Without bothering to reply, Becky Kerchal continued pushing the wheelchair at the same steady pace until the pair had reached the next corner and turned onto the promenade.
The minute the two women turned the corner, I scurried across the street. I knew from experience that the Kerchals, like many truly wealthy people, never locked their front door. This came, I suspected, from living a life surrounded by servants who attended to such mundane problems.
As I pushed open the front door and stepped into the hallway, I saw Sam seated at a desk in the library, head bent over a pile of papers.
“Hello, Sam,” I said. As he lifted his head and stared at me, I realized he had absolutely no idea who I was. “It’s me,” I said. “Carrie McFarland. I used to work for your family, remember?”
While part of him struggled to place me, another part of the man was sizing me up with the experienced eye of a chronic womanizer.
“Ah yes,” he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “My beautiful Bright Feather. I always wondered what happened to you.”
Like hell you did, I thought to myself. In that moment, all the questions that had plagued me about our relationship were answered in a single glance. Sam Kerchal may have had some residual fondness for me, but he’d never loved me. I had simply been an exotic conquest. He had never truly cared for me, and never would. To my surprise, this insight made it easier for me to proceed. Assuming a coy expression, I sidled closer and sat on the edge of the green leather armchair opposite his desk.
“What brings you here, Carrie?”
As I felt his eyes run appreciatively over my body, I was glad that I’d taken the trouble to wear a bonnet and a nice dress. Once a ladies’ man, always a ladies’ man, I thought bitterly. Sam had aged considerably in the four months since I’d seen him. Lines of worry creased his forehead, and there were dark circles under his eyes.
“If you’re looking for a job, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Since my mother’s injury, we don’t entertain like we used to and therefore have much less need for help.”
“I’m not looking for work,” I said. “I’m here in search of information.”
“I can’t imagine I have any information you’d need to know,” he said.
“You’d be surprised,” I said, offering him an enigmatic smile.
“I suppose I just might be, at that,” he said. “You turning up here like this has got me curious.”
I edged the chair a little closer to his side of the desk and winked. “Curious if I still like to dance? We used to dance up a storm, if I remember.”
The word “dance” meant something far more intimate. The lecherous smile that played across his thin lips told me he understood my meaning perfectly.
“Haven’t had any good dancing partners in a while,” he said. “But I certainly haven’t forgotten how.”
“Good to know,” I said in a low, husky voice. “I’ve been told I’m a much better dancer now than I used to be.” This was, of course, utter nonsense, but as I watched Sam’s eyes widen, I could see it was having the desired effect.
“That so?”
I nodded. “I’m a very good dancer, but you know what they say. In order to dance to the music, you’ve got to pay the piper.”
“You’re a pro skirt now?” To his credit, Sam did not look entirely comfortable with this possibility. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Oh no,” I said hastily. “It’s nothing like that. I’m looking for information. Specifically, information about Rudy Gillette.”
Sam’s lecherous expression vanished.
“A detestable weasel of a man,” he said. “He started coming around the day after my father’s funeral, trying to get Mother to visit some kind of séance group out at Camp Woody Glade. He claimed Gaylord Wilson knew a woman who could hear Father speak from beyond the grave.”
As I offered him a sympathetic nod, it occurred to me that Sam was lonely. It was not likely he got to share his true feelings with his mousey new wife or his grieving mother. Once he began talking, it was as though a floodgate opened.
“The whole idea sounded like humbug to me,” he said, “but Mother’s been so torn up since Father died that she will believe just about anything. I didn’t want her to end up like Portia Mason, bankrupting her family to fund some phony scheme. I made an appointment to meet Mr. Gillette out at Camp Woody Glade. Figured I’d speak with him man to man, tell him to back off or else. I can’t say I’m completely surprised that he never showed up.”
Suddenly, he stopped speaking—staring, as if seeing me for the first time.
“Exactly what is your interest in all of this? If I’m not mistaken, I read something in yesterday’s Chronicle about you. I hadn’t put the name together with you at the time, but now . . . You’re wanted for murder, aren’t you?”
“It’s not what you think,” I said. With all my planning and scheming, I had failed to take into account the obvious fact that rich folks in Aronsville read the Chronicle. “I haven’t killed anyone, Sam. Honest.”
“But you were the one who told Miss Parker she was going to die,” he said. “I think I’d better call the police.”
He leaned forward and reached for the phone on his desk.
“Hear me out, Sam. Please. I did see a black cloud around her. I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen. But I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not kill her.”
“Can you really see into the future?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “I don’t fully understand it myself, but it seems that I’m a psychic.”
“Prove it,” he said suddenly. “Look into my soul, Bright Feather. Tell me what my future holds.”
I closed my eyes, and a series of cloudy images began to form in my mind’s eye. As the pictures became more distinct, I began to speak.
“I see sadness. A sense of promise unfilled. A strong desire for the scholarly life. In the next month, you will receive an offer that is completely unexpected. You are about to embark on an entirely new direction in your personal and professional life.” The more I spoke, the less I recognized my own voice. It was almost as though someone else was speaking through me. “One more thing. Your wife will need medical attention in the next two months. The doctor has already warned you that her blood is anemic. Do not disregard his advice in this matter.”
When I opened my eyes, Sam was staring like he’d seen a ghost.
“Good Lord,” he said softly. “I have no idea how you know these things, but you’re right about my wife. The doctor was here yesterday. He wants her to enter the clinic for treatment, but I was against it. Perhaps I should reconsider.”
“She’s been running herself ragged taking care of your mother,” I said. “If you love her at all, you must encourage her to take better care of herself.”
Sam nodded. For a minute, we sat silently, each absorbed in our own thoughts.
“I believe Rudy Gillette is the murderer, Sam, but I need your help to prove it.”
“Nothing would please me more than to see that man hang,” Sam replied grimly. “His phony schemes have driven Bayard Mason to the edge of bankruptcy. Mason was a healthy man last year, but now he’s so depressed, he’s taking strychnine to boost his nerves.”
“The poor man,” I murmured softly. It was certainly an interesting coincidence that Mason’s medicine contained strychnine, the very substance that had killed Miss Parker. Now that I’d gotten Sam to trust me, the important thing was to keep him talking. “Do you think Gillette may have been secretly working for Gaylord Wilson?”
“The theatrical producer that got killed yesterday?” Sam waved a dismissive hand. “If I remember correctly, Wilson was arrested for fraud a few years ago. Gillette would be foolish to maintain any association with such a man. Portia Mason may be gullible, but she’s not completely stupid. She would withdraw her support from Gillette’s temple if she suspected Wilson was involved.”
“I believe Miss Parker was at that séance because she was investiga
ting Rudy Gillette’s phony temple scheme. If I’m right, he would have had a great motive for killing her.”
“He might at that,” Sam said thoughtfully. “The week before she died, Miss Parker called to interview me for a story about Bayard Mason’s financial problems. Naturally, I refused to speak with her.”
“Naturally,” I murmured. “If Gillette were secretly working for Wilson, it’s also possible they could have had some kind of falling out.”
Sam shrugged. “Who knows? The police are looking for some colored delivery man who was seen lurking around the camp, but the killer could also have been one of his creditors. Henry Stokes, for example. Gaylord Wilson owed money to half the stores in Claxton.”
“Rumor has it Stokes is some kind of high muckity-muck in the Ku Klux Klan,” I said.
Sam’s green eyes sparkled with anger.
“The man had the nerve to demand I stop doing business with Jack Rothenberg because he happens to be a Jew. Can you imagine?”
I could. Discretion being the better part of valor, I decided not to mention that Sam’s bank had never loaned money to Negroes.
“I thought I overheard Mrs. Stokes talking to Gillette out at Woody Glade,” I said. “If she was there, Mr. Stokes was probably there as well. Do you think Stokes could have killed Wilson in a fit of temper?”
“Maybe.” Sam looked at the clock. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now. Mother and Becky could return any minute.”
“Of course,” I said smoothly. “It wouldn’t do for anyone to see us chatting like this.”
As I walked out of the room, Sam called after me. “I’d advise you not to speak of this visit to anyone, Carrie.”
I offered the former love of my life a tiny smile. “Don’t worry,” I said. “Your secret is safe with me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
On the trolley ride back to Water Street, I mulled over what I had learned so far. First and foremost, it was likely that Rudy Gillette was working for Gaylord Wilson. Secondly, the late Miss Parker was a reporter and may have been at Mrs. Mason’s séance to continue the investigation into Wilson’s fraudulent operation that she’d begun five years ago. However, it was also possible Miss Parker had been there to find out more about Bayard Mason’s impending bankruptcy.
Time flew as I turned these possibilities over and over in my mind. No matter how you sliced it, Rudy Gillette and Bayard Mason had reasons to wish Miss Parker dead.
I arrived at the Kerchal’s city home on Water Street an hour later, praying that Teo had remembered to leave the cellar unlocked. When the doorknob turned smoothly, I heaved a sigh of relief, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. My little visit with Sam Kerchal had definitely proven worthwhile. With any luck, the new information I’d acquired would be enough to remove Ralph and me from the top of the “Aronsville’s Most Wanted” list.
Boss Tisdale had warned me to stay hidden, but I needed to tell him what I’d discovered.
Though it would be risky for me to make the trip to Churchtown in the attention-grabbing red dress I had on, once I changed my clothes, I would become anonymous—one more faceless Negro coming home from a long day at work in some white person’s kitchen.
I wrapped a kerchief around my head and changed into an approximation of the typical maid’s uniform—black dress, heavy work shoes, and a white apron. An hour later, I slipped out the cellar door and walked to the bus stop, where I joined a small army of other colored maids on their way back to Churchtown. From the look of exhaustion on their faces, I knew they would not have the energy for either conversation or inquisitiveness, which suited me just fine.
On Lincoln Avenue, barefoot children ran shrieking through the spray coming from an open fire hydrant and a sea of Negroes of varying ages, shapes, and sizes savored the relative cool of the evening. I was feeling pretty good about being back in Churchtown, until I spotted the poster taped to the window of Jim’s Cleaners.
WANTED FOR MURDER
Carrie McFarland, Negro.
Ralph Barnes, Negro.
$3,000 REWARD
When I saw my own face staring back at me, my heart nearly stopped.
The likeness wasn’t great, but it was good enough. Sharing space on the same poster was a drawing of Ralph Barnes, dressed in a pair of overalls and a deliveryman’s cloth cap.
My first instinct was to run, but then caution took over. Better not to do anything that would make me stand out from the crowd, nothing that would draw attention or cause anyone to remember me later. Slowly but surely, I let the drifting current of humanity carry me to the alley behind Sister Marie’s shack. I knew I couldn’t stay long, but at least I could let the old woman know that I was all right before I disappeared for good.
Where I would go, I had no idea. Maybe, as my mother had done, I would take the Twentieth Century Limited up to Chicago. There were nearly three million Negroes in the Windy City. Surely, I’d be able to disappear into the crowd and make a new life for myself.
I crossed Lincoln Avenue and turned onto Upper Fourth Street. Though I didn’t dare be seen going in Sister Marie’s front door, there was a tiny window at the back that was never locked. I glanced nervously over my shoulder. It didn’t seem that anyone was paying any particular attention to me, but of course, I couldn’t be sure.
As I lifted my hand to tap on the window, Sister Marie’s moon-like face appeared. She was grinning ear to ear, displaying a mouthful of yellowed, broken teeth. Putting a cautionary finger to her lips, she opened the window and gestured for me to crawl inside. I fit through the narrow opening easily, due, in part, to the fact that I had not eaten in more than twenty-four hours.
“I’m wanted by the police,” I whispered. “I just needed to see you one more time before I leave town.”
“Don’t be in such a rush,” Sister Marie said. Her voice was so soft, I had to lean close to hear it. “There’s no need to leave just yet. Humor an old woman and set awhile.”
Without waiting for a reply, Sister Marie hobbled to the stove and ladled a large spoonful of black-eyed peas into a chipped bowl.
“You gotta eat, chile. Otherwise you won’t have the energy to run anywhere. Tell me where you’ve been and what you been doin’. I was worried sick when you didn’t come home last night.”
My noble determination not to call attention to Sister Marie by my presence disappeared the minute I smelled the beans sitting in the bowl in front me. As I wolfed the food down, I told the old woman what I’d learned from my visit with Sam Kerchal. When I had finished, she nodded thoughtfully.
“So you’re sayin’ Mr. Mason also had reason to kill Miss Parker?”
“Yes. She was going to write a story about his money problems, which would probably have ruined what was left of his business prospects. Mr. Mason wasn’t at the séance that night, but he could have paid someone to slip poison into Mrs. Parker’s lemonade.”
Sister Marie nodded thoughtfully. “I fixed the missus up with a special beauty potion last winter. As I recall, it contained a small amount of strychnine powder. The stuff is harmless in small doses, you know. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if it’s still in her medicine cabinet.”
My eyes widened. “You think she killed Miss Parker?”
Sister Marie’s smile was cryptic. “Anythin’s possible, Carrie. There’s also the possibility that either her husband or Mr. Gillette could have taken the beauty potion from Mrs. Mason’s medicine cabinet without her knowin’.”
As usual, the old woman was right.
“And then there’s Mr. Mason’s medicine,” I added.
Sister Marie nodded. “Yep. In small doses it cures, but too much of it would kill you sure as anythin’.”
Now that I had some food in my belly, I felt a new resolve to stay in Churchtown. I loved it here, and I was not yet ready to be run out of town, not even by the police.
“I’m going to take this information to Boss Tisdale,” I said. “He was our city’s first Negro detective, after a
ll. Maybe he can get the police to look into this new evidence.”
Sister Marie tilted her head to one side and gave me a quizzical look. “You been sayin’ those prayers I taught you?”
I blushed and squirmed in my chair like a first-grader who’d forgotten her homework.
“That’s what I thought,” Sister Marie said. “Now, more than ever, you need to protect yourself from evil spirits. There’s folks out there who’d be happy to see you swing for a murder you didn’t commit. I got plans for you, and they do not include prayin’ over your coffin. Now go on and get outta here. Go straight to Boss Tisdale. He’s not a good man, but he’s not entirely bad either. Tell him what you know. I believe he’s gonna help you.”
Ten minutes later, I slipped through Sister Marie’s back window and walked quickly down the alley until I got to Lincoln Avenue. No one paid me any attention whatsoever as I scurried past the gambling dens, brothels, and bars. As I entered the Gray Goose, Boss Tisdale was seated at the bar.
I could tell from his expression that he was not too pleased to see me. With a cold smile, he gestured for me to follow him back to his office. Once the door had closed behind us, he sat down, slamming his fist against his desk in disgust.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” he shouted. “Didn’t I tell you to lay low? If Detective Johnson and his boys find out you’re here, it’ll be big trouble for the both of us.”
As The Boss continued his tirade, I stood in the center of the room with my head bowed. Clearly it had been a mistake to come here. As soon as he was finished yelling at me, I would excuse myself and go straight to Union Station. Take the first thing headed anywhere out of Indiana.
After several minutes, The Boss stopped and glared at me. “Was there an actual reason why you’ve turned up here against my express orders? If so, you need to tell me now before I have you thrown out in the street.”
Death at a Seance Page 16
