She moved through the bedroom at a slow and steady pace, taking in every detail. Mr. Lockhart was clean and orderly with his belongings, especially his clothing.
After an unsuccessful survey of the chest of drawers she moved to the desk.
Mr. Lockhart always left money behind in one of the desk drawers when he went out on an excursion. She pulled out the drawer and confirmed as much. There was a stack of bills and a pile of coins in the drawer. Velma suspected the tenant took enough to buy clothes and nothing more. She thought back to his asking her precisely how much the clothes would likely cost.
Velma lifted the carpet but found nothing. The place was clean all right, but way too clean in all her experience as a servant and landlady.
Then her eye caught the oak chiffonier that sat in the corner. She held her breath, listening to the room, the house, for any sound. Then she rose and went to the chiffonier. She put her hands on each side of it and tilted it toward the wall.
There was a rolling sound from within. One of the drawers had something inside it that thudded against the back of the chiffonier as Velma tilted it as far as it would go against the wall. Whatever it was, it had not been there prior to Mr. Lockhart's residency.
Velma tipped the furniture piece forwards and backwards a few times, guessing at the object from the sound of it sliding and thudding against the drawer in which it was contained. She was convinced it had to be the bag belonging to Lockhart, the one she had been curious about when it disappeared.
Velma paused. She wondered if Mr. Lockhart would notice his bag had moved inside the drawer. That wondering became certainty when she saw a slight trickle of liquid, something dark and viscous from the bottom of the drawer. Moving the chiffonier back and forth must have caused something to leak. Now Mr. Lockhart would know that Velma had moved the furniture.
Velma knew she shouldn't, but she did nevertheless: she touched her finger to the dark stuff. Her finger came back with red. Bright red. She felt as if she would faint, but Velma took a deep breath as she felt heat rising in her face and body. She wiped the redness against a polishing cloth she kept in her apron.
She kept telling herself that it was red ink. It was just red ink. How could it be anything else? Mr. Lockhart used red ink. She thought of the notes he scribbled in his concordance, that strange handwriting.
Clearly, Mr. Lockhart had placed the red ink bottle in the chiffonier and because of her wanting to know more, suspecting more, about her tenant, an accident had resulted.
Velma cleaned up the drops of ink that had spattered on the floor and wiped the slight trickle away until it was no more.
*Where is the notepaper?* Velma found herself thinking. Surely with red ink -- ink of any kind -- Mr. Lockhart would have paper?
Velma opened the wardrobe drawers and carefully moved Mr. Lockhart's clothing aside. There was nothing out of place, nothing that appeared hidden.
*Why would a man leave his money where anyone could take it, yet lock away a leather bag and a bottle of red ink?*
Velma pushed the thought away and went downstairs to wait for Mr. Lockhart to return. When she heard the front door open, she entered the hallway to greet him.
"Mr. Lockhart," she began. "There's been an accident, I'm afraid. I went to dust your rooms and while I was trying to get behind the chiffonier, it tilted. It looks as if there was a bottle of ink inside that broke and oozed out. I hope there was no harm done. I wiped things up as best I could. The chiffonier was locked."
Mr. Lockhart's electric blue eyes glared at her in terror, like a wild animal who had been startled. Velma felt her heart beat fast, but she managed to keep her composure.
"I had no idea you kept ink in there, sir," she said. "I was aware you used it, of course, for I've seen you making notes in your concordance, while you read your Bible. Would you like for me to go and fetch another bottle for you, sir?"
"No," said Mr. Lockhart. "Thank you, Velma. I'll go see what damage there is, if any. If I need more ink, I'll let you know." He nodded and went past her with his parcel of clothing. Velma watched him ascend the stairs and turned away as he looked back before disappearing from sight.
Ten minutes later, the drawing room bell rang for her. Velma approached quickly and from the open door she saw that the chiffonier was open and that the shelves were empty except for a bottle of red ink lying on its side in a pool of dark red ink.
"It will stain the wood, no doubt, Velma. I shouldn't have stored the ink in there to begin with, I'm afraid," Mr. Lockhart said.
"Think nothing of it, sir," Velma said. "It was just a few drops and I managed to get it up quick enough. Would you like for me to take the bottle out to the trash?"
"No," Mr. Lockhart said quickly. He took a pause and continued, "There's still a little ink left, enough for me to use with my concordance."
Velma nodded. "I can wipe up the ink in the drawer then," she said. She stepped beside Mr. Lockhart and produced the dusting cloth. She could hear him breathing and his breath seemed strange to her, the rhythm and cadence of it. It wasn't from exhaustion or nervousness. That kind of breathing was familiar to her. Mr. Lockhart's breathing was almost animal like to her. She could feel his breath on her exposed neck.
She looked back at him. His eyes locked with hers.
Suddenly, he took her in his arms and kissed her fully on the lips. The initial shock caused Velma to go rigid, yet she quickly found herself drawn into his lips and she returned the kiss, dropping the polishing cloth to her feet.
He wrapped her in his arms, their lips moving against each other in deep passion. Velma found herself thinking of the danger in this action, the uncertainty. Lamont, Carter and Delia would be home any minute. But as she found herself unfastening Mr. Lockhart's pants and as he began to slide her blouse off her shoulders, cupping her breasts in his hands as they fumbled their way back to the bed, everything was forgotten as they fell onto the mattress and soon, beneath the sheets.
It was another hour before Lamont, Delia and Carter came back to the house, enough time for Velma to clean herself up. As quickly as the sex began, it ended, though it restarted twice more, in different corners of the bed, in different positions. Velma had come each time, something that shocked and stunned her even as she cleaned herself in her bathroom.
Once they finished, Lockhart rolled Velma over on her belly and slid his shaft between her buttocks until he came on them. He let out a slow sigh. She felt the hot tickling trickle of his semen as it ran in between her cheeks and upper thighs.
Then, a strange thing, as if what had happened could not be any more strange. Lockhart bent down and bit Velma's left buttock. It was not a hard bite, but more like a nibble. An attempt at playfulness perhaps. But then he pulled himself up and stood by the door, waiting for Velma to leave. He would not meet her gaze as she dressed quickly, attempted to put her hair in some semblance of place and left the room.
Chapter 11
Lamont and Daisy found Velma much more pleasant than before when they returned home that evening. She listened to the details of their visit to the police precinct and not once did she cast a look of disdain or make light of what they experienced.
Once they finished their account of the afternoon, Lamont asked Velma about her afternoon. She became distant and gave only the words, "Oh, nothing."
"Penny for your thoughts, dear?" Lamont asked. Velma shook her head.
Delia slipped out of the room and returned several minutes later dressed in a beautiful pale blue and white gown of silk.
"Well, see here," Lamont said. "Don't you look a pretty sight, Delia. I've never seen you wear such a thing."
Velma cast a wary eye for a moment. "I suppose this kind of dressing up means someone's coming to call for you? I would have thought both of you had seen enough of Carter today. Makes me wonder how he gets any work done."
And that was the most words Velma used that evening. She spent the rest of the time before bed cooking and taking care of various odds and ends
quietly, more so than usual. Lamont and Delia noted it to themselves how odd Velma seemed after they returned, but neither said anything to the other.
But under that quiet, somber demeanor, there was a tempest of guilt, dread and worry at the core of her being. She felt each moment that she couldn't go on with out sobbing and confessing her now-twice adulterous offense. But she forced herself to maintain the façade.
After dinner, Lamont went out and purchased an evening paper. He returned, squinting at the newspaper type.
"Daddy, I can read it to you," Delia said. He handed her the paper and closed his eyes, scrunching them tight. "Oh, my old eyes," he said. "Thank you, honey."
Before Delia could being her reading, a loud ring and knocking echoed through the house, startling all three of them. Velma went to the door, driven by a need to protect or defend her home, driven to protect the secrets that festered within the walls.
It was Carter. He smiled at Velma and she felt the muscles in her face relax. "Why, Carter," she whispered. "Come in, come in. Feels chilly outside."
She looked into his eyes and felt two things: one, that there was nothing new to report on the Hangman and two... she felt a rush of sexual desire for the young man. Perhaps the detective saw the surprise in her face. He paused and looked at her carefully, "You feeling all right, Velma?" He placed his hand on her arm and suddenly, she felt hot and flushed. Something in her was erupting and she did her best to contain it as she smiled at the young man. "Of course," she said.
"It's just that it didn't feel all that chilly to me outside," he said.
"It's probably because I've been in the house all day," she countered with a nod.
It had been nine days since the Hangman last struck, adding the last two victims to his list, the day Delia had arrived in Charleston. Although the police had come no closer to apprehending the villain, fearful tensions were ever growing in the city. Protests had been attempted and snuffed out quickly, but it was clear that the citizens wanted either justice or the commissioner's resignation over his flawed attempts to catch the Hangman. There had even been talk of appealing to the governor for some kind of law enforcement upgrade or augmentation to assist in the capture of the serial killer.
None of that mattered to Carter at the moment. Coming to Lamont and Velma's house to see Delia... it made what had become a wearying job more bearable.
Carter removed his heavy coat, scarf and hat and hung them on the hat and coat stand near the doorway. He approached the doorway and stopped, watching Lamont and Delia, a picture of father and daughter togetherness that warmed Carter's heart.
Delia, wearing the blue and white silk dress, sat on the left side of the fireplace while Lamont, leaning back in his armchair, listened to his daughter read from the paper.
Delia was all too familiar with reading to her elders; one of her daily duties at her grandmother's house was to read the newspaper and various books, including the Bible, to her aging grandmother. It was something she didn't mind, however; in fact, she felt a great deal of pride in being so well read.
Lamont was thoroughly engrossed in his daughter's reading. When he noticed Carter standing in the doorway, he nodded to him. Delia read the headline of the cover story: "The Latest Hangman Theories."
"Well?" Velma said as she stood beside Carter. "You can hear better in there," she said to the young man.
"I don't want to interrupt Delia," Carter whispered.
Velma nudged him forward. Delia looked up and smiled and suddenly, it made everything better for Carter.
"Go on with that reading, Delia," Velma said. "Carter wants to hear it too. Go sit over there, Carter," motioning to the young man. "Next to Delia. So you won't miss a single word."
Lamont looked at Delia and frowned. Even he could detect the sarcasm in his wife's voice. Carter complied, taking the chair next to Delia. As he sat, he noticed the way her neckline gleamed like fine gold in the firelight. It pleased him as he admired the contour of her head and neck.
"The Latest Hangman Theories," she read again. "It's a letter to the editor."
Lamont shifted in his seat. He enjoyed the letters to the editor. They were full of indignation.
"Dear Editor," Delia began. "I have a thought. It seems likely that the Hangman has the same peculiar traits found in Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
"The killer is probably a very quiet, unassuming man who probably lives among us here in Charleston. But there was probably some sort of tragedy in his earlier life, whether something related to his parents or perhaps a spouse. He's probably married to a woman who is either ill and has to be tended to regularly, or perhaps he lives with his mother or sister.
"He comes across as moody and brooding, especially of late, because while living a normal life during the day, he plots and schemes for his nighttime life when he can kill and continue to evade capture.
"At night, when the fog covers the town and his household is quiet with sleep, he sneaks out after midnight and makes his way to the area where the Hangman does his dastardly deeds.
"He chooses his victim, approaches with a good-natured, friendly manner before turning murderous and slaying his prey. He then returns home from the terrible crime, quietly. After a few hours of sleep, a bath and breakfast, he's a new man, the kind husband, son or brother. All the while, the police search the tragic crime scene with the mindset that they're looking for a common murderous lunatic.
"This is just a theory, but I have to admit that I'm astonished that the Charleston police have kept their investigation completely centered on the area where the murders were committed. If I were them, I'd certainly be casting a wider net, perhaps into the more prosperous areas of Charleston, as opposed to remaining locked in just the killing area. Sincerely, Donald Schroeder."
Delia hesitated over the letter writer's last name, adding a little too much emphasis on the middle 'oe'.
"Donald Schroeder," Lamont said, looking at Velma. "Isn't that the schoolteacher that used to tutor--"
"Yes," Velma interrupted. "It was."
Carter chimed in, "Apparently, he's written every week to the paper." All eyes turned to the young detective. "That's the first one they've published. The other letters were sent over to the Commissioner."
"Why?" Lamont asked, leaning forward.
"Well, the first few were a bit... odd. We actually went over to his home. Turns out he has a sick wife. Dying from cancer."
"He just described himself?" Lamont asked. "Read that part again, Delia."
Delia complied, repeating the description in Schroeder's letter. Carter shook his head, waiting to interrupt once she'd finished reading. "We checked him out thoroughly. He's just a sad man whose wife is nearing her end and he's... well, I think he's trying to find some sort of purpose. Helping the police find this killer happens to be one of them."
"Poor man," Velma said. "Still, it's a ridiculous letter. I wonder why the paper would print such a lot of hogwash."
"What if he's right?" Delia asked. "What if the Hangman were a well-to-do? That would be quite a story!" She seemed almost giddy from the thought. Velma frowned. It was clear Delia was Lamont's child through and through.
"The author of that letter, this Schroeder, he may be on to something, Carter," Lamont said, his finger hooked around his chin as he tried to look contemplative. "I mean, this Hangman has to be somewhere. Think about it: He's somewhere right now, hiding," Lamont said as he looked upward.
Velma's eyes went wide. "Of course he's somewhere!" she said with intentional scorn, getting all eyes on her in the process. "He's not a phantom or a demon."
"I don't know," Carter said. "I don't know how a human could do the things this Hangman has done to his victims." He shuddered slightly and Delia looked at him with a heartfelt tenderness. Being a detective was exciting and thrilling, but it also meant seeing humanity at its worst on a regular basis.
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 11