With Cruel Intent

by Dennis Larsen

  Last night had gone better than he had planned but looking back he knew he could improve. The information he had received had been valuable, the layout of the house was exact, the area dark and quiet, door had been unlocked - no need to use the key they had provided, no dogs or children. He hated little unexpected surprises in this line of work, but he was always prepared for such emergencies or at least he thought he was.

  He’d made a career as a burglar all over Southern Georgia and had managed to avoid capture thus far, and had no intention of spending any time behind bars in the near future. Always waiting for one big score, a valuable diamond, a gold brick, anything that would bring big bucks. Who would have known that his big score would involve putting on women’s underwear in the dead of night then taking pictures of himself as he went. He’d been instructed only to take the one picture to be left behind on the pillow but once he got started he kind of got carried away.

  Putting on the clothing was, at first, odd and uncomfortable but doable; it was the taking of the pictures that he had not expected to give him such a rush. Looking back at the images splayed before him he reached for his favorite, very grainy but still enough in focus to make out what was captured. He stood very close to the bed, hovering over Thelma, wearing a black bra with white lace trim, matching panties, his face very close to hers with his tongue extended, almost touching the tip of her nose.

  “She would've shit a brick if I’d left that one on her pillow,” he said aloud, laughing to himself, then more raucously.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The short walk from the bus stop gave Blanche time to put the day’s events into perspective, she enjoyed the light breeze, the old homes lining the street and the sight and sound of fireflies breaking the darkness before her. Arriving at Caroline’s well after everyone else had gone to bed, Blanche entered quietly, slipping her shoes off at the doorway, and tiptoed up the stairs to her room. Squinting, she rummaged through her purse and finding the old skeleton key aimed it at the lock, when a hand lightly squeezed her shoulder. The key dropped to the floor, ping, ping, ping, as it danced across the wood, Blanche shrieked, pulling her purse to her chest and spinning in the same moment, pressing her back firmly against the door jam.

  “Ms. Carmichael, you ‘bout gave me a heart attack!”

  “Sorry deary, but I wanted to let you know that you have new neighbors. The newlyweds were across the hall but they wanted a room with a view so I had to move them next to you. Hope you don’t mind,” she whispered.

  “Mind? Why should I mind?” Blanche replied in a hushed tone, her heart still thumping in her chest.

  “Oh, I don’t know but I didn't’ want you to be upset with me.”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’m sure it will be just fine. Can you see my key anywhere?”

  Both looked to the floor and the shadows cast by the dim hallway lamp.

  “Here it is,” Caroline said, after only a few seconds of looking.

  “Thanks, guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, seven sharp, don’t forget.”

  “How could I?” the tired librarian whispered to herself, as she opened the door and stepped inside, gently closing it behind her.

  Washing her face was a nighttime ritual that she both loved and hated; loved the feeling of having a fresh clean face, free from makeup and the oils that inevitably cover one’s skin by the end of the day, but hating the few minutes it took, especially after a full day. Pulling her hair back and wrapping the knitted bandana around her forehead and ears, she grabbed the cleanser with her left, cotton ball with her right and began the process of removing her makeup. The bandana, although not stylish, was a girl’s best friend when it came to this process. Holly had made it for Blanche as a going away gift, hoping it would make her think of her best friend each night before bed. It had worked.

  Blanche reflected on the past few days, realizing she had not even taken the time to call, only a few hurried texts had been sent and received.

  “I must remember to call her tomorrow,” Blanche thought, reaching for her phone and putting a reminder into the notes.

  The job finished and too tired to shower she removed her clothing, hanging the slacks in the closet and tossing the blouse into the pile of dirty laundry. Reaching behind her back, she unclasped the bra and let out an audible ‘Ahhh’ as she laid the garment aside and rubbed under each breast where the strap had indented the delicate skin. Neatly folded and placed at the foot of the bed were her pajamas. She couldn’t remember leaving them in that condition, in fact, she was sure she had quickly taken them off and thrown them in a heap on the bed before getting ready earlier in the day.

  “That Caroline, she really is a sweetheart,” Blanche thought.

  Slipping the silk over her left then right arm, pulling the material together to be buttoned up the front, Blanche closed her eyes enjoying the silk as it caressed her body.

  “Mmmmm, that does feel good,” escaped her lips, as she pulled the bottoms up and made a quick knot in the drawstring.

  Ready for bed, she fluffed the pillows, pulled the light switch on the end table lamp illuminating the adjacent space and lifted the book that would be her companion for the next hour. ‘Mandingo’, it had practically leapt off the shelf the morning after meeting Jasper but she was careful to put the paperback in her purse without anyone at the library knowing. The story had captured her imagination; slaves, helpless white women, strong black men all set against the background of the civil war. Blanche pulled her knees up, her feet flat on the bed, resting the book between her thighs. Opening the book to the marker, the story once again jumped from the pages, drawing her into its grasp and filling her head with images of the Old South. Almost holding her breath in anticipation of what may happen next she dared not turn the page.... then it started.

  Initially, Blanche thought she must have been hearing the distant sound of people arguing. She tried to ignore it, going back to her book, reading a few more lines, concentrating on the images formed in her head, but the incoming sound seemed to ebb and flow, soft, muffled then building then dropping off again. She placed the book on the bed and listened more intently trying to figure out where it was coming from. There were two distinct voices, male and female, but the exchange didn’t make much sense. She would periodically pick up a word here and a word there but nothing that could be associated with typical dialog. The more carefully she listened the more concerned she became, it sounded as if the woman was being assaulted.

  “Should I phone someone or wake up Caroline?” she thought.

  “No, no. No, no. Stop, stop, stop! Give me a minute!” she heard the female voice say louder now.

  Blanche held her breath. Suddenly, there was a knock on the wall directly behind Blanche’s head, startling her and making her drop ‘Mandingo’ to the floor, then another and another that worked into an unmistakable rhythm. The words of Ms. Carmichael immediately came again to Blanche’s mind, “newlyweds ...moved next to you...hope you don’t mind.”

  “Just lovely!” she said, picking her book up and climbing back into bed.

  Before long the distraction next door died down, her eyes heavy, she placed the book aside, turned off the light and began drifting in and out of consciousness, her last sarcastic thought being, “never should have given that ashtray to Holly.” And she gave up, giving herself to the fatigue that enveloped her.

  Blanche stood between the white columns that pushed up from the porch supporting the second story of the plantation mansion. Ahead she could see the gardens to the right and left of the walkway that extended over a hundred feet before reaching a gate and brick fence that surrounded the property. Beyond the fence she could see ten housing structures also of brick running in a uniform row, but shielded by large oak trees that dotted the property. Seeing her, as if from someone else’s perspective, she was dressed in the most beautiful gown, orange and cream, with a necklace of gemstones around her neck, sparkling in the noonday sun.

  The dr
ess was exquisite, made of multiple layers of taffeta, the inner layers being a rustic burnt-orange with the outer shell, having a satin like texture in a subtle, off white. Her waist was cinched tight with the assistance of a bone corset accentuating both her tiny waist and bountiful bosom. From the waist there were six runners of orange fabric over the cream that terminated in a bow six inches from the bottom of the dress. The lighter fabric draped over the orange and inside the runners giving a three-dimensional look to the dress that was striking. Between bows the cream taffeta cascaded down creating folds and a scalloped border allowing for an orange trim around the bottom of the dress, reaching the ground.

  The lower half of the dress was unique and beautiful but it was the top half that had the Southern Gentlemen on the porch, and the black butlers staring in obvious admiration and lust. The sleeves began a few inches below the roundest part of her shoulders and only covered a few inches of each arm. Her neck and shoulders were completely bare except for the necklace that shimmered and reflected light with each slight movement of her torso. Lace trimmed the fabric at the top of the dress that rode just above her shoulder blades in back and dangerously low in the front. The white of her upper breasts spilled to overflowing from the top of the gown, drawing attention from male and female alike.

  Blanche moved about the porch making small talk and enjoying the discomfort she was creating amongst the guests that were there. Other women moved about within the confines of the gardens but none ventured beyond the gate, except to mount a horse drawn carriage to be escorted from the property down the long, oak lined lane that led to the border of the plantation. Black male servants stood at the entrance to the gardened expanse, helping individuals in and out of carriages as more and more people arrived, filling the porch and surrounding area.

  She knew that some sort of party was taking place but was confused, not really knowing anyone but being the center of attention. She flirted, fanning herself and bending lower than needed to allow the young men to get a better look at her assets. Within minutes she had men fawning over her, offering her drinks and requesting the opportunity to dance with her later in the event. The power of her position was readily apparent and she was reveling in it. In her dream, she looked about, taking in the eyes of the men around her, all intent on her form.

  Her role as plantation tease complete, she excused herself and retreated into the mansion. Large, imported doors from England swung open to a grand entryway, hardwood floor and spiral staircase that dominated the center of the home. Two butlers opened both doors to allow her entrance; the bone hoop skirt needed a wide birth. She could hear herself speaking with a thick Southern accent, moving freely among the guests in the drawing room, stopping to see if any conversation was of interest to her but knowing that she was only there to entice the men and drive them crazy. A goal she was easily attaining. Growing tired of the little game she was playing she looked about for the man she knew truly wanted her and she, him.

  Searching the main floor he was nowhere to be seen. Gliding up the stairs, she went from room to room, trying not to be obvious that she was looking for a particular individual, for if she was found out it would lead to certain ruination. Unable to locate him in the plantation mansion she ventured outside to the rear of the house that led to the river and the rice fields beyond. Holding up the dress to move more quickly, she moved to the kitchen adjacent to the mansion, peered inside and saw the source of her yearning. Two black female slaves stood, sweat beading up on their skin from the intense heat of the kitchen and the warmth of the day. Both reacted with surprise when they saw Blanche at the doorway.

  “You ought not to be here ma’am this here’s for slaves and kitchen worka’s. There be sumpin’ we can hep ya wit?” the older one asked.

  “Not you, but I need a strong back to do some lifting for me, need that big fella there,” Blanche said, pointing to the black man, back to her, putting wood on the large fire where the pig was roasting.

  Jasper recognized the voice, turned around, but could not stand fully without cracking his head on the shallow ceiling. A wide smile crossed his lips, which he immediately muted when the kitchen workers scowled in his direction.

  “Yes ma'am, Ms. Delaney, ya’ll be needin’ Jasper’s help with somethin’?”

  His broad, hairless chest, turned dark from the hours in the cotton fields glistened with droplets of perspiration, expanding in and out as he recuperated from the job of feeding the fire.

  “Yes, I surely do Jasper, come out here a minute and let me get a better look at you. Need to make sure you’re up to the job,” winking at just the right moment so the other help couldn’t see.

  Jasper ducked his head low enough to exit the kitchen and stood before his owner.

  “What you be needin’ missy?” he said, a knowing look in his eye.

  “You know perfectly well what I ‘be needin’ and I’m not going to get it here! Come with me.”

  Blanche turned and strode in the direction of the river, Jasper close behind, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone was looking or following. Once at the river, the pair knew there was an old kitchen structure that had partially burned down, with three walls still erect. Standing inside, one could see across the river but those in the house could not see what was going on inside. Blanche scurried around the wall and into the structure, turning to face Jasper as he entered.

  She went to him without worry of soiling her dress or fear of retribution but to quench the fire that was burning in her loins. Their lips meshed, his massive arms pulling her close, lifting her from the ground he dropped his hungry mouth to her neck and lower. Blanche pushed his mouth away and motioned for him to put her down. She backed up, reached for the rope that ran through the loops of his knee-length pants and began untying the knot.

  She struggled with the knot, frustration level rising, working it this way and that, using her nails to pry at the thick fibers without success. Her dress, without reason, became a cocoon, enclosing her, cutting her off from Jasper and the beautiful plantation. Claustrophobia, shortness of breath, heart pounding, sexual tension all but gone...she opened her eyes to find herself wound up in the sheets and blankets of her bed, both hands pulling at the knot of her pajama bottoms. Throwing her arms wide she breathed deeply, and then crossed her arms under her breasts in an effort to slow down her breathing before she hyperventilated. Blanche looked at the clock, 5:55 a.m. glared at her through the dark.

  Literally jumping from bed Blanche grabbed her ‘shower kit’, key and towel, knowing that ‘Mr. Wonder’ would be trying to beat her to the bathroom at 6:00 a.m. Throwing the door open and stepping into the hall she saw him from the corner of her eye moving down the hall toward the bathroom. His pace accelerated when he saw Blanche’s door open and was at a fairly good lope when he reached her. Without a word, Blanche spun, tucked the kit and towel under her left arm like a running back for the Falcons and sprinted for the bathroom. Blanche and ‘Clueless’ reached the door at the same time, both slamming into it, overpowering the antique little lock, throwing the door open in the process.

  The unlikely tandem stood in the doorway of the bathroom, side by side, filling the area between the jams. Blanche’s arms crossing her chest, and his arms at his sides, towels and shower kits on the floor. Before them a young black couple sat in the old style porcelain tub, facing one another with bubbles spilling over and onto the floor. They sat motionless, faces turned to the doorway following the abrupt interruption and entrance of their neighbors. All were speechless. It was Blanche who moved first. She bent down, picked up her things and without saying a word headed back to her room. Once Blanche was inside she grabbed her pillow, wrapped her arms and knees around it and drifted back to sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Okay class, can I have it quiet please, can I get everyone to settle down so we can get started,” a pause, chairs sliding, books dropping on tables, then quiet. “Thank you, I know this is the first time that we’ve met since the Thelma Ridd
le story broke. We’ll take a few minutes to talk about it and see what you think and do some comparisons,” said Mrs. Ella Pinkerton Wild.

  Mrs. Wild taught the ‘Deviant Behavior’ course in the department of Criminology where Seymour was taking classes. She was a direct descendant of Allan Pinkerton of the legendary Pinkerton Detective Agency. The agency was formed in the mid 1800’s and the founder gained fame when, in 1861, he uncovered and foiled an assassination plot against Pres. Abraham Lincoln. The agency continued to make headline for years with their exploits, tracking the likes of Jesse James, The Dalton Brothers and the Wild Bunch.

  Ella had worked at the Pinkerton Forensics Lab in Atlanta for 25 years, long enough to draw her retirement, but was too young to actually retire. She and her husband, a former Georgia State Trooper, had settled on Valdosta when Ella heard through the grapevine that the university was expanding its criminology department. The dean could hardly contain himself when he learned that an actual ‘Pinkerton’ would be applying for the job. The decision to hire her had been made, at least in his mind, before the interview began.

  Mrs. Ella Wild, or ‘Pink’ as she was known by friends and family, was a no nonsense woman in her late 50’s with a wry sense of humor, warped by too many hours staring through a microscope and dealing with materials directly related to death in one way or another. Her sense of humor was, more than likely, a defense mechanism but it was endearing to her students who thought the world of her.

  Not overly attractive but not ugly either, just kind of plain in her own unique way, she wore round glasses with a prominent bifocal line bisecting the lens over each eye. Her skin was pale, chronically clammy, with age spots forming on her hands, neck and face. The sun was not her friend and she knew it. Most days she wore clothing not characteristic of those living in the South, which seemed a trifle odd. While weather and community standards called for short sleeves, tanks and shorts, she wore long sleeves and slacks with her silver-streaked hair wound into a ponytail.