by Maxwell Cynn
“You think the Sheriff is distorting the evidence? Why?”
“To cover up the fact that Kathy Dunhill was a regular at a colored gin house and that she was dating a Lumbee Indian.”
“So they just move the scene to a white club?”
"The Dunhill's are a prominent family. Maybe they don't want anyone to know their little girl drank gin with coloreds and dated a brass-ankle."
Helen looked shocked. Jack continued.
“Apparently, all the witness statements say the Crown. What was Locklear's story?”
“According to Mr. Locklear, he and Miss Dunhill had dinner together, at the Excelsior. He said he was walking her to the trolley when they were attacked.”
“Does he know who attacked them?”
“I think he does, but he won't say. He was beaten pretty badly. He said the man who attacked them beat him unconscious and when he woke up Miss Dunhill and the attacker were gone.”
“So he didn't witness the murder?”
“He says he didn't.”
“Let's assume he's telling the truth. Someone accosts them in the street, knocks Locklear out, kidnaps Dunhill. The man takes Dunhill about a block away, into a dark alley, and kills her. Locklear wakes up, and what? Just goes home? He doesn't look for her, he doesn't call the police. What's he hiding? Who's he protecting?”
“According to him,” she said, “he came to, heard sirens, staggered to the scene and found the police already there. He got scared and slipped off.”
“The first thing we need to do is follow up on everything the DA gave you and see what other facts the Sheriff has changed. I'll visit Tonya again tonight and ask her about her statement.”
“I'm going with you.”
“Biddleville is not the place for a young lady, Helen, especially a young, very attractive, white lady.”
“I guess Miss Dunhill was proof of that, but I'm going anyway.”
They spent the afternoon going through the evidence provided by the DA and making notes of where the official evidence contradicted Locklear's version of events or what Jack had found. The case the Sheriff's Department had built for the DA painted the scenario of an innocent white woman being tricked into leaving a well known white club on the arm of a devious Lumbee Indian masquerading as a white man; who then kidnapped, raped, and murdered her. There was no mention of the two dating prior to the evening of her death, or of her ever visiting the Excelsior Club.
“They don't have much of a case,” Jack pointed out. Helen gathered the papers up into a neat stack. Jack shook his head. “It's all circumstantial. I'm surprised Jasper gave them a warrant on this.”
“As you said, Jack, he's a Lumbee. She's white and from a wealthy family. If they'll change the evidence for the sensibilities of the family, why not manufacture whatever they need for a conviction.”
Jack nodded his head in silent agreement.
“May I escort you downstairs for supper?” he asked after a moment.
“I think it might be more prudent if we are not seen coming out of your room together.”
“Afraid the neighbors will talk?” Jack chuckled.
“A woman must guard her reputation, sir.” She smiled.
Helen walked across the room to the bathroom door. She looked back at Jack, winked, and disappeared into their shared bathroom. He shook his head. He was still unable to get a good feel for her. She seemed as chaste and staid as a preacher's wife, but then there were glimpses of something else, something less tame, less proper. He cursed himself for seeing what was obviously not there, obviously his own prurient fantasies.
Jack walked down to the dining room and Catherine was busy setting the table for supper. He followed her into the kitchen and returned with a picture of tea and a basket of fresh baked biscuits. Some of the other residents drifted in and Jack spotted Helen descending the stairs. Catherine directed the men as they ferried the remainder of the meal to the table.
Jack stood mesmerized watching Helen enter the room. She had changed clothes from the conservative black suit-dress into a soft cotton skirt and blouse that gently followed the generous curves of her young fit body. The other men in the house had also stopped in mid-motion, some holding bowls and plates destined for the table. Catherine walked in from the kitchen and paused, an amused gleam in her eyes.
“Is there anything I can help with, Mrs. Duke?” Helen asked.
“I think we have it all, dear, if the gentlemen would just put it on the table.”
Jack held a chair for Helen and everyone settled in at the table.
“Would you say a blessing, Mr. Braswell?” Catherine prompted.
Jack bowed his head and smiled as Tom Braswell's voice shook out a curt prayer, then watched intently as Helen effortlessly drew each man out of his shell; talking cars with young Jeff, discussing art history with Jerry, and even getting Tom to share a humorous anecdote from his day. By the end of the meal they were all laughing and talking like a family at Christmas dinner.
“Do you have any plans for the evening?” Catherine asked Helen while Tom and Jeff carried their plates into the kitchen.
“Jack has offered to show me around the city. A lot has changed while I was away at college.”
“Can I take your plate, Miss Jameson?” Jerry asked, standing with his own in hand.
“Thank you.”
Jerry winked at Jack conspiratorially and walked away with the plates. Jack smiled and shook his head. He stood and took his plate, and Catherine's, into the kitchen. Helen and Catherine followed carrying other dishes from the table. When the dining room was clear Catherine began washing dishes.
“Can I help you with that?” Helen asked.
“Oh, no, dear. You and Jack run along and have fun.”
“Let me get my coat, Jack, and I'll be ready.”
Helen walked out and Catherine grinned at Jack.
“What?” he said defensively.
“She's a fine young woman, Jack.”
“I'm helping her with a case,” he said.
“I'll be retiring early tonight,” she said, trying to hold back the smile. “If you need the parlor... to work on your case.”
“Nathan left her with a tough case, and I'm just helping her out.”
Catherine nodded knowingly. Jack failed to hold back a smile. He impulsively leaned over and kissed Catherine on the cheek before leaving the kitchen.
“Have a nice evening, Jack,” Catherine called from the kitchen as he and Helen walked out the door.
Chapter Nine
Jack and Helen drove across town in a car he borrowed from Jeff. It was a work in progress, something Jeff had been tinkering with for a year. He called it the “Carby Sparrow.” The car sported only two seats, a very small windscreen, a long wide front holding the largest engine Jack had ever seen and almost no trunk. The rear tires were only inches behind the firm, slim seats and the road only inches below them. Jack could feel every indention in the pavement as they rolled down Tryon Street. The car wasn't built for comfort, only speed.
They pulled into the dirt parking lot of the Excelsior Club and parked among the Model T's and Roadsters already filling the space. Men, both colored and white, were milling outside and up on the large front porch, smoking and drinking. There were a few girls, all colored, sitting on laps, hanging on arms, but most of the ladies were inside.
“You sure about this?” Jack asked and helped Helen climb out of the low passenger seat.
“I'm not a complete bumpkin, Jack,” she complained. “I've been to places like this before.”
They walked inside, Helen holding tightly to Jack's arm. A scantily clad colored girl greeted them just inside and led them to a private table draped in shadow. Jack ordered gin on the rocks and Helen ordered an iced tea. He looked around the joint hoping to catch a glimpse of Tonya Brown. When the waitress returned with their drinks he asked about her. He had to almost shout over the live jazz music roaring in the background.
“Is Tonya working ton
ight?”
“Tonya don't work here no more,” the waitress replied.
“What happened?”
“She done got herself a job down at the Crown. She high class now”
“When did she go to the Crown? She was here the other night.”
“This is her first night down there. Said they was payin' here double what she make here.”
“Good for her,” Jack said and smiled.
“Yeah, they took a couple of folks. That's how I got this job. Guess it's good for me too.”
“I didn't think I'd seen you here before. I'm Jack Spaulding from the Charlotte News.”
“I heard of you,” she said with a broad inviting smile.
“Is Mr. Hoskins around tonight?”
“Yesa, he'd be in the back.”
“Can you give him a message for me? Tell him I'm here with a friend if he has time to talk with us.”
The waitress hurried off and Jack sipped his gin. Helen looked around the place wide eyed. Jack doubted she had ever really visited such a place. After a few minutes Hoskins approached their table.
“Mr. Spaulding,” he said in his deep cultured voice.
“Mr. Hoskins.” Jack stood and offered his hand. “Would you have time to join us for a moment?”
“Certainly.”
The men sat and Helen looked shyly at the tall glass of tea in front of her.
“Jonah Hoskins, this is Miss Helen Jameson. She works with Nathan Black.”
“I know Nathan.” He offered Helen his hand. “He's a good lawyer.”
“Nathan is defending Mark Locklear,” Jack said. “Miss Jameson is working with the case.”
“You're a lawyer? I don't think I have ever met such a lovely lawyer.” Hoskins kissed the back of her fingers lightly before releasing her hand.
“Not yet,” she said, her voice a little shaken. “I'm studying for the Bar. Nathan took me on as an assistant.”
“Well, tell Nathan I may want to change lawyers.” He smiled broadly and laughed lightly. “He's been my lawyer in a couple of situations I've fallen into.”
“The waitress told me Tonya went to work at the Crown club,” Jack said bluntly.
“A couple of my regulars went over there,” Hoskins responded and his tone wasn't happy.
“Ones that were working the night the Dunhill girl was killed?”
“Yes. An odd coincidence, wouldn't you say?”
“The Sheriff said Dunhill met Locklear at the Crown. He has several witnesses who saw them leave together.”
“I think those would be the same individuals.”
“I spoke to Tonya before they arrested Locklear. She told me she was working here that night, and that Locklear and Dunhill were here that night as well.”
“People say what they say.” He shrugged.
“It's to your benefit, what they say.”
“I admit that I would prefer the Excelsior Club not be mentioned in court documents, or the press, but I had nothing to do with these individual's choices.”
“Mr. Hoskins,” Helen interjected. “Mark Locklear is facing murder charges. If the witnesses are lying about where they worked and where they last saw Miss Dunhill, that is important to his defense.”
“I would think so, Miss Jameson. It would, perhaps, be of interest to learn who convinced these individuals to change their employment and their testimony. Now if you will excuse me.”
“Hoskins,” Jack said when the man stood. “You mentioned, when we spoke before, a deputy having an interest in colored women.”
“Yes I did.”
“Was that important?”
“I would think so. Good evening, Mr. Spaulding, Miss Jameson.”
“What was that about a deputy?” Helen asked when they were alone again.
“I don't know. When I talked to him before he mentioned it and I just let it pass. I didn't think it was relevant. Maybe it is.”
“He doesn't say much, or little that is clear,” she grumbled. “Is he a lawyer, or a politician?”
“I think a little of both, but he said a lot. You just have to hear between the words.”
“Frustrating,” Helen said with the slightest of pouts softening her face. Jack found it very appealing.
“I need to talk to some of the girls. Will you be alright alone for a few minutes?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Okay. I'll be right back.”
Jack took off his coat and laid it on the back of his chair hoping that would discourage anyone who might think Helen was unescorted. He walked over to the bar and struck up a conversation with a couple of the working girls. They offered to take him upstairs. Together. He declined, but offered them a five-spot for a little talk.
“You know anything about a deputy that has a taste for colored girls?” he asked.
“Mechum,” one of the girls said blandly. “He comes around sometime, wantin' somethin' for nothin'.”
“That damn Mechum don't have no taste for girls, he just gots a mean streak,” the other said, a look of disgust on her face. “He likes to rough people up, be all massah and slave shit. I told him to kiss my ass and he smacked me across the room. Didn't pay, neither. Jonah told him to stay the hell out.”
“So he doesn't come to the club anymore?”
“No, but he waits around outside sometimes. He cain't get nothin' but street hoes. Most of the girls stay away from him.”
Jack handed the most talkative one the five-spot. They could decide how to split it.
“You've got more credit on this if you still want to go upstairs, sugar,” she said seductively.
“Hell, I'll join in for free,” the less talkative one said, a hungry look in her eyes.
“Sorry, ladies. I'm with someone tonight.”
“We'll keep you on account, handsome,” one said, stuffing the bill in her bra. “You come back anytime.”
Jack walked back to his table. A large colored man was sitting in his chair, talking to Helen. Jack recognized him as the mountain that had been with Patty. He obviously liked white girls. Helen had an odd smile on her face. Jack cleared his throat.
“I think you're in my seat.”
The man stood. He was several inches taller than Jack and close to a hundred pounds heavier.
“You shouldn't leave your chair unattended,” he said gruffly. “Me and the lady were having a nice conversation.”
“Well, I'm back now, so if you'll excuse us.”
Jack stepped toward the table. The man didn't move.
“Maybe you should go back over to the bar. The lady was enjoying my company,” the man said threateningly.
“I don't think so. I suggest you move along before this gets ugly. I don't want any trouble, but I brought the lady in and I'm taking her home.”
The man swung a meaty hand at Jacks head. He ducked the blow and struck hard and fast into the man's midsection. It was like punching a flour sack and the man only let out a little air as his body absorbed the punch. A huge backhand caught Jack in the cheek. The man swatted him across the room like a minor annoyance. Jack came to his feet and the man had a hand on Helen's arm lifting her from her seat. Jack charged into him and it was like trying to tackle a bull. The huge colored man didn't move.
The man let go of Helen and pushed Jack back easily with one hand. “I'm gonna stomp your ass, white boy, then fuck your girlfriend.”
“Let's dance,” Jack said and settled into a more serious boxing stance.
The man just chuckled and stepped forward, swinging his massive hand again. Jack could tell the man was clumsy and untrained; a formidable bulk that rarely needed skill. Jack braced for the onslaught. He blocked the blow and landed a firm right to the man's cheek. The man countered with a wild left, but Jack's practiced left jab connected with his jaw first, staggering him back. Jack pressed with another right, another left, then a final right in the chin. The man went down like a cotton bale rolling off a truck.
Jack looked at Helen and sh
e stared at the huge man with wide glassy eyes. There were two tea glasses on the table. One empty and one three-quarters gone. She looked up at him, mouth slightly open. He picked up the tea glass and sipped.
“This isn't sweet tea,” he said with a slight smile. “It's a Long Island Iced Tea.”
“A what?” Her voice slurred.
“Liquor,” he quipped. “You're drunk.”
“I don't drink, sir,” she said indignantly. She stood up and staggered. Jack grabbed her arm and steadied her.
“Let's take you home, Miss Jameson.”
“I told you to call me Helen, Jack.” She said it in an almost whine, then laid her head on his shoulder. He put his arm round her waist, led her out, and lowered her into Jeff's Speedster.
“It's such a beautiful night, Jack,” she mused dreamily. “Are we going for a ride?”
Jack put the Speedster in gear and skidded out of the parking lot onto the dirt road. He could hardly hold the steering wheel with his throbbing hands. He cursed as he pulled the shifter into second and wondered if he might have broken bones in his right hand. They rode back across town and he led Helen into the house, into the kitchen, and started a pot of coffee. Then he got some ice for his swollen knuckles and sat at the kitchen table with her.
“You hurt your hand.” Her alcohol slurred voice dripping with sympathy.
“I'll be alright.” He stood and walked over to check the coffee.
Jack poured them both a cup and sat back down, moving the ice to his left hand. Helen gently took his right.
“You might have some broken bones. We should go to the doctor.”
“It's fine, just bruises. I won't be typing for a couple of days, but I've had worse.”
He put the ice back on his right hand and used his left to lift the coffee cup. The right didn't want to grip it.
Helen sipped coffee slowly and tried to compose herself. “What happened?” she asked after a few minutes. “Why did that man attack you?”
“I think he wanted to take you upstairs,” he said wryly.
“I feel like I'm on a boat and everything is a little wavy.” she said, setting down her empty cup. “What was I drinking?”