Velma felt herself growing sicker and more faint by the minute. Before she could collapse, she stumbled into the nearest cafe, sat down, put a dime on the table and asked for a cup of coffee.
She drank it slowly, letting it warm her, although she worried the caffeine in it would make her even more jittery.
Once she finished, she resumed walking. The gas-lit lamps on the street were on now. Velma began to think about the Hangman's victims. She could see in her mind lifeless bodies lying in the morgue. Women who had loved ones, women who had lost everything in life because of vices, women who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Velma shivered. She felt haunted by these poor souls. An icy stab of fear pierced her heart; she felt guilt and shame and wondered if it would ever lessen.
The sight of home, within close distance now, lifted her spirits somewhat. Although it was a narrow and drab looking house, nestled within other narrow and drab looking houses, it gave her a sense of security. The iron gate at the end of the walkway, more decorative than anything else, helped her feel safe once she passed through and closed it behind her.
Her mind shifted to Lamont... and Mr. Lockhart. She wondered if anything had happened in her absence. What if Mr. Lockhart rang his bell and was surprised by Lamont's answer? Would they have gotten along? Would there have been any kind of trouble?
She walked up the cobblestone path to the front step, weary yet glad to be home. Lamont must have been watching for her at the window because he opened the front door before she had a chance to open the door herself and enter.
"I was beginning to worry about you, Velma," Lamont exclaimed. "Get inside, come on. You must be worn slam out. Did everything go OK with the doctor?" He was eager, anxious and affectionate, all at once.
Suddenly, a thought came to Velma. "No," she said. "The doctor never showed up to the office today. I waited for hours and he never showed up. It's all my fault."
In a situation such as this, Velma scolded herself that even though she had still lied to her husband, she had no right to paint the doctor as someone other than the kind, generous physician he had always been to her.
"I should have called him or sent a message that I needed to be seen today," she said. "I didn't, so I'm the fool for going all the way into town. Serves me right. What was I thinking, that he'd been in the office instead of paying house calls."
"You sat in his office all that time? What about his nurse?" Lamont was borderline irritated. Velma worried. What if Lamont called the doctor's office to give the good doctor a piece of his mind for letting his sickly wife sit in his office all day?
Velma hesitated, wrestling with what to say next. She tried to remember her last visit to the doctor's office, the nurse that worked there, the layout of the waiting area, everything and anything that would come to mind.
"I sat there for a while. The nurse apologized and said she wasn't sure why he didn't come in at least to check his messages. Perhaps it was an emergency. It's not his fault, Lamont. Would you mind making me a glass of sweet tea?"
Velma knew the request would hopefully deflect any further inquiry into the made-up doctor's visit. Besides, Lamont made excellent sweet tea. He knew it and he knew Velma knew it.
"Of course, girl," he said. "Come on in here and sit down. You've been walking and walking all day. Put your feet up. Are you hungry?"
"A little," Velma said. "Where's Delia? I thought she would have been here by the time I got home."
"She ain't coming back today," Lamont said.
"Did she call or send a telegram?"
"Nope. Carter called and said he had spoken to Delia and Margaux over the phone. Get this: he's managed to make nice with Aunt Margaux! Apparently, she thinks he's just the sweetest young man to ever walk the earth. Funny what love will do, ain't it?"
Velma suddenly wondered why Carter had been at the police station and now it made sense: Delia wasn't coming back today. Otherwise, Carter would never have been on hand to rescue her from that lecherous police officer. She shuddered.
Lamont continued. "When he took Delia up there to Aunt Margaux's, he must have made an impression, because Margaux asked Delia to make sure Carter came tomorrow so they could go into Columbia and attend a Christmas play. Apparently, her mistress had left her some money and tickets. Can you believe it?"
"That sounds nice," Velma said distantly. She was pleased -- relieved -- that there was one less thing for her to worry about. "When is she coming home then?"
"Carter's going to drive up, have lunch with Aunt Margaux and Delia, attend the play and then drive Delia back here tomorrow night, in time for a late supper. That sound OK with you?"
Velma nodded. "Sounds all right to me. I'm glad to see young people enjoy themselves. They're only young once." Lamont chuckled and nodded as he headed to the kitchen.
"Lamont, did Mr. Lockhart ring while I was out?"
He turned and nodded his head. "Nope. Now that I think of it, it's kind of funny, but I'd almost completely forgotten about him today. Something did happen while you were out, though."
This startled Velma. She sat up, whipping her feet off the ottoman in front of her chair. "What? What happened?"
"It was just a message. I was asked if I could serve at Mr. Lamb's daughter's birthday party. Apparently, the girl's finally turned 18. Their butler took a nasty spill down a flight of stairs and his leg is broken, so they sent for me."
Lamont had a smile on his face as he related the story to Velma. The man who had taken over Lamont's role years earlier had treated Lamont very badly in the following years. He had never given him any further opportunities to step in and help make a few extra dollars, especially when times were very, very lean.
"I hope you didn't quote them a low rate for your services," Velma said cautiously.
"I most certainly did not! I hemmed and hawed a little. I could tell Mr. Lamb was a bit worried so he offered me overtime pay, so I agreed."
Velma's face broke out a smile. Soon, she and Lamont were laughing.
"You won't mind being home alone, will you?" Lamont asked after the laughing ended. "I don't count Mr. Lockhart." Velma's eyes narrowed. Lamont made it a point to mention the tenant because Velma had been acting so strange since the tenant moved into their house. He began to wonder if being in the house with him made her uncomfortable. He wondered why. Nevertheless, Velma had been left alone in their house before when Lamont had to work a day or evening here and there.
Velma wondered what her husband was thinking. Was he beginning to suspect that something had happened? "Why would I mind?" she said. "It's never bothered me before. Besides, I'll probably never lay eyes on Mr. Lockhart tonight, other than taking up his dinner. Why would you ask me such a thing?"
"I just thought, after today, and the business yesterday with Carter dressing up and making a fool of himself... I just wanted to make sure you felt up to it."
"I wouldn't have been so scared if he had just been a regular stranger," Velma said curtly. "He upset me with his noise. Besides, I feel much better now. Even though I didn't see the doctor, the fresh air today helped."
Lamont brought Velma a sweet tea moments later. She sipped at it gratefully, smiling at her husband when the shouts of newsboys from outside shattered the domestic solitude.
"I'll be right back," Lamont said. "They had the inquest today. There's probably all kinds of clues. Carter probably won't stop by tonight, what with his plans with Delia and Aunt Margaux. He said he's working the late shift again tonight, the poor soul."
"Working the late shift?" Velma asked. "Why?"
"Well, the Hangman's always done in his victims by twos. The police think he'll try to take his next one tonight. Carter's on from midnight until five in the morning. He'll get a bit of shut-eye, then head up to Columbia for Delia. Ain't youth grand?"
"I cannot believe that young man would go out on such a terrible night like this!"
"Why? What do you mean?" Lamont asked, staring intently at his wife. Velma had spoken in a way that was
more fierce and emotional than before.
"What do I mean?" she repeated Lamont's words. She panicked. What did she say? Did she let something slip? She cursed herself for thinking aloud. "Why, I meant that of course he has to go to work, but it would be quite something if the police weren't out tonight just because it was so cold." Even she knew she was talking nonsense. Then, before there was time to think, she said, "I was just thinking about the Hangman." There it was. Quite possibly the most true thing Velma had said to Lamont in some time.
"I don't think the Hangman cares about cold or warmth," Lamont said gravely. "The villain is dead to any kind of human feeling, except maybe vengeance, I guess."
"So that's what you think about him, is it?" Velma asked. She looked at Lamont. This was becoming a dangerous conversation, but it was irresistible in some manner she couldn't quite explain. She felt compelled to see it through. "Do you think the man that woman saw, that's the Hangman? The one with the newspaper package?"
"Hmm, I thought it was the woman from the bedroom who saw him?" Lamont said slowly.
"No, the other woman, the one taking her husband his breakfast, the man who worked in the warehouse. She was far more respectable looking than that other woman," Velma said impatiently.
Seeing Lamont's sudden look of complete surprise, she felt a wave of terror wash over her. Why on earth did she say those words? Velma shot up from her chair, smoothing her dress and apron. "Well, look at me. Here I am gossiping and carrying on about nothing when I should be tending to Mr. Lockhart's dinner. Someone on the bus mentioned that woman who thinks she saw the Hangman."
Before Lamont could utter another word, Velma went into their bedroom, turned on the light and closed the door. A few moments later she heard Lamont step outside to buy the paper he had intended to acquire before their pitfall of a conversation.
Slowly, she slid out of her coat and shawl, shivering despite the decent amount of warmth in the room. To her, it felt unnaturally cold. It was a chill that penetrated the deepest recesses of her soul.
Lamont had lit a fire in the bedroom already, bless him. She stared at the orange flames licking at the wood and felt a small amount of comfort. She was home, in her room, the safest place in the world. Yet, she felt on edge from all angles.
Lamont would have to dress for his job this evening. He would be gone. She would be alone in the house... with Mr. Lockhart.
Velma knew she'd have trouble sleeping tonight. She looked at her bed. It was soft and comfortable, but it might as well have been a concrete slab. She knew that she would lie there, listening and waiting... waiting for the sounds from upstairs.
Velma walked to the kitchen. Mr. Lockhart's dinner was already prepared; Velma had prepared everything in advance before going out earlier in the day. She didn't want to rush home. She would have sprinted home after what had happened on the bus.
She leaned the tray against the banister, listening. She wondered if there was a fire in the drawing room and whether she would have to start one for Mr. Lockhart. How the tenant preferred studying at his table in the cold!
Velma could hear Mr. Lockhart moving about his room, pacing. Normally, at this time of night, he read at his table, poring over the Bible and the concordance.
She was struck with a pang of guilt. How could such a man who spent all that time reading the Word of God do such horrible things with her? How could a woman allow such things? A married woman!
She brushed aside her guilt and knocked on the door, waiting a moment before entering.
She heard a sharp click in the room. It was the sound of the key turning in the lock of the cupboard. At least, that's what it sounded like to Velma.
Another pause. Velma knocked again.
"Come in," Mr. Lockhart said in a loud voice, more booming than usual. Velma opened the door and carried in the tray.
"You're here a little sooner than I'm accustomed, Velma," he said. He sounded irritated. And he had used her first name again. It was never a good thing when he used her first name. She wished she had never given it up to him, as if he were some evil spirit who could hinder a mortal just by knowing their name.
"No, sir," Velma said. "I've been out this afternoon. I probably lost track of time. I figured you'd prefer your breakfast earlier, as you had your dinner earlier than usual."
"Breakfast?" he asked. "Did you just say breakfast, Velma?"
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Lockhart. I meant dinner."
Mr. Lockhart looked at her as if she were a fly perched on a wall. His eyes were dark and recessed, though shiny. Glittering like beetles crawling in his sockets. It was a dreadful look. She averted her eyes. She would not look at his face again, she determined.
"What's wrong? Are you not feeling well, Velma? " Mr. Lockhart's volume lowered considerably. "You don't look well."
"No, sir," Velma said. "Not at all. I went to see a doctor this afternoon."
"I hope it did you some good." His voice was soft and kind.
"He's a good doctor," Velma said. "He always fixes me right up."
A strange smile played across Mr. Lockhart's lips. "Doctors are healers, although I fear they get a bad reputation, especially after some of the more barbaric practices from the last century. I'm glad to hear you think highly of your doctor. Doctors do their best. They make mistakes but they always try to do their best."
"Yes, sir." Velma spoke sincerely. Her doctor was a kind man, even though she hadn't seen him in some time. Certainly not today, as she had lied to Mr. Lockhart.
Velma laid the cloth atop the hot dish cover and removed the cover. She set it on the table next to the tray.
She moved to the door and paused. "Would you care for some firewood? It's getting awfully cold tonight. Seems like it's gotten colder since I came upstairs. It's an awful night to be going out."
Mr. Lockhart looked up and stood straight. His eyes pierced her, almost pinned her to the wall. "What do you mean by that?" he asked. "Why do you say that, Velma?"
Velma would have been afraid. But there was something in his face, something she had never seen before: Fear. He was afraid.
Then she did something that even surprised her within her core. She smiled.
"I was thinking of Lamont," Velma said. "He has a job this evening as a waiter for a birthday party. It's a shame he has go out in this kind of weather. His coat is hardly thick enough for this kind of chill."
Mr. Lockhart relented. The fear dissipated and he nodded. "Oh," was all he said. Then: "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope Lamont doesn't catch a cold."
Velma nodded and left the room before anything further was said. She didn't want to be in the room with him any longer than necessary. She went downstairs, thankful she wasn't mesmerized into performing sexual acts while her husband was away. Perhaps... had she just imagined it all? No... but everything seemed so strange all of a sudden. She found herself questioning everything.
"Time for you to get ready, Lamont," Velma said as she poked her head in the front room. "I'll stoke the fire in our bedroom so you can dress in there."
Lamont's head perked up at her offer. "Well, that would be nice," he said.
"It'll keep me company while you're out this evening. Plus, it'll make the room all nice and toasty when you come home. I imagine you'll be chilled by the time you get back," Velma said.
While Lamont dressed for his evening job, Velma went upstairs and cleared away Mr. Lockhart's dinner. He said nothing to her while she retrieved the tray. Not one single word.
Mr. Lockhart sat away from the table, which was uncommon for him. He was staring at the dwindling fire, his hands resting on his knees.
Velma noticed that Mr. Lockhart looked lost. Lost and lonely. She felt a sudden rush of pity for the man, as well as that of dread. It penetrated her heart like the outside chill.
She thought about the torrid moments they had shared: his cock in her mouth, him fucking her several times during his stay, her pleading for him to take her in her ass... she shuddered slightly. It
felt like it was another person, another reality.
Sugar in Her Bowl Page 21