Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Mayor Handy sighed. “Stephenson is out to get me, Bill. That’s the real reason why he’s whipping up the crowd out there. I’m the last public official in this town that’s not beholden to that dirt-bag operation of his. Even Chief Smith is a Klan supporter. If Stephenson can get folks to believe that I’m a nigger-lover, that I’m soft on crime, he’ll be able to put his own man in as mayor.”

  The two men were silent for a moment. As if to back up the mayor’s words, the sound of a marching band playing “Dixie” wafted in through the open window.

  “They won’t stop till they get what they want,” Tisdale said, “and we both know what that is. Ralph Barnes, dangling from a noose in that courtyard out there.” Mayor Handy strode across the room and shut the window with a bang. “I’ll accept that your boy may not be the killer, Bill. But if he didn’t do it, who did?”

  “Rudy Gillette,” I said. “He and Wilson had a bitter argument in Wilson’s cabin on the night of the murder.”

  “And you know this how?” the mayor said.

  “Madame Cora told me. She overheard the two men arguing earlier in the evening, and she passed Gillette on her way to Wilson’s cabin.”

  “Not a very believable witness, Miss McFarland.” Mayor Handy ran a hand through his already badly rumpled mane of red hair. “Cora Wentz is a grifter. She’s been arrested for fraud in three different states.”

  “Yet this is the very same woman you intend to use as the star witness in Ralph Barnes’s murder trial. Come on, Charles,” Tisdale said. “Be reasonable.”

  “At this very moment, there are detectives out looking for Rudy Gillette,” Mayor Handy said. “If this damn rally were not taking so many of my men away from their duties, we’d have brought him in by now. How do I know this girl is not lying to keep her own neck out of the noose?”

  “Carrie walked in here of her own free will,” Tisdale said. “Would she have done that if she were guilty?”

  “Perhaps,” Mayor Handy said. “But since she’s here, I’ll listen to what she’s got to say before I pass judgment.”

  Taking Mayor Handy’s curt nod as an invitation to proceed, I said, “Gillette recognized Miss Parker the very first time she came to Mrs. Mason’s house. He knew she was the reporter who’d written the expose on his friend Gaylord Wilson. When Mrs. Mason wanted to include Ellen Parker in the séance that evening, Gillette nixed it. He made some excuse about needing an equal number of men and women, but that was poppycock. He just wanted the reporter to go away.”

  I took a deep breath to calm my nerves, then continued. “But Miss Parker was not about to give up. She returned the following week, and this time she brought Hubie Brown with her. To shut her up, Gillette dropped a lethal dose of strychnine into the poor woman’s glass of lemonade when she wasn’t looking.”

  “Nonsense,” Mayor Handy said. “Where would he have gotten hold of something like that?”

  “Mrs. Mason’s medicine cabinet,” I said. “She kept her beauty tonic in there, a tonic that I know for a fact contained strychnine. Not to mention her husband was taking a strychnine stimulant for his depression.”

  With the window closed, the heat in Mayor Handy’s office was stifling. I sank, uninvited, into a wooden chair opposite Handy’s desk and awaited his response. The Boss sat down next to me. For a full minute, neither Handy or Tisdale spoke. In the silence, the sound of drums and shouts of “KKK! USA!” were clearly audible through the closed window. When someone set off a firecracker outside, we all jumped.

  “Sounds like Stephenson’s boys from Kentucky are starting to trickle in,” Mayor Handy said grimly. “I’ve put in a call to the governor to send some troops down here. I only hope they arrive in time.” Rubbing a hand over his eyes, as if to clear the fog, he sighed heavily. “As it stands, I don’t know how many of my own men will defend Ralph Barnes if a riot breaks out.”

  “You’re definitely in a spot, my friend,” Tisdale said, “but I didn’t come here to preside over a funeral, mine or anyone else’s.” Taking a gold cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, he sat down, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette. “Suppose I told you I had information that could help you get rid of DC Stephenson and Chief Smith permanently. What would you say?”

  “I’d say you were out of your mind,” the mayor said.

  “But you’d be interested, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hell yes,” the mayor said. “I’d be interested, long as what you’ve got in mind is legal.”

  “Perfectly legal,” Tisdale said. He smiled and leaned in closer. “Drop the charges against Ralph and Carrie, and I will tell you everything you need to know to defeat your enemies in the next election.”

  The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “You must think I was born yesterday, Bill. Why in the hell would I let these nigras go, just on your say-so? After all, you’re a nigra your own damn self. How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “You’ll just have to trust me on this,” Tisdale said.

  He stood up, walked around the mayor’s desk, and whispered in his ear. I couldn’t hear what was said. Whatever it was, it caused the expression on the mayor’s round and ruddy face to change from irritation to surprise and then to smug satisfaction in ten seconds flat.

  “You’re sure about this, William?”

  “I checked into it personally,” Tisdale said as he returned to his chair next to me. “A business associate of mine just happened to observe your chief of police and his top detective on the Kentucky side of the river loading crates of illegal whiskey into a schooner belonging to the Aronsville Police Department. Helping them were two well-known Klan lieutenants, men who don’t blow their noses without the personal authorization of DC Stephenson. Personally, I don’t care too much for Prohibition, but there are a lot of voters in Aronsville who do. They will not be happy to learn that their police department is being run by bootleggers.”

  Mayor Handy pulled a fresh cigar from the box on his desk and lit it. Inhaling deeply, he propped his feet on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and gazed up at the ceiling.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Your associate would be willing to testify about this in open court?”

  “He will if I tell him to,” Tisdale said smoothly. “He’d have to receive immunity from prosecution, of course, but that would be a small price to pay for information that is sure to put Chief Smith, DC Stephenson, and good number of their friends behind bars.”

  “You might be right,” the mayor said, taking a contented puff on his cigar. “You just might be right.”

  “Of course I am,” Tisdale said. “I told you I came bearing glad tidings. I’ve pointed you in the direction of Rudy Gillette, a likely double murderer. And as an extra bonus, I’ve given you an easy solution to all your political problems. All you have to do is drop the charges against Ralph Barnes and Miss McFarland. Do we have a deal?”

  As Mayor Handy nodded his agreement, a uniformed patrolman burst into the room.

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock, Officer Feeney?” the mayor shouted.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Feeney said. “You told me to let you know the minute we found Rudy Gillette.”

  “You got him?” The grin on the mayor’s face broadened. “Maybe this really is my lucky day. Bring him here at once.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” Feeney said. “Gillette is dead. He’s in the morgue. The coroner is listing the probable cause of death as strychnine poisoning.”

  “Poison?” The mayor slammed his meaty hand against the top of his desk and glowered. “You made up that whole story, didn’t you, William. Tryin’ to hoodwink me into releasing this hoodoo witch when you knew damn well she’d just killed another white man.”

  As Tisdale and I exchanged a look of shock and disbelief, Mayor Handy picked up the phone. “Get somebody up here right away,” he shouted. “Take Carrie McFarland downstairs and book her for the murder of Rudy Gillette.” He slammed the receiver back in place and poi
nted to the door. “Get out of my office, Tisdale, before I have you arrested as an accessory. You’re a liar. Always have been and always will be. Out!”

  For the first time all day, Boss Tisdale appeared to be at a loss. “I give you my word, I knew nothing about this. I can get witnesses to back up everything I’ve said.”

  But the mayor had already turned his back to us. As the marching band outside struck up a rousing version of “The Old Fiery Cross,” Officer Feeney took me by the elbow and steered me out of the room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Keeping a tight grip on my elbow, Officer Feeney led me down the stairs and through the underground tunnel that led to the city jail. With each descending step, my anxiety increased as I remembered the horrible night I had spent there. It seemed like centuries ago, but as we entered the gloomy stone building where the prisoners were kept, memories came rushing back in a tidal wave of fear that left me temporarily incapable of movement. Feeney prodded me in the back with his night stick.

  “Get a move on, girlie,” he said, leading me down a long concrete aisle flanked on either side by two identical rows of cells. As we passed, the prisoners, who were all white, banged on the bars of their cells and shouted epithets.

  “Welcome to hell, nigger!” one man shouted, letting fly a glob of spit that barely missed hitting me in the face.

  Rather than admonish him, Feeney snickered and slowed our pace to a crawl as we walked through the gauntlet of screaming prisoners.

  “Go back to Africa with the rest of the apes!” a woman shouted.

  When we finally arrived at what was apparently going to be my cell, Feeney unhooked a large ring of keys from his belt, unlocked the door, and slid it open.

  “Welcome to your new home, darlin’. Don’t plan on hopping on your broomstick and flying away any time soon. If it was up to me, I’d let Stephenson and his boys in the Klan have their way. But it ain’t up to me, so I’m keeping you here until I get further instructions. Give me any trouble and I’ll put your black ass out in the street, you hear me?”

  I nodded and stepped inside. My mama had taught me never to show weakness, especially around bullies like Officer Feeney. I took a seat on the one piece of furniture provided, a small metal bed frame that had been bolted to the wall. Alone in that dark, windowless room, time seemed to disappear. There were no clocks and no windows, and except for the occasional shouts and moans from my fellow prisoners, there were no sounds. I had no idea whether the Klan was still rallying outside, whether Boss Tisdale had been able to return safely to Churchtown, or whether anyone else even knew where I was. Ralph was probably still locked up here somewhere. I’d been hoping to see him, even if only to catch a glimpse of him in passing, but that now seemed unlikely. As the minutes ticked by, my brain spun around like a rat in a cage, trying to figure a way out.

  I’d been so sure Rudy Gillette was the killer. He and Wilson had been stealing money from Mrs. Mason. Miss Parker was a reporter and had done an expose on Gillette. Madame Cora had heard Gillette and Wilson arguing the night of Wilson’s murder. Yet, in spite of all these indicators, I’d been wrong. Rudy Gillette was not the murderer. Who would have a reason to kill Gillette? In the gloomy solitude of my cell, I mulled over the possible suspects.

  Mr. and Mrs. Mason were at the top of the list. Gillette and Wilson had nearly bankrupted them. But why kill Miss Parker? I supposed Mr. Mason might have preferred to keep his impending bankruptcy out of the papers, but would he have killed someone to keep his secret? Perhaps. But there were also more plausible suspects.

  Gillette and Wilson had solicited large sums from a number of Spiritualists to build their phony temple. Could someone else have discovered the fraud and killed the two con men? Dr. and Mrs. Epps were wealthy, as were Mr. and Mrs. Stokes. Could one of them be the murdering kind?

  There was also, of course, the possibility that Gillette’s death was not related to the other murders at all. So many people associated with Mrs. Mason’s séance had lost their lives recently: Miss Parker, Gaylord Wilson, Rudy Gillette, and even Miss Parker’s companion Hubie Brown. According to the newspapers, Brown had died from drinking tainted whiskey. Most likely it was a coincidence unrelated to Miss Parker’s murder, but it was still curious. I wondered whether the feckless Miss Annabel Flipper was still sharing hip flasks with the boys at Wabash State.

  Mostly, however, I wondered about Ralph. Was he all right? Even if Mayor Handy succeeded in keeping the Klan from storming the jail and lynching him on the spot, Ralph was still under indictment for the murder of Gaylord Wilson. First thing tomorrow morning, he’d be transported up to Claxton to stand trial.

  Although I’d managed to uncover some tantalizing information, I had failed. I had not kept my community out of danger. I had not kept Ralph Barnes from danger, and I hadn’t done myself much good either.

  I lay down the hard metal bedframe and began to cry.

  I must have cried myself to sleep because I awoke with a start to the sound of someone rattling the bars of my cell door. Steeling myself for another nasty encounter with Officer Feeney—or worse, Detective Johnson and his leering threats—I sat up and climbed out of bed. To my relief, Jimbo was standing just outside the door with his usual enigmatic smile.

  “Enjoy your beauty nap?” he said. “Don’t sleep too much, pretty girl. You don’t wanna get so beautiful God takes you up to heaven, now, do ya?”

  “Things down here on the earth are not looking so rosy for me at the moment,” I said with a weary smile. “Maybe I’d be happier up in heaven.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Jimbo said. “A Seer like you should know there’s always a silver lining around someplace. You just gotta know how to look for it, that’s all.”

  My mouth flew open wide enough for a bird to have built a nest there. “How’d you know I have the Sight?”

  Instead of answering me directly, the old man grinned and began to sing:

  Drop dem worries

  Drop dat fear

  Look to the Light

  On da mountain.

  When sinners cry

  It’s do or die

  Look to the Light

  On da mountain.

  “Anyone with eyes can see that you’ve got a Light,” Jimbo said. “In time, you’ll learn how to protect that gift and keep from gettin’ yo’self in trouble.”

  “Time is the one thing I haven’t got.”

  “Everything’s gonna work out, pretty girl. I just know it. You gotta trust ol’ Jimbo on this one.”

  I nodded glumly. “I tried my best, truly I did, but I’ve messed things up completely.”

  The janitor smacked his forehead with the flat of his hand in an exaggerated gesture of surprise. “I knew there was something I was supposed to tell you,” he said, pulling a crumpled sheaf of papers from his pocket. “Ralph’s Uncle Scott came by. Ralph is not allowed any visitors, so his uncle asked to see you instead. When the warden said “no,” Ralph’s uncle gave me these papers when Officer Feeney wasn’t lookin’. Said you’d know what to do with ’em.”

  Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Jimbo slipped the papers through the bars of my cell. The sensation of his hand brushing against mine as I took hold of those papers was the first physical contact I’d had with a friendly human being in hours.

  “Thank you,” I said simply.

  “Keep your eyes on that mountain top,” Jimbo said. With a tip of his imaginary cap, he picked up his mop and pail. “Best be on my way. Officer Feeney be makin’ his rounds any minute.”

  As the janitor’s footsteps receded down the long concrete corridor, I unfolded the crumpled bits of paper in my hands and began to read. When I’d finished, I slipped the papers inside my shoe for safekeeping.

  I now knew who had murdered Miss Parker, Gaylord Wilson, and Rudy Gillette. But would I be able to get anyone to believe me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Officer Feeney showed up outside my cell door ten minutes later, rattling his keys an
d muttering to himself.

  “Dunno what’s got into Hiz’onner lately,” he said. “Callin’ in the Guard on his own people. Granting bail to nigras.” Shaking his head, Feeney opened the door of my cell and grabbed my arm. “Come on, little miss witch. The mayor wants ta see ya.”

  This time as we walked down the corridor between the two rows of cells Feeney kept the pace brisk, ignoring the taunts and insults thrown in my direction as we passed. When an old woman in a thin cotton shift tried to pull at my dress, Feeney scowled and batted her hand away with his nightstick. Something had definitely happened to alter the policeman’s mood, and it didn’t take a Seer to notice that he was worried.

  Officer Feeney gave a deferential knock on Mayor Handy’s door before taking me inside. To my utter and complete surprise, Mrs. Mason was standing in front of the mayor’s desk. Next to her was her friend Mrs. Epps, wearing the same high-waisted yellow dress and diamond feather broach she’d worn at the séance.

  When Mrs. Mason caught sight of me standing next to Officer Feeney, she turned away from the mayor and swept across the room.

  “My dearest Bright Feather! When Mr. Lewis told me what had happened to you, Mrs. Epps and I came here straightaway.” She took my face between her hands and kissed me on the cheek. “Are these handcuffs?” She glared at Officer Feeney, whose astounded look resembled that of a rabbit caught in a trap. “Remove these manacles at once.”

  Mayor Handy gave the policeman a resigned nod. “It’s all right, Feeney. Take ’em off. The girl isn’t going anywhere.”

  Tears rolled down Mrs. Mason’s face as she rubbed my newly liberated wrists between her hands. “You poor thing,” she said. “When the police found Mr. Gillette’s body, there were five of my checks uncashed in a drawer, just as you predicted.”

  “The girl is a gifted spiritual medium, Charles,” Mrs. Epps said. “Surely even you can see that.”