Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Tisdale grunted. “Got a point there,” he said and turned to his assistant. “What do you think, Ralph? You believe her?”

  “Miss McFarland is far too pretty to be a witch,” Ralph said. The gold cap on his front tooth sparkled as he flashed me a wide grin. “In addition, she has no motive. The dead woman was a reporter. Reporters tend to make enemies.”

  “A reporter?” Reverend Robinson’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Could she have been working on a story that night?”

  “If she was there to research a story,” Tisdale said, “I can think of several folks at that séance who would not be happy to have their stories told. No, sir. Not happy at all.”

  For the first time during our encounter, Boss Tisdale smiled.

  “Miss McFarland, I have decided to take your case.” As I opened my mouth to speak, The Boss put his finger to his lips. “No need to thank me, my dear. I have a feeling it is going to prove highly beneficial for both of us.” He stood and turned to his assistant. “Ralph, I want you to dig up everything you can about the people who attended this thing—wives, husbands, lovers, finances, the works. Have it ready for me by dinnertime tomorrow, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ralph said. He didn’t quite spring to attention, but close. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

  The Boss nodded, reached into his vest pocket, and pulled out a gold watch. “It’s nearly eleven. If I’m going to be of any use to you, I’d better get out there and give my speech. Come on, Reverend,” he said as he strode to the door. “Our public awaits.”

  After the two men had left, my eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Impulsively, I stood on tiptoe and kissed Mr. Lewis on the cheek.

  “Now, now, my dear,” the old man said. “No need for an emotional display here.”

  “I’m just so grateful,” I said. “I don’t know how I will ever repay you, not to mention Boss Tisdale.”

  “Don’t you worry about William,” he said with a grin. “My guess is that he is already calculating how he can leverage the juicy personal details Ralph is bound to uncover as he looks into your case. He’s my friend, but I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t on the lookout for Number One first and foremost. As for me, you can repay me by keeping out of trouble for the rest of your natural life. Is that clear, young lady?”

  “Cross my heart,” I said solemnly.

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, let’s go upstairs and watch the show. I have a feeling there’s going to be some pretty dazzling rhetoric flying around the sanctuary.”

  ~||~

  The pipe organ was wheezing out the opening notes of “Rock of Ages” when Mr. Lewis and I entered the sanctuary. The two hundred people packed into the church were all Negroes short on cash but long on faith. After many hours cleaning toilets, shining shoes, or shoveling coal, they’d come to thank the Lord for sustaining them through another week.

  Heads turned as Mr. Lewis led me down the aisle.

  “Is that who I think it is?” an elderly woman in a checked gingham dress whispered to the gray-haired man next to her.

  As I walked by them, I tried not to blush at his reply.

  “Yes, Mable. That’s the witch who hexed that white woman while pretending to be a maid.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Mable said, craning her neck for a better view. “A murderer. Right in our very own church.”

  I fought the urge to turn around and stare at the woman. Who did she think she was, convicting a person she didn’t even know? I was about to give her a piece of my mind when Reverend Robinson stood up and began to speak.

  “God be with you,” he intoned.

  “And also with you,” the congregation replied.

  “We are in a very special moment in history, brothers and sisters,” he said as the organist set the mood with soft chords. “The time has come for us to decide whether we will be mice or men. Whether we will knuckle under to the never-ending incursions placed against our God-given rights as American citizens or whether we will stand for dignity.”

  As the congregation nodded their heads in agreement, Reverend Robinson began to pace back and forth in front of the pulpit.

  “The Aronsville City Council wants to instate a rule that would force all Negroes to sit at the back of city streetcars,” he said. “I have spoken out against this practice and will continue to do so. We are not mere cattle, ladies and gentlemen—beasts of burden only existing to serve the needs of the white man. We are human beings, created by God with the same rights and privileges as any other human being on this planet.”

  “Yes, suh!” someone shouted. “We got rights, same as anyone else.”

  As the reverend continued, shouts of “amen” punctuated his remarks.

  “We will not allow ourselves to be stereotyped, made objects of ridicule or derision,” he continued. “When that sinful movie The Birth of a Nation glorified the KKK, Negroes all over the country took to the streets in protest. I marched with them!”

  “That’s right,” one man shouted, waving a sweaty handkerchief in agreement.

  “It is wrong to stereotype people,” Reverend Robinson continued. “It is wrong to portray our people as rapists and killers. It is wrong to slander an entire race. It is wrong to tar a people with the brush of yellow journalism. It is wrong to punish an entire race for crimes they did not commit. It is wrong to pillory a community with unjustified accusation.”

  “Say it, Rev.” A heavy-set woman wearing a large hat stood and waved her hands in the air. “Tell the truth!”

  “It is wrong, ladies and gentlemen. And I am going to fight it wherever it shows its ugly face. In the moving pictures. In the city council. In the streets. I’m going to fight this wrong wherever I find it. Are you with me?”

  As the organ music rose in exaltation, the worshippers forgot the many cares they had experienced that week. In that moment, they were one in affirming their strength and determination not to be bullied by anyone. Reverend Robinson waited a minute for the excitement to die down before continuing.

  “As you know, the battle will not be easy. The road will be long and the way fraught with tears. No one can walk this road alone, ladies and gentlemen. The way is steep, and the burden is heavy. But thanks be to God, we are not alone. Tonight’s speaker is a man who has already proven his ability to walk his walk and talk his talk. A man who has already achieved what many would think impossible. He is the chancellor of the Knights of Pythias. He is the chairman of the Vanderburgh County Colored Republicans. He was our city’s first Negro detective. Just this year, he became our first Negro attorney. Here in the neighborhood, he is known as The Boss of Churchtown. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Honorable William C. Tisdale, Esquire.”

  As Tisdale took Reverend Robinson’s place at the podium, the congregation erupted in enthusiastic applause.

  “Thank you for this warm welcome,” The Boss said. “Always glad to be back at Bland Avenue Methodist. As many of you know, my wife has been a member here for nearly twenty years. As the old saying goes: ‘Methodist born and Methodist bred. When I die, I’ll be a Methodist dead.’”

  As the congregation laughed good-naturedly, Tisdale pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. When the laughing had died down, his expression turned serious.

  “I’ve fought hard to represent the interests of our colored citizens,” he continued. “When the Aronsville Bar Association tried to exclude Negro lawyers from the Indiana bar, I fought them. And today, in spite of their opposition, I stand before you—a Negro and an official member of the Indiana bar.”

  “Praise the Lord!” a man shouted from the back row. “You showed them, didn’t you, Boss!”

  Tisdale smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. “That I did, my friend. I am here this evening to tell you that, once again, our community and race are being put under attack. Sadly, friends, attacks against the good name of our race do not only come from the silver screen. They also come on a daily basis from our local ne
wspapers. In this instance, the Aronsville Chronicle.”

  As Tisdale paused for emphasis, the crowd waited on the edge of their seats for him to continue. They weren’t quite sure where he was headed, but they trusted him not to lead them astray.

  “I am sure you have been following the events in the local press,” Tisdale said quietly. “In particular, I refer to the accusations lodged against a young woman who happens to live in our community. I am of course referring to the murder charges being leveled against Miss Carrie McFarland.”

  “You talking about that hoodoo woman?” one old woman in the front row shouted incredulously.

  “I am,” Tisdale said gravely. “Miss McFarland has been tarred with this accusation by the Chronicle, a newspaper known to support the work of our enemies. Miss McFarland does not claim to be a Spiritualist. Nor is she a witch. Miss McFarland was in that white woman’s home not to do harm, but merely to do her job. An innocent bystander, at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s for sure,” the old woman said stubbornly. “That’s what happens when you consort with evil spirits.”

  “Let me ask you a question, madam,” The Boss said. “What do you think our impulsive white neighbors will do to this community if they believe we have a witch among us? Do you think they will be satisfied in simply hanging her?” The Boss shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, history tells us that they will not. Do you remember what happened here twenty years ago?”

  There was a stir of muttering among the crowd.

  “In 1901, a mob swept through our neighborhood,” Tisdale said. “Burning, looting, and killing. All because one of our number was suspected of murdering a white person.”

  As Tisdale paused, several heads nodded in agreement, but in the back pew, a young man stood up.

  “All that mess happened a long time ago, Boss. We got a new mayor now, an’ we got you representin’ us in City Hall.”

  “I sincerely appreciate your faith in me, my friend,” Tisdale said with a disarming grin. “And no, folks. I did not pay this gentleman for his kind testimony.”

  As the laughter in the sanctuary died down, Tisdale’s expression became grave.

  “These are perilous times for the colored race, ladies and gentlemen. In the past summer alone, thirty-eight Negros were murdered by a white mob in Chicago. Within a mile of the White House, five Negroes were killed by a mob of whites in Washington, DC. In Omaha, Nebraska, an innocent black man was lynched in full view of the city courthouse. Whites in Tulsa set the entire Negro business district on fire and burned it to the ground two years ago. Do I really need to go on?”

  After a long pause, Tisdale continued. “You might think these allegations of witchcraft are simply a matter between Miss McFarland, the police, and her maker. But as Miss McFarland goes, so goes the fate of our community. I have satisfied myself as to her honesty, so I suggest you put any doubts you may have to rest. Reverend Robinson has graciously offered to take up a collection for Miss McFarland’s defense fund. I urge you to dig deep and give generously.”

  As The Boss sat down, a trio of white-clad ushers carrying wicker baskets marched to the front of the church.

  “Let us pray,” Reverend Robinson intoned. “Heavenly Father, look down upon this innocent girl and protect her. Lead us not to judge her, lest we ourselves be judged, O Lord. Lead us to support her to the best of our ability with Christian love and compassion. In Jesus’ name, we pray. Amen.”

  As the organist launched into a spirited rendition of “Count Your Blessings,” ushers passed the baskets among the congregation. My heart filled to overflowing at the thought of these people, many of whom did not even have two coins to rub together, contributing their hard-earned pennies to help me, an accused witch and murderer they barely knew. When the collection was over, Reverend Robinson stood before the congregation with his arms raised.

  “Remember what Jesus taught us,” he said. “Judge not. Forgive. Accept those who have nowhere else to go. This is our work as Christians. I ask you to welcome this young lady into the fold and to support her as best you can in the difficult days and weeks ahead.”

  The reverend had me stand next to him as he greeted the congregants filing out of the church. Some worshippers passed me by without speaking, but most met my eyes with a sympathetic smile.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I told Reverend Robinson, my eyes wet with tears.

  “Nothing to thank me for,” he said briskly. “As it stands, we have a lot of work to do. You know what they say, my dear. The Lord helps those who help themselves.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  By the time I crawled onto my small pallet in the corner of Sister Marie’s shack that night, I was beyond exhausted. The emotional merry-go-round I’d been riding ever since the murder was beginning to take its toll. Too tired to think clearly, I fell into a fitful slumber.

  In my dreams, gauzy figures floated in and out of a pitch black room where I sat, my hands and feet bound with thick loops of heavy rope. Although my eyes were closed, I was somehow able to hear and see the figures as they moved around the room. They looked as though they were dancing, or perhaps trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t for the life of me make out what they said. Suddenly my vision was obscured by a brilliant red cloud that seemed to fill my whole field of vision.

  Next thing I knew, Sister Marie was shaking me gently by the shoulder.

  “Don’t you worry none,” she said. “I’m burnin’ an incense made from wormwood oil and dragon’s blood to clear your way. Everythin’s gonna work out just fine, I promise.”

  I wrapped my arms around the old woman’s neck and kissed her on both cheeks. “You’ve been my rock, Sister Marie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  As I looked into her rheumy eyes, I recalled the ugly whispers I’d overheard in church.

  “Why do some people hate us so much, Sister Marie? I can understand why some whites might object to our ‘colored-folks’ power,’ but why do our own people go out of their way to speak against us?”

  Sister Marie patted me gently on the hand. “People fear what they can’t understand, chile. True power scares the pants off a lot of folks, colored or otherwise.”

  “Don’t scare Boss Tisdale none,” I said.

  Sister Marie shot me a stern look. “You watch yourself around that man, you hear? They don’t call him The Boss for nothin’. If he’s helping you with your case, you can rest assured he intends to profit in some way.” She took my face between her hands. “Did he make advances?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, blushing. “Nothing like that. He acted like a proper gentleman.”

  Sister Marie grunted. “Rest assured, chile, a proper gentleman is one thing Boss Tisdale is not. He may be married to a stuck-up high-yellow gal from a rich family in Indianapolis, but I know for a fact he’s got a stable of fancy women workin’ for him down on Lincoln Avenue.”

  “When we first moved to Aronsville, Mama would make me cross the street to avoid walking in front of his saloon.”

  “Wise advice,” Marie said, patting my hand. “Lotta mess goin’ on at the Blue Goose Club—things that are not in your best interests to know. He maybe call himself a lawyer, but make no mistake, The Boss is a dangerous man. Always has been, and always will be.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “You do that,” Sister Marie said. As she stood up, there was a loud knock at the door.

  “Oh Lord,” I whispered, my heart beating a mile a minute. Could it be they’d decided to arrest me again?

  Putting a finger to her lips, Sister Marie waved me into a dark corner where I could not be easily seen.

  “Who is it?” she said.

  “Ralph Barnes,” a cheerful voice replied. “The one, the only, the magnificent.”

  “Get in here, boy.” Sister Marie pulled him inside and shut the door. “What on earth is wrong with you? You scared the livin’ daylights out of me, beating on my door li
ke that.”

  With a broad grin, he removed his straw hat and offered Sister Marie a sweeping bow.

  “A thousand apologies for my boisterous nature, madam,” he said. “I was so excited to see you this morning that I forgot my manners.”

  “Humph,” Sister Marie said, permitting herself a small smile. “It’s barely seven o’clock. Why you here so early?”

  “I have good news and glad tidings,” Ralph said. “I’ve been instructed to bring Miss Carrie down to Bland Avenue Church for a little powwow with her defense committee.” Spotting me hiding in the corner, he flashed me a broad grin. “Morning, beautiful. Hope you had a nice beauty sleep. Step lively now. We’ve got things to do and places to be this morning.”

  With all Ralph’s teasing, I almost forget the fear that had dogged me ever since the murder. Ralph didn’t look a day over twenty, but he carried himself with the confidence of an older man, enhancing his street-wise image with rakish pencil mustache and a gold cap on his front tooth. With his smooth banter and raffish charm, he was definitely the kind of fellow my mother would have advised me to avoid.

  Sister Marie whipped us up some breakfast, and Ralph ate more than his share, which gave me a chance to fix myself up for the day. She finally shooed us out the door, worried about keeping The Boss waiting.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said as we stepped outside into the early morning sunshine. “You been working for that old witch long?”

  “Sister Marie has helped a lot of folks get through tough times,” I said. “I owe that woman my life.”

  “She saved your life? Sounds interesting,” Ralph said. As we passed the wide steps leading up to the People’s Savings Bank, he pulled out his handkerchief, dusted off a space on the stairs, and sat down. “Come sit here, pretty girl. Tell me all about it.”

  Normally I am not what anyone would consider a chatterbox, but something in the tone of Ralph’s voice let me know he actually wanted to hear what I had to say. As the sun slowly warmed the stairs on which we sat, I told Ralph everything—my daddy dying, my mama dying. I even told him about Sam Kerchal. When I’d finished, Ralph chuckled softly.