Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “I’ve found out some things,” I said. “Evidence that will put Ralph and me in the clear.”

  Tisdale ran a hand over his close-cropped wavy hair. Now that he was not yelling at me, I took a chance and looked him in the face. To my surprise, his white linen suit was rumpled and there were heavy pouches under his eyes.

  “We’re gonna need it,” Tisdale said. “Ralph Barnes has been arrested.”

  “Arrested?” Surely, I had somehow failed to hear Boss Tisdale correctly. “Didn’t he have some girlfriend who promised to hide him?”

  “I warned him not to trust that girl,” Tisdale said bitterly. “She turned him in the minute he showed up. First thing tomorrow morning, Ralph will be taken up to Claxton to be tried for the murder of Gaylord Wilson.”

  I felt my knees buckle as I slumped unbidden into the leather armchair opposite The Boss’s desk. As my eyes filled with tears, it felt as though all the wind had been sucked out of me.

  “This is all my fault,” I said. “Ralph would never have gotten involved in this thing if it hadn’t been for me.”

  “True,” Tisdale said, “but that’s neither here nor there at this point. Question is, what am I gonna do about it?”

  “I know what I’m going to do.” I wiped away a tear and stood up. “Wilson had a lot of enemies. He owed money all over Claxton, as well as to Henry Stokes right here in Aronsville. We both know Stokes is a violent type—a former soldier and a Kluxer to boot. He could easily have fought with Wilson and killed him. Then, there’s Bayard Mason. Wilson and Rudy Gillette conned Mrs. Mason out of tens of thousands of dollars, and now the man is nearly penniless. Did you know the Department of Revenue is deducting money from his bank accounts?”

  Tisdale nodded, but did not speak. I could tell he was listening but couldn’t tell if he liked any of my theories. Since he hadn’t yet thrown me out, I figured the best thing I could do was to keep talking.

  “Then there’s Rudy Gillette. He was definitely out at Woody Glade the night of the murder. Perhaps he and his buddy Wilson got into an argument over money or something. It would have been easy for him to slip into Wilson’s cabin that night.”

  “Maybe so,” Tisdale said at last, “but what you’ve said so far is merely speculation. It won’t be enough to get Ralph out of jail. One of Wilson’s performers claims she saw Ralph going into Wilson’s cabin.”

  I had a sudden vivid image of Madame Cora standing on Wilson’s front porch. She and Ralph had spoken that night, and she would have gotten a good look at him.

  “I know this woman,” I said. “She’s a so-called clairvoyant, phony as the day is long. It’s true she saw Ralph at the cabin that night, but I’m betting that’s not all she saw.” In a resolute tone that surprised even myself, I continued. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s appearing at the Vaudeville Theater on Main Street tonight. I will go and pay her a visit.”

  Tisdale stared at me as though I’d sprouted a second head.

  “Are you out of your natural mind? There are wanted posters all over town with your face on them. You won’t make it around the corner, let alone downtown.”

  “Oh, but I will, Mr. Tisdale. Mr. Lewis was kind enough to pick me up from the police station after you arranged for my release. Perhaps he will be kind enough to drive me downtown and wait while I have a word with Madame Cora.”

  For a long moment The Boss stared up at the ceiling, deep in thought. “It’s a bold scheme, Carrie. I’ll give you that. What makes you think Madame Cora will actually speak to you?”

  “Let’s just say I noticed some things when I had the opportunity to observe her act up close. Things she would probably not want me to share with the police.”

  A wide grin spread across Tisdale’s haggard face. “I can see I underestimated you, Miss McFarland. As luck would have it, Mr. Lewis is attending the Founder’s Day Banquet at Bland Street Church tonight. I was on my way there when I found out about Ralph’s arrest. I’ll get word to Lewis at once.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mr. Lewis dropped me off at the stage door of the Vaudeville Theater an hour later. The doorman was a tall, string bean of a white man with a shock of blond hair peeking out from under his cap. As I was still wearing the nondescript maid’s uniform I’d cobbled together in the Kerchal’s basement, the doorman accepted my story of having been sent by my employer to pick something up from Madame Cora and waved me inside.

  “Cora doesn’t like to be disturbed before she goes onstage,” he said. “Wait here until she comes off.”

  After pointing me in the direction of a battered wooden chair positioned to one side of the stage, he returned to his newspaper. With a chill, I spotted the headline:

  KLAN WARNS OF NEGRO CRIME WAVE SWEEPING THE STATE

  With headlines like that, it won’t be long before we’re all be burned out or strung up, I thought grimly. Fixing a bland smile on my face, I listened to the patter of the onstage comedian and watched the comings and goings of the show folk as they made their entrances and exits. A colored tap dance duo eyed me with frank curiosity but did not speak. A Spanish juggler tossed bowling pins in the air to warm up for his act.

  As I stared idly around the backstage area, I spotted a familiar face among the skimpily dressed chorus girls stretching their legs on the barre in preparation for their final number. I did not want to draw attention to myself by approaching her, so I couldn’t be sure, but I was almost positive it was the same girl I’d seen masquerading as an Indian spirit during Madame Cora’s routine out at Woody Glade. No big surprise, really. The girl was a show person, and this was a show. As I listened mindlessly to the hokey patter of the blackface minstrel act running through their clichéd lines onstage, I made a mental note to drop by the chorus girls’ dressing room after I’d spoken to Madame Cora.

  Forty-five minutes later, after an abbreviated version of the performance I’d seen the night before, Madame Cora swept past me and marched up a narrow set of metal stairs to her dressing room. I scurried after her as fast as I could, catching up with her just as she entered her room.

  “Madame Cora?”

  As she turned to face me, I saw that the woman was exhausted. Her face, which had been smeared with tones of greasy pancake makeup, was lined and haggard. The splotches of rouge, which from a distance appeared to brighten her cheeks, only accentuated her weary expression when seen up close.

  “I performed with you at Camp Woody Glade Monday night,” I said quickly.

  “I remember,” she said. “You spoke about the murder at Mrs. Mason’s séance.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Can we talk?”

  “Can’t imagine what we’d have to talk about.”

  As she began to shut the door in my face, I wedged my foot in the opening.

  “I’m here on a confidential matter,” I said, looking around at the growing crowd of actors, stagehands, and hangers-on who had begun to congregate backstage. “I’d hate to have to holler out my business through a closed door.”

  With a reluctant sigh, Madame Cora pulled the door open. “All right,” she said, “but it had better be good.”

  Her dressing room was smaller than I had imagined. The walls were painted in a tired olive and covered with posters advertising previous acts. A screen separated the dressing area from a small sitting room that contained a rickety wooden chair placed in front of a vanity with a lighted mirror and covered with jars and half-used tubes of makeup.

  “I’m going to change out of this costume,” Cora announced and retired behind the screen. “Start talking. If I haven’t heard anything worth listening to by the time I’m in my dressing gown, you’re out of here. Got it?”

  “Of course,” I said. What could I possibly say that would capture her attention or get her to open up to me? Thoughts scurried around my brain like rats trapped in a cage, but I could not think of a single scheme or ruse that would do the trick. My only option was to tell the truth. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to Mr
. Wilson—why he was killed. You were there. I was hoping you might have seen or heard something that might help.”

  “I already told everything I know to the police,” Madame Cora said wearily. “There was a delivery truck in the driveway when I got to Wilson’s cottage that night. This Negro boy walked up to me and asked me where you were. He drove away. I walked into the living room and found Gaylord lying on the floor with his head smashed in. Why do you care, anyway?”

  Despite my resolve to go with the truth, it didn’t feel like a good idea to tell Madame Cora the real reason why I was curious about the crime. Suddenly, a brilliant lie popped into my mind.

  “You saw my act,” I said. “I was thinking that I could expand it. Tell the story of Miss Parker’s death but also talk about Mr. Wilson’s murder. Be a great showstopper, don’t you think?”

  “Not bad,” Cora admitted, “but why should I help you? Maybe I want to work Wilson’s death into my own act.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “If you talk about this murder too much, the police might want to talk to you about some of the other things you do. I saw your act up close, remember? You’re a great showman, but we both know that you’re no clairvoyant.”

  There was a long silence from the other side of the screen.

  “You’re a nervy little one, aren’t you?” Cora said without bitterness. “Since you’re in show business yourself, I am sure you understand that some aspects of any illusion should remain private. A professional secret, if you will.”

  “Of course,” I said softly. “And your secret will be safe with me the minute you help me with my act. All I need is a few more gory details.”

  Cora sighed. “The poor man’s skull had been smashed open like a watermelon. The crystal ball he always kept on his desk was lying on the floor next to him, covered in blood.”

  “Was there anything different about the room? Any signs of a struggle?”

  “A sheaf of papers he’d been working on had been knocked to the floor. He must have been near them when he was attacked.”

  “Papers?”

  “Yes. A pile of employment contracts. Just didn’t seem fitting to see his papers in disarray like that. After I saw he was dead and called the police, I picked them up and put them back on the desk next to the gold cigarette case the company gave him last year for Christmas. In life, he’d been very particular about things like that. A place for everything and everything in its place, he’d say.”

  “I understand,” I said softly. Now that I’d finally gotten Miss Cora talking, I didn’t want to break into her reverie.

  “In spite of all his flaws, I loved the old bastard,” Cora said. “Which is more than I can say for a lot of folks. Gaylord Wilson owed back wages to half the performers in Indiana. Rudy Gillette hated him with a vengeance.”

  “The man with the dyed hair and red vest?” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. “He was at the séance when Miss Parker was killed.”

  “He and Gaylord were working a scheme to bilk some rich lady here in Aronsville, but Gaylord wanted to back out. I heard them arguing about it after the show.”

  “Do you know if Rudy Gillette visited Mr. Wilson’s cabin that night?”

  “I passed him on the path as I was coming up to sign my new contract,” Cora said.

  “Did you see anyone else up there?”

  “There was a woman standing by the gate, but she scurried off when she saw me coming.”

  “Wilson’s cottage was busier than Grand Central Station that night. This didn’t strike you as odd?”

  Madame Cora laughed. “Not at all. Gaylord frequently entertained female admirers after the show. Those lonely widows at Woody Glade were crazy about him.”

  “And what about you, Madame Cora? Were you an admirer as well?” The question was a bit cheeky, but I simply could not resist.

  “I may have done a lot of stupid things in my life, but I’m not a complete fool.”

  Though I couldn’t see Madame Cora from the other side of the Japanese screen, I imagined her giving the zipper on her dress a decisive pull as she spoke.

  “You didn’t see anyone else at Wilson’s cabin?”

  “Only the colored delivery man, the one they say is the murderer. He must have been coming back to revisit the scene of the crime. Walked up toward the porch and spoke to me, bold as brass.”

  “You said there was a gold cigarette case sitting on the desk,” I said. “If robbery was the motive, why wasn’t it stolen?”

  “The dumb brute probably killed Gaylord and fled in a state of panic. Nigras are not generally noted for their intelligence. Present company excepted, of course.”

  I was glad Madame Cora could not see my face. I took a deep breath to calm my rising temper and reminded myself that I was there to gather evidence.

  “You said that Mr. Wilson owed money to several performers. Did any of them ever threaten to talk to the police if he didn’t pay up?”

  “You’re way too nosy, colored girl,” Cora said. Dressed in a lime-green kimono that did little to flatter her bulky frame, she stepped from behind the screen and glared at me. “Time for you to be on your way.”

  “What about you? Did Mr. Wilson owe you any back wages?” Since I was being kicked out, I figured I had nothing to lose. “Was that the real reason for your visit to his cabin that night?”

  “Out!” Cora screamed. To emphasize her point, she hurled a shoe at me.

  Leaving the door to slam shut behind me, I raced out of her room, down the stairs, out the stage door, and into the street.

  Thank goodness Mr. Lewis was waiting for me behind the wheel of Mrs. Mason’s vintage Buick. One look at my panicked expression as I climbed inside told him all he needed to know. Without a word, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Looks like you have a hellhound on your tail,” Mr. Lewis said wryly as he maneuvered Mrs. Mason’s Buick onto Indiana Avenue. “What happened?”

  “I may have irritated Madame Cora some,” I said. Now that I was safely out of the theater, the whole episode was beginning to feel quite humorous. “Truth be told, she threw her shoe at me. Is Boss Tisdale still at the Gray Goose? I’ve found out some information that might be helpful.”

  “He went to the Founder’s Day Banquet,” Mr. Lewis said. “I’ll drop you at the church. Then I’ve got to get Mrs. Mason’s car back in her garage before anyone misses it.”

  As we started to turn onto Main Street, we could hear the sound of tramping feet and a brass band in the distance. Attracted by the noise, a large crowd had begun to gather, blocking the street ahead of us. My heart nearly stopped when I looked out the window and saw a long line of white-robed Klansman parading toward us on horseback.

  “Foreigners, go home! Jews, go home! Niggers, go home!” they shouted. “Keep America white!”

  Mr. Lewis pulled into the next available driveway, turned the car around, and drove in the opposite direction as fast as he could without seeming too conspicuous.

  It was several blocks before he spoke. “It’s not safe for us to be in this neighborhood right now. Come back to Mrs. Mason’s with me, Carrie. Annie and I will put you up for the night and take you back to Churchtown tomorrow.”

  “But I’ve got to see Boss Tisdale,” I said stubbornly. “Ralph is innocent, and I can prove it.”

  “Not tonight,” Mr. Lewis said firmly. “Have you forgotten your picture is on a wanted poster? These folks would love to make you the main attraction at their next cross burning.”

  “But what about Mrs. Mason? After what happened, I doubt she’ll be too pleased to see me.”

  “I’ll slip you in the kitchen door and up the back stairs. She’ll never even know you were there. Trust me. Her house is the safest place for all of us right now.”

  However, when we arrived, Mrs. Mason was sitting in the kitchen with Annie Lewis. I was about to turn around and run when Mr. Lewis grabbed me by my sleeve. Feeling ve
ry much like a child caught playing hooky, I stood next to Mr. Lewis in the center of Mrs. Mason’s spacious kitchen with my head bowed.

  “You took my car without permission, Mr. Lewis.” There was no accusation in Mrs. Mason’s tone, simply a statement of fact.

  “It was all my fault,” I said hastily. “Please don’t blame Mr. Lewis. He was only trying to help me.”

  Ignoring me, Mrs. Mason fixed Mr. Lewis with a baleful glare. “How could you do this to me?”

  “The circumstances involved were unusual and unavoidable,” Mr. Lewis replied. “Forgive me, ma’am.”

  “Annie and I were worried sick about you,” she said petulantly. “Mr. Stokes telephoned to tell me the Klan was on the march. Asked me if I wanted to attend a cross burning, of all things.”

  “They were parading down Main Street,” Mr. Lewis said. “When I realized we could not get back to Churchtown safely, I had no choice but to bring Miss McFarland here.”

  “When you didn’t come home, we thought you’d been killed for sure,” Mrs. Mason said. “At least you’re all right.”

  Deliberately avoiding Annie’s eyes, Mr. Lewis squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I apologize for any inconvenience my behavior may have caused. You will have my resignation in the morning.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Mason said firmly. “You and Annie have been with me for fifteen years. I don’t think I could bear a single day in this mausoleum of a house without you.”

  Although Mr. Lewis must have been extremely relieved, he did not show it. Annie, however, grinned broadly.

  “Now that we’ve settled that,” Annie said, “how ’bout I fix everyone some tea?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she lit a fire on the stove and put the kettle on. It was time for me to make my exit. I had already caused Mr. and Mrs. Lewis more than enough trouble. The Kerchal home on Water Street was only a few blocks away. With any luck, Teo had left the basement door unlocked for me. I had backed halfway to the door when Mrs. Mason speared me with an imperious glare.