by Howe, A. E.
Once they were on the porch, Josephine could hear someone washing dishes through the open windows. She knocked on the door while Grace stood back, looking down at her hands.
“Who is it?” asked a suspicious voice from the other side of the grey cypress door.
“I’m Josephine Nicolson. I’m new in town and I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Josephine hadn’t been able to come up with any other excuse, so she’d decided to go with the truth.
“I don’t want to answer no questions,” the woman said with stern determination.
“I understand your hesitation, Mrs. Sharp. Mrs. Lachlan up at the hotel said that you’re renting your house to a rather strange young man.” Josephine threw this out in an effort to tease Mrs. Sharp into talking to her. Based on what Mrs. Lachlan had said, the woman badly needed the money the man was paying her, so anyone asking questions about her golden goose was going to be met with suspicion.
“You mean Mr. Phillips?” Mrs. Sharp sounded less sure of herself.
“That’s right. I just have a few questions.”
“He pays his rent on time. That’s all you need to know.” Mrs. Sharp still didn’t open the door, but Josephine could tell that she was standing just on the other side.
“I hope he’s able to keep paying your rent.” Josephine made it sound as though she knew something about the man that could cause the money to stop flowing.
“What is it you want to know?” There was a hint of fear in the woman’s voice.
“I’d rather talk face to face,” Josephine answered, pushing her advantage.
She heard the sound of a bolt being slid aside, then the door creaked open a few inches. A worn woman’s face appeared in the opening and she looked Josephine and Grace up and down. When the door opened wide, Josephine assumed that they had passed inspection.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Sharp told them. The flower print dress she wore was old, but well mended. “I can offer you some tea.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.”
Josephine and Grace followed her into the front parlor, where the three women filled up the little room. Most of the space was occupied by heavy wooden, empire-style furniture that would have fit much better in a grander house.
“Have a seat and I’ll put the pot on.”
The woman didn’t wait for them to sit before she shuffled off to the kitchen in the back of house. They could hear the sound of water running and a pot being set on the stove. Josephine looked around at the tattered drapes and old pictures covering one wall. The house felt oddly deserted, as though Mrs. Sharp were nothing more than a shadow of a past occupant.
“This ain’t no house for the livin’,” Grace whispered, echoing Josephine’s own thoughts. The black woman shivered a little as she sat back against the sofa.
Mrs. Sharp soon returned with a wooden tray holding three mismatched china cups.
“These are very nice,” Josephine said, admiring the delicate cups.
“My father-in-law was a merchant seaman for many years. My husband told me that his father always brought his wife back a china cup from his travels. I still have a cabinet full.”
“Is your husband a fisherman?”
“Was. He and my father-in-law went out four years ago and never returned.” There was deep pain in her voice.
“I’m sorry,” Josephine said, and saw Grace mouth a quick prayer up to God for the woman’s family.
“I have nights when I think, maybe, just maybe, they’ll come back.” Mrs. Sharp looked quickly toward the door, biting her lip.
“It must be awful not knowing what happened to them,” Josephine sympathized.
“I know what happened to them.” She was silent so long that Josephine was getting ready to prompt her for more when she finally said, “What do you want to know about my tenant? Why’d you make it sound like he might not keep paying his rent?”
“I’ve just heard some odd things about him.” Josephine paused. She’d considered making up an elaborate lie, but again settled on an answer close to the truth. “I was attacked this morning near the post office.”
Mrs. Sharp didn’t react as much as Josephine would have expected to the news that she had been attacked on the street in broad daylight.
“I’m trying to find the man who did it,” Josephine finished, leaving out the fact that the person who’d attacked her was already dead.
“I doubt Mr. Phillips had anything to do with you being attacked. He never leaves the house that I know of. Lord knows, I’ve tried to get him to come out or to let me in. I worry that he’s tearing up the place. Of course, with the rent he’s paying…” It was clear that the situation had been bothering Mrs. Sharp and she appeared relieved to voice her concerns.
“Can you tell me what he looks like?”
“Tall man, weedy lookin’. Not young, but he has a boyish face.”
“How’s he dress?”
“Not like he’s from around here. ’Course I knew that as soon as he opened his mouth. High-pitched Yankee speech. His clothes are like a preacher’s, dark and cheap. Now that I think about it, he has the same know-it-all manner of a preacher.”
“You didn’t like him?” Josephine asked, noticing how Mrs. Sharp’s eyes narrowed and her lip curled as she talked about her tenant.
“No, I didn’t. Like I said, he had that looking-down-your-nose Yankee attitude about him. But like most Yankees, his money was green. I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve been suffering since the loss of my family. For a while I had to live off the…” She stopped as though she was afraid to admit something, then said, “…the fish that the men left on my porch.”
Josephine felt that it had been a kindness for the fishermen to help out a widow, but something about Mrs. Sharp’s voice suggested she didn’t feel the same.
“Did Mr. Phillips say why he wanted to rent the house?”
“Just said he was interested in the fishing hereabouts. I’m sure that was a lie.”
“Why?”
Mrs. Sharp snorted derisively. “I don’t think he’d know which end of the line to throw in the water. I got no idea why he rented the place. At the time, I didn’t care.”
“But you care now?”
“I don’t want the money to stop, but there’s something wrong about it.”
“I want to go see him,” Josephine said and felt Grace stiffen beside her. “If he won’t let me in, maybe I can talk to him through the door.”
“That’s all I’ve been able to do for weeks. If you find out anything, I’d appreciate you tellin’ me.”
“I will. And I promise that I won’t try to get him into trouble. I understand about the money.”
Mrs. Sharp looked at Josephine’s clothes disbelievingly. “I don’t see how you’d know about money problems.”
“I run a bank. Every day, more so since the stock market crashed, I see people who are struggling to make it on the little bit of money they make.”
“You run a bank?” Mrs. Sharp’s eyes were wide. “I never heard tell of a woman owning a bank.”
“You come up to Sumter, Alabama and I’ll show you what it looks like,” Josephine said with a smile. She took a card out of her purse and handed it to Mrs. Sharp, who took it as gently as she would one of her china cups.
Josephine stood up. “We’ll go right over there and knock on his door.”
Mrs. Sharp gave them directions to the rented cottage. All the while, Grace looked at Josephine like she’d lost her mind.
When they were back outside in the road, she reached out and grabbed Josephine’s arm. “Surely you ain’t that crazy,” she scolded.
Josephine pulled her arm away. “You can come with me or not, but there’s something strange about the man who’s renting her house. I want to see him.”
“This whole island is full of loony people.”
“You know I came here to try to find out what happened to my uncle. Someone stole that letter from me and I want to know who.”
“No
body cares more ’bout family than I do. No, ma’am. But you almost got yourself killed this mornin’, so why you got to try again this afternoon?” Grace pleaded.
“And I’ll still be in danger until we find out what’s going on.”
“How you goin’ to catch that killer if the sheriff doesn’t even believe there is one?”
“He knows I was telling the truth. The sheriff is just scared.” Josephine started walking in the direction of Mrs. Sharp’s rental house.
“That right there!” Grace said, loud enough to stop Josephine again. She turned to look back at her. “If the sheriff is afraid, that should tell you somethin’.” Grace stomped her foot for emphasis.
Reluctantly, Josephine walked back to her. “You’re right. This could be dangerous. It already has been and that’s why I need your help. I promise you that, if the situation gets any worse, we’ll leave the island. I don’t want any of us hurt over something that occurred twenty years ago.”
Grace pursed her lips and looked down at the ground. Josephine waited. “You give your word? More crazy comes our way, we all leave?”
“Yes.”
“Lord, give us strength! Okay, let’s get this done.” Grace started walking and Josephine fell into step with her determined strides.
They found the house two blocks down the street. It stood on a little rise near the cemetery with a clear view down to the docks. Like most of the houses on the island, it was built of cypress clapboards. Never painted, it loomed grey and brooding under a pair of live oak trees. The wooden shutters were closed and a light breeze blew leaves across the porch.
“Looks like it’s home to a whole share of haunts,” Grace said under her breath, but she followed Josephine through the gate and across the dirt yard.
“It could use some attention,” Josephine agreed, not wanting to admit that there was an air of melancholy surrounding the place. Ignoring her own inner voice of caution, she walked up the creaky wooden steps to the porch and gave the door a few solid knocks.
“Leave the food,” came a distant voice from inside. Muffled by the distance and the wooden door between them, Josephine still thought she heard an oddly familiar quality to the voice.
She knocked again and said loudly, “We’d like to talk with you.”
They heard the sound of feet crossing a wooden floor, then a sliver of skin showed through the shutters at the window to her right. But by the time she turned to look, it was gone and the feet were walking quickly away from the door.
Josephine waited, thinking perhaps that the man wanted to dress or make some other preparation before opening the door. However, the minutes dragged on until she felt that she had to knock again.
This time there was no sound from inside the house. More knocking and calling yielded nothing. Finally, Josephine turned to Grace. “What do you think?”
“I think we’re in luck. Nothin’ in this house is goin’ to bring us any good.”
“Maybe,” Josephine said, disappointed by her lack of success at breaching this domestic fortress. She wanted to go around the house and try to peek through the shutters, but the house stood on limestone blocks that lifted it several feet off the ground. Even if there were cracks in the shutters, she wouldn’t be able to look in without something to stand on. Even she didn’t think that was a good idea.
They made their way back toward the hotel. Josephine took the time to look around at the houses and shops. Like the people on the island, there seemed to be two types—those that looked normal, if a little rundown, and those with an aura of decay and rot to them. The stale smell of fish was not confined to the breezes coming from the docks. Josephine thought that several of the buildings were emitting their own odd fetid odor.
“This place smells like a fisherman’s underthings,” Grace said, scrunching up her nose.
“Maybe they use some of these buildings to clean fish or shuck oysters.”
“Far as I can see, they don’t clean nothin’ around here.”
“Not enjoying your seaside vacation?” Josephine joked. Grace frowned at her, but Josephine could see a small twinkle of amusement in her eyes.
“Hummmph! Would have been more relaxin’ to go to Hamilton’s slaughterhouse back home. And it would have smelled better.”
Josephine dragged Grace down the main street to the post office, which was still closed.
“Where can she be?” Josephine muttered to herself.
“I thought we were just goin’ to check on that man in the house and be done.” Grace used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from her face and bosom.
“I know, but this is another… problem that’s bothering me.”
“Honey, you know you need to work harder on worryin’ about your own business.” Grace stopped when she saw the look on Josephine’s face. “Fine, then. Ask someone where this woman lives and let’s get that over with too so we can go back the hotel. This heat is just awful.”
Josephine backtracked to the five-and-dime store where the woman behind the counter seemed to decide on an individual basis who gained admittance and who didn’t. Apparently they made the cut, for Josephine had no more than stopped at the door when it sprung open for them.
“Hot day for keeping the door closed,” Josephine said lightly, trying to tease information from the frowzy woman who’d opened the door.
“The owner’s out. I don’t like lettin’ just anyone in when I’m alone.” The shop clerk wiped nervously at a glass display case with a cloth in her hand. “How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for some postcards to send home,” Josephine said, coming up with an excuse on the fly.
“The rack is right over there.”
“I’ll need some stamps too, but the post office seems to be closed.”
“I know.” The woman’s voice sounded fearful.
“Do you know when Mitzi will be back?” Josephine decided that name-dropping couldn’t hurt.
“Oh, do you know Mitzi?” the woman asked, sounding both more friendly and interested.
“I had the chance to talk with her this morning, but unfortunately I didn’t think to get stamps while I was there.”
“I heard that something happened this morning down by the post office.”
“Mitzi wasn’t involved, was she?” Josephine said, playing dumb.
“No, no, but she closed up right after.”
“Do you think she’ll be back soon?”
There was a long pause as the clerk considered this. “I’ve never known her to lock up the post office in the middle of the day without putting a note on the door.” There was worry in her voice.
“Do you think it would be okay if I go around to her house to ask if she plans to reopen?”
“She’s very nice.”
“I thought so too.”
“Maybe someone should check on her.” The clerk was biting her nails now.
“Where does she live?”
“Just a few blocks over, away from the water,” she said pointedly, as if suggesting that Mitzi lived in a better part of town.
“Just give me directions and I’ll check on her,” Josephine assured her.
“Will you come back and let me know she’s all right?”
“Of course.”
The woman took out a pencil and sketched a map to the postmistress’s house on a piece of brown wrapping paper
“This is the last house we’re goin’ to visit today, right?” Grace asked as they trudged through the heat on their way to Mitzi Alexander’s house.
“Cross my heart.” The hot, sticky air was hard to breathe as Josephine looked at the map.
At last they came to a neat little cottage painted white with green shutters. Josephine took a moment to enjoy the shade of the front porch before opening the screen door and knocking. In what was becoming a familiar pattern, there was no answer.
“She ain’t home!” yelled a woman’s voice from the house next door. “You’re the third person to come looking for her today. Tell
everyone she’s not there.”
“Has she been here at all?” Josephine shouted back.
“No. Now go away. It’s too hot to be yelling back and forth,” the grumpy voice said.
“I think we’ve reached the end of the trail,” Josephine said, not looking forward to the hot trek back to the hotel.
When they finally returned, they saw Wallace Brock on the porch steps, leaning against the bannister. He glared at them as they walked up.
“Good day,” Josephine said with a nod.
“I want to talk to you,” he said, his voice gruff.
Josephine stopped. “About?”
“What happened this morning and… all this asking questions.”
“So talk.”
“Not here. Come around to the side.” Brock turned and headed for the small ornamental garden beside the hotel. It was mostly wild flowers and seashells, with a couple of benches and a small fountain.
“Can’t we talk in the shade of the porch?” Josephine asked, but Brock kept walking.
“I’ll wait right here,” Grace assured her.
Josephine didn’t like his attitude, but she didn’t feel like she could ignore any information he might have for her. “I don’t intend to stroll through the garden with you,” she said when she caught up with him.
Once they were around the corner of the building, Brock turned and gave her an aggressive and condescending stare. “You need to stop asking questions and get off this island.”
Josephine laughed lightly. “Why in the world would I do that?”
“You’ve already been attacked. Do you want to be the next victim?”
“Is that a threat?”
Brock looked taken aback by the suggestion. “No, it’s a warning. Blast it! Don’t you know when you’re in danger?”
“Why are you so worried about me?”
Brock pursed his lips in anger. Though he looked like he had something in particular on his mind, he stayed silent.
“I think there is something strange going on around here and that you know something about it,” Josephine accused him.