Dear Sister Dead, page 4
I wondered what he meant by that, and was about to ask when he went on.
“I guess I should go see them.”
“Will you?”
“I don’t know yet. Perhaps. But we both know that the cops are not our friends. Interactions with them, they often don’t end well for us.”
Though he was speaking in general terms, I had the distinct impression that his rancor was born of personal experience.
“If you did go, what would you tell them?”
His gaze went to his sister’s framed photo on the mantel. He picked it up, studied it. “That’s a good question. I’m not sure. It depends on what they want to know.”
“Well, if you’ve been away a long time, they might not think you have anything worthwhile to add. For example, they’ve been asking whether Vera had enemies, anyone out to harm her. Whether she’d been acting fearful or worried. They might not think you have anything to say about that … since you were away for so long.” I drew out the last few words in an unspoken question.
He set the picture back down. “Just because I was away, it doesn’t mean we were out of touch. We exchanged letters every few months.”
“And did she ever mention—”
“Enemies? No. She never said anything … about that.”
There was a slight hesitation, a slight change in his tone of voice.
“About that?” I repeated. “But she did say something—about something else?”
He took a moment, obviously trying to determine whether he could trust me. “She wasn’t happy.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She wasn’t being true to herself. She couldn’t be, not when married to a man like him.” He nodded toward Levy.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. Vera had told me the very opposite, that her marriage to Levy would enable her to be more of herself, to develop and grow and accomplish what she’d set out to do, help young mothers, recruit and train better nurses—all of which she’d done, using her influence as the wife of a powerful preacher.
He gestured toward Levy. “She gave up too much for him, too much of the woman she was, the woman she could’ve been. And whether she was willing to admit it or not, she regretted it.”
“She told you that??”
He paused, then said, “She didn’t have to.”
“Then how—”
“I know because she was having an affair. No one does that when they’re happy or satisfied.”
“An affair?” For a moment, I stood there, open-mouthed, shocked. “But you’re wrong. You’ve got to be. Vera would never—”
“I saw her. With him, the man.”
“Saw her? You just saw her with a man and you assumed—”
“They were sitting together, in the back of a restaurant talking, in the corner, their heads close.”
“How close?”
He drew his palms together. “Very close. They were in a world of their own. Whatever they were saying, it was for them and them alone.”
I had a rather sudden and very earnest desire for a good strong drink. “When was this?”
“About a week ago.”
I was about to ask about the man, for a description, when I heard my name being called—“Lanie?”— and turned to see Levy approaching.
“This character hasn’t been bothering you, has he?” Levy asked.
“I’ve been filling her ears with all sorts of nonsense,” Del Ray said. “And she’s been gracious enough to listen. But," and here he set his coffee cup on the fireplace mantel, “I think it’s time for me to head out.”
“Oh, must you?” Levy asked with no attempt at sincerity.
Del Ray pointedly ignored him and said to me, “It was nice meeting you. It truly was.”
“Same here,” I said.
The two men gave each other the evil eye. Then Martin Del Ray took his leave and Levy watched him go. He kept tabs on him as he made his way through the crowded parlor, watched him as if he thought his young brother-in-law might pocket some of the silverware along the way.
“You don’t like him,” I said.
“I don’t trust him. He’s a blowhard. Talks big, does nothing. He was always a nuisance. Gave Vera a ton of headaches. Then he was away for a while—thank goodness—but now he’s back, being a pest. He made Vera miserable.”
I started to ask for specifics, but Levy held a hand up. “I don’t want to bother you with petty family politics. We’re here to honor Vera’s memory. Let’s do that.”
I said brightly, “Of course. The service is tomorrow?”
“I’ve been working all day on the right words to say. I don’t think I’ve got them. My own wife and I don’t know what to say.” Ss
“Speak from the heart, Levy. Just speak from the heart.”
I stayed for a while longer, talking to Levy and the others. But my thoughts were on Martin Del Ray and the timing of his return.
CHAPTER 5
“Vera’s brother sounds like a character,” Sam said the next morning.
“That he is.”
‘You think he might’ve done it?”
“I don’t know. He’s got a temper. And he certainly seemed to feel that she had somehow betrayed ‘what she stood for,’ whatever that was.”
Sam paused. “You know that name, Martin Del Ray, it sounds familiar.”
“You think you’ve heard it in connection to something?”
He considered it, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“By the way,” I said, “I was able to get the manager of the Madison Hotel on the line this morning.”
“And?”
“He checked the register and found Levy’s name there.”
“So, the reverend was indeed in Newark the day his wife got those bruises. Relieved?”
“Yes ... and no.” I drummed my fingers against the dark wood of the armrest slowly, thoughtfully.
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there are two stories here: the one the housekeeper told and the one the bruises tell. They still don’t reconcile.”
He considered that. “The thing is, bruises don’t lie.”
“No ... no, they don’t, do they?” I said with a sigh. Bruises don’t lie.
Despite the chilly March day, the doors to Levy’s church stood open. Ushers in black suits and white gloves were positioned on either side of the entrance. I won’t say I arrived early, but I sure didn’t arrive late. Nevertheless, the place was packed by the time I got there. People were sitting shoulder to shoulder, with young children balanced on their knees. The air was thick and humid and close, a slightly suffocating mixture of perfume and cologne, spiced with sweat.
The ceremony was what one would’ve expected. Solemn. Refined. Marked by both grief and a certain determined dignity. A sea of black veils hid swollen eyes. Every now and then, there was the flutter of a white lace handkerchief as it was used to delicately dab away tears.
Vera’s touch had blessed so many of these lives. Whether it was by mentoring the young nurses who worked under her at Harlem Hospital, tutoring children after hours to advance literacy, or counseling young mothers on nutrition, Vera had not only helped a great many of these people, but also given them the tools to help themselves. That was her lasting legacy.
I recognized many of the faces. There was Coriander Dill and her husband, Ian; Mamie King and her daughter-in-law, Tessie; Dr. Joplin and his two daughters; and my lawyer neighbor, David McKay.
Beulah Jean Henry. She was there, too. The housekeeper caught me looking her way. She inclined her head and her lips bowed in a soft, sad smile.
The one face I most definitely did not see was that of Vera’s brother. I can’t say I was surprised.
Levy’s voice rang out strong and true. His words were a balm to the grieving heart. He was a talented orator and he did not disappoint. Even so, at times, I found my attention wandering. I scanned the crowd around me, noting the men, in particular. Martin Del Ray might not have been there, but his words were ever present in my mind.
She was having an affair.
I found that so hard to believe. But if it were true, then was the man here, among the mourners? I went from face to face, dismissing one after the other. Too young. Too old. Too immature. Too pretty. And that one? Too damn married. I shook my head at myself when I caught myself thinking that one.
After the ceremony, I joined the line of mourners to briefly hold Levy’s hand and murmur more words of condolence. He thanked me and after a brief exchange, I moved on.
I went down the steps and paused. It must’ve rained while we were inside, because the streets were damp. However, the sun had come out and it alleviated some of the gloom. It did not, however, warm the day’s chill. I turned up my collar and wrapped my coat tightly around me, shivering.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Beulah Jean appeared not five minutes later. She left by a side entrance. I walked in her direction. “Beulah! Beulah Jean!”
Surprise lit her face. “Oh, hello, Miss Lanie! Will you be stopping by the house later?”
“Another day, no doubt, but no, not today.” I interlaced my arm with hers and we started walking back toward Strivers’ Row, which was only a few blocks away. “I did want to speak with you again, though. So, I’m glad to find you here.”
“Me, Miss Lanie? You want to speak with me? Why? Is there something wrong? I mean—?”
“Well, perhaps. I do think there’s more to the story of Miss Vera’s bruises than you’ve told me.”
She came to a stop and put her hand to her chest. “Miss Lanie, I don’t lie. I—”
“No, maybe not. But you do—or in this case, did—omit some important details, didn’t you?”
Her gaze edged away.
“Come o. Let’s keep walking,” I said.
A look of fear shot across her face. She swallowed and tears welled in her eyes. She paused to snap open her clutch and grab a plain handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” she sniffled.
“That’s all right. Just tell me the rest of what happened.”
She dabbed at her eyes, then folded up the handkerchief and stared down at it. “What do you want to know?”
“Was Miss Vera alone when she had her accident?”
She was quiet for a moment, working the handkerchief. Then she shook her head. “No.”
“Who was with her?” I steeled myself inwardly to hear her say Levy’s name.
She swallowed. “It was Mr. Martin.”
“Mr. Martin?” I whispered. “Miss Vera’s brother?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was with her.”
Martin. Martin Del Ray. It took me a moment to adjust to that news. “Did he hit her?”
“No. He, uh ... well, he pushed her. I mean, she pushed him and—”
“Slow down. Just take it one step at a time.”
“Okay.” She rubbed her forehead. “What happened was this: they was arguing. Ever since he came back, they’d get to arguing. But this time, it ... it got bad. He told her that she’d betrayed her people and that one day she was gonna regret it.”
“Were those his exact words?”
“Pretty much, ma’am. That’s what he said.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“And he accused her of—I don’t even wanna say it, ma’am. I surely don’t. I don’t believe in saying bad things about the dead when they ain’t here no more to defend themselves.”
“I understand. But you yourself, you’re not saying anything about her. You’re simply telling me what he said.”
“But—”
“I know. You want to defend her reputation. That’s what we all want. But we can’t do that if we don’t know what to defend it against.” I paused to let that sink in, then said, “And you know what else is important?”
She looked at me with an expression of defeat. “No, ma’am.”
“It’s just as important to find her killer, to figure out who hurt her.”
Her shoulders slumped. “All right. Yes, ma’am. I understand. I just,” she sighed. “I just didn’t want to get caught up in nothing.”
“Are you afraid of Mr. Martin? Is that why you said she fell down the stairs and didn’t mention that he was there?”
“Afraid of Mr. Martin? No. Not at all.”
“Then why—”
“She told me to say that. She said that if anybody asked, That’s what I was to say. And that I was to keep Mr. Martin’s name out of it.”
Hmph. I considered that for a moment. “Do you think he could’ve hurt her like that?”
“Who? Mr. Martin?”
I nodded.
Her eyes widened and she put a hand to her heart. “You mean ... killed her?” she whispered.
Again, I nodded.
The worried frown creasing her forehead deepened. Slowly, she shook her head. “I wanna say no, ma’am. But in all honesty, I just don’t know. He don’t strike me as no violent man. But he’s ...” She paused.
“Yes?” I prodded when she didn’t speak further. “He’s what?”
“Well, I guess you could say he’s passionate, you know? He believes what he believes and he don’t brook no disagreement. Now, Miss Vera, she could be pretty stubborn and set in her ways too, you know. But she didn’t hold a candle to the stubborn, dig-your-heel-in-the-ground, don’t-give-up-no matter-what kind of stubbornness, I done seen in Mr. Martin.”
We stopped at the corner for the light.
“You know Mr. Martin and the reverend, they don’t get along,” she said. “I guess you saw that at the wake.”
“I sure did.”
“Well, the funny thing is, in some ways they ain’t all that different. I mean, they both loved her, but they ... well, the way they showed it was by trying to control her. I guess they thought they was trying to protect her. But that meant they ended up treating her like a child, like she didn’t know who she was, like they thought they knew her better than she knew herself.”
The light changed and we started walking again.
“I dunno.” She gave a little shrug. “You shouldn’t be listening to me. I’m just shooting off at the mouth and I shouldn’t be. I mean, what do I know? I don’t know nothing.”
“I think you do,” I said. “I think you know a lot. And I appreciate your honesty.”
We had reached the corner of 139th and Strivers’ Row.
“If you remember anything more,” I said, “please feel free to tell me. I promise I’ll be real careful with whatever you say.”
“All right, ma’am. Thank you.”
I watched her walk down the block, a small figure in a humble hat and coat. When she reached the Kincaid residence, she paused and looked up at it. She stood there for several seconds, as if working up the courage to go back in. Finally, she drew a deep breath, climbed the stairs, unlocked the door, and went inside.
CHAPTER 6
Back at the newsroom, Sam was on the phone, leaning back in his office chair. I rapped on his door, went in, and took a seat. He ended his call, so I started to speak, but he raised an index finger.
“I have news for you,” he said. “Remember how I told you that Vera’s brother’s name sounded familiar? Now, I know why.” He pulled a folder from the pile stacked at his elbow. “Martin Del Ray told you he just got back in town, right? Well, he was telling the truth there. But what he didn’t tell you is that he was in jail before that.”
“What for?”
“Exercising his First Amendment rights.” Engaging in freedom of speech. Always a dangerous thing for a colored man to do.
“A couple of years ago, he was in St. Louis, talking to a dozen or so party members. He pushed for ending housing segregation, better protections for tenant workers, and U.S. formal recognition of the Soviet Union. Unfortunately for him, there was a spy in the audience. One of J. Edgar’s men. He reported that Del Ray openly advocated ‘resistance to the United States.’ It was a lie, of course. An exaggeration. But ...”
“It was just what Hoover wanted to hear.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, everybody knows Hoover’s got a thing for any colored man interested in civil rights and labor. He’s sure the main reason the Communist Party wants to recruit us colored is to get us to help them overthrow the government.”
“You said it. The Bureau already saw Del Ray as dangerous. That speech he gave made them see red. They arrested everybody there, but he was the only one they charged. Accused him of sedition. Of course, Del Ray protested. Said he’d done nothing treasonous.”
“But he probably got carried away by the moment and used a phrase for two he shouldn’t have—basically made Hoover’s job easy for him.”
"Probably," Sam said. "The charges were ultimately dropped, but not before he’d been behind bars for a while.”
“What’s ‘a while?’”
“Less than a year. But long enough. It’s not just the time; it’s what they do to you while you’re serving it.”
“No wonder he went off to Russia," I said. "After being jailed like that, he probably couldn’t wait to leave.”
“You said he was over there studying with Lovett Fort-Whiteman?”
“Yup.”
“Well, Fort-Whiteman came back from Moscow not too long ago, too. His main job now is to recruit American colored to join the American Negro Labor Congress. And Del Ray is probably helping him.” He tossed me the folder.
I opened it to find several clips of newspaper articles, all of them on Del Ray. “A ‘communist.’ A ‘radical,’” I read out loud. “Vera probably wasn’t happy with that.”
“Most middle-class colored people aren’t. And for the same reasons DuBois doesn’t hold with Garvey.”
“They think radicalism makes us looks bad, that Hoover and his ilk can use it against us.”
“What do you think?” Sam asked.
I looked up from the news clippings. “I don’t know. Lovett Fort-Whiteman, Marcus Garvey. I agree with their ultimate goals—equality, independence, opportunity, freedom from the fear of the noose. I think most of us do. It’s their methods that worry me. I sure don’t hold with Booker T. I guess I’m closer to DuBois than any of them. And you?”
