Gesturing for the house lights to be turned on, Wilson strode to the front of the auditorium and flung wide the doors of the cabinet. The audience burst into wild applause as he led Madame Cora—looking exhausted yet triumphant from her encounter with the Spirit World—onto the stage, untied her hands, and removed her blindfold.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson intoned, taking a sweeping bow. “Absolute proof of the survival of the spirit after death. For those who are interested in speaking further with their loved ones, Madame Cora will be appearing at the Vaudeville Theater in Aronsville this Wednesday.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Madame Cora did not return to the stage for an encore, although the audience continued to applaud for several more minutes. Gaylord Wilson, his patrician face wreathed in smiles, took a few more bows and even summoned me onstage for an extra curtain call. As the audience began to file out of the auditorium, he pulled me aside.
“I want to use you in my next show,” he said. “You’ll open for Madame Cora at the Vaudeville Theater in Aronsville Wednesday night. Meet me at my cottage in an hour.” He slipped out the back door without waiting for me to respond.
Alone in the tiny dressing room, I removed my makeup and Indian costume and put on the dark-blue frock I’d been wearing all day. Pulling my straw bonnet down to hide as much of my face as possible, I stepped out into the humid summer night. As I made my way gingerly along the unlit pathway that led to the main road, I heard two people engaged in an intense discussion.
“You calling me a liar?” The man spoke softly, but there was no doubting the menace in his voice.
“Of course not,” a woman’s voice replied. “I thought I saw something fluttering up there, that’s all.”
I couldn’t be absolutely sure, but the woman’s voice sounded an awful lot like Mae Stokes, the wife of the Kluxer who’d attended Mrs. Mason’s séance the night Miss Parker died. With a jubilant smile, I pressed myself against the wall of the temple and eavesdropped shamelessly.
“The workings of the Spirit World are mysterious,” the man continued. “Totally beyond human understanding. You know that as well as I do.”
“Of course,” the woman said doggedly. “But at the same time—”
The man did not wait for her to finish. “We’ll have to continue this conversation another time, I’m afraid. I’m already late for an important meeting.”
“Very well,” the woman answered. “I’ll say good night for now. Rest assured, you haven’t heard the end of this.”
As I continued to hide in the shadows, I heard rapid footsteps head away from me down the main path. When I peeked around the corner of the temple to get a better look, the woman was gone, but the man was standing with his back to me not more than six feet away. Although the path was not well lit, it was bright enough for me to catch a glimpse of Rudy Gillette’s trademark red vest and shiny black hair. I had suspected it was his voice, and now my heart raced with excitement.
I decided to follow Gillette and find out what he was doing at Woody Glade. I’d never followed anyone before and wasn’t exactly sure how to go about it. All I knew was that if I got too close to him, Gillette would suspect something. On the other hand, if I stayed too far back, I would lose him. There was also the matter of my appointment with Gaylord Wilson. Wilson had told me to meet him at his cottage in an hour. But if I was late, I figured I could always say that I’d gotten lost in the dark and taken a wrong turn by mistake.
And it was dark—really dark. That part of my story would not be a fib. Every fifty yards or so, an electric light cast a dim glow over the path ahead for a few yards. But after a couple of steps, I was again plunged into near total darkness. As I picked my way along the path, Gillette’s red jacket moved farther and farther away until I could not see it at all. He was walking at a brisk clip and had the advantage of knowing exactly where he was headed. Despite the fact that I could barely see my hand in front of my face, I broke into a trot. This man could be the key to explaining the whole murder. I couldn’t afford to lose track of him now. But as I strained to see his red jacket disappearing in the distance, I tripped over a large tree root and tumbled to the ground.
When I tried to get up, I felt a sharp pain in my ankle. Praying it was not broken, I pulled myself upright and took a few careful steps. Although it was painful, it wasn’t broken, thank the Lord. In the meantime, however, Rudy Gillette had disappeared.
Tears of frustration stung my cheeks as I hobbled along the main path in what I hoped was the direction of Gaylord Wilson’s cottage. Not only had I lost track of a promising lead, I was most likely missing my appointment with Mr. Wilson at that very moment. Ralph Barnes had no doubt spent the entire evening at the Gaiety Theater, waiting for me to show up. He had no idea where I was or how much danger I was in. If that wasn’t bad enough, my left ear was buzzing and I had absolutely no idea why.
I was trapped, as surely as a bird in a cage. Camp Woody Glade was miles from the nearest town, and I had no money for the train ride back to Aronsville. Wilson’s man Jack had brought me out there, but I had no idea when or if he would return. Even if he did, he would certainly not take me back to Claxton unless Mr. Wilson told him to.
There was nothing for me to do but keep walking and hope for the best. After half an hour of fumbling and bumbling around in the dark, I finally found myself next to the lake I’d seen earlier that day. Heaving a sigh of relief, I made my way up the steep path that led to Wilson’s cottage.
There was a red delivery truck emblazoned with a watermelon idling in the driveway, and every light in the place was blazing. As I approached the front gate, Madame Cora stepped off the front porch and began to walk toward the truck.
I was about call out to her when a large hand closed over my mouth.
“Hush, girl,” a familiar voice whispered in my ear. “It’s me, Ralph.”
I had never been happier to see anyone in my whole life. I was about to ask him how he had found me and what he was doing here when he put a warning finger to his lips.
“Hide in the bushes while I talk to this white woman,” he whispered. He stood up, took off his cap, and walked up to the cottage.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” he called out. “I’se lookin’ for Miss Carrie McFarland. The man at the gate said I could find her here.”
“You mean the colored girl? She’s not here. Probably still down at the auditorium.”
Ralph thanked her profusely in a servile tone I’d never heard him use before. With a final wave, he got in the delivery truck and began to back down the driveway.
As he drew alongside the bushes where I was hiding, Madame Cora opened the door of Wilson’s cottage and walked inside.
“Hop in, quick,” Ralph said, flinging open the passenger door. “Get down on the floor where no one can see you.”
My ankle hurt like the dickens as I hopped up on the running board and clambered into the truck. Pulling the door shut behind me, I lowered myself onto the floorboard.
We had just pulled onto the main road when we heard an ear-splitting scream.
“Is that Madame Cora?” I said. “Maybe we should go back to help her.”
“Hush,” Ralph said urgently.
He gunned the engine, and the raggedy little truck bounced and jounced its way down the main street. As we raced by, lights came on in the cottages along the road and Madame Cora’s screams increased in urgency.
“Hey, there!” the gatekeeper shouted, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with both fists as we barreled past the main gate. “Hold on a minute!”
Ralph barely slowed down as he turned onto the highway, gravel spraying from the rear wheels of the truck as we roared away. We raced down the darkened highway in silence for several minutes.
Why had Madame Cora screamed? What were we running from, exactly? What did Ralph know about all of this, and how had he managed to find me? These and other questions bubbled up in my mind.
Taking my cue from Ralph’s
grim expression, I decided to keep my questions to myself until we had returned safely to Claxton.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time we pulled into Claxton, the first rays of sunlight were beginning to show in the eastern sky. Though I had not slept since leaving Aronsville, I was wide awake and jittery with nervous energy. As Ralph drove with meticulous caution through the deserted city streets, I peppered him with questions.
“What happened back there, Ralph? Why are we on the run, and why on earth was Madame Cora screaming like that?”
Ralph kept his eyes on the road and shook his head. “Not yet, Carrie. I need to put my full focus on getting us to the Negro section of town where we won’t stick out like a sore thumb. I’ll tell you everything when we can sit down somewhere quiet, I promise.”
Ten minutes later, Ralph eased the truck into an unlit alley and turned off the engine.
“The old jalopy should be all right here for a bit,” he said. “Let’s go ’round the corner and get something to eat.
With a nod, I climbed out of the truck, brushed the dirt off my bedraggled blue dress and adjusted my hat to hide as much of my face as possible.
“Do I look okay?” I said.
“Ravishing, as always,” Ralph said with a raffish grin. Now that we were out of danger, at least temporarily, his natural good cheer was beginning to resurface. “How do you feel?”
“My ankle hurts a bit,” I said, “but I’m all right otherwise.”
Truth be told, my ankle was throbbing, but I was determined to match Ralph’s optimistic tone. When I winced after taking a step or two, Ralph placed my arm around his shoulders.
“Lean on me, and put as little weight on it as you can.”
As we inched our way down Washington Street, I could not fail to notice how nice it felt to be held by someone. If I hadn’t been in pain, I would have been thinking seriously about getting Ralph Barnes to put his arms around me more often.
The Tasty Café was empty when we arrived. The cook—a grizzled old coot wearing a dirty apron and a sour expression—dozed behind the counter. At Ralph’s request, he grudgingly produced a stale sweet roll, two cups of coffee, and a bowl of ice for my ankle.
“That was close,” Ralph said, stretching his long legs out with a contented sigh. He blew on his coffee and took a deep swallow. “When that woman started screaming, I thought we were goners for sure.”
“Me too,” I said. “How on earth did you find me?”
“When you didn’t turn up at the theater, I got worried,” he said. “I asked around and found out Gaylord Wilson was doing a show in Woody Glade. It occurred to me that you might have gone out there to find him, so I borrowed my friend Dave’s delivery wagon and motored on out there.”
“Wilson brought me out to Woody Glade,” I said. “Rudy Gillette was there as well. I was trying to follow Gillette to find out more, but I fell and twisted my ankle.” Now that I was relatively safe, I was suddenly eager to share my story. “Wilson’s show is a fake. Phony as a three-dollar bill. The man’s a total charlatan. If Gillette was up there to meet with him, I think we may have found Miss Parker’s killer.”
As I delivered my news, I had expected Ralph to be suitably impressed. Instead, he merely nodded and said, “Gaylord Wilson is dead.”
“What?”
“He’s been murdered.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Ralph said. “I drove up to his cottage looking for you. All the lights were on, and the door was wide open. When no one answered my knock, I went inside, figuring you’d be there somewhere. Instead, I found Wilson lying face down with his head smashed in. I was about to drive away when I saw you come up to the gate.”
“So that was why Madame Cora screamed,” I said. “She must have found him as we were driving away.”
“Perhaps,” Ralph said thoughtfully. “On the other hand, she could have already been inside the cabin when I arrived. If she was the one who killed Wilson, she might have been hiding in the back. After I left, she could have walked around to the front, pretending she was just approaching the house for the first time. Did you see her on the path as you were coming up?”
I shook my head. “Do you think she could be the killer?”
“Anything’s possible,” Ralph said, “but it doesn’t really matter who we think the killer is. Once the police find out there were two strange coloreds hanging around Camp Woody Glade, we are going to be the prime suspects.”
An overwhelming wave of panic struck me.
“They could be looking for us right now, Ralph. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We do indeed,” Ralph said. Despite the grim nature of our predicament, he was smiling. “Lucky for you, I am always one step ahead. My friend Dave is taking a shipment of watermelons to Aronsville in about thirty minutes. We’ll have to stay well hidden under a tarp for the first part of the journey, but on the bright side, we’ll be home in less than two hours. Once we’re back in Churchtown, I’ll call Boss Tisdale. If anyone can get us out of this mess, he can.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I returned to Sister Marie’s shack later that afternoon—exhausted, dirty, and discouraged. The old woman shushed me when I tried to tell her about my trip to Woody Glade. Instead, she fixed me a plate of biscuits, a tea of some herbs to help my ankle, and then insisted I go to bed.
It felt like I had been sleeping for less than an hour when Ralph showed up at the door.
He tipped his straw hat, offered an exaggerated bow to Sister Marie, and announced that Boss Tisdale wanted to see us both right away. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I splashed some cold water on my face and dragged a comb through my tangled hair.
“I look all right?” I said.
“Like a princess,” Ralph said. “Let me be your knight in shining armor, my lovely.”
Sister Marie rolled her eyes as he took my arm and gallantly escorted me out the door. My ankle felt much better, but I wasn’t going to let on if he wanted to support me a bit along the way.
Instead of meeting at the Bland Avenue Church, Ralph told me we would be meeting Boss Tisdale at the Gray Goose, the pool hall where he conducted his business. My parents would have disapproved of my even setting foot in such an establishment, but both my parents were dead. And though I loved them dearly, I had no wish to follow them through the Pearly Gates any time soon. If Boss Tisdale could keep me from being arrested—or worse still, hung for a murder I did not commit—I was going to have to surrender my scruples and meet the man on his own turf.
The minute Ralph and I walked through the door, the four men leaning over the pool table in the center of the room studied us with interest. Ralph gave them a casual nod and led me toward a heavily muscled man with a broken nose who sat next to a door at the back of the room. His massive brown face was crisscrossed with scars.
“Go on in,” the man said. “The Boss is waiting for you.”
Once we stepped over the threshold, Ralph and I entered a different world. An ornate Persian carpet covered the floor. Framed certificates and photos of Tisdale hobnobbing with the mayor, the governor, and Indiana Senator Jim Watson lined the paneled walls. As we stared openmouthed at the unexpected luxury, we nearly walked into the two red leather armchairs that had been placed in the center of the room. Opposite the chairs, Boss Tisdale sat behind a large mahogany desk. As was his custom, he wore a white suit made from expensive linen and sported a red carnation in his lapel.
“Trouble seems to follow you, Miss McFarland,” he said, waving at the Aronsville Chronicle sitting open on the blotter in front of him. “According to our fine friends in the press, Gaylord Wilson had his head bashed in last night. Two Negroes, a man and a woman, are wanted for questioning in connection with the case. What the hell happened?”
“I can explain everything,” Ralph said hastily. The Boss glowered at us from the other side of his desk as Ralph gave a quick summary of our trip. “It’s a messy situation,” Ralph sa
id, “but we turned up some useful information. First of all, we know for a fact that Wilson’s show is a fraud. Secondly, know that Gillette was at Camp Woody Glade last night. Perhaps Wilson’s murder was the result of a falling out between them.”
Tisdale grunted. “That’s not how the police figure it. At the moment, they’re looking for the two of you. And if that weren’t bad enough, there’s also been another development.” Tisdale picked up the newspaper, folded it carefully to the third page, and began to read:
DEAD FROM BATHTUB GIN
Author Hubie Brown was found dead of an apparent heart attack at his residence early Monday afternoon. Brown, 36, was a popular writer who contributed columns to this newspaper under the pseudonym of Garrulous Garry. According to the police, an empty bottle of White Wizard, a popular form of home-brewed gin, was found next to the body. A source close to the mayor’s office stated that Brown’s death could be blamed on the recent influx of unsafe and illegal liquor into our state from the other side of the Ohio River. Wake up, Kentucky! There must be an absolute prohibition of the sale and consumption of alcohol, not only in Indiana, but everywhere.
“That’s the man who came with Miss Parker to the séance,” I said softly.
“An interesting coincidence, to say the least,” Tisdale said.
Death at a Seance Page 14