The Book of Beloved (Pluto's Snitch 1)

by Carolyn Haines

  “Dammit, Raissa. You shouldn’t go back to Caoin House. It’s dangerous there for you.”

  Harsh lines at the corner of his mouth told me how concerned he was. “I’m not taking it lightly—I promise.”

  “The entities in Caoin House are very strong. They’re able to move matter. For most spirits, summoning the energy to knock or tap drains them. These ghosts manifest, and they are able to move objects. They have physical powers, which is extraordinary.”

  “I am concerned, and I promise to be careful. He promised to tell me secrets. I thought he could help me figure out how to rid Caoin House of the ghosts.”

  “I’ll sleep in the hallway outside your room from now on. You can’t go out into the night with Eli again.”

  Isabelle came to the door and opened it to speak to us. “Brett is waiting to make a toast in your honor, Raissa. He’s so proud of you.” She didn’t wait for an answer but closed the door.

  “We have to go inside,” Reginald said. “The celebration is to honor you and your story. You can’t stand out here with me.” He crushed his cigarette underfoot and lightened the mood with a devilish grin. “People will talk.”

  “Let them.” But I noticed Carlton and Uncle Brett coming toward the open door. I stepped inside with an apology on my lips. In a moment I was swallowed in the raucous toast Uncle Brett offered.

  I let my worries about Caoin House slip away as I basked in the pleasure of hearing praise for my accomplishment. Carlton, that devil, had a copy of the story with him. At the urging of my friends, I read a few pages, to give them a taste. They were suitably chilled, and I relished the sensation.

  For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to be special, to be admired, to have earned the applause of my friends. It was something that could be highly addictive.

  We’d settled at a table in the corner to eat gumbo and the delicious po’boy sandwiches composed of the best fresh French bread and fried shrimp or oysters. We were a merry group, and I realized how much I wanted to live in Mobile. I had friends; I now had a career; I had the beginning of a rich and fulfilling life. Uncle Brett was the total opposite of my mother, but they shared enough quirks and characteristics that I could allow myself to let him be my guardian. I could go to him for advice, and that was something I’d sorely lacked since Alex’s death.

  I didn’t believe that women were incapable of making big decisions—not at all. I was equal to any man. But even the smartest men needed advisers and friends and those who could give a valid opinion. Uncle Brett offered those things to me, yet he never pushed to control the outcome.

  I was a lucky woman. I hadn’t felt that way in a long time, but looking around at Pretta’s laughing face and Isabelle’s glow of love as she looked at Uncle Brett, I counted myself among the luckiest of people.

  Carlton caught my eye and held up his glass in a salute to me. My answering grin hurt my face. We clicked glasses. This was a perfect evening. Life could not get better than this.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A commotion in the back of the club made me look up as the bartender left his post. He returned a moment later, his face strained. Though he looked at Pretta and Hubert, he spoke in Carlton’s ear.

  The change of expression warned me that tragedy had struck our happy group. I didn’t know who or how, but I had no doubt. Something awful had happened.

  Carlton took Hubert’s arm and led him away from the group. A moment later, Hubert exploded. “I will find who did this and make them pay. That boy never hurt a fly. He worked; he helped his mother. He saved his money to have a better life.”

  Pretta rose slowly as all conversation at our table stopped. “What’s happened?”

  Impulse sent Isabelle and me to either side of her.

  “What is it?” she demanded of her husband. “What’s wrong?”

  Hubert struggled to contain his emotions. “It’s John Henry. Someone lynched him in Bienville Square. He’s dead.”

  Pretta’s knees caved, and she would have gone down had it not been for Isabelle and me catching her. We eased her into a chair, trying to control our own reactions. For the longest moment, Pretta merely sat and stared into her husband’s eyes. Her mouth opened, and a piercing scream brought tears to my eyes. “No! No! No!”

  Hubert came to her and held her tight as she sobbed against him.

  Uncle Brett went to the bar and discreetly covered the bill for the evening. He signaled Reginald over, and they conferred for a moment. Next, he went to Carlton. The lawyer wanted to argue, but at last he conceded.

  Finally, Uncle Brett came to me, and I understood that my immediate future had been decided. “Reginald and I are going to Bienville Square. I want a word with the sheriff. This can’t be swept under the rug. Someone will pay for this, but it has to be handled with some delicacy.”

  “Will someone be held accountable for this?” Images of John Henry’s careful preparation of candies, his ready smile, and his easygoing nature came to me. “Someone should pay.”

  “John Henry laid claim to someone else’s name,” Uncle Brett said softly. “He challenged a white family. His claim to the Marcum name casts a shadow on their heritage. Their standing in society. There are many people in this city who couldn’t let that pass. I know Pretta and Hubert talked to him about the consequences, but he refused to stop calling himself a Marcum.”

  “It was his name. Why shouldn’t he claim it?”

  “Because it cost him his life. Is a name really that important?” Brett put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I don’t like the way things are, but flying in the face of people with power is never smart. I want things to change, but it will have to be a gradual process. When you back people into a corner, when you confront them with a truth they aren’t ready to hear, they can become aggressive and brutal.”

  I’d heard the same arguments about women and the vote. “You can’t color this any way but wrong.” To my horror, I started crying.

  My uncle hated tears because he felt helpless. He put an arm around me and looked immensely relieved when Carlton stepped up and offered his handkerchief. “Can you look after Raissa? I want to have a word with the sheriff and to see to the body.”

  “Yes,” Carlton said. “I’ll take her to my club, where she can find some quiet. Pretta and Isabelle can join us. The streets are going to be explosive, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll return for her later.”

  Carlton took my hand. “Raissa, will you spend some time with me? After things settle, I’ll drive you back to Caoin House. Your uncle has things he must do, and worry for you will only make it harder on him.”

  Uncle Brett didn’t give me a chance to respond. This had already been decided between the men. Gracious acceptance was the only card I could play. “Thank you, Carlton.”

  “That’s my girl,” Uncle Brett said. He motioned to Reginald, and they rushed out the door, their leather soles slapping the sidewalk until they faded in the distance.

  Hubert eased Pretta into a chair. He whispered to her, and she cried out again and reached up to detain him, but he grasped her hands and removed them from his shirt. “I have to go. Someone has to speak for John Henry and his mother. I don’t want them to defile the body.”

  “Pretta will be safe with me and Raissa and Isabelle. We’ll go to my offices, and once things are calm, I’ll see the ladies home.”

  “Thank you, Carlton.” Hubert kept glancing at the door, but he was reluctant to leave Pretta.

  “Go,” she finally said, and he shot through the door without a backward glance.

  “Ladies?” Carlton took Pretta’s elbow and helped her stand. “We should move along. A mob is capable of any violence. Pretta, you and Hubert employed John Henry. Let’s not give them another target.”

  Those worlds galvanized Pretta, and we set off down the dark city street. In the distance I heard the rising and falling roar of a crowd of angry people. I turned back to look toward the square and saw flames. I could only hope the mo
b wasn’t burning John Henry’s body.

  Carlton’s law offices were a few blocks down Dauphin Street, and he ushered us there, a shepherd moving a flock along a sidewalk that was quickly filling with vehicles and men. The lynching news spread like a contagion.

  To avoid Bienville Square, the site of the lynching, Carlton turned us down a narrow alley that ran between the three-story brick department stores that sold the latest fashions. We were halfway along when someone at the other end swung a flashlight beam into our faces.

  “That’s the bitch who gave that boy a job. Get her!”

  I grasped Pretta’s arm and tugged her back the way we’d come. Isabelle ran beside me.

  “Run!” Carlton remained behind, standing his ground to give us time to escape.

  I looked back as the mob descended on him, but Pretta’s hysterical sobs kept me moving away. Leaving Carlton to fight alone tore at me, but I had no choice.

  Pretta, Isabelle, and I were swept into the mob that surged toward Bienville Square. The smell of alcohol was strong as the men pushed past us, not even really seeing us. The bloodlust of the mob had been aroused.

  We were at the park before I knew it, and the wall of moving people stopped. Voices yelled angrily, calling for others to be lynched. The language was profane and disgusting. Packed in with men taller than I was, I couldn’t see anything.

  Isabelle signaled toward a break in the crowd. Pretta cried and sniffled, but there was nothing we could do except keep moving. We pushed and squeezed to the edge of the crowd, pulling Pretta with us.

  At last, we made it to the curb on the opposite street. I looked at the square and froze with dread. Uncle Brett was climbing a ladder that Hubert and Reginald guarded, punching anyone who tried to get near. John Henry swung from a rope looped over the limb of one of the beautiful old oaks.

  “Come on!” Isabelle pushed me down the sidewalk. “If they see Pretta, they may hang her, too.”

  I grasped my friend’s hand, and we ran. Most of the crowd had made it to the square, and now the streets were almost empty. We ran and ran until we came to the alley where we’d left Carlton. There was no sign of him.

  “Do you think—” I couldn’t utter the words.

  “Carlton is too smart to die on the end of a rope.” Isabelle frowned. “We have to get her inside, but that could be trouble.”

  A lone figure stood beneath a streetlight two blocks down the street. I noticed a piece of a wooden pallet in the alley, and I picked it up. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but better than none. “Let’s go. If he does anything, give me enough room to swing at him.”

  We led Pretta, who had given up any attempt to take charge of herself. She drifted as if in a nightmare, and I knew she was in shock.

  The figure came toward us at a run, and I rushed forward, club ready.

  “Raissa!”

  I dropped the stick and ran into Carlton’s arms. I’d never been gladder to see anyone.

  “Oh, thank God you’re okay,” Isabelle said as she joined us. “Hurry—we need to get Pretta to safety.”

  At last we reached the cool dark-paneled offices, and Carlton had us seated in the semigloom of the shuttered interior. The quiet was a blessing. Pretta’s ragged breathing was the only noise as Carlton bustled around with glasses of water and a damp cloth to cool Pretta’s hot eyes and face.

  Isabelle was as distraught as I was, but she managed to keep her composure, an incentive for me to hold myself together. We had pressing duties—first and foremost to comfort Pretta.

  “I can’t believe this,” Pretta said again and again when at last she could speak. “Maybe it’s a mistake?” She lifted her tearstained face to us, hoping we would agree.

  “Tomorrow we’ll take food to his mother,” Isabelle said, her tone level and devoid of any emotion. “I’ve been meaning to find someone to help me with my herb garden and to do some ironing. His mother may have some time to help me out. Carlton, do you have any domestic work?”

  “I do, and several of my clients have also mentioned the need for child care or cleaning. I’ll be sure and impress upon them the importance of taking on additional help.”

  Isabelle was thinking of the future and John Henry’s mother. What would she do without her son to help her? I simply couldn’t believe that the young man I’d met, a gentle young man who took pride in his work, had been murdered in such a brutal way.

  I was like a dog with a bone. “Why would someone kill a young man, little more than a boy, because he took his father’s name?”

  Carlton sighed, but Isabelle patted his arm. “Let me answer. Name is everything, Raissa. In society, it’s heritage, bond, calling card, history, accomplishments. Mobile is a city where social standing is more important than ever. This is a closed society. Old money and old family. A man can go to the bank and borrow enormous sums on his family name alone. No collateral. For a black man to take an honored name and to use it, the affront was bound to result in tragedy.”

  “Then the whole society is wrong.” I grew only angrier at her logic. “It is all wrong.”

  “Many things are wrong,” Carlton said, coming to sit beside me on the leather sofa. He drew me against him. “Women who can’t vote or own property is wrong, and that is changing. Change will come for the Negro, too. It will. But it must come at a pace that doesn’t threaten those who hold the reins of power. John Henry pushed too hard. The Marcum family has a lot of power.”

  I hated it that anyone could twist the facts to make an innocent young man look guilty. “I don’t think he pushed too hard. The name was his at conception. Mr. Marcum didn’t deny that John Henry was his son. He simply ignored the situation. He’s as much to blame as the person who hanged him. And Mrs. Marcum, too. You have no idea how she spoke to John Henry when he made deliveries. She’s an evil bitch.” My grip on the sofa whitened my knuckles.

  “None of us disagrees with you, Raissa. If only the rest of the world could catch up to you, we would live in a better country.”

  “Will they find the person who did this?” Pretta asked.

  “I can promise you that Brett, Hubert, and I will stay after the sheriff. I suspect he’ll try to shirk his duty, but I won’t let it drop. You ladies must not engage in this matter.”

  I heard what Carlton said, and I also heard his promise. He would work for change, but only in a way that kept the status quo balanced. Nothing sudden. Nothing unpleasant. It wasn’t enough, but it was more than I would get from most men.

  “Pretta, is there anyone at your home?” Carlton asked.

  “I can call my sister-in-law. I’m sure everyone has heard by now. I should do that. She’ll be worried.”

  Carlton showed her to a desk with a telephone in another room, and we all sat silently, listening to her weep as she arranged to meet her sister-in-law.

  “Isabelle, are you okay?” Carlton asked. “Do you want to go home or stay for dinner in town?”

  “Home,” she said. “Between the séance and the boat ride and this terrible thing, I’m exhausted. I want nothing more than a hot bath and a cool bed.” She rose. “And we should get Pretta to her house. She’s going to collapse any minute.”

  “I’ll bring the car around.” Carlton rose. At the door he paused. “You’ll stay here?”

  I nodded. When he was gone, Isabelle turned to me.

  “The men won’t let this go, Raissa. There are those who view this as a crime, though many will not. This is dangerous, for all of us. Watch your tongue. You don’t want to bring trouble to your uncle.”

  I took her meaning immediately. If I blathered on about how wrong this was, I could draw the ire of those who believed hanging a man barely out of his teen years was what he deserved. I would not necessarily suffer, but my uncle could. “Thank you, Isabelle.”

  “Mobile society is graciousness and mannered, but that’s only the surface. There are many layers, some stuffed with money and privilege. Beneath that is something much darker. Beware of it.”

 
; “I will.”

  Pretta joined us, and we escorted her to the sidewalk, where Carlton waited in the car. We took her home and saw her inside, where she fell into tears in her sister-in-law’s arms. Isabelle was almost gray with tension, and we took her to a lovely home not far from downtown. The gracious pillars supported the second floor, and the grounds bloomed with summer flowers.

  “I will be in touch,” she said as she kissed my cheek. “Remember, bide your time. This will be redressed, but with caution for the people we love.”

  I kissed her cheek and settled back in the car as she went up the steps and disappeared into the front door.

  “She loves your uncle,” Carlton said.

  “He’s a lucky man.”

  “Let’s go to my club. I want the rest of the evening to pass and the city to settle down. If there’s going to be trouble, it will be soon. Once we’re beyond that threshold, I’ll drive you home.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to go home now?” I asked.

  “I want to be here, in case I’m needed.”

  Unspoken were the words that there might be more violence. “Of course. I’m happy to stay in town.”

  “Good. Then we’ll try to spend the time in a way that brings you pleasure. I regret this terrible thing has marred an evening when you should celebrate your future publication.”

  That he’d remembered my story in all the events made me smile. I would never forget the grotesque scene of John Henry dangling from the tree limb, but it would do no good to tell Carlton. Focus on the present—that would be my mantra for the rest of the evening. “There’ll be many days to celebrate, but I thank you. You’re a good friend to support my career dreams. How thoughtful of you to have the editor send a telegram.”

  “I knew the story would sell, and I wanted the news to come as quickly as possible. You have talent, Raissa.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s put aside everything else. Tell me about your law practice. Where did you go to school? We’ve spent so much time talking about Caoin House. I want to know more about you.”