by Maxwell Cynn
“Hey Jack, what did you find?” Bill's voice boomed over the phone.
“The victim was Mason Dunhill's daughter, Kathy or Kelly.”
“Kathy,” Bill interjected. “He doesn't have a daughter named Kelly.”
“The cops are keeping it tight to the vest. There's a battle between the departments. The Sheriff's Department is claiming jurisdiction, but I can't get anything out of them. What little I have came from my sources with the City Police, but no quotes. She was shot in the head with a high caliber hand gun, possibly after being raped. Nothing is concrete yet.”
“There will be a lot of pressure to close the case fast,” Bill pointed out.
“Rich white girl on the wrong side of town, there'll be pressure to cover it up.”
“Give Sally what you have, we need to run something. I'll try to get her back on the line. Hold on a minute. I don't know how to work this damn thing.”
Jack heard the receiver clank against the wooden desk, then Bill shouting in the background.
“Can you get Jack back on the line?”
He couldn't hear Sally.
“I know he's still on there, I'm talking to him, but I need you to talk to him.”
“Hi Jack,” Sally's voice came over the phone. She sounded amused.
“Can you take a story for me?”
“Sure, Jack. Shoot.”
He quickly dictated a brief overview of the case. No real details, just victim's name, place the body was found, gunshot wound, the tension between local jurisdictions. He didn't mention the rape. The dead deserve some respect. It was a short article, but it would scoop the Observer. He could write a feature when he had more information.
Chapter Six
Jack hopped the trolley Downtown, then out West Trade to the end of the line. He walked cautiously into a colored neighborhood there. Segregation cut both ways. Most of the businesses in town were whites only, or had white and colored areas set aside, but out in Biddleville he was the interloper. Whites were not welcome in colored sections any more than coloreds were in theirs.
The Biddleville community was like a different city. The streets were dirt, which wasn't uncommon that far out, and the houses were smaller and closer together than the white neighborhoods. Not far away, within walking distance, were mansions with large yards and cars in the driveways. Many of the coloreds living in the poor neighborhood walked there every day to cook, clean, and tend the fine lawns. Others jumped the trolley to ride to other expensive neighborhoods for work.
A few very fortunate people could walk to the negro college nearby. Biddle University was founded after the War Between the States to educate and improve the lives of coloreds in North Carolina. It was one of the few such institutions in the South. Some of the best minds in the colored community came to Charlotte to attend and become the next generation of doctors, lawyers, and engineers; even though their chance at such careers in the South was limited to their own communities.
Jack walked to a drinking house he knew of near where the victim's body was found. It was possible that someone dumped the body after the murder, but it was also possible, though scandalous, that the young woman could have been in the community when she was slain. The drinking house, known as the Excelsior Club to the patrons, was a colored speakeasy, but they'd let anyone in who had money in their pocket. A few white men, with a taste for colored women, were known to frequent the club. Jack had been a few times himself because they had the best jazz in Charlotte. It was not a place the police could go to for information.
From the outside, the club looked like a two story house dropped into the shanty neighborhood. It was a plantation house back when the area was only rural farms. The small front yard and empty lot next door were dirt, like most of the yards in the community, but Jack could see tire tracks from the few cars that parked there each night. He walked up the steps onto the covered porch and knocked on the door.
After a few minutes of standing uncomfortably at the door, Jack saw someone peer out of the curtained window then heard someone on the other side of the door.
“What you want?” a gruff male voice asked through the closed door.
“I'm Jack Spaulding of the Charlotte News. I just want to talk.”
The door cracked open and a large colored man wearing rough work pants and no shirt blocked the view inside.
“What's a white reporter doin' down in here?”
“I'm writing a story for the paper and I just want to ask you some questions.”
“There ain't no story here. Go on back where you belong.”
“I've been here before,” Jack said. “I know this is the Excelsior Club. Is there someone I can talk to.”
The man looked him over suspiciously.
“Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.
A few minutes later the door opened again. The same man was standing there. He invited Jack inside. The entry was a large sitting room, much like Mrs. Duke's house except there were several old couches and an assortment of chairs. At night the place was filled with men sitting on the couches and in the chairs and young colored women bringing them drinks. Jazz music filled the room and people spilled out onto the porch or were led upstairs by the young women.
“Jonah say to have a seat,” the man told him. Jack sat down in a chair.
The man walked out and Jack sat alone looking around the room. Small tables and chairs lined the walls and there was a long bar in the next room. A cute young colored girl came down the steps. She smiled and waved to Jack as she walked through the room and into a doorway. The girl was barely dressed and the shear gown she was almost wearing left very little to the imagination. Jack smiled and nodded his head toward her.
A short colored man in his fifties walked into the room and Jack stood.
“Mr. Spaulding,” the man said, “please, have a seat.”
Jack returned to his seat and the man pulled a chair up so they were facing each other. He sat, crossed one leg and straightened his trousers. He was dressed in a very nice navy blue suit, not something that could be found at Belk's, something a professional man had custom tailored, and his shoes were expensive leather.
“I've read your articles,” he said. “I'm Jonah Hoskins. I own this house. What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you a few questions for an article I'm working on.”
“We are not interested in having our establishment reviewed in the press.”
“Of course not, Mr. Hoskins. But there was a murder in the community last night, near here I am told. I'm looking for information the police may have missed in their investigation.”
“I'm still not sure how I could be of assistance.”
“Did you know the victim?”
“And how would I be acquainted with a wealthy white woman, Mr. Spaulding?”
“The police haven't released any information on the victim. How is it you know she was from a wealthy family?”
“This is a small, tight-knit community. News spreads quickly.”
“Let's cut to the chase, Mr. Hoskins. I know the score. I'm a reporter, not the police. I know how to be discrete. You have a nice joint here, I've been a few times myself, and I'm not looking to cause you trouble. Was Miss Dunhill a regular?”
“She enjoyed good jazz.”
“Did she enjoy any music last night?”
“I believe she enjoyed the early part of her evening.”
“Did she leave with someone?”
“I believe she had a friend from the college. A gentleman from Lumberton.”
“Lumbee Indian?”
“Yes. They seemed quite smitten.”
“Do you have a name for this man?”
“He's not the one who hurt Miss Dunhill.”
“Do you know who did?”
“As I said, we are a tight community. If a young white woman takes an interest in a colored man or a white deputy takes an interest in young colored women, there's talk. But as you said, we know the score and know
how to be discrete.”
“Have the police questioned you?”
“We had a visit from both the City Police and the Sheriff's Department.”
“Mind if I come by later and talk to some people?”
“We welcome whites and coloreds here, Mr. Spaulding.”
“It's been a pleasure meeting you,” Jack said and stood.
He offered a hand to Hoskins. The colored man looked at it, stood, then shook his hand.
“Pleasure, Mr. Spaulding.”
* * *
Helen was up bright and early. She was excited to be moving into Mrs. Duke's house, and she'd only had to pay one night's hotel bill. She'd called the shipping company and confirmed delivery of her personal things. The harsh receptionist, with the obvious northern accent and attitude, was almost too difficult to deal with so early in the day, but Helen didn't let it spoil her mood. She rang for the porter and a taxi and was soon on her way. She arrived at Mrs. Duke's around ten with her two steamer trunks and the remainder arrived by truck promptly at ten-thirty. She was quickly settled in her room and enjoyed a pleasant lunch with Catherine.
“It is so exciting,” Catherine said. “A woman lawyer, I would have never believed it. And it will be grand having another woman in the house. I love the gentlemen dearly, but I do miss a good conversation. Are you sure you will be comfortable?”
“Oh, yes, Catherine. I grew up with brothers. Living in a house full of men will feel like being back home.”
“There is some stigma involved, I won't lie to you, but it is that way for all single women. I know people talk about four men living in my house.”
“I have little concern about rumors and gossip, I can assure you. There will be plenty of animosity for a woman lawyer, I'm sure. It is no one's concern where I live or with whom.”
“My feelings exactly,” Catherine beamed. “So what made you decide to come back to Charlotte?”
“It is home, even though my parents have moved to Raleigh. I have already seen several people I know since I arrived and I'm sure there are others about. I wouldn't know anyone in Raleigh, except my parents' friends.”
“It's important for you to be independent, isn't it?”
“Yes. I want to make my own way, on my own steam. I almost didn't take the position with Mr. Black. He is an old family friend. But to work with the first public defender in the State, and one of the most experienced lawyers. I couldn't turn it down.”
“Well, it's still your own steam. Whoever you work with, it will still be you who passes the Bar. A woman lawyer, and living in my home.”
Helen laughed and Catherine joined her. The two women talked for more than an hour and then Helen went up to her room to unpack and order things properly. She was glad she had found such a kindred spirit in Catherine, and had found a place in her home. Things were coming together better than she had anticipated, better than she had dared hope. She was well on her way to realizing all the plans she had patiently made the past few years of college.
* * *
Jack made it to the Coffee Cup in time for a late lunch.
“Afternoon, Jeb,” He said and sat down at the counter.
“How you doin' today, Missa Spaulding?”
“Busy for once.”
“Is your bootleg story gonna be in the paper today?”
“That, and another one on a murder that happened after we went home last night.”
“A murder! Lordy mercy, we ain't had no killin' in Charlotte in a long time—'cept for Daniel. Who done got themselves killed?”
“The daughter of Mason Dunhill.”
“How do a rich white woman go an get herself killed?”
“Don't know yet, but she was found over in Biddleville.”
“Oh Lordy, I'm sure they gonna say some colored did it. What she doin' over there anyway?”
“She frequented the Excelsior Club. You ever go there?”
“That's a little expensive for my tastes, Missa Spaulding.”
“You want to give me a ride tonight, I'm buying.”
“Hell yeah! Did you hear that Tom? I'm going to the Excelsior Club with Missa Spaulding.”
Jack laughed.
“Pick me up around seven.”
“I'll be there. You want today's special? Stewed beef on rice.”
“Sounds good.”
Jack ate lunch and arrived back at Mrs. Duke's house in the mid afternoon. He walked in and jogged up the stairs to his room. He threw his coat and hat on the bed and walked into the bathroom. He'd missed his morning shave and his face sported a rough stubble of dark hair. He opened the bathroom door and was startled by a woman standing there.
“Miss Jameson?”
“Mr. Spaulding.”
“Can I ask why you are in my bathroom?”
“Our bathroom, Jack. I rented the room next door.”
“We are sharing a bathroom?”
“Mrs. Duke was concerned when she rented me the room, but I assured her it would be fine. I grew up with three brothers.”
“Why didn't you take the room downstairs?”
“It is larger, and, frankly, more expensive. I am a working girl. I have to watch every penny. Catherine offered to lower the price, but that wouldn't be fair to her, now would it. There was no reason, with a little courtesy and patience, we can't do just fine sharing.”
“Swell,” Jack said. There was a cut of sarcasm in his voice.
“I would appreciate you storing your illegal liquor someplace else, if you don't mind.”
“It's in the medicine cabinet,” Jack said. “Where else would one store gin?”
“Perhaps somewhere in your room,” she suggested, unperturbed. “Since we share the bathroom, its presence would suggest my support of drinking, which I do not.”
“Alright,” Jack said. He reached in the medicine cabinet and retrieved the pint of gin and his jelly jar. “I'll put it in my room.”
Jack noticed the medicine cabinet was filled with lipstick, eyeshadow, and other female things he was unacquainted with. The only empty space was where he'd removed the gin bottle and glass. He shut the cabinet door.
“Courtesy and patience,” he said under his breath.
Helen smiled.
“We will be just fine,” she said. “If there is anything of mine that gets in your way, just let me know.”
She turned, walked back into her room, and closed the door. Jack couldn't help noticing it was a very nice view. Having Helen Jameson living in the adjoining room could be a dream come true. It could also become a nightmare. He looked at the bottle of gin he was holding then turned and walked out of the bathroom. He put the bottle and glass in the top drawer of the dresser with his jewelry box and the thirty-eight revolver. The gun was Daniel's. He'd never carried one himself.
Chapter Seven
Jack and Jeb arrived at the Excelsior Club. The joint was packed and the music was spilling out into the yard. They made their way to the bar. The clientele was predominantly colored, but Jack noticed a white woman at the bar. She turned and he recognized her immediately.
“Miss Burkeheimer?”
“Hiya, Jack,” she crooned in her nasally voice. She was standing with a huge colored man who turned to look at Jack. The look wasn't friendly. Patty brushed him off with a flick of her wrist and he turned and walked away. Jack stepped closer.
“I must admit, I'm a little surprised to see you here,” Jack said.
“I get around,” she said. She picked up her almost empty glass. Jack waved at the man behind the bar.
“What are you drinking?” he asked Patty.
“Bourbon with a twist of lime,” she said.
“Gin and tonic, and another drink for the lady; Bourbon, lime twist,” Jack told the bartender. “And whatever Jeb wants is on me,” he added. Jeb smiled.
“I'm gonna get me a table, Missa Spaulding,”
“So what are you doing here, Jack? And with a rather nice looking colored gentleman.”
“Just
out having a good time. You spend a lot of time in colored clubs?”
“You spend a lot of time with colored men?”
“Jeb's an old friend.”
“I haven't noticed too many white boys with colored friends since I crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.”
“I'm progressive. So what brings you here?”
“You do seem deliciously unique,” she said, rubbing seductively against him. “I go where the jazz is hot. Color isn't such an issue where I'm from. Is there a Mrs. Spaulding, Jack?”
“No.”
“You know, Northerners are more open in a lot of ways,” she purred, her hand slide across his chest and down his side to his belt. “Most Southerners seem a little... repressed.”
“The fires burn just as hot in the South.” His arm cinched her slender waist and pulled her against him. “We're just a little more discrete than you're used to.”
“There's something to be said for discretion,” she said, almost breathless. “As long as it isn't just inaction.”
“Oh, you can find plenty of action around here. You just gotta know where to look, and how to ask. Just like this speakeasy. You didn't just stumble in here.”
“I'm pretty good at finding what I want.”
“I bet you are,” Jack said with his lips hovering a breath away from hers. “And you usually get it.”
“Always.”
“So, who told you about this place?”
Her eyes clouded with confusion, then anger, then turned to cold steel.
“A friend.”
“The big colored boy you were with? Or did you pick him up in here?”
She tried to pull back. “That's really none of your damn business.”
Jack continued to hold her against him.
“Come on, Patty. How does a white girl from New York stumble into a colored speakeasy in Biddleville? And the night after your employer had a little trouble with a shipment of whale oil.”
“You son-of-a-bitch.” She squirmed a little and tried to push away.
“What's wrong? Just a little friendly conversation. Is Hall trying to move in on the colored market now? Maybe the coloreds like Canadian whale oil.”
She wrested a hand free and slapped Jack across the cheek. He just smiled.