He now eased down in the chair before his desk. He pulled open the bottom drawer on the right and took out a package. He had found it in Sweet’s office—Augustus’s office. The package, wrapped in plain brown paper, was addressed to Lilian McKay. When he’d hefted it in his hand, he’d sensed the consistency and weight of a manuscript. Lilian’s last manuscript.
The return address was Knopf Publishers. Her manuscript, sent back either because it was rejected or accepted but needed corrections, had arrived the day before.
How had Sweet managed to get his hands on it? Usually Annie was on hand to accept all the mail, but the package could’ve arrived while she was out shopping. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he, David, had now gotten his hands on it. Sweet probably would’ve burned it. He would make sure Sweet never would.
David laid the manuscript on his desk. His heart beat a resounding staccato. Her last words—last creative endeavor. Quickly, he cut the twine holding the package together and ripped open the paper. Sheaves of typed pages were revealed. The tide page read: “Lyrics of a Blackbird, by Lilian McKay Sweet.”
Lilian had written him that Lyrics concerned secrecy and betrayal in a family on Strivers’ Row. Beyond that, he knew nothing. Would it tell him more about Lilian’s frame of mind before her death?
He began to read and once he started, he couldn’t stop. On the surface, the plot was simple, but it held an underlying complexity that reverberated to his core.
It was the story of Georgia and Frank Johnson; their daughter, Helen; their sons, Mark and Joel; and their housekeeper, Alice. Alice and Georgia had started out as best friends, sharing a room in the Tenderloin with five others. Alice worked hard, but she could never keep two cents together. Georgia wasn’t rich, but she had a little inheritance from her father, a white man who had never publicly acknowledged her. Despite her white blood, Georgia was as blue-black as the midnight sky. And Alice, who had no white ancestors she knew of, was as yellow as a sunbeam. It was Alice who met Frank Johnson, but it was Georgia who married him. An ambitious, self-righteous man with a touch for making money, Frank knew a good deal when he saw one. He may have loved Alice, but he needed Georgia’s cash. Her little dowry gave a nice boost to his first real estate investment. But all did not flow smoothly.
Soon after Frank married Georgia, Alice learned that she was pregnant. Georgia offered to take the baby, a little girl with pale skin and silken curls, and raise her as her own. Alice could stay near the child—if she was willing to work as the servant. Under no conditions was she ever to tell Helen that she was her mother. Five years later, Georgia gave birth to twin sons. They too were cream-colored. But unlike Helen, they weren’t so light as to pass for white.
As the years went by, Georgia realized that her husband’s love, such as he was capable of, had stayed with Alice. And she suspected, though she could not prove, that their affair had never ended. She hated Alice—and she knew that Alice hated her. She saw that Alice was desperate to claim Frank and Helen as her own, but she didn’t realize just how desperate. Not until it was too late.
Alice poisoned Georgia in the hopes that Frank would finally marry her. But Frank refused. He would never marry her now, he said. What would people say? A man of his stature, marrying the maid? Furthermore, he’d loved Georgia. Didn’t she know that he’d grown to love Georgia?
The afternoon light slanting through David’s bedroom window grew gray, then darkened with the sunset. He paused twice to adjust his lamp, but otherwise he read the manuscript straight through. After turning the last page, he went and stretched out on his bed. He closed his eyes, feeling drained.
Things ain’t always the way they seem, Annie liked to say. She should know, he thought, she should most certainly know.
19. The Lies of Kindness
There was a knock on David’s door—“Yes?”—and Annie stuck her head in. “Miss Rachel’s here to see you.”
David got up and followed her downstairs, his thoughts running in parallel tracks, one leading to Annie, the other to Rachel. He wondered about what he’d just read and he wondered what Rachel wanted.
The latter was standing in the parlor, before the fireplace, nervously staring up at Augustus McKay’s portrait and wringing her hands. She started and turned at the sound of David’s entrance. Her face broke into a bright, edgy smile.
“I’m glad I caught you. I won’t stay long. I just had to come by and say something after I ...” She paused and looked away. “I wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. I—”
He raised a hand to still her. “It’s okay. I guess we both said things ... things we didn’t mean.” He gestured for her to sit down on the sofa and sat down beside her. “I still don’t understand, though. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about Sweet when I first asked you? Did you just want to get back at me?”
She lowered her gaze. “Maybe I did. But mostly .. .” She raised her eyes to meet his. “Mostly it was because I didn’t want to cause you pain.”
“Cause me pain?”
“We can’t bring Lilian back. It doesn’t help to run around with extra heartache. I thought it’d be better for you to believe that Lilian was happy in her marriage.” She was apologetic. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to help.”
He heard her weariness and his anger toward her faded. He tried to follow her logic. Yes, it would’ve been nice to think that Lilian had a good husband, to believe that she’d received support from at least one of the people she loved, trusted, and depended upon. It would’ve been nice to believe that not everyone who mattered—her husband, her brother, and her sister—had failed her. It would’ve been nice, he mused, but it wouldn’t have been true.
To Rachel he said, “Just help me find the truth, that’s all. It’ll be better that way.”
“Okay, I'll do whatever I can. I loved Lilian. She was the closest I’ll ever have to a sister. And I hate to think that I didn’t do everything I could to help her.” She laid a hand over his. “And now to help you.”
“Thank you.”
“What’re you gonna do now?”
“Keep on digging. You know about my having been to Dr. Steve. After I saw him, I went out to New Jersey—”
“Jersey? What’s out there?”
“The hotel Sweet said he was staying at the night Lilian died. I wanted to see if they remembered him being there, or if not, find out the name of the man he shared his room with.”
“And did you?”
“They wouldn’t say, but I got the roommate’s name. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in when I tried to see him. I’ll have to go by later.”
“And suppose he says that Sweet was there all that night?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He smiled. “Anyway, I have an ace up my sleeve.”
“What’s that?”
“I went to Lilian’s room looking for the medicine Sweet gave her. Naturally, he’d cleared everything away. But Annie had set some aside.”
“You mean Annie suspects something, too?”
“You could say that.”
“But what did you want the medicine for?”
“To have it tested.”
She looked at him with concern. “Oh, David, you’re working so hard at this.”
“I have to. The least I can do for Lilian, now that she’s gone, is to clear up any questions about her death.”
She went into his arms and the pain swelling his chest eased. For one intense moment, he wanted nothing more than to pretend that the last four years had never happened. He crushed her to him with a slow, deep sigh.
“Come home with me tonight,” she whispered.
“I can’t,” he said. “I—”
“Please, don’t make me beg.”
“I’ll only hurt you and I don’t want to. Not ever again.”
“Please. I’ll take what you can give. I know I can’t keep you.” She caressed his cheek. “Let me be with you while you’re still here. Let me at least have that.�
��
Her eyes smoked and her lips found his. Her fingertips caressed the base of his throat and with nimble fingers she freed the top buttons of his shirt. Then she drew a fingertip over his lips and kissed him. With a husky groan, he gripped her shoulders and kissed her back, savoring her taste, her smell, her softness. Vaguely, he heard the doorbell ring. Moments later came Annie’s voice.
“Mr. David?”
Rachel started; David dropped his hands. He felt a surge of adolescent guilt. Quickly redoing his shirt, he said, “Yes, Annie? What is it?”
“There’s a messenger from Miss Nella Harding,” she said and moved to one side.
A uniformed chauffeur stepped smartly forward. He whipped out a white envelope and presented it to David.
David took the note, read it—“Have urgent information you might consider invaluable. Come now.”—then refolded it.
“I have instructions to drive you, sir, if you so require.”
David threw a quick glance at Rachel, then turned back to the driver. “No, I—”
“It’s OK, David,” Rachel said. “It seems to be important. You should go.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt with short embarrassed hand strokes.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m fine. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll—”
“It’s late and dark. I’ll take you home.”
She hesitated, then said that would be nice.
It was a short distance to Rachel’s house. During the two-minute drive, she stroked the leather seat covers and every now and then gave David a shy smile. When the car pulled up in front of her building, she started to open the door on her side, then stopped at the restraining hand David put on her wrist. She looked at him, not understanding. He nodded toward the chauffeur. “Wait.”
The chauffeur was getting out. He walked around the car and opened the door for her. She glanced at David, smiled, and got out. Then she turned around, leaned back into the car, and kissed him.
“Promise me one thing,” she said.
“What?”
“Let me help—really help. If you want me to go anywhere or talk to people and ask questions, you’ll ask me. Okay?”
He cupped her face and kissed her again. “Okay.”
She drew back and the chauffeur closed the door. She stood on the curb, waving good-bye. She cut a small, lonely figure in an oversized coat. David returned her wave until the car turned the corner and she was gone from view. He thought about what had nearly happened and whether he would let it happen again.
Then he put all thoughts of Rachel aside and he focused instead on her, Nella.
20. Playing with Fire
“Here,” she said. “I’ve come up with something special for you. Something I think you’ll like.” Nella pressed a tall, chilled glass into David’s hand. “Drink up.”
He eyed the glass suspiciously. Its contents were a murky white. “You wouldn’t be insulted if I were to ask you what this is?”
“I would be, so don’t.” She took her own drink and stirred it. “Some things,” she said with a wicked grin, “are better left unsaid.”
“Some things, perhaps, but this isn’t one of them.”
“Why don’t you trust me? You really should.”
“I should?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
He didn’t bother to answer. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a cautious sip. It was good. He commented with raised eyebrows. She raised her drink to him in a silent toast, then drank half of it straightaway.
“Prohibition is such a bore, don’t you think? I do hope they get rid of it soon. Nikki thinks it’s marvelous, though. He says liquor is so much more fun when it’s forbidden.”
“Aren’t you worried about drinking around a sworn upholder of the law?”
“Darling, I never worry—about anything. It’s against my principles. Just last week, Nikki and I were visiting a judge friend of ours. He treated us to some of the most delicious highballs we’ve had in ages. If I’m not worried about drinking with a judge, why would I worry about drinking with you?” She sipped and smiled. “You’re a perfectly marvelous man, David. You do know that, don’t you? I just can’t understand why some lovely little Negress hasn’t snapped you up.”
“Nella, I’d like to sit and chat, but I can’t. It’s late and I’m tired. Now, you summoned me here. You said you have information—”
“It can wait—”
“Then I guess I’ll be going.”
“No, you won’t.”
She crossed the room, her dress rustling, and went around behind the sofa where he was sitting. He felt one of her hands ease onto his shoulders. She began to massage the side of his neck. His hand snapped up, grabbed hers, and held it away.
“It’s time to pay up,” she whispered. Bending down, she nuzzled his earlobe. “I’ve got a taste for chocolate, that special David brand of cream. A connoisseur’s special. A gourmet’s delight. Be with me, David. Here. Tonight.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
With a hiss, she tore away and slinked across the room. “I told you from the beginning: I don’t give information for free. We had a deal and you’re going to stick to it. One way or another, you’re going to pay.”
She had carelessly left her Cartier case lying on the divan near one window. She scooped it up, yanked out a Chesterfield and lit it from a taper burning in a tall golden holder. She took short, angry puffs and stood staring into the flame.
What was she thinking? What was she up to?
“I do love fire,” she said suddenly. “It’s beautiful, mysterious, and”––her eyes cut over to him––“very, very lethal.”
He felt increasingly uneasy.
“Take this tiny flame,” she said. “Think how quickly it can grow when fed. How quickly it can consume a man and bring death.”
She turned and threw those last words directly at him. He rose to his feet. He was too caught off-guard to answer. The wound ran too deep, the wound and the shame. He went pale.
“That’s the problem with you light-skinned Negroes,” she said. “Everything shows on your face. You don’t know how to hide anything. I dare say, in some ways, the really inky spades are much better off.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve told you.”
“This is not the way to get it.”
She came up to him. “Don’t try to act virtuous, darling. I know you like vanilla.”
He blinked, now puzzled. “Why would you think that?”
“Your life in Philly. You have a weakness for white women, don’t you?”
He stared at her in bitter disbelief, then almost laughed out loud. “Is that what you think it’s all about?”
It was her turn to look disconcerted. But she tried to sound confident. “Well, obviously. Everyone knows that colored men—”
“What everyone knows doesn’t amount to a hill of beans.” His dark eyes flashed. “I have never licked vanilla—and I never intend to.”
She shrunk back. Her delicate nostrils flared. “I see.”
“Do you?”
“More than you realize.” She turned away, obviously stung and trying to hide it. “Don’t think I’m interested in you personally, darling. I’m interested in your type. I write. People aren’t real to me. They’re characters. Gem will definitely make a star appearance in my next book. And so will you. I knew you had a story the moment I saw you. Your modesty, your asceticism: What lay behind it?”
“I’m no one special.”
“Of course you are—you’re the star of my next book. Shall I tell you its title? Duplicity. It deals with denial and deception. It’s about double lives and double meanings. Do you think the title gives away too much? Maybe I’ll pare it down.”
He didn’t appreciate the joke. “I’m not the man to try this with.”
“Beli
eve me, I’m not your enemy. I could destroy you with a phone call and you know it. The right word in the wrong ear ...” She snapped her fingers. “And that would be that. But why should I harm you? I like you.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
“I’m not a hypocrite. Neither are you. That’s one reason I like you. But I have to show you who has the upper hand here.”
“May I remind you that slavery went out more than sixty years ago? You can have your dogs sniff out my trail, but you cannot haul me in. You don’t own me.”
“Are you sure?”
His expression hardened. She went on.
“As cliche as it might sound, it’s fair to say that your fate is at the mercy of my pen. If you’re nice to me, I’ll make sure no one knows who I’m writing about. Think it over.”
“There’s nothing to think about. A little notoriety never hurt anyone.”
“It would destroy you.”
“I would survive.”
“Not without help.” She sighed, exasperated. “My God, why do I like you so much? Think, David. Think. Someday, they’re going to find out, whether I write about it or not. Someday, you’re going to need my help. The moment you came back to town and confirmed where you’d been—the moment you stepped foot on that train in Philadelphia—you put yourself in danger. You can’t stay in Harlem—not for long—not without a protector. I can be that person. I can be your advocate.”
“And what would Nikki say? Or do you have a deal with him too?”
“Don’t be cynical. It doesn’t fit you.”
“Nella, I am not for sale—not at any price. I’ll get what I need from someone else, some other way.”
“There is no one else. There is no other way. And payback is always a bitch.”
“Your bill is paid, lady. I got information on my sister and you got information on me. We are even.”
He grabbed his hat and went to the door.
“You make it hard to be your friend,” she said.
Harlem Redux Page 19