Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  ~||~

  The offices of Gaylord Wilson Entertainment were located on the third floor of a seedy walk-up in the heart of Claxton’s red light district. It was just before noon, and the streets were still quiet. No doubt the ladies of the evening were recuperating from the previous night’s endeavors. This was my first time away from Aronsville since leaving Blockport. Claxton wasn’t much bigger, but it did feel more alive. The few people out on the streets at this early hour bustled with a sense of greater self-importance. The buildings were taller, the traffic more intense, the sense of danger somehow heightened. Maybe this impression was shaped by the fact that I was about to meet the partner of the man who may have murdered Miss Parker. Whatever the reason, my heart was pounding a mile a minute as I knocked on Gaylord Wilson’s office door.

  “Don’t just stand there,” a gruff voice of indeterminate sex barked in response. “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

  The small reception area had a large black desk facing the door. Once inside, I could see that the voice I’d heard belonged to a colossus of a white woman wearing what appeared to be full stage makeup—enormous circles had been painted around her eyes, and her lips were smeared with a shade of crimson that reminded me of an animal having just ripped apart a bloody carcass. Completing the ensemble was a foot-high pile of platinum blonde hair that could only have come from a bottle.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Slowly, the gigantic woman raised her head and studied me, her beady kohl-enhanced eyes inspecting me from top to bottom.

  “If you’re looking for work on the cleaning crew, we’re not hiring,” she said and returned to the work on her desk.

  So much for my plan to find work with Wilson’s company as a maid. My only choice was to bluff my way into being hired as a performer.

  “How dare you?” I said in my most regal voice. “I am no mere cleaning woman. My name is Bright Feather. I am a psychic, and I have come to perform in your show.”

  The woman’s face brightened. “An Injun? Why didn’t you say so in the first place. What did you say your name was?”

  “Bright Feather,” I said. “I can talk to the dead, tell the fortunes of the living, and cross between the two worlds at will.”

  The look on the receptionist’s face told me she had heard this kind of show-business puffery many times before.

  “We’ve already got a mental act on this revue, honey. Name’s Miss Cora. Reads minds, sees the future—all that stuff. We don’t need another one.”

  I pulled myself up to my full height, planted my hand on my hip, and threw back my head.

  “You may have a mentalist, but do you have the medium who predicted the most sensational murder of the year? Do you have the medium who can tell the story of what actually went on in that darkened séance room the night Miss Ellen Parker was killed?”

  The fat woman’s jowls worked silently, as if she were literally chewing over my statement.

  “Do you have the medium who can give a blow-by-blow description of the people and events that fateful night? Someone who saw with her own two eyes the poor woman’s piteous appearance as she took her last breath? Do you?”

  Without another word, the receptionist heaved her massive body out of her chair and knocked on the door leading into the next office.

  “Jack,” she called out in her gravelly, sexless voice. “There’s someone out here you need to take a look at.”

  A minute later, a thin, balding man in shirtsleeves appeared in the doorway of the office behind the receptionist’s desk.

  “What’s your story, girlie?” As the man spoke, he did not remove the cigar he was smoking from the left side of his mouth. Neither did he invite me into his office to sit down.

  I pulled myself up a little taller and looked him in the eye. “My name is Carrie McFarland, but my spirit name is Bright Feather. My Indian guides warned me Miss Parker was in danger. Not half an hour later, she died before my very eyes. I think your audiences would be interested in hearing my firsthand account of that dreadful day. What do you think?”

  The man grunted and rolled the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed. “If you really are who you say you are.”

  “Why would I bother to pretend?” I replied haughtily. “If I were a phony, you would find me out straightaway.”

  “I don’t handle mediums. That’s Wilson’s department,” the fat man said. “I’ll give Gaylord a call and see what he wants to do. Wait here.”

  Heaving a monumental sigh, he walked back into his office and closed the door.

  For the next ten minutes I contemplated my options as the receptionist shuffled papers at her desk. If Wilson and Gillette really were partners, would Wilson take the risk of calling attention to Miss Parker’s murder by putting my act in his show? I was counting on it. Surely, the chance to get the exclusive rights to my gruesome story would be impossible for any theatrical promoter to resist.

  If he thinks I might be about to cause him any trouble, he could always kill me, I thought grimly. There would not be much public outcry over the disappearance of a colored girl like me, particularly one whose reputation was already so badly tarnished. Despite the summer heat, a sudden chill swept over me. Lord have mercy—what on earth had I gotten myself into?

  Just as I was about to lose my nerve and run away, Jack’s office door swung open.

  “Wilson wants to take a look at you,” Jack said. “If he likes what he sees, he’ll put your act into the revue tomorrow night.” Grabbing a battered straw hat from the coat rack in his office, he stepped into the reception area, slamming his office door shut behind him. “Hold down the fort, Penny. I’ll be back by five.”

  As I continued to sit, awaiting further instructions, Jack gestured impatiently. “I ain’t got all day, honey. Get a move on.”

  “Certainly,” I said, getting up. “So you’re taking me to see Mr. Wilson?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Jack said. “I wanted to put you on the bus, but he said no. Said he wants to see you this afternoon.”

  “On the bus? Where are we going?”

  “Camp Woody Glade, of course,” Jack said impatiently. “Boss wants to use you in a séance he’s putting on tonight, so I’ve gotta drive you out there. Not that I make it a normal practice to chauffer nigras around, but an order’s an order. What the boss wants, the boss gets.” He opened the door and began to stride down the hallway. “Get the lead out,” he shouted over his shoulder. “He’s expecting us to be there in an hour.”

  After gruffly ordering me into his rickety Model T, Jack did not speak for the rest of the trip. As he careened down Main Street, honking furiously at anyone who got in his way, he sucked on the unlit cigar, occasionally removing it from his mouth to spit damp chunks of tobacco into the street.

  Truth be told, I appreciated his silence. The last thing I wanted to do was make idle chatter. I needed time to think. I’d been in Claxton less than two hours and already the carefully laid plans Ralph and I had made were in tatters. At that very moment, Ralph was probably hanging out by the stage door, shining shoes, running errands, and picking up backstage gossip. When I did not turn up in the alley behind the Gaiety Theater tonight, he’d be wondering where I was.

  Would it possibly occur to him that I’d been taken to Camp Woody Glade? I would have felt a lot safer if I’d been able to let him know where I was. However, there was nothing to be done about that now. As Jack’s Model T careened at a breakneck pace along Route 10, I tried to remember what Ralph had said about Camp Woody Glade on the train ride up from Aronsville.

  “The place is a magnet for people seeking to commune with the dead,” he’d told me. “During the summer, the place turns into a colossal séance factory with more than two dozen mediums in residence.”

  “Do they have colored mediums there?”

  “I doubt it,” Ralph had said. “If you somehow end up there, I’d use your Indian name if I were you.
I don’t know why, but these folks love Indians.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” I said. With a smile, I recalled the so-called Indian dance Mrs. Mason had performed the day I first met her. “Don’t you worry. I know what to do.”

  I could only hope the brash words I’d spoken on the train would turn out to be true. Cursing furiously under his breath, Jack pulled his Model T to a screeching halt outside the gates of Camp Woody Glade. He honked his horn until a heavyset man in shirtsleeves emerged from the small gatekeeper’s shelter to the left of the two stone pillars that marked the entrance of the camp. The gatekeeper waved us through without bothering to inspect the car or its passengers, and soon we were climbing up a narrow dirt lane bordered by sycamore trees. When Jack’s ancient Model T finally shuddered to a stop in front the spacious pinewood cabin at the top of the hill, a tall white-haired man emerged from the cabin to greet us. Despite the heat, he wore a black frock coat and did not appear to be sweating.

  “You’re late,” he said. Although he spoke softly, the man’s voice had the carrying power of a trained actor.

  “Sorry, sir. I got here as soon as I could,” Jack said and climbed out of the front seat.

  As no one seemed interested in coming around to my side of the car to open the door, I pushed it open myself and clambered out into the hot Indiana sun.

  “This the colored medium you told me about?” Wilson said.

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said. Sweating profusely, he pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead.

  As though eyeing a prize cow he was considering purchasing, Wilson surveyed me from top to bottom.

  “How did you know Miss Parker was going to be killed?” he said.

  “I saw a black cloud over her head,” I said. Then, reminding myself that I was trying to find employment in the world of show business, I added, “My Indian Guide Chief Tecumseh told me so himself.”

  With a noncommittal grunt, Wilson continued to look me over.

  “Those your real braids?” he said.

  I nodded. As he continued to stare at me, I forced myself not to flinch or show any other signs that I found his scrutiny offensive.

  “She’s got a nice face and body, Jack,” Wilson said, as though I were not present. “And she’s well-spoken for a nigger.”

  “Yes,” Jack replied, mopping his face with the sleeve of his wrinkled white suit jacket. “That’s why I called you. People love to hear eyewitness accounts, especially when it’s a high-profile murder. Think the folks will buy her Indian act?”

  “Of course they will,” Wilson said. “Put a little war paint and some feathers on her and she’ll be fine.” His grin reminded me of the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood. “You’ve done well, Jack. Type her up a contract for the standard fee and bring it back in the morning.”

  As Jack climbed back into his Model T, Wilson turned to face me. “All right, Bright Feather, you’re hired. Follow me.”

  I nodded and trailed behind him up the steep pathway that led to the kitchen, where an elderly Negro woman stood washing dishes at the sink.

  “Avalon, this is Carrie. She’s going to work for me tonight. Give her some food and fix a sleeping pallet for her in the storage shed.”

  The woman nodded and returned to scrubbing the pile of dishes in the sink.

  “Meet me at the Temple of the Oracles at four, Bright Feather. Don’t be late.” With a brusque nod, Gaylord Wilson walked out of the room.

  The minute her boss was out of earshot, Avalon stopped scrubbing and glowered at me.

  “Look-a here, you,” she said in a thick Georgia accent. “Ah don’t know who ya are or how ya got the old man ta bring ya out here, but I ain’t paid to wait on colored. So don’t be putting on airs and getting above yourself, cause ah ain’t never gon’ work for ya. Ya hear?”

  I did indeed. I had hoped that Wilson’s cook might have been able to give me the inside scoop on what went on in the house away from prying eyes. I had hoped she might be able to tell me if Rudy Gillette ever came there, and if so, if they’d ever discussed the fact that Miss Parker was a reporter. But I could see now that there would be no friendly words of comfort here—no allies, and no one to protect me if I got myself into trouble.

  As I ladled myself a cup of thin soup and rooted around for a crust of bread to accompany it, I reminded myself that there would be no margin of error for me at Camp Woody Glade. In order for me to leave this place alive, I was going to have to be extra careful.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After what passed for lunch, I still had an hour to kill before I was to meet Wilson at the Temple of the Oracles so I decided to go for a walk. I set off down the steep incline and followed a winding dirt path that led back in the direction from which I’d driven in that morning. At the bottom of the hill, I turned right and walked until I came to a shady paved road lined with cottages. These buildings were more modest than Gaylord Wilson’s home. Many of the cottages were equipped with a shaded front porch, on which folks sat in wicker chairs fanning themselves and drinking lemonade. Though no one spoke, everyone watched with frank interest as I passed. Clearly, I was an oddity—a brown-skinned girl with two Indian-looking braids swinging down her back and the light step of an outsider prepared to run at any moment.

  I was conscious of their stares, but I held my head high and kept walking. What had Ralph Barnes said? Act like you know what you’re doing and people will believe you. After walking for about twenty minutes, I arrived at the main square of the camp. In front of me was the front gate through which I’d entered. To the right was a small building proclaiming itself to be the Temple of the Oracles. This was the theater where I would be performing later in the evening. To my left was a large frame building with a wide veranda, adorned with a sign that read: Hotel Sunflower—All Guests Welcome. As a Negro, I had my doubts that this statement was, in fact, true, but now was definitely not the time to investigate. Having oriented myself, I turned and began to walk toward the Temple of the Oracles. I was almost to the door when a rail-thin white man in a battered straw hat came running out of the Hotel Sunflower and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Topsy,” he said, stepping in front of me. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for you to fetch the clean sheets from the laundry.” As I stood openmouthed, he fixed me with a squinty stare. “Say, what’s going on here? You’re not Topsy.”

  “No, I’m not, sir,” I said. “I work for Mr. Wilson. I’m supposed to meet him here shortly.”

  “Working for Wilson, eh? I’d have thought the man had enough colored help already.” He pulled a battered corncob pipe out of his pocket and sucked on it while continuing to study me skeptically. “But who am I to say? Maybe if I was as rich as him, I’d have a bevy of coloreds at my beck and call too.”

  As the man was blocking my way on the path, I had no choice but to nod in agreement and keep my mouth shut.

  “Lots of folks here don’t really care for Wilson,” he continued, pulling a small pouch of tobacco out of his pocket. “They say he’s turning our little summer camp into a circus.” Not knowing what else to do, I nodded, which seemed to be all the encouragement he needed to keep talking. He filled his pipe, lit it, and smiled. “The critics are probably right, but I got to give it to the man, he really knows how to put on a show.”

  I nodded and took a chance on a smile. “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Now you take Madame Cora, the medium he’s got demonstrating at the temple tonight. This woman is absolutely amazing. Once she goes into a trance, her guides come through with all kinds of evidence.” The man took another puff on his pipe and expelled a cloud of vile-smelling smoke into the air. “Last night she brought through Mrs. Sneed’s boy, killed two years ago now in the Great War. I was sitting right there when she did it too. Pulled Mrs. Sneed’s name out of the basket and told her all about the boy, facts no one but a true medium could have known.”

  “I’ve heard about Madame Cora,” I said. “When I w
orked for Mrs. Mason down in Aronsville, folks used to talk about what a wonder worker she is.”

  “You worked for the Masons?” The man slipped the pipe out of his mouth and took a step closer. “You must be the colored woman who predicted the murder of Ellen Parker. I read about you in the papers.”

  “That she is, my friend.” Wilson’s sharp voice cut into the conversation just in the nick of time. Stepping firmly into the gap between me and my curious interlocutor, Wilson motioned with a flick of his hand toward the door of the temple.

  “Come along now, Bright Feather,” he said. “We have many details to attend to before this evening’s demonstration.”

  As the inquiring yokel trailed behind us, Wilson took me firmly by the elbow and steered me toward the door of the theater.

  “Does that mean we’re going to have a colored on the bill tonight, Wilson?” the thin man said, shaking his head in amazement. “That’s never ever been done here before.”

  Dismissing the man with a genial wave, Wilson steered me into the dark confines of the Temple of the Oracle. The minute the door was closed, Wilson pinned me against the wall and leaned in close.

  “Never talk to the locals,” he hissed. “That man could have been a spy, or worse still, a Pinkerton man. My privacy is very important to me. Do you understand?”

  Holding back the urge to spit in the man’s face, I remembered the importance of my mission and allowed that I did, in fact, understand.

  With a satisfied nod, Wilson let go of my arm. “Now, let’s get to work.”

  The temple was constructed in the fashion of a small church—with simple wooden pews separated by a large center aisle and facing a raised stage at the front. Sitting onstage were two elaborately carved mahogany armchairs.

  “Tonight, you will work as Madame Cora’s assistant,” Wilson said. “She and I will sit in the two chairs. I’ll begin by making the introductions, as I always do. Then our pianist will warm up the crowd with a couple of hymns, after which I will bring you onstage to tell the story of Miss Parker’s murder. You will stand on Cora’s right. Got it?”