Sugar in Her Bowl

by India Maslany

  "Five hundred dollars!" Lamont and Delia cried in unison.

  Carter nodded. "The mayor just gave the go-ahead for it. One of the locals, a banker, pitched in. The cops can't claim the reward, even though we're the ones doing all the heavy lifting."

  "Of course, there are quite a few in Charleston matching that description. One of the guys on the beat said to me, 'Ain't no white man going to be walking around these streets carrying a newspaper after this hits the papers.' Guess it don't pay to look respectable after all."

  Delia laughed and Carter smiled. "The people who saw him," Lamont said. "Why didn't they try catching him?"

  "Yes, that seems strange, doesn't it?" Velma said. They all looked at her, as if completely unaware she'd been standing there until now.

  "Well," Carter began. "It wasn't just one person who saw all those features. The description is what they call a composite. Several people say they saw the Hangman and they gave their descriptions of the man. What I just read you is taking all of those descriptions and making them one description.

  "So, then the Hangman may not exactly match this description, in real life?" Lamont said, frowning.

  "No, he may," Carter said, but his tone wasn't convincing to anyone in the room.

  "And the weapon? You said there was a weapon found?" Lamont said, as if trying to salvage something lurid from the latest news.

  Velma stepped beside Lamont, waiting for the answer from Carter.

  "Yes, they think it's what he was using to... do in his victims," Carter said, casting a glance at Delia. Lamont and Velma's waiting look overruled any concern on the young detective's part.

  "About a hundred yards from where they found the latest bodies--er, victims, they found a knife. Well, a strange type of knife. Sharp like a razor, but pointed like a dagger. That's how the chief described it to us. So some of us are checking with all of the shops and restaurants to see if we can find a match."

  "Why?" Delia asked.

  Carter drew himself up to full height, taking on a more businesslike, official manner. "If we can trace the knife to a shop or a restaurant, it might give us a lead as to the Hangman's true identity." He looked at Lamont and Velma. "Now, the papers won't be reporting that part until tomorrow, so keep that bit of news to yourselves. We don't want it leaking out and this culprit getting wind of the lead. Might frighten him off. If we can find out where the knife came from, and the store or restaurant can lead us to someone who might have purchased or stolen such a thing--"

  "Then what?" Velma said, taking a step closer to Carter.

  "Well, we won't let that go in the papers," Carter said. "If we found no leads, then we'd let it out. Meaning if we couldn't get a clue from the shops and restaurants and all. We're just hoping the reward will provide further incentive for folks keeping their eyes peeled."

  "I'd love to see that knife!" Delia said, her hands clasped tightly together, as if in prayer.

  "Delia!" Velma shouted.

  Carter, Lamont and Delia looked at Velma, shocked.

  "Velma?" Lamont said, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

  "I think all of this is terrible," Velma said. "Knives and selling a person out for five hundred dollars!"

  "I was only saying I'd like to see what it looks like. It sounds so unusual," Delia said in defense.

  "Well," Carter said. "Maybe you will."

  "What do you mean?" Delia said, eager for an answer.

  "If we catch the Hangman, you can come with me to the precinct where they have the knife. They'll probably even put it on display for the public to see, once we catch this killer."

  "Like a museum?" Delia asked. Carter chuckled, as did Lamont. Even Velma managed to laugh. "And I could see the Hangman's knife?" Delia continued, not letting the laughter derail her line of questioning.

  "I would give you an official, private tour," Carter said.

  "You would?" Lamont asked. It was almost as if he wondered why Carter never made the same offer to him, given his interest in the case.

  "Of course I would," Carter said, beaming at Delia.

  "Well, good then. If it's not too much trouble, I think I'd like to go along as well. Before the Hangman is caught, that is," Lamont said with his own broad smile.

  Carter and Daisy exchanged a look, one that went back and forth between them for a moment. There was mutual disappointment for them, but politeness toward Lamont nonetheless.

  "Well, how about tomorrow, Mr. Barnes?" Carter said. "I'll drop by at about... 2:30? And what about you, Mrs. Barnes?"

  Velma shook her head, almost shuddering. "I think it'd make me ill, to be honest with you. I'll stay here."

  "She can keep an eye on Mr. Lockhart. Make sure he doesn't get into any trouble," Lamont said with a chuckle.

  Velma's eyes grew large. "Here now, you stop making light of our tenant," she said, glaring at Lamont. "Thank you for the offer, Carter. I'm sure Lamont and Delia will enjoy themselves."

  Chapter 9

  Delia's heart felt ready to burst from her dainty chest as she entered the police station. It was a bustle of activity as police officers shuffling delinquents about to rooms for questioning or to jail cells to stew. Lamont watched it all with a fevered interest, soaking in the sights, the smells, the sounds. He seemed almost giddy.

  At Carter's lead, Delia and Lamont stepped into a small service elevator at the back of the building and were whisked to the lower floor of the building. This was the added thrill for Delia, for she had never ridden an elevator in her life until this very moment. Life with her grandmother didn't call for regular trips to buildings with multiple floors warranting an elevator.

  Carter strode ahead of Delia and her father, like a proud tour guide, nodding to police personnel he recognized as they walked out of the elevator.

  It was a large hallway, wired with electric light, though the hall was still dark and shadowy.

  Instinctively, Delia encircled Lamont's arm with her hands. She was quiet, in awe of the surroundings. They passed rooms with police personnel quietly poring over various objects. Evidence, no doubt.

  They came to a door partially open. A pale yellow light shone through the opening. Carter stopped and motioned. "Take a look," he said in a low voice. "That's where they do the fingerprints. We have over 50,000 men and women's fingerprints. Any of them commit a crime, we can match their fingerprints against this record. If they're in the record, they won't escape us."

  "Wow, you don't say?" Lamont said. "I'd hate to be one of those poor souls done gotten their fingerprints in here."

  "Yes, sir," Carter said. "They do a crime, they run out of time. But some of those troublemakers are clever. A while back, a man decided to poison his wife and he knew that his fingerprints on the poison bottle would catch him. So he thought he could cut up his fingertips with a razor."

  "How terrible!" Delia squealed, then went timid in the surroundings. "His fingers?" she whispered.

  Carter nodded. "He thought it would keep him safe. But in about eight weeks' time, his fingerprints grew back, just as they were before. Every tiny line and crease came right back!"

  They continued down the hall until it narrowed until they had to walk in single file. They came to a door, which Carter opened with a key from a keychain tethered to his belt.

  A man not much younger than Carter, who clapped Carter on the shoulder as he approached Lamont and Delia, greeted them. Carter introduced the man as Samuels, a fellow police officer assigned to what they called the evidence locker.

  Samuels led the group through another door into a large room with rows of shelves, boxes and tables.

  Delia felt a little disappointed. She expected something much more grand, or morbid. It reminded her some of the public library near her grandmother's house. The difference, aside from the boxes, were the glass cases attached to the center of the tables and the glass cases perched atop solid wood stands at the end of each table.

  Inside those cases were various objects: articles of clothing, teeth, bot
tles, knives and a small silver pistol. Each had a small card, a placard, with a description written in tiny lettering.

  The walls were covered with various pieces of wood, leather and bits of detritus. Delia noticed an earthy kind of smell and wondered if it came from these objects. After all the hype, it was a bit of a disappointment. Even Lamont, who had been so eager and starry-eyed, now looked a bit glum at the surroundings.

  Then something caught Delia's attention. One of the shelves near the small row of windows high up on the wall featured a row of plaster faces. The faces were not attractive in the least. They reminded her of animal faces, something feral, despite the fact they were clearly human.

  "What are those?" Lamont asked, noticing Delia's fixed gaze at the plaster heads. Delia returned to her father's side.

  "Death masks," Carter said. "Faces of criminals who were hanged. Casts were made of their faces after death."

  "They don't look dead to me," Lamont said. "Looks like they're thinking."

  "You have Samuels to thank for that," Carter said, motioning to his fellow police officer, who looked up and smiled while tending to some things in a box sitting on one of the tables.

  "Before the hangings, I tie their neckties in a way that the knot is behind their left ear. It makes them lean a tad to the side. See?" Samuels said, motioning to the nearest death mask of a rather rotund man, whose jowls had gone slack and his lips forever pursed. Samuels pointed at a small dent in the left side of each death mask, at the neck, to emphasize the point.

  "They look strange. Hurt, almost," Lamont said in a whisper. He was fascinated by these lifeless faces on display.

  "Well, a fellow would look rather strange in the moment, what with all his criminal plans brought to a halt, knowing he's a moment away from meeting his Maker," Carter said, clapping Lamont on the shoulder.

  "Yes. Yes, I guess so," Lamont said slowly, not taking his eyes off the death masks.

  Delia looked a little flushed. The surroundings were taking an oppressive toll on her. Every time in the room had something to do with murder, death... evil.

  "Remember that Indian guy we had in here the other day?" Samuels said to Carter. "You should have seen it. He was here for part of a tour with a group of foreign dignitaries passing through Charleston. What did he say again?"

  "He said these things in this room... were filled with evil," Carter answered. "He took on a shade of green and we had to escort him out before the fellow almost fainted. He was fine once he was out of the room."

  The two police officers chuckled for a moment, then Samuels said, "Well, back to work for me. Carter can show you around. Nice meeting you."

  Samuels left the evidence room, leaving the three in thick silence. Delia had let go of her father's arm and walked to the far end of the room, looking into a glass case that carried tiny colored glass bottles filled with thick liquid. "What are these?" she asked.

  "Poison, Miss Delia," Carter said. "There's enough in there to rub out you, me, your father, possibly even more."

  "Terrible stuff," she said, smiling. It gave her a slight chill, though a pleasant one. Carter smiled at her and she returned his smile. Lamont took notice of them, oblivious to his observation, and smirked.

  "Now this here isn't as chilling. See the man's jacket over there?" Carter said, pointing to the very thing hanging from one of the shelves.

  Strangely, the sight of the jacket gave Delia a fright. She thought about the Indian Carter and Samuels had mentioned. *Full of evil*, she thought.

  "A ex-sailor broke into a man's house and shot the man dead. The ex-sailor left his jacket behind at the murder scene. One of our detectives noticed that a button on the front was broken," Carter said, then taking a pause.

  Delia looked at him with wide-eyed interest. "And...?"

  "Well, doesn't seem to be much a clue, does it, Miss Delia? Well, when the other piece of button was found, it led us to the culprit. What made it all the more compelling was that all three buttons on the jacket were different."

  Delia stared at the broken button until her eyes caught a piece of fabric that was stained, mottled with dark brown drops. "What's that?" she asked.

  "Well," Carter began. "That's some of the shirt that was buried with a woman. Her husband dismembered her, tried to burn her up. That piece of her gown sent him to prison for the rest of his life."

  "That Indian man was right. This place is evil," Daisy said, turning away from the display. She looked toward the entrance, wanting to be away from all of these dreadful mementos.

  Lamont, however, remained fixed, studying the displays. He was oblivious to his daughter's comments.

  "Daddy," Delia said. "Isn't it time to go now? I think we've seen enough, don't you? I don't want any nightmares tonight!"

  "Not you, Miss Delia," Carter said with a smile. "You're quite safe in the company you keep."

  Delia's pleading had very little effect on Lamont. He moved from display to display, taking in all of the minute, sordid details.

  "Seems like some killers get off scot free," he said aloud yet to himself.

  Carter nodded. "More than we'd like," he said. "I'd say one in eight wind up punished for such terrible things. Sometimes, the odds favor the killer."

  "Is that the case with the Hangman, you think?" Lamont asked.

  Carter smiled at Delia as he gestured her toward the entrance. She happily turned and made her way out of the room. Carter's smile turned grim as he murmured, "I seriously doubt we'll catch him. Catching a common criminal is one thing, but a cunning killer? And this one is cunning. His latest letter--"

  "What letter?" Lamont said with surprise.

  "We received it just before the double killing. It was signed 'The Hangman,' just like those scraps of paper he's always leaving behind with the bodies. The Commissioner has an army of experts scrutinizing every letter, every line."

  "What about the postmark?" asked Lamont. "Could that be a clue?" He thought of the potboiler mysteries he read in his younger days and how such details wound up being the critical undoing of the story's villain.

  "Not really," Carter said with a sniff. "It was postmarked Charleston. Sometimes letters like this, or so I'm told, are posted from far away. The author will post from a nearby town, but this--"

  "--seems awfully close," Lamont said. "Goodness gracious!"

  Delia had vanished to the passage. When Lamont met her in the hallway, his face was gravely dark in response to Carter's comments. Carter, however, brightened at the sight of the pretty girl.

  "Miss Delia, I was wondering if you might like to come to my mother's house for lunch one day before you return to your grandmother's? She lives on the other side of town from your father, but I know she would love to have a guest and she loves to cook."

  Delia glanced at Lamont, who nodded approval. "I don't see why not," she said quietly. "Miss Velma could spare me, I'm sure. Besides, she seems fond of you as does my daddy..." She trailed off, offering a dimpled smile at Carter, the kind that immediately elicited a satisfied smile from Carter.

  Chapter 10

  Velma found herself alone while Lamont and Delia had gone to the police station with Carter. Alone, except for her tenant. She found herself breathing easier as she busied herself about the kitchen, but thinking of Mr. Lockhart upstairs, being alone in the house with him, gave her a shudder.

  The tenant rarely left the house during the day, but today as dusk fell, he appeared and declared his need for a new suit. Velma offered to go on his behalf, but he dismissed her, saying a tailor had been recommended to him and he had scheduled an appointment.

  So now she was truly alone in the house. She watched as Mr. Lockhart made his way down the sidewalk until he was out of sight. Quickly, she ran up to the drawing room floor with her feather duster. The rooms needed a good dusting, but Velma knew in her heart that dusting was the furthest thing from her mind.

  In years past, Velma had held fellow servants who eavesdropped or surreptitiously rifled through th
eir employers' belongings with the highest contempt. But here she was, ready to do the very thing she despised.