Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Do not trifle with me,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll slap the black right off that pretty face of yours. Beat you till your own mama don’t even know ya. Understand?”

  I nodded, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

  “Good,” he said.

  He slid a pack of Chesterfields from his shirt pocket, shook one loose, and stuck it between his lips. Dropping the rest of the pack on the table in front of him, he pulled a box of wooden matches from his pants pocket, picked out a match, and scraped it across the bottom of his shoe. He enjoyed his cigarette in silence for a full minute, making a point to exhale the smoke directly into my face.

  It was obvious this man enjoyed bullying me. If ever I needed a dose of my mother’s courage, this was the moment. Although the acrid smoke stung my eyes, I refused to look away.

  After what felt like forever, he ground out the rest of his cigarette under his foot and leaned forward.

  “Why’d ya kill her?”

  “I didn’t,” I said stubbornly. “Why would I? I didn’t even know the lady.”

  “That’s not what the other guests tell me. I got ten witnesses that say you and Miss Parker were havin’ yourselves quite a conversation outside Mrs. Mason’s séance room last week.”

  “It’s true she talked to me, but only to ask about the séance,” I said. “She seemed like a nice lady. I’m awful sorry about what happened to her, but as God is my witness, I did not kill her.”

  “You’re a pretty little liar, I’ll grant you that,” the detective said. He blew another cloud of smoke in my face, then leaned back in his chair. “If you didn’t kill Miss Parker, how did you know there was going to be a murder?”

  Looking into his cold blue eyes, I felt my heart sink. There was no way a man like this was ever going to be able to understand my Seeing. Still, what other choice did I have?

  “I can’t tell you how I knew it,” I said. “I just knew. I know it sounds strange, but sometimes I just know things.”

  With sudden vehemence, the policeman slammed his meaty fist down on the table.

  “Who the hell do you think I am?” he shouted. “I am not some ignorant field nigger. I am an officer of the law.”

  He pulled a small leather truncheon from his back pocket and set it on the table between us.

  “Now, you gonna tell me the truth? Or do I have to beat it out of ya?”

  “I am telling you the truth,” I said desperately. “I saw a black cloud over the woman’s head, and I knew something was going to happen. That’s all I know, I swear it.”

  The policeman chuckled softly. “I gotta admit, I got a weakness for yella nigras. Ain’t nobody but you and me in here, girlie. Maybe if you treat me right, I won’t split your skull wide open. What do you think about that?”

  As my eyes widened in horror, he walked around the table until he stood directly next me. Though I tried not to show my terror, I was crying inside. Help me, Mama. Help me.

  The pounding on the door startled both of us. Seconds later the door flew open and a young patrolman rushed into the room. When he saw my tormentor standing over me, the patrolman pulled up short.

  “Sorry, Detective Johnson,” he said, his round face flush with embarrassment.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, McMahan? You should know better than to interrupt me when I’m with a witness.”

  “The mayor’s here, sir.”

  “Here?” As if suddenly aware of his unkempt appearance, Johnson stepped away from me and ran a hand over the stubble covering his jaw. “At headquarters?”

  “Yes, sir,” the patrolman said. “He wants to see you right away. He says it’s urgent.”

  The detective grunted. “I’m not finished questioning this witness, McMahan. Take her down to the jail and see that she stays there until I’m ready to talk to her again.”

  With a last look in my direction, Detective Johnson picked up his truncheon and cigarettes from the table and walked out of the room. Eager to cooperate, Patrolman McMahan stood me up and marched me out into the muggy July night. Twenty minutes later, I was alone in a tiny windowless cell, with nothing but my miserable thoughts for company.

  There had to be some way out of this terrible situation. With any luck, even at this very moment Sister Marie was burning a brown candle dressed with cinnamon oil to ensure my freedom. On the other hand, it was far more likely that Sister Marie had no idea where I was or what I was going through. In spite of all my efforts to be brave, I began to sob, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of my tears. The clang of something banging on the bars of my cell startled me out of my misery.

  “Stop that bawlin’, now.” The speaker was an elderly colored man in a janitor’s uniform. “There’s no need fer it. No need a’tall.”

  Wiping my eyes on the sleeve of the maid’s uniform I still wore, I studied the man wearily. He was tall and gangly, with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. His long face reminded me of a scarecrow.

  “I am innocent,” I said. “I don’t belong in here.”

  “Course ya don’t. Anyone can see that,” the man said with an eloquent shrug. “And yet, here you are.” With a strange twinkle in his eye, he put down his mop and bucket and began to sing.

  When your skin is dusky

  Your days will never be

  Happy go lucky or fancy free

  When your skin is dusky

  The world will keep you down

  For no rhyme or reason

  All because your face is brown.

  With an impish grin, the old man began to dance in a lopsided two-step just outside my cell door.

  “C’mon now, girlie. Nothin’ wrong here a good song won’t cure. Lemme hear ya sing it with me.”

  In spite of the sad sentiment of the words, the man’s mischievous grin was irresistible. Soon, I was singing along with the chorus and nodding my head in rhythm.

  Boo hoo

  Woe is you

  Boo hoo

  I feel it too

  No matter how you hurt me

  Or treat me wrong

  You’ll never be able

  To take away my song.

  When we’d come to the end of the third go-round, the old man stopped singing and peered into my cell.

  “See there,” he said. “What’d I tell you. Nothin’ to cry about. Nothin a’tall.”

  With a grin, he turned to me and bowed deeply. Then, without another word, he picked up his mop and bucket and began to walk away.

  “Wait,” I called after him. “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Jimbo,” he said. “Get some sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

  ~||~

  When I awoke some time later from a fitful sleep, I had no idea how long I’d been in jail, or even whether it was day or night. My eyes were puffy and red, and my whole body ached. Still, I was alive, and thanks be to God, Detective Johnson had not yet returned to “question” me further.

  As I stretched my aching body, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. Moments later, a red-faced prison guard holding a clipboard stood outside my cell.

  “Carrie McFarland?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With a grunt of acknowledgement, the man unlocked the door to my cell and slid it open. “You are free to go,” he said.

  After everything that had happened in the past few hours, it seemed too good to be true.

  “You mean I can leave?”

  The guard nodded. “For the moment. Someone at the mayor’s office put in a good word for you. You’re one lucky colored gal, if I do say so myself.” As I stepped outside my cell, he poked a stubby finger at my chest. “But don’t even think about leaving town. You are definitely a person of interest in this case.”

  I pinched myself several times as I followed the guard along the underground corridor that connected the jail to the County Courthouse. Could I be dreaming? In my bleary, exhausted state, everything seemed unreal. But when I saw Mr. Lewis waiting for me in the receiving room, I knew a ge
nuine miracle had occurred.

  “Thank the good Lord,” he exclaimed, wrapping me in a bear hug of surprising strength. “I thought they’d never let you go.”

  “So did I,” I said. “They were about to lock me up and throw away the key. What happened? Do you know why they let me go?”

  “I’ll tell you the whole story once we’re in the car,” he said. “The only thing you need to know now is that there are several reporters outside. Stay close to me and do not answer any questions.”

  Taking me by the elbow, he led me out of police headquarters, where a crowd of men in straw hats and shirtsleeves waited in the bright July sunshine.

  “There she is, boys,” shouted a skinny beanpole of a man with a pencil stuck behind his ear. “The colored Hoodoo Queen.”

  A burly reporter stood directly between us and Mrs. Mason’s Buick, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips.

  “Why’d ya kill her?” he hollered. “You a devil worshipper?”

  “Keep walking,” Mr. Lewis whispered between clenched teeth. “Don’t stop, whatever you do.”

  With adroit footwork, he stepped around the reporter, flung open the passenger door of Mrs. Mason’s car, and shielded me with his body until I was safely inside. Reporters continued to pepper him with questions as he walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in. Even as our car pulled away from the curb, reporters hoping to steal another glimpse of me continued to run after the car.

  Once we had left the reporters behind, Mr. Lewis pulled over and cleared his throat.

  “I am sure you must have questions for me,” he said.

  “I’ve got so many questions, I don’t even know where to begin. The prison guard told me the mayor asked for my release. Is that true?”

  “After you were taken away, I called an old friend of mine with friends in the mayor’s office,” Mr. Lewis said. “It took some doing, but I eventually persuaded him to speak to the mayor on your behalf.”

  My eyes were as round as saucers. “How on earth did you do that?”

  “Billy Tisdale and I go back a long way,” he said cryptically.

  “You know Boss Tisdale?”

  Known by Negroes in Aronsville as The Boss of Churchtown, the fair-skinned Tisdale was the Republican ward committeeman, a former police detective, and the only Negro lawyer in the city. The word on the street was that Tisdale’s ascent to power had been facilitated by a powerful syndicate of local gangsters.

  “That I do,” Mr. Lewis said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And you are going to meet him for yourself later this evening.”

  “But why would The Boss want to waste his time on my case?”

  Mr. Lewis offered me a cryptic smile. “As I told you, the two of us go back a ways—all the way back to Clark Street Elementary School, to be exact. After Billy’s parents died, he lived with my family for a while. I’ve been like a big brother to him ever since.”

  I nodded wearily. Now that I out of immediate danger, I felt utterly drained. “I’m mighty grateful, Mr. Lewis. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “It was my pleasure.” The old man flashed me a mischievous grin. “Anyway, Mrs. Lewis would not leave me in peace until I helped you.”

  “So now what do I do?”

  “Now, my dear girl, you are going back to Sister Marie’s. After you’ve had a good rest and something to eat, I’ll take you to meet The Boss.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  For the next several hours, Sister Marie fussed over me, insisting that I take a nap in her bed until dinnertime. By the time Mr. Lewis returned that morning, I was almost beginning to feel like my old self.

  “Have you heard anything more about the murder?” I asked.

  “Plenty of news,” Mr. Lewis replied. “Unfortunately, it’s all bad. Have you seen this morning’s Chronicle?”

  As if carrying a particularly rancid piece of trash to the garbage pail, he dropped the offending newspaper on Sister Marie’s kitchen table. Covering the top half of the page was a picture of me in handcuffs being taken to jail. The headline read: Hoodoo Spirits Send Colored Maid on Mission of Death.

  “What else would you expect from that rag?” Sister Marie said. “Always lookin’ for an excuse to run us Negroes out of here, finish what they started twenty years ago.”

  “Were you here during the riot, Sister Marie?”

  Back in 1901, a lynch mob had roamed the streets of Churchtown, beating up Negroes and setting fire to their homes. It was before my time, of course, but people old enough to remember still spoke of the event with a quiver of fear in their voices.

  “Ain’t no use bringin’ up that old story right now,” she said. “We gotta keep our eyes on the prize here, which is keepin’ Miss Carrie outa the hangman’s noose. Thinkin’ about all those white folks is not gonna move us forward one bit. Remember that the spirits are always watchin’, chile. Keep your mind clear, and they will keep you safe.”

  “She’ll need all the protection the Good Lord can provide,” Mr. Lewis said. “It’s a mighty rough road she’s headed for. But if anyone can help her, it’ll be Boss Tisdale.”

  As we stepped out into the humid summer morning, Mr. Lewis explained that The Boss would be meeting us in the basement of Bland Avenue Methodist Church.

  “I haven’t been back there since my daddy’s funeral,” I said. “Why would anyone at that church care about me?”

  “They’ve got a new pastor over there now, name of Robinson. A young fella. Just twenty-seven and very political minded. He understands that what happens to one Negro affects the entire community. He’s invited Tisdale to speak about your case at today’s prayer service. Naturally, The Boss would like to meet you before he gets up to defend you publicly.”

  “To make sure I’m telling the truth?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Lewis said simply. “Billy’s word carries a lot of weight in certain quarters. If it turns out he’s used his influence to keep a murderer out of jail, his white backers will drop him in a heartbeat. Especially if that murderer is a maid who goes around poisoning white folks.”

  A small crowd of churchgoers eyed us with interest as we entered the church through a side door and walked down to the basement. A tall brown-skinned man wearing a cleric’s collar met us at the bottom of the stairs.

  “It’s good to see you, Mr. Lewis,” he said, extending his hand. “Though I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

  “Agreed,” Mr. Lewis said, clasping the man’s hand in his own. “Thank you for seeing us, Reverend Robinson. And may I say, I thoroughly enjoyed your sermon last Sunday. It is going to be a pleasure having you at Bland Street Church.” As the minister nodded, Mr. Lewis nudged me forward. “And this lovely young lady is Miss Carrie McFarland.”

  I was struck by how handsome he was. Smooth shaven except for a small mustache, the minister had thick curly hair and soulful brown eyes that sparkled with warmth.

  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss McFarland,” he said, pressing my hand between his. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. Follow me, please.”

  Walking briskly, the reverend led us into the kitchen, where a platoon of church women stood frying the chicken that would be no doubt be served after the service.

  “Smells divine, ladies,” he said cheerily.

  Waving for us to follow, the reverend continued walking until he reached a door labeled Rev. Robinson - Private.

  “Welcome to my new office,” he said, throwing the door open with a small flourish. Haphazard piles of books and papers covered nearly every available surface in the room, including the floor. “Pardon the clutter. I’m still getting settled here.”

  “From the looks of this mess, you haven’t even begun to settle, Rev.” The speaker sat on the edge of the minister’s desk, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I took the liberty of finding my own way down here. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” the reverend said. “Always good to see you, Wi
lliam.”

  The Boss nodded and waved a hand in the direction of a muscular young man who leaned against the wall across from him.

  “This is my assistant, Ralph Barnes.”

  Ralph looked to be in his early twenties. As the young man smiled and tipped his straw hat, he radiated an air of cocky self-assurance.

  “Nice to meet you, Ralph,” Reverend Robinson said. “Allow me to present Mr. Lewis and Miss McFarland.”

  “Billy and I are old friends,” the man said, clapping Mr. Lewis on the shoulder. “And this must be the lovely witch we’ve been hearing so much about lately.” The tone of his voice was playful, but his eyes were cold, sizing me up for potential weak spots. “A pleasure, Miss McFarland. William C. Tisdale, at your service.”

  As the reverend hastily cleared a stack of hymn books from the chair behind his desk and nodded for me to sit down, Tisdale continued.

  “We haven’t much time. The press has been whipping the whole town into a frenzy. The mayor’s taken a lot of heat for not keeping you in jail. If a new suspect is not found soon, there won’t be much anyone can do to help you. That is, assuming you really are innocent.”

  He paused and studied me dispassionately for a full minute. Before he became an attorney, Tisdale had worked for the Aronsville police—the force’s first and only Negro detective. With his straight hair, aquiline nose, and thin lips, he could easily have passed for white when the occasion suited him. I forced myself not to flinch as his cold gray eyes traveled slowly down my body. In that moment, it was easy to believe the rumors floating around on the streets of Churchtown. Do not cross The Boss if you value your life, it was whispered. He’d just as soon shoot you as look at you.

  “Don’t you work for that old hoodoo woman down on Bryce Road?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “How do I know you didn’t drop some hex powder in the white lady’s punch?”

  “Why would I?” I replied. “I had no reason to kill that woman. I didn’t even know her.”