Double the Lies, page 10
Her bright-blue dress fit her nicely, if she had to say so, gratefully, herself. A soapy sponge bath left her feeling revived, and so did a spritz of lavender water. Yep, Jack’s favorite. “I love when you wear it,” he’d told her, pulling her to him, breathing in the summery scent. Looking at the small clock on her shelf, her heart sank a little—knowing he’d drive up at eight to pick her up, but she’d already be gone. She wrote a note for him and left it in the doorframe of her cabin. Please, dear God, let him find it. And please, windy night, don’t blow it away.
Walking at a good clip, she made it to Mrs. Cunningham’s in time to have a light snack with Mrs. Stallworth. Then later with Jack? Their amazing dinner, together and alone.
“You have everything? Your notes? Your thoughts? Your peace of mind? Know what you’re going to say to those folks?”
“If I don’t know by now, it’s too late to figure it out.”
“I’m proud of you.” Mrs. Stallworth stepped closer and looked Annalee over, moving a curl back from her face. “Although I have a funny feeling about tonight.”
“You and your funny feelings.”
“Still, if things don’t feel right—”
“I know! Mr. C. told me already. Get out of there.”
Mrs. Cunningham came into the kitchen then with her boudoir kit—a newly washed comb and brush, hairpins, and lipstick among the items.
“No lipstick!” Mrs. Stallworth wouldn’t hear of it.
“Goodness, lipstick won’t hurt anything,” Mrs. Cunningham said. “Keep it in your purse.”
“Maybe just a little,” Annalee said, relaxing her lips, letting Mrs. Cunningham dab on a touch. She was aware of being pulled in two ways. She longed to look lovely tonight for Jack . . . if I can find him. Mean ol’ Mrs. Mason wasn’t answering her phone so Annalee could update her message for Jack. But to save her own hide, Annalee had to stay focused on her speaking event to ferret out at least one clue about Jeffrey Mann’s awful death.
“How about a little jewelry?” Mrs. Cunningham asked. “My pair of small earrings?”
“Jewelry?” Annalee thought about the jasper necklace, still wrapped in brown paper, jammed in the bottom of her purse. It would go perfectly with her dress, a slim sheath with a sheer illusion bodice, open sleeves, and a rather scandalous low back. Annalee was surprised Mrs. Stallworth had approved, but she was glad for it. She adored the lovely dress and hoped Jack would, too.
“Extra sparkle, too?”
Well, the jasper necklace might draw a suspect to her. But the piece was Rebecca Mann’s late mother’s. Out of respect, she wouldn’t exploit it that way. “No extra sparkle.”
“Now then, your hair.” Mrs. Cunningham was chatting about hairstyles. Holding a brush, her hands in Annalee’s hair, she prepared to dive in.
“Nothing fancy,” Annalee said. “And can you make it quick, if you don’t mind? I need to get going.”
“No rush. Mr. Cunningham will drop you off in the taxi.”
“He doesn’t have to—”
“Hush! We’re not letting you walk all the way downtown in the dark all dressed up.”
“You two spoil me.”
“Well . . .” Mrs. Cunningham left it at that.
Mrs. Stallworth did the same. Both women were childless and Annalee had become like the daughter they both shared. To her, in turn, they were like the mother she’d never known—all of it too complicated to discuss, especially tonight.
“Well . . . ,” Mrs. Stallworth finally said. “As if spoiling is a bad thing—on occasion, from time to time, at least.”
“Well . . . right,” Mrs. Cunningham added but ended the topic there.
The hairdo didn’t take long. Mrs. Cunningham was good with a brush. Smoothing down Annalee’s jumble of curls, she added a black velvet headband and hairpins to hold the look in place. She handed Annalee a small mirror.
“Oh, my goodness.” Annalee patted her curls. “I love this.” Jack will, too.
“And here’s Mr. Cunningham,” Mrs. Stallworth said.
“Right on time.”
“Is the man ever late?”
“Never.” Mrs. Cunningham winked at her husband.
He laughed. “Your carriage awaits.”
And Annalee was off.
But to do what? Find a killer? Pick up a clue? Dear Jesus in heaven, please don’t let me make a fool of myself tonight. She gazed into the dark. And please let me find Jack. Or let him find me.
“Here you are.” Mr. Cunningham slowed the taxi in heavy traffic and stopped in front of First Denver National Bank. He looked out at the impressive white marble facade. “You pickin’ high cotton tonight, little bit. Break a leg.”
She thanked him for the ride, reminded him to be careful, too. Then she scooted out of the cab but turned back. “If you see Reverend Blake out tonight, would you please ask him to wait for me at the Rialto?”
“Nine o’clock show?”
“That’s right. I’ll wait by the ticket counter.”
“Got it. Now you be careful tonight!” Mr. Cunningham saluted her and drove off.
Looking up at the bank building, Annalee let her nerves rattle around a bit but finally told her pounding heart to settle down.
She had nothing to fear, she told herself. I’m just a small cog in the wheel of a busy, big world. No matter her speech, that world would keep turning.
The streets, in fact, were bustling. Not a surprise. Friday nights in Denver were electric. After a long workweek, people were hot to trot, as Mrs. Stallworth put it—eager to come downtown, hit the streets, let their hair down, enjoy a night on the town.
Street vendors were selling roasted peanuts, buttered popcorn, candy, hot chocolate. Newsboys were hawking papers on every corner. “Extra! Extra!”
“Newspaper, lady?”
“Not tonight, thanks.”
Walking across a courtyard to the bank’s massive front doors, Annalee felt grateful to see only a few people queuing up in a line outside.
Maybe her audience would be small. I hope.
Like earlier today, some whispered behind their hands when she walked up. She just said hello, although not a single person replied in kind. Tough crowd. But she told herself not to worry. I’m here to sniff out information. Not to win speaker of the year.
At the front door, a gangly police officer in uniform and cap watched her, giving her a stone face, as she approached.
“I’m Annalee Spain,” she announced herself.
The officer didn’t reply. Ignoring her, he turned to answer a question from a woman in the line. The two chatted a moment before he stepped back to the door.
“Excuse me. Do you have my name?” Annalee knew this drill. The cop wouldn’t be satisfied until he made her feel like a nobody. But I don’t even care, she thought. She had only one thing on her mind—getting through her silly speech, securing a clue or two, and making it to the Rialto by nine o’clock. To see my man. Thank you very much.
She turned toward the door and grabbed the handle.
“Hey! You can’t go in there.”
She ignored him and pulled on the door.
“Hands off!” the cop shouted, grabbing for her arm, pulling hard. “Get back, I said—”
“Beg your pardon!” She yanked her arm away.
“What’s the problem here?” A second officer—older, skinny, gruff-looking—rushed up from another end of the courtyard. “What’s this, Duncan?”
“Troublemaker, sir. She’s trying to—”
The second cop ignored that, glared at Annalee. “You the Spain woman?”
“Annalee Spain.”
“She’s on the program.” He pointed at the door. “In here. Take the lift to the third floor.”
“That’s wrong. It’s the second floor.”
He glared. “Got changed. Last minute. Floor three.” He pointed at the door again. “In here.”
She waited for the second officer to open the door for her, but of course he didn’t. So she pushed past the other cop and pulled it open. Heavy and imposing, it was a bank door, after all, so it took some effort.
Still, she stepped bravely into the lobby, straightened her coat, tried to settle her mind, look composed, and not worry about the last-minute change in location—floor three, not two—while stifling her anger at the two ornery cops. Just walk to the elevator and get in the lift.
But then she looked up.
Holy cow.
The First Denver bank lobby.
Oh, my goodness.
She smiled to herself with awe, taking it all in—the soaring elegance, the glowing beauty. It was a marble-and-glass showpiece. Three stories high with a catwalk along a second floor, accessed by a double-wide marble staircase—the entire space was lit for the evening by a trio of massive, dimmed, matching glass-crystal chandeliers. The elaborately carved lobby emoted grandeur but gravity, style but security. For anybody with more than a penny to save, this was a place to bring your hard-earned bounty.
Annalee walked toward the staircase and gazed up, longing to scoot behind the red-velvet rope blocking it off and ascend the stairs—like a fairy-tale Cinderella. Instead, with regret, she saw the Elevator sign and followed its arrow to a narrow corridor behind the staircase, leading to another Elevator sign with an arrow, pointing down a poorly lit hallway to the back of the building and finally a two-person lift.
She took in a breath. She’d ridden on a few elevators before, including an empty one marked “whites only”—just to defy the awful rule—but never alone. Where was the operator?
In fact, where was anybody?
It was almost eight, probably, and here she was, debating whether to step inside a dingy, cramped lift, close the caged door, figure out how to work the controls and ride up to floor three. Where were the stairs in this part of the building? But would a narrow, dark staircase feel any safer?
Something doesn’t feel right, Mrs. Stallworth.
Steadying her nervous hand, she pushed the Up button and waited for the elevator to descend to the first floor. And she waited. And waited. And waited. After what seemed far too long, she could hear the elevator shudder and groan and squeal its way as slow as Grandma’s molasses onto the first floor. Finally. Annalee found the lever to open the outer door, pulled back the caged gate, and peeked inside. Warm, cramped, stuffy air met her—as if the lift hadn’t been used for weeks. One tiny bulb flickered weak light.
Twisting her mouth, she stepped inside. Well, here goes nothing.
Turning to face the door, she reached for the big control handle, ready to push it forward, bracing to feel the elevator jump into action. But she stopped. Noticing.
The mind did that, she knew, when something wasn’t right because it needed to be seen for wrong. So here was something to see across the hallway—a crumpled paper in a tiny metal waste can pushed into a corner. Not my business, she told herself. I’m running late. But she couldn’t stop looking at it.
Frowning, she exited the narrow elevator and moved to the waste can, picking up the crumpled paper, not surprised to see what it said: This Elevator OUT OF ORDER. A handwritten sign, written in red ink.
She could see right here what happened. She’d been directed, on purpose, to this wreck of a lift. Somebody’s got my number, she warned herself, and wants me out of the way. But they didn’t count on what she knew about herself.
After a tough childhood with a father who too often failed her, and the pain of a world that seemed to often hate who she was—Black and young—she was too stubborn now to back off. She’d find a clue tonight no matter what it took—and she wasn’t going to jail for it either. Surely not for killing Jeffrey Mann, whose killer was still on the loose.
She grabbed the waste can and placed it beside the elevator door, keeping it from closing, then shoved the warning sign inside the caged gate. It could be seen from that angle, warning away others from using the elevator.
Wiping her hands on her borrowed coat, she marched back toward the lobby, hearing people talking and laughing, sounding casual and Friday night happy. The two policemen were letting people inside, directing them up the wide marble staircase—no longer blocked by the red-velvet rope.
The older cop, seeing her, pursed his lips, gave her a sneer, and turned his back.
She ignored him. But looking back, she whispered a sort of prayer for him—Fix him, Lord—then joined the crowd ascending the stairs. With each step, she knew she could be walking into another trap. To calm herself, therefore, she hummed—under her breath—some old hymn she’d heard Mount Moriah’s choir sing last Sunday. “Come, we that love the Lord . . . We’re marching upward to Zion.”
Good song actually.
At the second-floor landing, she moved with the crowd as folks turned toward double doors off a long marble corridor, opening to an oversize meeting room. But a well-dressed, middle-aged woman wearing a purple feathered cloche hat rushed up.
“Annalee!”
“Annalee Spain. That’s me, yes.” She was glad to see somebody glad to see her.
“You’re here! Thank goodness! Come this way. Let’s get out of this mess. So many people. We had no idea!” She linked her arm into Annalee’s, moved them through the crush. “Excuse me!” the woman said. “Coming through! Pardon me!”
“Are you with the ladies’ club?” Annalee felt she wanted a name, an introduction.
“Oh, my word! I forgot my name badge. I’m Violet. Violet Vaughn. Mr. Ames told me to watch out for you. I’m program chair. But we weren’t expecting this.” She gestured toward the crowd. “Last-minute change. We’ll be in the Mile High Room—”
“Not the boardroom?”
“Nope, in the bank’s big meeting room—the auditorium actually. You’re a hot ticket.” Violet rushed Annalee through the double doors, past row after row of cushioned folding chairs and onto an elevated podium. She pointed to a large settee, showing Annalee where to sit. “I’ll introduce you after announcements. Then the floor is yours. Everyone’s so excited—although you’re probably not. After what happened.”
“What happened?” Annalee’s stomach tightened.
Violet’s eyes got big. She cocked her hat, looked out at the gathering audience. “Oh, my word!”
Annalee followed her eyes. “What’s the matter?” She wanted Violet, for all her friendliness, to stop her chattering. But she kept at it.
“You didn’t see the evening newspapers? The extras?”
“I didn’t have time. Please, ma’am, can you explain—?”
“That woman who killed your father. They let her out of jail a few days ago—”
“Let her out?”
“Early this week. But the judge waited to announce it till today—to give her time to get settled.”
“Settled?”
“I thought you knew!”
“How would I know?”
“Oh, my goodness!”
“What’s the matter now?”
“She’s here tonight. Right over there. Sitting in the front row.” Violet gripped Annalee’s arm, then gave Annalee a shocked look with a hard whisper.
“It’s Elizabeth Castle!”
“It is not really difficult to construct a series of inferences, each dependent upon its predecessor and each simple in itself.”
SH, THE ADVENTURE OF THE DANCING MEN
THERE, INDEED, SHE WAS. Elizabeth Castle. Front row center. Annalee could barely breathe at the sight of her. The woman who murdered her father was seated in the glittering, sprawling room like Klan royalty, wearing her all-white getup
She was a sparkly, defiant, triumphant, magnificent, royal-looking conqueror.
She was bested, however, by her seatmate. On Elizabeth’s left sat the top dog of Denver’s Klan, a “Grand Dragon” something or other—his face familiar from a thousand newspaper articles either boosting or blaming him.
Annalee didn’t blink, just let her eyes pass right over him, seeing on Elizabeth’s right side her regal mother, garbed head to toe in dark red. Annalee recognized the older woman from her last case, when she’d worked undercover as a maid in the Castle household.
On Elizabeth’s right, down two seats sat her uncle, Agent Robert Ames—tonight looking as his family knew him, as the red-faced, often-drunk Lemonade Hank. He looked three sheets to the wind, his eyes half-open and drowsy.
Annalee gave him a questioning glance, but he didn’t respond.
Next to Ames sat the burly policeman—Officer Luther—wearing a suit. Not in uniform. He avoided Annalee’s glance, too.
Elizabeth didn’t deign to look her way either. She was greeting well-wishers, many rushing over to congratulate her, it appeared, on getting let out of prison. Not bothering to shake the dozens of hands thrust her way, Elizabeth put forward a satisfied smile, nodding her acknowledgments as some pointed to the stage at Annalee, some cutting their eyes at her.
And what an evening this is turning out to be.
“Why was she released?” Annalee whispered to a still stunned-looking Violet.
“A judge said insufficient evidence—or something like that. You know these crooked judges. I didn’t have time to read all the news. Oh, my word! This is not what we’d planned. Are you going to be all right?”
Annalee heard the question. She thought of everything wrong that had already happened so far this evening—not to mention so far in her life—and made her choice.
“I’ll be just fine,” she said, defying how she felt—shocked, furious, but somehow not surprised. Elizabeth had murdered her father and an innocent little baby—left her in the cold to die to protect her son from being connected to the child’s colored mother.
Annalee pulled off her thrift store coat and set it down on the settee next to her pocketbook. Nice and easy. She took her seat, grateful to feel neat, groomed, and professional-looking, she hoped, in her pretty blue dress. No jewelry.
She looked out at the crowd as Violet stepped to the podium and delivered a chatty welcome. A couple hundred people in the fancy room trained their eyes on the stage. Annalee ran her eyes across the rows, glancing at faces, looking for Rebecca Mann but not surprised by her absence, ignoring Elizabeth Castle altogether. I’m here to sniff out another murderer. Or to hear something that would help find him. Or her.
