indicated in your letter, Cyrano and Moses were both on the Hancock Plantation at the time a major slave revolt was planned which would have likely involved hundreds of slaves on at least ten major plantations in the eastern South Carolina area.

  Our records, unfortunately, do not show why these two brothers were kept together when most kidnapped Africans were separated from their captured kin at the time of sale.

  While our data indicate that your research is accurate regarding many of the events which occurred at the time of this aborted revolt. However, there is one discrepancy. It was your great-great-great-uncle Cyrano, who was alleged to be the major planner and organizer of the planned revolt. His brother, whom you identify as your great-great-grandfather Moses, is reported to have told Gardner Hancock, the plantation owner, about the planned revolt. Cyrano and his collaborators are reported to have been skinned alive and left to die in the slaves’ quarters as a lesson to other such plotters. At least five hundred enslaved men and women on other plantations in the area are reported to have been tortured and/or executed. Our records further indicate that Moses was rewarded for his loyalty by being given his freedom and safe passage to Nova Scotia.

  If we can be of further service, please call upon us.

  Sincerely yours,

  Rushell Harris

  Director”

  Blanche and Mattie stared at each other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  “So that’s why she suddenly stopped boring us to death about the book she was writing about her family of noble black savages and good-hearted, upper-crust white colonialists!”

  "Well, at least one of them was worth something." Blanche took another piece of paper from the box and handed it to Mattie.

  Mattie's face lit up like a child's at Christmas. “This is it!” She handed the paper to Blanche. There was a picture in the right-hand corner and an array of fingerprints across from it. There were two columns—Charge and Outcome—beneath the picture and prints. There were three crimes, or rather, one crime—prostitution—repeated three times. The first two incidents had a two hundred dollar fine and a year’s probation listed in the Outcome column. The final entry ended in an eighteen-month sentence. The name on the sheet, Lena Guy, was unfamiliar, but the picture was not. It made Carol look hard and old—not in years, but in worldliness. Her hair was blond; it made her face look dirty.

  Mattie’s eyes glittered in triumph. Blanche took the paper from her and examined the picture more closely. It was Carol all right. Busted in Seattle. Carol had said she’d known a lot of powerful people. Blanche hoped that meant she’d been working the high end of the john pool, if there was a high end.

  “Hank once told me they had no secrets from each other,” Mattie said. “I wonder if Carol’s disclosure was a full one. Hank was very straightlaced in some ways.”

  Blanche remembered the conversation she’d heard between Carol and Hank. “Now that I come to think of it, of course he knew, or at least he talked as if he knew.” She finally told Mattie what she remembered of Carol and Hank’s conversation. />
  “Why didn’t you tell me this before? It all falls into place. Carol wanted to get this back from Faith. She came here and…”

  “Mattie, hold on. Being a prostitute don’t make you a murderer. That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d jump to conclusions. Let’s see what else is in the box before you call Hank’s wife a murderer.”

  Mattie stiffened. Her eyes flashed for a moment, but once again, she held her tongue. She unfolded another piece of paper, also a reproduction on slick copy paper. “Well, well, well,” she said.

  Blanche held out her hand. It was a birth certificate on a Commonwealth of Pennsylvania form dated May 17, 1989. It said that a female child named Artura Hill-Martinez had been born to Maria Elena Martinez. Written on the line entitled, Name of Father, was Arthur Hill.

  “Arthur has gone up in my estimation. I wouldn’t have thought he had the initiative.” Mattie was clearly amused.

  “Who is she? Do you know that name?”

  “Not exactly, but it sounds…What was the date again?”

  Mattie thought for a while. “The child would have been conceived about July or August of the year before. I was on tour that spring. Carol and Hank joined me in San Francisco. We went up to Ventana, at Big Sur, then came up here in late July.” Mattie sat silently, with her eyes closed.

  “Now let me see. Oh, yes. That was the year Clothilde—she’s Arthur’s wife—was in Atlanta looking after her mother. Broken hip, as I recall. Their children were at camp and Arthur was here on his own, something he hates and does not manage terribly well, as you may have noticed. At any rate…” Mattie’s face took on the satisfied look of someone who’s had a good belch after a good meal. “Of course! Maria! One of the maids. Lovely girl, damned lovely. Like a fawn. Only worked here that one summer.” She gave Blanche a look that was as seriously sad as it was amused. “Arthur must be half-crazed knowing Faith had this. It would ruin him.”