Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  When Sister Marie finally came home, she displayed no surprise at the fact that I had cleaned the house so thoroughly, and she ate her supper quietly, without comment. After I had cleared away her plate, she settled herself in her rocking chair and told me to sit in the stool across from her.

  “I’ve been to see Mrs. Mason,” she said. “I explained to her that although your Gift is genuine, you are still learning how to manage it. She has agreed to give you one more chance.”

  Until that very moment, I had not realized how much I had wanted this opportunity, not only for the silver dollar I’d earn, but to redeem myself in Sister Marie’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” I said, throwing my arms around her.

  “This time you are to follow Mrs. Mason’s orders to the letter,” she said sternly, pulling me back and staring intently into my eyes. “No snooping. No prophesying. Just do as you’re told, hear?”

  ~||~

  When I arrived at Mrs. Mason’s home the following Saturday, Mr. Lewis took me straight into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Mason has cancelled your tutoring session,” he said. “For the time being, you are to think of yourself strictly as a servant. Although she will permit you to help with serving the food this evening, she has instructed me to remind you that you are not to converse with the guests unless absolutely necessary. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Lewis. I promise.”

  “I think the missus is still cross with you for prophesizin’ like that,” Annie said with a wink. “There’s only room for one prophet in this house, and that’s her.”

  “I understand,” I said. “As long as she is going to pay me, I will do whatever Mrs. Mason wants.”

  For the rest of the day, the three of us worked in companionable silence: polishing the silver; setting out the plates, glasses, and linens for the buffet table; and preparing the fried chicken, roast beef, and potato salad for the evening’s meal.

  In light of the previous week’s disaster, I was not to have anything to do with carrying trays. Instead, I was to stand behind the buffet table, carve the roast beef, refill the fried chicken when it ran out, and serve the potato salad. I was to be as unobtrusive as possible—and definitely not to speak to anyone unless spoken to directly. As the guests began to arrive, I kept my head down and my mouth shut.

  Mr. and Mrs. Stokes were first couple to arrive. They’d been late the previous week and had missed the opportunity to sample all the delicacies on Mrs. Mason’s buffet table. This time they seemed determined not to repeat that mistake. As they approached the buffet table, I steeled myself inwardly, vowing to avoid conflict at any cost. To my relief, they were too busy arguing with each other to notice me.

  “Dammit, Mae. You know how I hate coming here,” Mr. Stokes said. He stabbed a drumstick from the buffet with his fork and shoved it onto his plate. “If I have to listen to that Epps woman talk about voting rights for women one more time, I will strangle her. And that husband of hers has got to be the most crashing bore I ever met.”

  “Keep your voice down,” his wife hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “Why should you be embarrassed, Mae? These people are the ones who should be embarrassed. Letting nigras ruin our country. Letting foreigners take work away from decent, law-abiding white men. Wanting women to vote. Who cares what these people think?”

  Mrs. Stokes’s eyes began to fill with tears. “I do declare, Henry Stokes. You’re just about the most cold-hearted man I ever met. My brother was killed in the Great War, as you well know. How can you deny me this chance to hear from him? How could you?”

  Flustered, Mr. Stokes put down his plate and patted his wife on the arm. “Of course, my dear. Of course. Please don’t cry. Here, let me get you a lemonade.”

  As Mr. and Mrs. Stokes moved off toward the punch bowl, I looked up to see that Mr. Gillette was watching me. Dressed elegantly a white dinner jacket and red vest, his obviously dyed black hair was glossy with pomade again. Doing my best to look busy, I grabbed a cloth and began wiping up a nonexistent spill near the potato salad. When I looked up again, Mr. Gillette and Mrs. Stokes were conversing with Miss Annabel who, judging from her unsteady gait, was as inebriated as she had been the week before. The only thing different about the flapper girl this time was her escort, a blond college-boy type in a V-necked tennis sweater.

  “Good to see you again, Rudy,” Annabel trilled. “Though, I have to say, I’m surprised. I thought acting was your line. I saw you perform in Gaylord Wilson’s revue two seasons ago. Have you given up the theater?”

  From the look on his face, Mr. Gillette couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or alarmed by Annabel’s comment. In the end, flattery won the day.

  “Why, thank you, my dear,” he said, favoring her with a small smile. “I have retired from the stage to devote myself to spiritual pursuits. Still, it’s nice to know that at least a few people remember my performances.”

  “Who could forget?” Miss Annabel said loudly, waving her hands with drunken enthusiasm. “You were ever so handsome. Devilishly seductive too. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Epps?”

  Mrs. Epps, who had arrived with her husband, joined them and studied the girl with obvious disapproval.

  “I really wouldn’t know,” she said archly. “I am too busy advancing the rights of women to indulge in such frivolous entertainments. Anyway, Mr. Gillette has left all those worldly matters behind.”

  “Quite so,” Mr. Gillette said. “I am devoting my last remaining years to our Spiritualist Association and to raising funds for us to have our own temple, right here in Aronsville.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Annabel said gaily, removing a flask from her date’s hip pocket and placing it to her lips. As the girl took a long swallow, Dr. Epps stared at her plunging cleavage with unabashed interest.

  “Come along, Richard,” Mrs. Epps said, taking his arm. “I’d like a glass of punch before it’s all gone.”

  As I wiped a glob of spilled food off the tablecloth, I smiled inwardly. It must be a full-time job keeping Dr. Epps in line, I thought to myself. Thank goodness he hadn’t taken an interest in me. At least not so far.

  “Well, if it isn’t the lovely Princess Bright Feather,” Miss Parker said, startling me from my reverie. “After what happened last week, I didn’t think I’d see you again.” She winked at me and lifted a chicken wing onto her plate. “Say hello to Bright Feather, Hubie,” she said, turning to the heavy-set man standing next to her. “She’s the servant girl I was telling you about.”

  With his rumpled suit and world-weary expression, Parker’s escort did not strike me as the sort of person who would attend a séance.

  “The one who told you not to come back here?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Parker said airily. “Obviously, I didn’t listen.”

  “Obviously,” Hubie agreed, piling roast beef onto his plate as he looked me over. “So tell me, Bright Feather, what do you foresee for Miss Parker now? Still doom and gloom?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir,” I said with a polite smile. I could already hear the buzzing begin in my left ear. Desperately, I prayed for the couple to move away. I didn’t want to say anything, I really didn’t, but like a cat toying with a mouse, Hubie continued to press me.

  “What’s the matter, girlie? Has your crystal ball gone dark? Is the lady going to be all right, or isn’t she?”

  The man had the thick, raspy voice of heavy smoker. The more questions he asked me, the louder he got. People were already beginning to turn their heads in his direction.

  “She has a black cloud over her head,” I said quietly. Perhaps, if I just said something, he would go away. Anyway, it was the truth. “I saw it last week, and I still see it now.”

  “Pish-tosh,” Miss Parker said gaily. “Come on, Hubie. Leave the poor girl alone. We’ve got much bigger fish to fry this evening.”

  “Indeed we do,” Hubie said. “Juicy ones.”

  Taking Miss Parker by
the arm, he steered her toward the punch bowl, where a well-lubricated Miss Annabel and her date were engaged in an animated argument with Mr. and Mrs. Stokes about the Kentucky Derby.

  “Man o’ War should have run in the Derby,” the date said, then hiccupped.

  “Man o’ War would have lost,” Stokes said firmly. “That spunky colt Upstart would have beaten him, just like he did at Saratoga last year. No one beats a Kentucky horse.”

  “No one beats a Kentucky horse, and nothing beats Kentucky whisky,” Annabel’s beaux agreed, lifting his flask in a drunken toast. “God bless bootleggers everywhere!”

  “Aren’t you worried you’ll get arrested, waving that stuff around?” Miss Parker said.

  “Not me,” the beaux said loudly. “My bootlegger’s got friends.”

  “Sshhh!” Annabel said in a drunken whisper. “We promised we wouldn’t tell, remember?”

  Henry Stokes put a proprietary arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Did I ever tell you about the time I met Sam Riddle?”

  “Man o’ War’s owner? Say, that’s really something,” the young man said. Weaving ever so slightly, he allowed Mr. Stokes to lead him away toward the buffet as Miss Parker and Mae Stokes continued to chat by the punchbowl.

  For the next hour I filled plates, wiped up spills, and tried my best to be invisible. So far, I had done a pretty good job of staying away from the guests, and I wanted to keep it that way. But as the clock struck nine, Miss Parker leaned over the buffet and tapped me on the arm.

  “Is there a telephone around here? I’ve got an urgent call to make.”

  I nodded and pointed her in the direction of the hallway. “There’s one on the table next to the stairs,” I said.

  “Thanks.” She grinned with her customary insouciance. “Wish me luck, Bright Feather. I’m about to set the world on fire.”

  As Miss Parker scurried off toward the hallway, Mrs. Stokes approached me, her face as pale as parchment.

  “I’m feeling quite poorly,” she said. “Find my husband. Tell him to bring me my medicine right away.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, but before I could leave my station, Mr. Stokes appeared, took one look at his wife, and pulled the medicine bottle from his pocket.

  “Come, Mae dear. Rest for a moment. Let’s find a quiet place away from all the hubbub for you to sit down.” Taking her solicitously by the arm, he led her out of the dining room and into the hallway.

  I heaved a sigh of relief as I watched them walk away. Mr. Stokes might be a kind and solicitous husband, but he was still a Kluxer. One slip on my part and he’d make sure I lost my job for good.

  Several minutes later, Mrs. Mason entered the room wearing a feathered headdress, a billowing red gown, and three ropes of pearls. She clapped her hands together until the guests fell into an expectant silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my sacred circle. In a few minutes, we will enter the realm of the spirits. Once our séance begins, no one, I repeat no one, will be allowed to enter or leave the room.” As Mrs. Mason looked pointedly in my direction, my face turned as red as her evening gown. “In the meantime, help yourselves to a cup of coffee and a piece of my cook’s lemon pound cake. I can personally assure you, it’s the best in the Hoosier state.”

  As the guests lined up at the buffet table, I handed each one a china plate containing a thick wedge of cake and an elegant silver dessert fork. Miss Parker’s companion Hubie took two slices.

  “Ellen’s too busy to eat,” he said, giving me a broad wink. “Me, I never turn down a meal.”

  I smiled but said nothing. I’d already slipped up once that evening. No matter what anyone said to me, I was going to avoid talking to the guests at all costs. When the grandfather clock in the entry hall chimed nine thirty, Edward opened the parlor doors and rang the Chinese gong. One by one, the guests followed Mrs. Mason into the séance room. With a mischievous smile, Miss Parker lifted her glass of punch and winked at me as she slipped in at the end of the line, followed by Hubie and Mrs. Stokes. As Edward rang the gong for the last time, Mr. Gillette entered the parlor and shut the doors behind him.

  As the séance began, I stayed well clear of the parlor doors, dutifully clearing away the used dishes and ferrying them back to the kitchen.

  I was on my third trip when the parlor doors flew open and Miss Parker staggered into the dining room.

  “The devil is real,” she mumbled, staring around the room with glassy eyes.

  Clutching her throat, she fell to the floor, writhing in obvious pain.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As the rest of the guests rushed out of the séance room, Dr. Epps knelt by Miss Parker’s side.

  “I believe this lady has been poisoned,” the doctor said. “There’s nothing I can do for her here. She needs to get to the hospital right away.”

  “The police should be notified as well,” Mr. Epps said. “I will make the necessary calls.”

  After Mr. Epps left the room, no one spoke for a moment. As if possessed by a demon, Miss Parker continued to writhe.

  “There must be something we can do to alleviate this poor woman’s suffering until the medics arrive,” Mrs. Mason said. “Fetch a cold compress from the kitchen, Bright Feather.”

  As I turned to leave the room, Mr. Stokes blocked my path. “This girl predicted Miss Parker would come to harm,” he said. “And now look what’s happened.”

  “Mr. Stokes is right,” Hubie Brown said. “I heard her make the prediction myself. Pretty suspicious, if you ask me.”

  “Is this true, Bright Feather?” Mrs. Mason’s expression was stern. “Did you do something to hurt Miss Parker?”

  “Of course not,” I stammered.

  “Then why did you speak as you did?” she said. “I told you, in no uncertain terms, not to talk to the guests.”

  “I saw a cloud around the woman’s head,” I said, “but I didn’t poison her. Surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with this.”

  Mrs. Mason shook her head sadly. “I hardly know what to believe anymore. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you got here.”

  “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused,” I said desperately. “Truly, I am. But I’m no liar, Chieftess Mason. I swear it.”

  “Don’t listen to her, Portia,” Mr. Gillette said. “The girl knows more than she’s letting on.”

  “Obviously,” Mr. Stokes said, grabbing hold of my arm. “For all we know, she was planning to poison you as well.”

  The accusation was ridiculous, but as I looked around the room, I saw nothing but suspicion in the pale faces of the assembled guests.

  “Surely Bright Feather would never do such a thing,” Mrs. Mason said. “Would she?”

  “You know next to nothing about this girl,” Mr. Gillette said, eyeing me darkly.

  “Gillette has a point,” Dr. Epps said. “For all you know, she could be a homicidal maniac.”

  “I’ve warned you about this kind of thing before,” Mr. Gillette persisted. “As the chieftess of this temple, it is your responsibility to exercise discernment. You’re far too trusting by half, Portia.”

  Stung, Mrs. Mason turned her head and glared at me. “I trusted you, Bright Feather. I let you into my home. I even tried to help you. And this is how you’ve rewarded me?” Pulling herself up to her full height, she pointed an angry finger in my direction. “I see now that I was wrong about you being an Indian princess. You’re nothing but an ordinary Negress.”

  The next several hours were a blur. After the ambulance had taken Miss Parker to the hospital, Mr. Stokes wrapped a cord around my wrists and tied me to a chair in the hallway. After a time, I was taken away by the police. The next thing I remember clearly is how much the metal handcuffs chafed against my wrists as I was marched into police headquarters. Outside the door, a gaggle of men waving notebooks shouted questions as flash bulbs exploded in my face.

  “Why’d ya poison the lady?” shouted one man. “Was it some kind of voodoo death
cult?”

  “Ya put a curse on her, didn’t ya?” shouted another, aiming a camera at my face.

  Temporarily blinded, I stumbled, only to be yanked roughly upright by the two uniformed patrolmen on either side of me.

  “That’s enough, boys,” the larger patrolman said. “Move along.”

  Dragging me by the arm, he led me down a corridor into a small windowless room, handcuffed me to a battered wooden chair, and closed the door. As I heard the bolt slide home from the outside, I felt my heart sink. What on earth had I gotten myself into? Although I felt like crying, I knew that now was not the time for self-pity. If I was to have any hopes of getting out of this mess, I was going to need to have all my wits about me.

  I took a deep breath and surveyed my surroundings. The room was little more than a closet. Illuminated by a single bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling, its gray concrete walls were badly scarred in places. So was the furniture—a battered wooden table and the chair in which I sat. You didn’t have to be psychic to know those walls had witnessed many a beating. I could only hope that the next beating to take place in that room would not be my own.

  I had no idea how long I sat alone in that miserable room. It must have been close to morning before the door opened. A squat, heavy-set man walked in and sat down across the table from me. He was not in uniform and had close-cropped dark hair. A thick growth of day-old stubble lined his chin, and the sleeves of his sweat-stained white shirt were rolled up to his elbow. Black suspenders strained to accommodate his substantial belly.

  “Miss Parker is dead,” he said. His voice held the slightest trace of a Kentucky twang.

  So much for setting the world on fire, I thought.

  “Coroner says the girl had enough strychnine in her to kill a horse. You can save yourself a world of trouble by telling us why you poisoned her.”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  The policeman leaned over the table that separated us, his face close enough for me to smell the faint trace of whiskey on his breath.