Double the Lies, page 12
On the street, a thick crowd was pressing up at the Rialto ticket counter. Some made comments as Annalee exited Wallace’s enormous black Cadillac limo, helped out by hand by Wallace’s uniformed white chauffeur. But she couldn’t fret. Where’s Jack?
The crowd didn’t part, and Annalee had to wait her turn at the ticket counter.
“How many?” The ticket taker saw her and stopped.
“I’m not buying. But have you seen Reverend Blake? The colored pastor? We were supposed to meet here tonight. He said you’d know him.”
Counting a stack of bills, the ticket taker gave her a look. “Yeah, I know him. Jack Blake. Haven’t seen him tonight.”
“Are you sure?”
“How many?” He looked around her shoulder. The next people in line were anxious to pay.
Annalee let that couple move ahead, buy their tickets. “Did he come to the earlier show?”
“Nope. Ain’t seen him.”
“Can I give you my card if he comes through? Tell him I’ll meet him at the Rossonian?”
“Ain’t running no message center, lady. I’m selling tickets here. Step aside.”
And how quickly things changed. One minute Annalee was sitting in the president’s corner office at First Denver National, beaming after a standing ovation in the bank’s fancy Mile High Room. Now she stood on a sidewalk outside the Rialto picture show, getting ignored by the indifferent ticket taker, begging him to pass along a message to the man who, for all she knew, might be angry at her for breaking their Friday night date.
She moved aside.
It was ten after nine and couples were rushing to buy their tickets and get seated before the main feature rolled. They wore that Friday evening glow, many arm in arm, some sneaking kisses and “hugged up,” as Mrs. Stallworth would put it. Their faces gleamed in the bright marquee lights of Theater Row, as that downtown section of Curtis Street was called.
Parked cars lined both sides, the street filled with moving traffic, the electric streetcars in two center lanes all lit up brightly for the evening, jammed with people.
I should be here with Jack, Annalee told herself. But maybe that was just a fantasy, something she’d imagined could happen because she wanted it so bad. Besides, they weren’t even allowed inside the main doors of the Theater Row houses like white couples. After buying their tickets, they’d have to walk to the back alley, up rickety, steep wooden stairs to the warped door of the crow’s nest, and sit like exiles in the back rows of the balcony.
Annalee waited another fifteen minutes or so, watching the ticket line dwindle. She started to ask the ticket taker one more time for help. But he was preoccupied with counting up bills and change, reckoning receipts, and straightening his workstation. Seeing no more customers, he pulled the money pass-through closed, clicked off a small light over his head, and locked up his cage. With a metal money box under his arm, he headed inside the theater, leaving Annalee standing alone outside.
She had nothing else to do but leave.
But I’m not happy about this, she told herself. Being alone was a kick in the gut. Eddie wasn’t even here, although she’d told him to stay away tonight. But now, if she were honest, she wished he’d disobeyed and shown up.
Turning alone, she headed toward Five Points. Gave herself a pep talk. I’m Annalee Spain, detective. So the night wouldn’t end without her digging up an answer about Jack. He didn’t just disappear. So here I go. She set off walking.
But with every step, she knew there was more to it. Something doesn’t feel right, Mrs. Stallworth. Doubt nagged her. Not a good sign. But if it must, she hoped this night’s new worry would show her why.
“It was not the man who surprised me. It was his companion.”
SH, THE ADVENTURE OF THE CROOKED MAN
IT WAS A COLD, STUPID WALK. Annalee didn’t hurry because she wasn’t sure at first where to go. Head back to the Cunninghams’? Back to her cabin? Or to the Rossonian Lounge? She’d never been there by herself and didn’t relish walking into a nightclub alone. Not even for Jack.
Where in the heck was he? Why wasn’t he out and about, searching all over town for her, like he’d done the night she’d arrived in Denver last December on a train from Chicago? Denver’s downtown wasn’t that big. If he was even half looking, they’d run into each other.
Instead, she was dragging down a nearly dark street alone, knowing—on one hand—she’d made decent progress in starting to find answers about Jeffrey Mann’s murder. She knew who he was at least. Yet she didn’t have a clue where things stood with my man.
Why’d she ever even try to be “in love”? Whatever that was. Nothing in life was more complicated.
Anyway, somebody had threatened in a poison-pen letter to kill them all. Maybe that would solve everything. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about Jack, or anything else, anymore.
She rolled her eyes. Stop your pitying.
Still, she was bothered by the evening’s sour turn. So she turned on East Twenty-Seventh Avenue and headed toward the Welton Street nightclub. Mrs. Stallworth, if she knew, would have a natural fit. Mrs. Cunningham, too. “You went to a nightclub? Alone?” But no matter what happened, she could tell Jack she’d looked everywhere for him—to make up for breaking their date.
So here I go, she told herself, finally reaching Welton Street and seeing, a block away, the dimmed outside lights of the Rossonian. The place would be filling up, although the action didn’t peak apparently, on a weekend night, until almost midnight.
If a famous Negro act was in town, they’d finish up their performance at some fancy downtown hotel. Then they’d head for the Rossonian to unwind, order a late supper from the restaurant, and set up in the lounge to play their music, partying with the locals until all hours. Some weekends, as she knew, the place didn’t shut down until almost dawn.
But not for her.
She’d peek inside, look for Jack, and if he wasn’t there, head for home. She couldn’t ask more of herself. Not tonight. After all, she’d given a speech. And I’m solving a murder.
Approaching the nightclub, however, she saw a bigger crowd than she’d expected. Outside the club doors, people dressed in their Friday night best were socializing, calling to each other, some “hugged up” too, enjoying end-of-week fun. It was a noisy crowd, gleeful and exuberant. The entire street was abuzz, in fact. Lots of traffic. Cars honking. Friends hanging out of car windows, waving each other down.
Annalee wasn’t comfortable walking into the revelry by herself. But she wouldn’t have to now because, as a car pulled off, a navy-blue Buick touring car pulled into an open space on the curb, and her heart leaped. Jack.
He swung open his car door and Annalee, from half a block away and across the street, called his name. “Jack!”
Her eyes tingled. He looked that wonderful to her—wearing his pressed dark suit, his preacher collar, his lovely face freshly shaved, hair neatly brushed, shoes shined. Carrying his small Bible—into a nightclub of all places. She couldn’t help herself. “Jack!”
But he didn’t hear her. He was rushing to his passenger door and opening it and helping out his passenger, and she was . . . No, God. So beautiful. And lovely. Smiling up at Jack. Pretty brown-skinned girl.
Jack put his arm around the young woman’s shoulders, headed into the crowd toward the Rossonian’s front door.
“Jack.” Annalee barely whispered his name. So he couldn’t have heard her voice. But for some reason, he turned back. He looked across the busy street. He saw her. She was standing on the sidewalk, cars whizzing past, looking right at him, her stupid used coat hanging open, new blue dress peeking out. He whispered something to the young woman, who then stood off to the side.
Jack ran across the street, dodging traffic, rushing up to her. “Annalee!” He stuffed his Bible in a pocket, scooped her into his arms. “Thank God. I’m so glad to see you!” He pressed her close, sighing into her ear.
She didn’t react because . . . I don’t know what to say.
He settled her on the sidewalk, pulled her to him again. “Goodness, you’re freezing.”
She blinked a thousand times, trying to speak. But again, I really don’t know what to say.
“C’mon inside.” Jack gestured across the street and then he reached for her hands. He rubbed them between his own for a moment. “I want you to meet someone.” He squinted at her. “Why are you so cold?”
“Did you get my message?” Her voice was a whisper, but she needed to know.
“Mrs. Mason left a note. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Said something about you had to cancel.”
“No, my message for you on my door at the cabin. I wrote your name on it.”
“I didn’t go to your place. Mrs. Mason’s note said—”
“I thought you were heading straight to my place—”
“I needed a clean white shirt . . . Listen, let’s not argue tonight. I had a great two days in Dearfield. All I could think about was you and now here you are and—” He stepped back. “And look at you.” He slipped open her coat. “Man alive, Annalee. Is that a new dress?” He looked her over, searched her face. “Wow. I feel like I’ve waited all week to see you.”
He reached for her again, but she stood there stone-still, confused and uncertain and, yes, cold as all get-out. Mercy, why is everything with Jack, well, so complicated?
“We’ve had a mix-up,” he was saying. “I don’t know what happened. But I don’t care! You’re here now. And you’ll never guess what happened.”
“Okay.”
“Are you listening to me?”
She nodded.
“Remember I told you about Katherine—the young lady I met in France?”
Annalee nodded again. What was he saying? Katherine was dead. A colored volunteer with the YWCA, she’d met Jack at a Paris nightclub, gone out with him once, both of them enjoying the date. But it was war. He never saw her again. She was killed the next day in a bombing raid.
But Jack had never forgotten her. He’d admitted as much. But he didn’t love her, he said. “I didn’t know her—not really.”
“Turns out she has a sister. A twin sister. And she’s here. In Denver!”
Annalee swallowed, listening. Trying to hear this without worry or judgment or, well, jealousy? Except she could barely listen to what Jack was saying for the joy in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, and the silly grin on his heartbreakingly handsome face. He looked downright giddy.
“Her name’s Dora. She’s on her way to St. Louis—that’s their hometown—and she booked a one-day layover to find me. To say thanks for being kind to her late sister. She met folks from New York who told her I’d moved here. On her way back from seeing family in California, she made plans to stay a night in Denver and—”
Jack went on and on. Talking about Dora this, Dora that. Him stopping off at Mrs. Mason’s. Needing to freshen up. Then finding Mrs. Mason’s cryptic message saying Annalee had canceled. Even crazier was finding the lovely Dora. “Sitting in Mrs. Mason’s parlor. The spitting image of Katherine—they’re identical twins actually. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Listen, Jack—” Annalee tried to focus her thoughts.
“No, you listen. Come across the street and say hello to Dora. I’ve been bending her ear all night about you. I took her to dinner tonight—”
“To dinner?”
“And all I talked about was—”
“Thanks, Jack.”
His voice fell. “I’m just trying to show her a good time.” He stepped back. “But it looks like I messed things up.”
She shook her head. “It’s not you. After you went to Dearfield, so much happened. And Mrs. Mason was wrong. I didn’t cancel. I was just going to be late. My note explained everything, but you never got it—”
And I’m solving a blasted murder. Or I’m trying.
“Let me drive you home then. Dora can ride with us. You can meet her and say hello. She’s leaving for St. Louis first thing in the morning, early train.”
Annalee turned away. “I’ll let you make my excuses. Have a good evening.” She started walking away.
“Annalee!”
She kept walking.
“You’re breaking my heart right now.” His voice sounded torn and distraught.
“I’m breaking my own,” she murmured under her breath. Because a smarter young woman would know a better way to react now. Right, Mrs. Stallworth? Or if she’d only had a mother—she would’ve taught her of love and life and mix-ups and men. Taught her how to let Dora or a twin sister or a million other things where men are concerned roll off her back—so she could get back in the game. Instead, with Jack, she always seemed to get it wrong. Even with his beautiful stupid handkerchief.
“Go find Dora,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll talk to you when you’re free.” Because you’re not free yet, Jack. But was she? She’d be in jail, in fact, if she didn’t hurry up and figure out who killed Rebecca Mann’s husband. Lord Jesus, Rebecca’s broken heart must be weeping tonight, Annalee thought. She couldn’t imagine how awful the poor young woman was feeling.
For herself now, she just kept walking, pressing down Welton and across Five Points back to her place. Jack didn’t follow her. She didn’t blame him.
Thus, after walking in the cold and dark, afraid of the shadows but acting like she wasn’t, she arrived at her cabin, yanked off the note she’d left for Jack, and crumpled it up, tossing it on the ground or wherever it landed.
She let herself in, locked the door tight, and sat on the side of her bed in her pretty blue dress.
It was freezing in the cabin, so she made herself a fire in her small stove. She washed her face in her tiny bathroom. Brushed her hair back, plopped Mrs. Cunningham’s velvet headband back on her head. Then she crawled into bed and did what good detectives never do.
She cried.
Then she wiped her face and went to sleep. Her reason was manifest. I can’t solve a murder—or anything else in this life—with a stupid runny nose.
A rough banging sound awakened her the next morning. Some half-wild person was rattling her cabin door. What in the world? Eddie? Mrs. Stallworth?
She yanked open her door and her jaw dropped.
Mildred Mason.
“Wake up, Pastor Blake!”
“Excuse me?”
“Where is he?”
“I beg your pardon?” Annalee was in no mood for crazy. Jack’s landlady—mean ol’ Mrs. Mason, as Eddie had called her, and rightly so—stood on Annalee’s little porch, her hands on her hips and a snarl across her mouth.
“I know he’s in there. And look at you. Still wearing your clothes from last night—”
“What?”
“Or whenever you put those clothes on. All wrinkled and twisted. Who knows what you’ve been doing in that dress—”
“Excuse me?” Annalee couldn’t believe her ears. “You’ve got your wires crossed, Mrs. Mason. Pastor Blake is not here—and he’s never stayed in my place all night!”
“Well, where is he, then?” Mrs. Mason tried to push past Annalee.
“Stop that! I haven’t the slightest idea where he is! What is wrong with you?”
“I’m not leaving till I see for myself.” Mrs. Mason tried to peer around Annalee’s shoulder, her breathing fast and angry.
Annalee’s breath raced even faster. She put her hands to her chest, trying to calm herself.
“I’ll let you inside, Mrs. Mason. But you need to calm yourself. This is my home. I’d never push myself into your place like this. Especially at the crack of dawn.”
Mrs. Mason pursed her lips, looking chastised but annoyed. “Well, let me in, then. Please.”
Annalee stepped back, giving way for Mrs. Mason to enter. With a huff, the landlady pushed past her and marched into the cabin. She walked in a small circle, eying every corner, even peeked in the tiny bathroom, seeing the place was empty—but clean, Annalee thought gratefully. She’d straightened and wiped down everything last night before leaving for her speech. Only her bed was unmade.
“Well, where is he?” Mrs. Mason said again.
“He didn’t come back to your rooming house last night?”
“No, and neighbors said he’d left earlier with a young woman.”
“Well, she wasn’t me. But why are you asking me about him at, what, seven o’clock in the morning?”
“The police woke me up at six. They found Pastor Blake’s car at the train station downtown, engine still running, doors wide-open, key in the slot, car jammed halfway into the baggage section near the parking lot, one tire up on a bench, his driver’s license on the floor of the car.”
“Don’t kid me, Mrs. Mason.”
“Kidding? They’re going to impound it if he doesn’t pick it up by eight o’clock this morning, and I’ll have to pay because my address is on his new driver’s license. Here’s the key!”
“Why give it to me?”
“Well, you and him—”
“Me and him nothing! His car isn’t my business. Besides, I can barely drive. Ask one of his trustees to drive it home.”
“Home? I don’t want that car parked in front of my property. You’ve got room here outside your place. Besides, time is running out. You need to go get that car!”
“Why is the world so crazy?” Annalee didn’t roll her eyes but felt like it.
“You’re going to insult me now?”
“That’s the last thing I want to do, Mrs. Mason.”
Jack’s landlady took that in. She’d started to calm down, kept looking around the cabin.
“This was your daddy’s place?”
Annalee glanced away. Not that now, Mrs. Mason. Please not that. She waited.
“Well, you keep it nice in here.” Mrs. Mason looked around again.
“I try.”
