Dear Sister Dead, page 5
“The same.”
I looked back down at the articles. “I can see where Vera’s brother’s radicalism would’ve caused problems between them.”
“Read further. It wasn’t just Del Ray who was involved. Vera was once involved, too.”
My jaw dropped. “That’s not possible.”
Sam pointed to the file. “Keep reading.”
I flipped through the articles, scanning them quickly. Sure enough, more than one mentioned Vera. “According to these, the police thought she was a fairly high-ranking member of one of these suspect groups. But that’s so hard to believe.” I closed the folder. “That doesn’t sound like her, not at all. That’s just not the Vera I knew.”
“Well, maybe—”
“Don’t say it. Just don’t.”
“I won’t. I don’t have to. You can see it for yourself.”
You didn’t know her. I’d stopped Sam from saying it, but at that moment, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it. Maybe you didn’t know her, not nearly as well as you thought you did.
“There’s more,” I said. “Isn’t there? I can tell from the look on your face that there’s more.”
He raised an eyebrow and pointed to the folder again. “The reports in there say that when Del Ray was arrested, the feds here in New York went and questioned Vera.”
“And?”
“And it was right after that, right after talking to her, that they filed charges against him.”
I drew back. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re saying that Vera betrayed her own brother?”
“I’m saying that’s what it looks like.”
I thought about it, shook my head, still resisting, refusing to believe—
“Sam, we both know that the police are real good at setting people up, making it look like they collaborated when they didn’t.”
“They sure are. So, maybe she did; maybe she didn’t. The point is that it was made to look as though she did.”
I sighed a small sigh of relief, grateful that he’d at least conceded that point. “Did he or anyone in the Party make threats against her?”
“Some did, right when it happened. People were pretty convinced that she’d talked. And more than one person said she needed to pay for it.”
I reopened the file, reviewed the paperwork again. “If ... if it’s true that she was with this group, and I’m still not sure it is, then it looks like she broke with it right around the time she married Levy. So maybe Levy pressured her—”
“Or maybe she saw a chance at a nice life and decided that betrayal was worth it.”
“No. That can’t be, Sam. Vera wouldn’t have done that.”
“Look at the timeline. It speaks for itself.”
“Maybe.” I closed the folder. “But maybe not. There’s a lot going on here that we still don’t understand. I’m not going to believe Vera betrayed anybody until a lot more comes to light.”
Sam raised his hands. “Hey, I’m not your enemy. And I’m not accusing her. What I’m saying is that looks count. That could be enough for some people.”
I worried my lower lip. Sam was right. It didn’t matter whether she’d actually betrayed anyone. It just mattered that someone might’ve thought she had.
The thought that Del Ray or one of his people might’ve killed his own sister filled me with an enormous sadness. I’d liked him, liked his passion and his fire, his sense of rebelliousness. And he’d given me the feeling that he truly loved her. But people have been known to kill the ones they love. That he could’ve had a hand in her death, intentionally or otherwise, made a disheartening kind of sense.
“The question is, why would he have done it, now?” I mused.
Sam shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t have time to do it before. He was in such a hurry to leave the country that ...” Sam paused, and inclined his head. “And maybe, he didn’t even intend to kill her. They met, had an argument, tempers got heated, and ...” His voice trailed away.
I nodded, thinking about it. “It’s ... not impossible,” I said reluctantly and told Sam what Beulah had said.
“So, it was Del Ray who gave her those bruises,” Sam said. “It shows he’s got a temper. It—” He straightened up and his gaze shot past my shoulder to the newsroom. “Speak of the devil ...”
“What?”
He gave a nod and I twisted around to see Martin Del Ray in the flesh. He was sitting in the visitor’s seat at my desk and one of my fellow reporters was hurrying down the aisle to Sam’s office, beckoning me.
CHAPTER 7
Vera’s brother was not the cool cucumber I’d seen at the wake. His shoulders were hunched and he was jogging his right knee, tapping it.
“They’re after me,” he said by way of opening.
“Who’s after you?” I sat down, laying the closed file on my desk.
“The cops. They think I did it. Yesterday, they came to see me. Some Irish detective. He said my sister had bruises. Asked me if I knew where she got them. I told him what happened. But I don’t think he believed me. I think he’s coming back, to arrest me.”
I leaned forward. “What exactly did you say?”
“I told him the truth. Just as I’m telling you.”
“And that was?”
“That we fought. We argued about the choices she’d made. And then I told her I’d seen her with that man. I told her that even though I can’t stand Levy, I didn’t think she should be cheating on him. That it wasn’t right. Our parents would be ashamed of her. She told me to mind my own business. Got angry. Told me to leave. And then she shoved me and I shoved her back and she tripped and fell.”
“Down the stairs?”
“The stairs? No, we were in the parlor. She hit her face on the coffee table.”
His story made sense. It explained the pattern of bruises. “And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I glanced at the folder, thinking of its contents. “You said you argued with her about choices she’d made.”
“Yes.”
“So, there were hard feelings there.”
“No-yes.”
“Which is it?”
“Both. But ...”
“But what? One of those ‘choices’ was to leave the Party. That must’ve made you angry.”
“No, I—”
“Then you were arrested and she snitched on you—”
“No, she—”
“Abandoned you.”
“No!”
“Betrayed you—”
“NO!” He slammed my desk with the palm of his hand so hard that others in the newsroom turned to look. I raised a hand to signal that everything was under control.
He leaned toward me, lowered his voice, and spoke through clenched teeth. “She didn’t do that. She didn’t do any of that. Look, we disagreed on a lot of things, but she was my sister, my big sister, and her whole thing was about taking care of me.”
“But that would’ve made it hurt even more, wouldn’t it? That the big sister who’d always protected you turned her back on you and hung you out to dry?”
He sat back, exhausted, with an expression that clearly said, What’s the point? Then he pushed his chair back and stood. “You sound like that detective. Maybe it was a mistake to come here.”
I gazed up at him. “Why exactly did you come?”
“Because I want the truth to come out. Because if I’m arrested and something happens—and you and I both know that things do happen to colored men in police custody—then I want to make sure the press gets it straight. I make to make sure that you people, and the people who read you, know that I didn’t have nothing to do with my sister’s death. I don’t want them making me the patsy, sweeping her death under the rug, and letting the real killer go free. Is that answer enough for you?”
If he was lying, he was good at it. I sat back in my chair. “I’m listening.”
He hesitated, glanced around at the still curious faces watching us, watching him, then dropped back down in the seat. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, then leaned on my desk and gazed intently into my eyes.
“Look, Vera didn’t snitch on me. She didn’t do that. Not exactly. But yes, of course, when it happened, when she talked to the feds and said what she said, it hurt like hell. But kill her over it? Shoot her and leave her in the river like that? Never. She was all I had. She raised me from the time I was little, from when our parents died. I looked up to her. She’s the one I always turned to. Yeah, it hurt to see her lose her way like that, but I loved her. And respected her. I never would’ve hurt her.”
I considered what he’d said, considered him. “Fine,” I said, thinking of the contents of the folder. “But what about someone else? Could someone in the Party have wanted her to punish her?”
He moved his jaw. “I don’t want to think that. But I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should think about it.”
“All right, then. I’d have to say that wouldn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“First, why wait so long? Second, she was never a member."
“I have information that she was.”
His eyes narrowed. Intuitively, they shot to the folder. “Oh,” he said. “I see. You’ve been reading up on me.”
“Well?”
He shook his head. "No, she was never a part of it. Not really. Did she display some interest? Yes," he nodded. "She was educated and she was smart, and she cared—really cared—about helping people. But she never got into the Party. Not real deep. Not like me. She believed in the goals, but she didn’t believe in the politics, the theory. She used to give me money when she had some, help me out here and there. And she helped me write up some pamphlets, edited this little newsletter I had going. But that was as far as it went.”
“This help she gave you, it continued even after she married Levy?”
“Yeah, even then. Of course, he didn’t know anything about it. I’m sure she didn’t tell him. Then everything went south. I got arrested and the feds showed up at her door. They wanted to know if she knew what I was up to—what they claimed I was up to.”
“And she gave you up?”
“No." He was adamant. And frustrated. "That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She lied, lied through her teeth. My sweet, church-going, God-fearing, preacher’s wife of a sister swore up and down that she’d never heard of me being involved in political anything.”
“So, you’re saying the newspaper reports are all wrong. That she actually tried to protect you?”
“Oh, I admit she was trying to protect herself, too. But I didn't see nothing wrong with that. And I still don't. I didn't want her in trouble because of me."
"The feds, did they have evidence against her?"
"They had a letter she’d written me and it mentioned the money she was giving me.”
“Did it say what the money was for?”
“No, and that was the problem. The fact that it didn’t ...”
“Meant the feds could fill in the blank, twist it any way they wanted to.”
“Exactly. So she ended up denying, not just any affiliation with the Party but to having anything to do any group or organization that pushed for Negro advancement or social equality.”
“Denied your work? In a sense, denied you?”
“You mean like in Matthew 26:69-75? Peter and Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane? Not quite. Because there, Peter was denying his god. I was not my sister’s god and neither was the Party.”
“Good point. And I see you know your Scriptures.”
“Chapter and verse. Mama raised us to quote just as good as any preacher can.”
“But you’re not a church-goer.”
“No, I left that nonsense behind a long time ago.”
“Your feelings toward Levy: Is it because he’s a preacher or is it just him, personally?”
“Both. Most of them are just a bunch of hypocrites.”
“Not all. Some do fine work. They achieve a lot for the community.”
“While lining their own pockets. Oh, there’s a few good ones. I’ll grant you that. But too many are grifters. As for Levy, I know his type.”
“And that is?”
“A suck-up accommodationist. From the same tree as Booker T.”
“I would disagree.”
“Of course, you would.”
“Hear me out. Levy has fought tooth and nail to build a church that offers hope and comfort, that offers a place for people to rally. He fought in court to buy land, land for colored people to build on.”
“For some colored. Not all. He’s every bit as class-conscious as any white man. Look at the kind of folks sitting in those pews. It ain’t poor people.”
“It isn’t all rich ones, either. But—” I raised a finger. “I take your point. Just do take mine. Levy has done good for Harlem. Whether you like him or not, admit that he’s done good things. If you stopped by his church, then—“
“I’ve been there. Vera got me to go. I’ll never go back.”
“Oh?”
“Look, he doesn’t like me any more than I like him. First of all, I don’t believe in no white man’s God. I told you that. Second, if I did, I wouldn’t go to Levy’s church to find Him. I’ll never step foot in there again. To worship there means you’ve got to worship him. To swallow his interpretation of the Word, hook, line, and sinker. And I won’t be a party to that.”
His anger growing, he said, “He’s the one who made her do it, you know. Deny me, deny herself. Look at what he’d given her, he said: a big house, a nice car, a fur coat, and a cabinet full of china. Because of him, she was rubbing shoulders with all the fine and better people. Did she really want to give it all up, lose it all? Did she actually mean to jump off a cliff and take him with her, just to save me? When she couldn’t save me, anyway? I made my bed, he said, so she should let me lie in it—alone.”
“How do you know he told her that?”
“She told me.”
In fact, I could well imagine Levy saying something like that. If he had, then, to be honest, I couldn’t fault him for it. Martin Del Ray had made his choices. Why should Vera pay for them?
“And what did you say?”
“That I understood. That I forgave her. But I asked her whether she’d ever forgive herself. That was the real question. And I’m not sure she ever did.”
“What about Levy? Was he there when they questioned her?”
“Yeah. And he was scared—”
“Well, of course. They both were—“
“The difference is, she was scared for me and for him. He was just scared for himself.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can. He was worried about how it would look if it got out that the preacher’s wife was mixed up with a bunch of atheists, and that she might be arrested and charged with sedition. So he told those agents he’d forbidden—get this, forbidden—his wife from having anything to do with quote-unquote ‘niggers who think they deserve the same rights as white folks.’”
“He didn’t actually say that?”
“She said he did.”
“And you think he meant it?”
“I do. She said he didn’t. She said he told her that all he cared about was getting them agents out of the house. That whenever you get caught in a situation like that, you just tell them what they want to hear and move on.”
“But you don’t believe that was his motive?”
“She believed it, or certainly wanted to believe it, so I accepted it. Look, I didn’t want my life to destroy hers. I mean, I don’t like the man, but I won’t deny that he gave her all the pretty dresses she ever wanted. We grew up dirt poor, so I could understand what that meant to her. It’s just that ... in the end, he also demanded a price for it. And the price was just too damn high.”
I let his words sink in, then thought of something else. “You said she was having an affair?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
“No.”
“Why not? It might’ve deflected suspicion away from you.”
“But it would’ve hurt her, damaged how people remember her.”
An expression of love, of protectiveness. I admit it impressed me. “Do you think he might've had the same suspicions you did?”
“Who? Levy?”
“Yes.”
“And hurt her?”
I nodded.
“Do you think that?” he asked.
“No, but I want your opinion.”
He didn’t answer.
“The police,” I said, “are looking at everyone. They must’ve asked you that.”
“They did.”
“And what did you tell them?”
He was silent for several long seconds, then exhaled reluctantly. “I said ... that I didn’t think he did it.”
“No?”
“No. Look, he’s a stuffed shirt. He wanted a pretty woman. He got one. A smart, pretty woman. And he didn’t know what to do with hr. But I don’t think he’d have ever hurt her. Not that way. He loved her. As much as I dislike him, I won’t deny that. As much as he can love anyone, he loved her. He truly did.”
“Do you believe him?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” I nodded, still considering the matter. “I can’t say why, but I do.”
Sam heaved a deep sigh. “Well, you know what that means, where that leaves us. If you eliminate him as a suspect, then that leaves ...”
“Yeah, I know. Levy—him or the unknown lover.”
“What if it is Levy? Are you ready to go down that road?”
I knew what Sam was alluding to. It was never easy to cover a case when you knew the suspects involved.
“Yes, I’m ready, “ I said unhappily. “If I have to be, I will be.”
Our gazes met.
“Okay, then,” he said.
“Okay.”
That evening I attended a social event at Lilly Stanford’s house. Of course, all the conversation was about Vera’s death. It turned out that a good number of people thought she’d been having an affair. More than a few found it titillating to play with the idea that Levy had found out about it and killed her—or had her killed. Of course, none of the suspicions were stated outright. People were much too polite to be direct about it. Instead, they were circumspect, letting meaningful eyebrows and heavy silences convey a sense of their true feelings.
