Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “But you’re a lawyer,” I persisted. “Don’t you believe in justice?”

  Tisdale shrugged. “If you’re asking a moral question, that’s more in the reverend’s department. Me, I’m happy as long as I can conduct my business in peace.”

  In that moment, I was reminded that Boss Tisdale was a man with many irons in the fire, not all of them on the straight and narrow.

  “What do you think about this?” I said to Robinson as Tisdale headed up the stairs. “Surely you believe in justice.”

  “Vengeance belongs only to God,” John said. Tenderly, he took my hand and pressed it to his lips. “Some matters are not within our power to resolve.”

  “Vengeance may be God’s,” I said, “but justice is for everyone.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Carrie. This is white folks’ business now. We Negroes have enough problems of our own. When you’re older, you’ll understand more about these things.”

  Did John just call me a child? True, he was a few years older than I was, but that did not give him the right to discount my opinion. John was handsome and kind, but the only father I’d ever had in this life was dead. The last thing I wanted was another one. I pulled my hand away from his and stood up.

  “I need to go home and lie down.”

  “Of course,” John said hastily. “Let me walk you home.”

  “That will not be necessary,” I said. “I need some time to myself.”

  I could tell that I had hurt John’s feelings, but in that moment, I was too tired to care. Without another word, I trudged up the stairs and out the back door, letting it slam shut behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I had a lot on my mind as I made my way along Lincoln Avenue. On the surface, the Reverend John Robinson was everything one could ask for in a man—handsome, well-spoken, considerate and, most importantly, clearly in love with me. On the other hand, he was twenty-seven years old. Young for a minister, perhaps, but old enough to think he could tell me what to do. Our most recent conversation had been a sobering reminder that I didn’t have a clue when it came to the opposite sex.

  My steps quickened as I turned onto Upper Fifth Street. After everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, it would be wonderful to see Sister Marie again. Wonderful to sit without a care in the world at her battered kitchen table with a cup of tea and a piece of her light-as-air cornbread. If I had not been so distracted, perhaps I would have paid more attention to the buzzing in my left ear. It wasn’t until I pushed open Sister Marie’s door that I realized something was terribly wrong.

  Sister Marie sat in her rocking chair with her hands tied behind her back and a sock stuffed in her mouth. Mae Stokes hovered behind her holding a twelve-inch hunting knife.

  “Step inside and close the door behind you,” Mae said. “Any sudden moves and I will gut the old lady like a Christmas hog.”

  Mrs. Stokes had become a grotesque caricature of the diminutive Southern belle I had met at Mrs. Mason’s séance. Her eyes had the glazed appearance of someone who had not slept in days, and there was a rust-colored stain on the front of her dress.

  “You have been the ruination of all my plans, Carrie McFarland,” she said. “If it wasn’t for you, Ralph Barnes would be swinging from a rope right now. And you were supposed to take the blame for that reporter’s death. Instead, you’ve spoiled everything.”

  “Sister Marie’s done nothing to hurt you,” I said. “Please. Let her go.”

  “Keep on begging, nigger girl. Not that it’ll do you any good, mind, but I do love to hear it.” She grinned and pressed the hunting knife against Sister Marie’s windpipe.

  Sister Marie closed her eyes calmly, but that didn’t keep me from panicking.

  “But Sister Marie doesn’t know anything,” I insisted. “I’m the only one who knows why you killed those people.”

  “Don’t give yourself airs,” she snarled. “A monkey like you could never understand me. That’s why you need to die. You and the old woman both.”

  As I stared at Mrs. Stokes in open-mouthed alarm, Sister Marie’s voice whispered softly in my mind’s ear. You are a Seer, Carrie. Remember who you are.

  A deep sense of calm came over me, and I offered Mae Stokes a submissive smile.

  “You’re right,” I said. I spread my hands wide and inched a step closer to Sister Marie’s rocking chair. “I couldn’t possibly understand your genius, but I’ll listen if you want to tell me.”

  “You must think I’m stupid,” Mrs. Stokes said.

  I opened my hands and eyes wider. “Oh no, ma’am. I’m the stupid one.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” she replied. “You and everybody else. My lovely husband said I was a fool to kill those folks the way I did. He actually had the nerve to put his hands on me. Slapped me around like a two-bit whore.” Mae Stokes laughed bitterly. “Damn fool should have known better than to hit me while I was in the kitchen. Made me ruin my best dress.”

  “Such pretty dress too,” I said. “If you want, I could wash it for you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You trying to trick me?”

  “I could never fool someone as smart as you,” I said, “but you do look awful tired, Mizz Stokes. Why don’t you put that knife down?”

  For a moment, Mae Stokes stared around the room blankly, as though she’d forgotten where she was. If she lost focus for even one second, there was a chance I’d be able to grab the knife away from her. I took a breath and edged even closer to Sister Marie’s chair.

  “Sister Marie always keeps a few biscuits in the bread box,” I said. “If you’re hungry, I could get one for you.”

  “Don’t you move, nigger. I’ll get them myself.”

  “Of course,” I said and inched another step closer to Sister Marie’s rocking chair.

  “On second thought, you get it,” Mrs. Stokes said, tightening her grip on the knife. “Put them on a plate and slide them across the table to me. And no games, hear? One false move and the old bat dies.”

  I nodded and backed away toward the opposite side of the room. Sister Marie’s cooking area was a mess. As I reached into the breadbox, my mind was on fire. A pile of ginger root sat uncut on the counter. Next to the sink, a bottle of vanilla extract lay on its side, its fragrant contents pooling in a sticky mess on the floor. Mrs. Stokes must have surprised Sister Marie while she was preparing a batch of Lady’s Remedy. A large carving knife sat in plain view, but Mrs. Stokes was tracking my every move. If I so much as touched the knife, Sister Marie would be dead before I could cross the room. When I spotted a small bottle of brown liquid sitting open on the sideboard, I got an idea.

  “Got some honey here, Mizz Stokes. Goes real nice with biscuits.” Despite my fear, I kept my voice soft and soothing, as if addressing a small child. “You want some?”

  Mae Stokes nodded without taking her eyes off me.

  “Honey’s right here on the shelf,” I said, nodding my head toward the small shelf over the sink. “Gonna have to turn my back to you for a second, okay?”

  It was now or never. Slowly, I took down the jar of honey. As I turned to show it to Mrs. Stokes, I prayed that she did not see that I’d also picked up the brown bottle.

  “Here you go,” I said. Moving my body to block Stokes’s view temporarily, I lifted the top off the honey jar and dumped the entire bottle of laudanum inside. I dipped in a butter knife and pretended to be stirring it to prepare it for her. “A nice plate of biscuits and honey.”

  Taking a deep breath, I carried the plate of biscuits and the honey jar across the room, set them on the table, and backed away. With every step, I kept my eyes on Sister Marie, her face calm despite the knife being pressed against her throat.

  Mrs. Stokes stared at the food on the table. In my heightened state of awareness, I could almost hear the wheels in her brain whirling. Should I eat? Do I dare put down the knife?

  “Stay right where you are,” she said. “Move a single step closer and the old woman dies.” />
  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Apparently satisfied, Mrs. Stokes stepped away from Sister Marie and picked up a biscuit. She used the hunting knife to slice the biscuit in half, then slathered it with honey. As Mrs. Stokes wolfed down the biscuit with an almost feral satisfaction, Sister Marie’s eyes met mine. Keep her talking, they seemed to say. Hopefully the drug you slipped into the honey will take effect soon.

  “I know you’re a devoted Spiritualist,” I said. “I saw you up at Camp Woody Glade.”

  “I saw you too,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Up on stage with Madame Cora. Phony mediums are a stain on the sacred name of Spiritualism.”

  “Is that why you killed Gaylord Wilson?”

  “He had it coming,” Mrs. Stokes said. “Him and Rudy Gillette both, taking money from true believers like that.”

  As she loaded another biscuit with honey and stuck it in her mouth, I watched her closely for signs that the laudanum was taking effect, but Mae Stokes appeared even more alert than before.

  “When I spoke to Gillette after the show, he had the nerve to tell me Madame Cora was on the up and up. I could see for myself that this was a lie, so I took a shortcut and beat him to Gaylord Wilson’s cottage. As I stood outside, I overheard an argument between Wilson and Gillette that confirmed my worst suspicions. It was all a fake—the temple, the séances, everything! When I confronted Wilson about it, he lied to me for the last and final time.”

  “So you waited till his back was turned and bashed his head in.”

  “Killed by his own crystal ball,” Mae Stokes said with a grin. “Poetic justice, don’t you think?”

  The dark cloud of energy around the woman’s head flickered erratically, like a neon light on its last legs.

  “I had to wait a little while to send Rudy Gillette to the other world,” she continued, “but the poisoned chocolates I sent up to his room did the trick just fine. The man was too greedy for his own good.”

  “But why kill Miss Parker? She was trying to expose the fraud at Woody Glade.”

  “Maybe so,” Mrs. Stokes said, reaching for another biscuit, “but she was asking way too many questions about my brother’s bootlegging outfit. Too many folks depend on our operation to let one nosy bitch upset the apple cart.”

  Mrs. Stokes stared into space for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, but before I could spring across the room and knock her over, she resumed her story.

  “In small doses, the heart medicine I take is a lifesaver, but take too much and you’re dead within the hour. I have to say, for a reporter, Miss Parker was remarkably unobservant.” Stokes snickered. “It was easy as pie to add a dollop to the girl’s lemonade.”

  “And you killed Hubie Brown because he was helping her with the bootlegging story?”

  “He was thrilled to get the free bottle of hooch I sent over. Drank more than half the bottle before he keeled over from the poison inside.”

  She grinned and helped herself to another biscuit. “Damn, these are good. One thing you nigras know how to do, it’s cook. If you and the old lady didn’t know so much, I’d keep you around just to fix my breakfast.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Sister Marie is a great cook.”

  If the laudanum I’d mixed into the honey was going to work at all, its effects should soon be visible. I had to keep Mrs. Stokes distracted so she wouldn’t kill us in the meantime.

  “I’m all right as a cook,” I said, inching a tiny bit closer to the kitchen table, “but my real gift is for talking to the Spirit World.”

  “I saw you at Woody Glade, remember?” Mrs. Stokes said wearily. “You’re as phony as all the rest. One of the many reasons I’m going to kill you today, both of you.”

  Was it my imagination or did her grip on the butcher knife seem a bit looser than before?

  “But why kill Sister Marie? She hasn’t done anything to hurt you.”

  “True enough,” Mrs. Stokes agreed, nodding as though we were discussing the weather, “but she’s a witness. She’s heard my confession, so she’s going have to go.” Stokes stuck a finger in the honey jar and licked it clean. “You might think it’s a terrible thing I’m doing, sending these people to the Spirit World. But the truth is, I am doing y’all a favor. The other side is a beautiful place. You’re gonna thank me for sending you there, believe me.”

  Although Mrs. Stokes had appeared to falter momentarily, the demented fire in her eyes was suddenly blazing stronger than ever. She turned the knife and stroked the handle lovingly.

  “This here knife is going to be the instrument of your deliverance.”

  Suddenly, I got a brilliant idea.

  “Hallelujah!” I cried out and fell to my knees. “Take me away from this world of woe and care. Let me go to the Spirit World where all is sweetness and light.”

  Thrown off guard momentarily, Mrs. Stokes stared at me, her rouged mouth a tiny O of surprise.

  “You heard me,” I shouted. “Deliver me up to heaven, Mizz Stokes!”

  Was it possible the laudanum was taking effect at last? For the first time since I’d walked into Sister Marie’s shack, Mae Stokes seemed uncertain. Though she still held on to the knife, she had lowered it to her side as she continued to stare at me without speaking.

  “I’ve got one foot on Jacob’s Ladder as it is,” I said. “Before I go, I need to give you this message from your brother in Spirit.”

  “A message?”

  I kept my eyes locked on Mrs. Stokes as I answered. “Yes. He’s with us now. Can’t you feel him?”

  I certainly could. Despite the sweltering summer heat, my body was ice cold. The air around me felt electric, and the ringing in my ears was louder than the bells at Trinity Cathedral. I leapt to my feet, put my hand on my heart, and began to sing:

  In the hills of Old Kentucky

  There’s a mother old and gray

  Waiting for her only son

  Who’s gone so far away

  To fight upon a battlefield

  Across the ocean blue.

  Come home to me, my darling

  My one and only man

  You’re all I’ve got

  Be Johnny-on-the-spot

  For Dixie and Uncle Sam.

  “Johnny?” Mae Stokes dropped the knife and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Is that you?”

  Had I been in my normal mind, I would have picked up the knife immediately. The truth was, in that moment, I was not myself. As if from a great height, I heard myself say, “Mae, darlin’, you know I love you. Always will. But I seen enough killin’ in the Ardennes Forest to last me forever. You’re all I’ve got. Be Johnny-on-the-spot. Time to stop the killin’, baby girl. Stop it for me, for Dixie, and for Uncle Sam.”

  I’m not sure exactly what happened next. When I returned to my normal self, Mae Stokes lay unconscious on the floor. Whether this was due to the Spirit World or to the laudanum, I truly could not say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “The laudanum did her in,” The Boss said with an approving nod. “Smart thinking too. Thanks to you, Mae Stokes is now in jail.”

  On the other hand, Mrs. Mason was positive that the Spirit World had a hand in the affair.

  “My spirit guide feels that you have tremendous potential, Bright Feather,” she said. “I hope you’ll come back to visit me often.”

  Sister Marie, the only other person who had actually been there, advised me to accept events without trying to explain them.

  “Just be grateful,” she said. “It never pays to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  John Robinson was the only person who had not expressed an opinion. In fact, we had not spoken since the day I’d left his church and discovered Mae Stokes holding a knife to Sister Marie’s throat.

  Though most of Churchtown had stopped by to congratulate me for putting Mae Stokes behind bars, John Robinson kept his distance. As days turned into weeks without seeing him, I told myself that I didn’t care. True, he had touche
d my heart. He’d even asked me to marry him. But the man was nearly thirty, and definitely not my type.

  At least, that is what I told myself, but when he left a note with Sister Marie inviting me to meet him for dinner at the nicest colored restaurant in Aronsville, I had to admit that I was pleased.

  As I sat across the table from him wearing my best dress, there was no denying that I had feelings for John Robinson. He’d smoothed down his curly hair and trimmed his mustache. He’d even forsaken his clerical collar for the occasion and was impeccably turned out in a pearl-gray suit that complemented his copper skin tone and dark-brown eyes.

  Still, my mind churned with questions. Could this really be love? Would it last? The man was more than ten years older than I was. Worse still, he was the minister of a congregation where many thought of me as a witch. Would he be able to accept me for who I was—an outspoken woman with unusual abilities and a mind of her own?

  On these questions, my inner voice stubbornly remained silent. Apparently, psychics are as blind as the rest of humanity when it comes to matters of the heart. As John Robinson reached across the table and took my hand, I decided that perhaps there were some things in life I was better off not knowing.

  — THE END —

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Bringing a book into the world is a whole lot like raising a child. As the African saying goes, it takes an entire village to do it. Special thanks to my publishers Duke and Kimberly Pennell; to my amazing editor Meg Dendler; to Kelsey Rice for designing the most fabulous cover ever; to my beta readers Marian Stanley, Liz Horwitz, Susan Oleksiw and Sarah Ritt.

  This book would never have been written without the love, support and writing advice of my husband, the inimitable John Voigt.

  Curious about African American psychics, Spiritualism or the real people who inspired the characters in this book?