Velma's eyes went wide. She could hear Lamont coughing in the front room as he read his book, oblivious to the carnality that went on in his house. Suddenly, all those terrible thoughts and bitter feelings of regret came creeping back in, like ghouls shambling in the graveyard of her mind, searching to devour whatever was in her that was good and moral and resolute.
She wanted to keep fucking him. She admitted it to herself. She wanted this white man, with his piercing blue eyes and his fine sturdy frame and his massive cock. She wanted him any which way. But did she trust him? And what about Lamont? God, dear Lamont, that kind yet simple man.
"I..." again was all she could manage.
"Think it over," Mr. Lockhart said. "I don't intend to leave any time soon. My work isn't done yet. But think about it. And think about me." He leaned in closer, his eyes closed, breathing her in, before her kissed her.
Without a word, Mr. Lockhart turned and left, leaving Velma alone in the kitchen. She listened to the tenant make his way up the stairs and heard the click of his bedroom door.
Velma straightened herself as best she could and like an automaton, lit the stove again, the unnerving feelings now back and having brought more feelings of guilt, shame and self-pity. She was afraid. Afraid that she had once again let this stranger mesmerize her, that she had let herself go so easily and that there was so much she did not know or truly understand.
She returned to preparing a meal for Lamont and her. She tried to concentrate on that, thinking one step at a time. The other, ugly thoughts would be dealt with, one way or another.
The house was alive with an alien presence, she felt. Something was amiss. Something... evil? Clearly, yet she had never felt more helpless in her life.
Why did the man need a gas stove for his experiments? What on earth could require such a high volume of heat?
Chapter 15
Velma and Lamont went to bed early that night, yet Velma remained wide awake as Lamont snored. She was determined to know when Mr. Lockhart would come down to the kitchen to conduct his experiment. She wanted to know how long he would remain there as well.
However, because her day had been long and so full of anxiety, she fell asleep.
The church bell chimed at two in the morning. Velma awoke, her heart frantically beating as she realized she'd fallen asleep. Mr. Lockhart could have gone down and back up in all that time!
A moment later, she noticed the smell. It was faint, intangible, yet it carried a slight acrid sting to her nostrils. Velma sat up and sniffed the air. Quietly, she climbed from the bed and walked slowly across the floor. When she came to the door, she placed her nose against the doorpost and inhaled. The horrible smell was out there and it was undeniably stronger in the hallway.
She shivered and crept back to the bed. She wanted to shake Lamont awake and say, "Lamont! Get up! There's something going on downstairs!"
But she didn't. Instead, she lay beside her husband, listening for any sound, helpless and powerless.
What if Mr. Lockhart had made a horrible mess in her clean kitchen? He was an almost perfect tenant, though. If they confronted him, and lost his residency, how could they ever find another tenant like him?
It was three in the morning before Velma heard the slow, plodding steps coming up from the kitchen. But Mr. Lockhart didn't go up to his room straightaway. Rather, he went to the front door and put the chain on it. Then, he walked past her door, pausing for a moment. She could see the shadow of his feet in the light of his candle, just underneath the door. She held her breath.
He took a few more steps then, it sounded as if he sat down on the stairs right outside her bedroom door.
She lay there in bed, still. Her eyes fixed on the door. Her breathing barely audible. Lamont's snoring was the only sound, but he had turned on his side and the volume had reduced significantly.
Ten minutes went by before she heard Mr. Lockhart go back down the stairs. He removed the chain from the door and opened it. She could hear the faint rustle of the trees in the front yard.
Was he trying to get the smell out of the house? What was that smell? It wasn't food. It smelled like... clothing. Wool, perhaps?
Velma continued lying there in the dark, listening to Mr. Lockhart as he crept upstairs, the fear in her heart as palpable as the terrible smell that permeated the house.
It was quite some time before she fell back asleep. She dreamt a horrible dream. A voice kept shouting, "The Hangman claims another! The Hangman strikes again! The murderous Hangman adds another to his gallows!"
Velma felt angry and impatient. She blamed Lamont for all his talk about the Hangman and the terrible murders. She could hear Lamont's voice: "Velma, it's after seven. I'm going to get a paper."
There was shouting outside. She sat up in bed. This was no nightmare. It was a new day and a new report of the Hangman striking again!
Oh, she wished Lamont had laid there a while long and let her sleep. Maybe her dream would have faded away and she would have had some rest before the jolt of the new day.
She heard Lamont go to the front door and purchase a paper from the newsboy, exchanging a few energetic words with the boy. He returned moments later, lighting the gas ring in the sitting room and preparing to read the latest news.
Lamont always made Velma a cup of coffee in the morning. It was a promise he'd made when they were first married and he had never broken his word, not once.
It was a small thing, a familiar thing, but it meant everything to her, especially considering how dreadful she had been to him so many times. Tears came to her brown eyes at the thought of everything.
When he arrived in the bedroom with the small serving tray, Lamont was surprised to see Velma sitting up, her face turned away from him, staring at the wall.
"Here's your coffee, Velma," he said, a slight tone of excitement in his voice.
She turned around. "Well? What happened?"
"I thought you was sleeping," he said.
"How in the hell could I have slept through all that yelling? So go ahead, out with it. What happened?" Velma placed her hands around the coffee cup and took her first sip, feeling it bring her to life.
"I've hardly had a chance to look at the paper," he said.
"Hmm," she said, not a comment on the coffee so much as a comment on the believability of his remark. "You were reading it. I heard the paper rustling. You were reading it before you even lit the gas ring."
"Well, it's the Hangman," Lamont said.
"Really?" Velma couldn't hide her sarcasm, coffee or not.
"He moved further west in the city," Lamont said gravely. "He's coming our way."
"Go get the paper. I want to see it myself."
Lamont went into the next room. He returned and handed her a very slim newspaper, much slimmer than others Lamont usually purchased.
"What's this?" Velma asked.
"It's a special edition, all about the Hangman," he said, growing a little cross. He pointed at a part on the front page. "Here's the part about him moving toward us."
And there it was, printed in bold letters:
"The Hangman has once again escaped the hands of justice! While the Charleston Police and a virtual army of amateur law enforcement officials who have taken an interest in the atrocities committed in this fair city focused their attention on Battery Row, the Hangman has moved west to commit his latest killing.
"Not only that, he selected a time and place on King Road at its most busy during the holiday season, dispatching another human being with savage quickness.
"Within 50 yards of a deserted warehouse where he lured his victim to death passed a number of citizens on their way to the Christmas parade and last-minute shopping. The Hangman plunged into that cheerful environment and committed a cold, calculating and horrific crime.
"It was only due to a random accident that the body was discovered so quickly, just after midnight during a local patrol by the police assigned to that area, not a part of the force focused on appre
hending the Hangman.
"Officials summoned City Coroner, Dr. Emmanuel Dunlap, to the crime scene immediately after the body was found. Dr. Dunlap estimated the body had been dead for at least four hours.
"At first, it was suspected -- or hoped -- that this killing had little to do with the Hangman's series of murders. But no, those hopes were proven false when detectives located a familiar piece of paper pinned to the edge of the deceased's dress. It was the calling card of the Hangman.
"This time, the Hangman had outdone himself regarding his bold wickedness."
Velma read and re-read certain parts of the account. Lamont watched her, worried at her expression, yet so eager to share his thoughts on the subject matter.
She finished and looked up at him before rising from the bed. "Well?" he asked.
"Murder or not, it's time to get up," she said. Lamont nodded, collected the paper and the tray and left the room. Once gone, Velma lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, wishing all of this away. She tried to empty her mind. She felt so tired, so drained and so guilty.
Thought began their dance across her mind, pushing through her head back and forth.
Delia was returning tomorrow. She felt a small amount of relief at that.
She thought of Carter. A likable young man, who was so clearly enamored of Delia. With Delia away at her Aunt Margaux's, Carter had kept his distance from she and Lamont. Another relief.
She knew, however, that when Carter returned, the talk of the Hangman would fire up again. She rolled her eyes and groaned at the thought. She would have to steel herself against the chatter between the three of them: Carter, Delia and Lamont.
Velma dragged herself from the bed, feeling as if she had just gotten over a terrible flu. She was weak and tired, in body and soul.
She stood still and listened. She was chilled. It was very cold in the room. She could tell that life was up and running outside. She went to the window and saw an unusual amount of foot traffic.
They were going to inspect the Hangman's latest scene. She snapped the curtains shut.
Several moments later, the thud of their morning newspaper on the floor of the hall as it fell through the mail slot. Lamont was on it like a tiger pouncing on its prey. He went into the sitting room.
She took her time getting dressed, pausing to look at herself nude in the mirror, pivoting her curvy hips and looking at herself from side to side. It was as if she was looking at a complete stranger.
When Velma finally went into the kitchen, it was as she left it the night before. There was no hint of the terrible odor she smelled. The room was actually full of fog. The windows had been painted shut, but she could see the thin line between the window and the windowsill. Someone had cut through the paint with something very sharp, opened the windows and shut them back. She was sure of it.
She paused to consider this a few more moments before inspecting the gas stove. The inside of the stove was black as pitch, encrusted in a thick paste of black soot. There were traces of it on the floor beneath the stove as well. This kind of soot only happened when the stove was being pushed to its limits in terms of heating.
Velma took the eggs and ham she had purchased the day before and went upstairs to the sitting room, where she cooked them on the gas ring there. Lamont looked up from his paper, surprised. "You ain't never done that up here before."
"I couldn't stay down there. It's cold and foggy. I wanted to make our breakfast where it's warm," she said.
"I don't blame you, sweet girl," was all he said before returning to his paper.
But once breakfast was ready, Velma found she couldn't eat a single bite. Instead, she drank another cup of coffee.
"You feeling well?" Lamont asked her carefully.
"I'm fine. It's just this horrible Hangman to kill so close to home. Our home. It's put me off my food, I'm afraid."
Outside, the sounds of footsteps and chatter. A crowd was forming to inspect the latest crime locale of the Hangman.
Velma implored Lamont to lock the front wrought-iron gate. "I don't want anyone trampling through here," she said. "Apparently, there are a lot of people in town who have nothing better to do!"
Chapter 16
Lamont moved about the room, pacing relentlessly, from the window to the fireplace and back. Each time, at the window, he would stare at the people making their pilgrimage to the latest site of the Hangman's handiwork. Then, back at the fireplace, staring at the fire. Finally, after several passes back and forth, he sat in his chair. His brow was furrowed, for he was troubled deep down in the roots of his heart.
He glanced at the paper, rose up from his chair and went back to the window again.
"I sure wish you'd be still," Velma said finally. A few minutes later, she offered, "Why don't you put your hat and coat on and go out?"
Without a word, Lamont rose, kissed Velma on the head, donned his coat and hat and went outside.
As he entered the fray, he told himself that it was only natural to be curious about this kind of monstrous activity. It wasn't the norm and the things that are not normal require observation, to understand and contemplate. Or so he told himself.
Velma had been exceptionally strange and ornery this morning, Lamont thought as he watched a few couples, smiling and whispering secrets to one another as they made their way down the streets past the beautiful wrought-iron gates.
Lamont saw Papa Joe, a street vendor who shouted his wares: mostly shrimp, with the occasional lobster or crab. Lamont knew Joe and they nodded to one another as Joe tried to get in on the mass of people making their way to or from the murder scene. Papa Joe sang his wares in a patois that only the most local of residents could understand.
As Lamont passed Papa Joe, he saw that there was no shellfish for sale. Instead, the street vendor was getting in on the Hangman racket. He was offering copies of the latest special edition, along with maps that had written on them in crude handwriting: The hangman's map of death!
Lamont reached into his vest and withdrew a coin, which he dropped in Papa Joe's palm. He then took a copy of the map and stuffed it in his coat pocket for later.
He figured Velma would be angry about the purchase, as she was angry about most things he did these days, but Lamont had learned to live with it. Usually, she would vent her say and then leave him alone and he was fine with that.
Back at the house, Velma forced herself to go down in the kitchen. As she slowly stepped into the whitewashed room, a wave of dread came over her. She turned, shut the door and bolted it. Once she did, she let out a loud exhale and pressed her back against the door. Closing her eyes, she muttered an inaudible prayer, the first prayer she'd offered in quite some time. Velma got past the first few words of supplication and found herself out of steam and out of words.
She was surrounded in the empty space by a deep, dark dread. She felt as if someone -- or some thing -- was in the room with her, mocking and threatening her all at once.
Velma wished Daisy was here, if only she could provide the kind company she eagerly provided to her stepmother. With Lamont, she felt only the sickness of guilt and shame. She was his wife, he was good to her and she was keeping the truth from him and her suspicions.
After breathing quietly in the room, closing her eyes, and trying to bring herself up from the depths, she unlocked the door, went upstairs and cleaned her bedroom. She felt a little better after bringing some sense of order to her life, even if it was only her bedroom.
She wished Lamont would return, but she was a tad relieved that he was out. She preferred his presence nearby, yet she always looked forward to having the place to herself when he stepped out.
Velma swept and dusted, immersing herself in her work, yet she couldn't help but ask herself what was going on in the upstairs rooms while she worked.
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 16