A learned woman herself, Mrs. Peterson was more proud of her work with the church in her community than of any degree she might hold. A tall, elegant woman with charging light brown eyes and skin color to match, she had taken it upon herself to ensure that the women in her community were upright, righteous women of the Lord, holding their carriage in much that same manner. No stray hair was ever out of place in her bun, nor a wrinkle to be found blighting the stature of her clothes as she served food to the homeless or downtrodden at the church kitchen. Well-spoken and well kept, was Mrs. Peterson. Loved by all – well, maybe not so much.
Jeffrey was very different from his parents. He was not hard-working nor diligent and practical. In fact, he was lazy and self-serving. He spent his allowance from his parents on prostitutes, drinks, and gambling – the numbers was his game. His parents had given him everything he had ever wanted in a vain effort to create for him a life these children of former slaves never had. There was nothing he could not have. And so the handsome, pouty-lipped prince took every advantage of this, especially once he had grown to realize that his parents’ love for him was a mask they wore to keep the truth out of his reach, or so they had hoped.
On this particular day, young Peterson had not really come to the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank to make a deposit into his already abundantly filled savings account. It was just an excuse – a pretext - to come and see her again. His dark brown eyes stared intently at the pretty young teller who took his deposit. He had come into the bank reluctantly one day on an errand for his mother when he spotted the pretty new teller behind the counter. Something in him filled at the sight of her smooth cheeks and coifed hair. He wanted her, and Jeffrey – the heir to the Peterson throne – always got what he wanted.
So, he had been flirting with her for a few weeks now, trying to get her to agree to go out with him. He promised to take her to the best restaurants in town, a night filled with merry, food and drink. But she always politely said no thank you with a sweet smile on her smooth-skinned face. She intrigued him, this young professional woman named Sara Young. No woman had ever turned Jeffrey Peterson down. He fancied himself too handsome and rich for rejection.
His full red lips pouted at Sara’s persistently familiar rejection. As she handed him a receipt for his deposit, he grabbed her soft brown hands and brought them to his lips. Her small, well-manicured hands nearly disappeared into his large, smooth manicured hands. Sara liked men who worked with their hands and had the calluses to show for it, like her father and grandfather, local carpenters in Richmond. Mr. Peterson was a spoiled brat who had never worked a hard day in his life and his supple hands were evidence of that. She had no interest in him whatsoever, but she was always polite because she liked her job. She hoped to one day be a businesswoman like the bank’s founder, Mrs. Maggie Walker, whom she admired greatly and who had personally hired Sara for her current position.
Sara carefully removed her hands from Jeffrey’s wet lips and smiled as graciously as she could. There was something about him that made her really nervous. The other tellers thought she was crazy to reject one of the wealthiest Negro men in town, and envied her. If she married such a man, she’d never have to work a day in her life again. Such was the belief and dream of working women, they mused.
“Miss Young, why will you not do me the honors of letting me escort you to dinner this evening? I promise to be on my best behavior,” he cooed as he gently stroked her hand.
The teller working next to Sara shuffled her feet and glanced hatefully out of the corner of her eye at Sara as she told Jeffrey curtly, but politely, “Thank you for coming. Have a nice day, Mr. Peterson.” The seething co-worker slammed her customer’s deposit slip rather rudely into his hands and smacked her lips just as Jeffrey let go of Sara’s hands.
Sara started to breathe again once he finally bid her “adieu” and left St. Luke Penny Savings Bank with his only success being a useless deposit into his savings account. Man often ignores the very tool given to him for ultimate protection: instinct. And for Sara, at this moment, her instincts were in full panic mode. There was just something unsettling about the way he stared at her. There was no soul in his eyes.
“Chile, you ain’t got no kinda sense! How could you turn somethin’ like him down?” the teller charged at Sara before she stormed off to the back of the bank in full tantrum mode.
Sara’s hands instinctively went to her neck as she whispered under her breath, “I must never be alone with him.”
Chapter 7
Jeffrey thought deeply of Miss Sara Young as he drove his Chrysler Imperial E80 back towards Second Street. He had to pick up his mother from her volunteer services at Sixth Mount Zion Baptist Church on West Duval Street. The church was one of the oldest Negro churches in Richmond with a glorious history that extended as far back as 1867 when the slave preacher, Reverend John Jasper, founded the church. Folks still talked about his famous sermon, “De Sun Do Move,” even though the good reverend had been dead some 28 years now.
Sixth Mount Zion was recently remodeled by Virginia’s first licensed and renowned Negro architect, Charles T. Russell. He had also been hired recently by Mrs. Walker to redesign her front porch of her home on Quality Rowe. It was big news in the Ward as any improvements on property raised the value and the pride of the people in the Ward. Mrs. Peterson was now considering hiring Mr. Russell to do some work on their home as well, but not so as to compete with Mrs. Walker; of course not.
But Jeffrey didn’t care anything about the new front porch on Mrs. Walker’s home nor the antiquated church’s history. Mrs. Peterson and practically every Negro woman in Richmond faithfully attended some church and devoted much of their free time to serving the Lord and caring for the “sheep.” And that’s exactly what Jeffrey thought of the women in his community, especially his mother. They were like sheep – blind and faithful to the wolf.
He had always resented the church because he felt that it had somehow taken his mother’s attention from him. He remembered once when he was Romeo in his high school play and had asked his mother to come and see his performance, which his teacher, Mrs. Dobson, highly praised. But unfortunately for him, the performance fell on a Wednesday night and that was bible study night. Mrs. Peterson had never missed bible study in all of her years, and, as she explained to him that Tuesday night before the performance, “and I don’t intend on missing one now.”
She sat at her dressing table rubbing her hands with cocoa butter in an effort to ward off age, but the wrinkles kept coming anyways. He had stood in the doorway of her room and stared at her wrinkled hands. He wondered how those hands could be so gentle for the sheep, but not for him. His brown eyes found hers and for a minute, as she would later recall to her best friend, Sister Bertha, “I saw hate in his eyes. That boy hates me.”
Sister Bertha patted Mrs. Peterson’s cocoa buttered hands in an effort to comfort her. “You must have been mistaken, Katherine. He was just angry.”
But Mrs. Peterson could not agree with her. “No, Sista. Hate is a very recognizable thing. My son is…he’s different.” And then Sister Bertha changed the subject as a cold air had blown into the tearoom stirring up her arthritis.
That was over ten years ago, but Mrs. Peterson still thought about that moment every now and then, especially recently when the bodies of the first two women had popped up in the Ward; Mrs. Peterson had become uneasy and suspicious of her son for some unfathomable reason. Jeffrey had habits that he thought she was not aware of, but she was. When she had first learned of his dalliances with prostitutes a few months prior to the murders, she had confronted him about it secretly, for Mr. Peterson was not aware of the change in the air in his home. His studies had him entertained, as usual.
It was a bright, spring day, and the maid had been sent home early. Mrs. Peterson was sitting in the parlor, hands shaking as she reread the letter for the fifth time when Jeffrey walked into the house. Her hands shook almost uncontrollably as tears rolled down her supple light
brown cheeks. The investigator had said in the letter that Jeffrey had been seen “in the company of less than respectful women who sold their bodies for change” and that he had a reputation amongst them as being unusually rough and hard. Mrs. Peterson was appalled.
“Jeffrey,” she had called. “Please come into the parlor.” She quickly wiped her wrinkled face with her monogramed lace handkerchief.
Jeffrey stalled at the front door for a moment, hand still on the door knob. His skin often crawled at hearing the voice of his mother. He squared his shoulders and put a smile on his face as he slowly walked to the parlor door, nonetheless, and said rather impatiently, almost betraying the smile plastered haphazardly on his face, “What is it mother? I have to change for the party this evening.”
Mrs. Peterson took a moment to look at her son more closely. He was a handsome young man in a strange sort of way. He had broken his nose when he was 12 years old when he fell out of the tree in the backyard. It never really healed, so it was slightly bent to the right, giving his oval face a rather cynical look for his six foot two inch body. Broad shoulders stretched the material of his brown double-breasted suit, which fit rather snugly on his frame. She stared transfixed at his fat, smooth hands which now played with the rim of his chocolate brown fedora hat he had only just removed from his head. Always in the latest fashions, he was, she thought to herself.
“So, you are going to the ball at Mr. Price’s place tonight?” she asked after gathering her nerves.
“Yes, I am,” he answered rather tightly. He had much on his mind and was anxious to get out of his mother’s presence to prepare.
She sensed his impatience and got to the point. Clearing her throat, she charged on. “Your habits are going to embarrass the family, Jeffrey. Let’s put an end to it before your father learns of them.”
He smiled rather ruthlessly at her. “My habits are just that, mother. Mine!”
“Why can’t you find a nice woman and settle down to be married? You are of age now and we are not getting any younger.” She dabbed the handkerchief at her puffy solemn eyes.
“I am not interested in marriage at this time, mother.”
“So you will risk it all to frequent those women?” She had finally gotten his attention, waving the letter from the investigator in the air like a kite caught in a gust of wind.
Jeffrey tightened, the smile now gone from his face. “So, you have been spying on me.”
“I must do what I have to do to protect the family name. We have a reputation to protect in this community, Jeffrey.” He stood silent, staring at the letter with intensity. “Why don’t you join me at the Armory tomorrow? The church is serving food to the veterans.”
His eyes narrowed darkly as he whispered to himself, “Saving the sheep.”
“What did you say, Jeffrey?”
“No. I have no interest in saving…I mean serving the veterans,” and he left the parlor without asking for leave to go and prepare for the party.
Mrs. Peterson sat there in the parlor for a few more minutes, too stunned to move. They say a mother’s instincts are powerful and accurate. Mrs. Peterson knew then and there that her son – whom she had nearly died while delivering into this sinful world – was going to destroy the family name. And there was nothing she could do about it.
Today, Jeffrey was daydreaming about kissing Miss Sara’s red lips when he pulled up in front of Sixth Mount Zion to pick up his mother. Mrs. Peterson had been waiting in the doorway when she saw him pull up in his Chrysler. She had bought it for him two years ago in a vain effort to appease him, to show she did love him. He had been cold towards her ever since that conversation in the parlor years earlier. She had hoped it would also stop him from his now weekly visits to the brothels, but it had not. In fact, it had fueled them.
She now sighed heavily as he pulled up and got out to hold the front passenger door open for her. He was smiling, but she could tell that it was not for her. “Thank you, Jeffrey,” she said as she slowly sat down in the car careful to not get her ornate cane, which was needed more for fashion than any medical reason, caught in the door. These expensive cars so are fragile, she thought to herself as she gathered around her legs the brown cotton dress and white sweater she had worn that cool October day.
“Hello, mother,” he said curtly and went back to his daydreaming.
Mrs. Peterson was building up the courage to talk to him about the strange happenings in Jackson Ward. She suspected that her son was still involved somehow. “Jeffrey, have you been reading of the murders of those poor girls in the Richmond Planet?” she asked cautiously and lightly so as not to set him on edge – this was just casual conversation after all.
He came out of his daydreaming with a thud. “Yes, I have mother. I hope they catch the bastard soon,” and he turned his head slightly to look at her.
“Yes, me, too. But what seems so strange is how the killer seems to be hurting poor working class girls. It’s as if he has something against them.”
“You need to stop reading the Richmond Planet, mother. It is working your imagination.”
“It is so sad, really, especially the first girl. What was her name? Anne Hilks. She was a prostitute, was she not? They seem to think her death is tied somehow to the deaths of the other women.”
Jeffrey was silent. The vein in his brow began to visibly throb. He turned onto East Leigh Street and honked and waved as he drove past Mrs. Walker’s house. She was on the front porch watering her plants. She waved as the Petersons drove by.
“She was a nursing student by day, but a prostitute at night,” Mrs. Peterson continued. She was trying to get to something – the truth.
Jeffrey stopped in front of their home. He reached over his mother and opened her door. “The police will take care of it, mother. All is well, you’ll see.”
“And this new murder. I heard the ladies at the church talking about it. The Robinson’s maid, of all people. You know them, right? You went to school with their son. They live in Church Hill,” she continued as she eyed his response out of the corner of her eyes.
He drew in his breath. “Yes, mother! I know them!” he replied curtly as he leaned over and opened the car door for her to exit.
Mrs. Peterson stared at the opened door as if it were a snake. Something had caught her eye in the upper corner of the door that Jeffrey had leaned over to open. It was a woman’s earring. She dared not move – or ask what it was. She simply continued to keep her eyes on the door.
“I have things to do, mother!” snapped Jeffrey.
The anger in his voice snapped her back, and she slowly turned to look at her only son. She went to reach for him, but he slapped her hands away from his face. A darkness filled his eyes.
“Jeffrey,” she whispered. “If I’ve ever done anything to —“
“Oh, stop it with the drama, mother!” he chuckled calmly. “I am simply going to the lodge to meet my friends for dinner.” He patted her knee closest to him as if she were a child and then slowly began nudging her out of his car.
Mrs. Peterson slowly emerged from the car. She looked at her Italianate styled home and let out a small cry from the pit of her stomach. She had such a good life for a Negro woman of her times. They had money and a nice home in a prestigious neighborhood. They were respected in the community and gave charitably to those in need. Elijah was even a member of a local Elks Lodge, a fraternal order which often held parades in the Ward every Sunday during the spring; they wanted to uplift the community, and with Elijah Peterson as its treasurer, it was always the best show in town. But for all of this, they had failed at the most important thing. Mr. and Mrs. Elijah Peterson had raised a monster and worst of all, there was no one she could tell – no one would ever believe her – NEVER!
Chapter 8
Jeffrey drove away to his own home around the corner on East Clay Street. He had special plans for this evening. As he fantasized how it would play itself out, Mrs. Katherine Peterson sat down at her dressing table an
d stared at the pills that lay in her wrinkled palm. Her life of leisure and wealth flashed before her eyes, and then was suddenly replaced with images of the dead women. They were someone’s daughters and her own son, she knew deep in her spirit beyond all doubt, had taken their lives.
It was too much to bear, too much to face, too much to admit. She took the handful of pills and threw them in her mouth. She then chased them down with the glass of water that sat before her. The wealthy and respected woman of God then wobbled over to her bed and laid down on it. She spread out her white gown that she had recently purchased from Thalhimer’s Department Store on the days when Negroes were allowed to go there and shop - Wednesdays. When she first saw its lace and frills, she lost her breath. It was something especially made for her, she had said to herself.
When Elijah Peterson came home a few hours later, the darkness of the house put him on edge. “Katherine,” he called, but she did not answer. He knew that his wife had been depressed lately, but whenever he asked her what was wrong, she looked at him with those big brown sad eyes and said, “It shall soon pass, my darling.” And he believed her; he wanted to so badly. But they had been married for over thirty years and he knew something else was amiss.
When he made his way to their bedroom, he was almost too terrified with fear to open the door. The stillness was too familiar. He shrugged the feeling off, though, and opened the door saying to himself, Don’t be silly, old man, and he walked into the darkness of death.
Murder on Second Street: The Jackson Ward Murders (Sy Sanford Series Book 1) Page 5
