Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (2 page)

John Quinn set the take-out bag he was carrying on the kitchen table. “Have you considered giving it a decent burial?”

“It's not dead,” Lizzie Stuart said, not looking up from the drooping, yellow-leaved plant she was trying to extract from its pot. “It's just sick . . . I gave it too much water, and it needs more sunshine . . . and more room to spread its roots.”

“Or you could just buy another plant,” Quinn said, his silver gray eyes reflecting his amusement. He held out the card in his hand. “Before I forget again . . . I got this in the mail last week. This isn't something we want to do, right?”

Lizzie glanced up from her task. “What isn't?”

“This.” Quinn held the card closer. “A fund-raiser. A murder mystery evening aboard a train.”

Lizzie shook her head. Her gaze returned to the plant. She eased it up and toward the larger red pot. “I don't think so, Quinn. I don't think that I could get into the spirit of trying to solve a pretend murder for the fun of it.”

“I'll send them a donation.”

“Definitely a better idea. If we went . . .” Lower lip clasped between
her teeth, she settled the plant into its new pot. “Before the night was over, a real corpse would probably turn up.”

Quinn laughed. “I think we'd be safe on that count, Lizabeth. The homicide rate aboard trains is quite low.”

Lizzie nodded toward the plastic bag of potting soil. “Would you pour that, please, while I hold it up? And for your information, my grandfather had a murder aboard one of his trains.”

Quinn tilted the bag, distributing the soil around the plant. “Really?” he said.

“Yes, really. Paper towels, please.”

He set the bag down, tore off a handful of towels from the roll, and passed them to her. “You were saying.”

Lizzie brushed the loose soil from the counter into the trash bin. “It isn't really a date-night story, Quinn.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I'm starving. What'd you bring?”

“Chinese. Shrimp and cashews. Chicken and vegetables.”

“Let me wash my hands, and I'll get the plates. Do you want wine? Or there are a couple of bottles of beer in the refrigerator.”

“Beer's fine.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle. “Tell me the story about the murder.”

Lizzie set the plates on the table. “All right, Chief Quinn. If you insist. But don't blame me if this little tale casts a blight over our romantic evening.”

“I think our romantic evening can survive, Professor Stuart.”

Lizzie spooned rice onto her plate and reached for the shrimp and cashews. “I didn't have lunch,” she said. “This happened in March 1946, shortly after the end of World War II. The demobilization of the troops was still going on, but civilians were traveling again, and things were beginning to get back to normal. This particular train was en route from New Orleans to Chicago, but it had stopped at the station in Lexington to pick up passengers. My grandfather was waiting by the steps of his sleeping car to greet the new arrivals when he heard his name called . . .”
“Good evening, Mr. Walter Lee Stuart.”

Walter Lee turned at the sound of the husky voice. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in his ebony face. “Good evening to you, Miss Peaches,” he said, tipping his cap to the tall, reed-thin woman in the coral suit and matching high heels. “How's life been treating you?”

Miss Peaches smiled and brushed back her shoulder-length hair with her free hand. “Never better, Mr. Stuart, never better. Congratulations on your news!”

Walter Lee shook his head. “Now, how did you hear about that? I just heard it a couple of days ago myself.”

Miss Peaches tilted her head. “I know things, Mr. Stuart. You give your wife Miss Peaches' best, you hear?”

Now, he wasn't likely to do that, Walter Lee thought. In her “delicate condition,” Hester Rose wasn't up to receiving a message from Miss Peaches.

He watched as Miss Peaches sauntered over to the train window that one of the hooting, grinning soldiers had lowered. She reached into her basket and handed the soldier and his friends pieces of her homemade gingerbread. Miss Peaches' own personal contribution to the war effort for the past few years, and now to the demobilization.

“Hey, Miss Ginger Peaches,” one of them called to her, using the name she was sometimes known by. “That's who you are, ain't it?”

“That's me, honeychile. None other.”

A woman, white and proper, glanced in Miss Peaches' direction, looked startled, and veered away from her. The woman almost trotted toward Walter Lee. Running for safety? “I believe I'm in this car,” she said, in a voice that was more pleasant than he had expected.

He glanced at her ticket. “Yes, ma'am, the conductor will be through to collect your ticket later. I'll show you to your room.”

“I can find it, thank you.”

She hurried up the steps, gone before he could speak. He was about to follow her to make sure she did find the right room, when Zach Garfield popped out onto the platform.

Zach glanced over at Miss Peaches. “Lord, look at that.”

Walter Lee said, “Miss Peaches looks real nice this evening. Real spring-like.”

“Spring-like! That he-she makes me wants to puke.”

“Live and let live, young Zachary. And hadn't you better get yourself back to the kitchen? You know you ain't supposed to be out here.”

“I needed some fresh air,” Zach said. “Not that I'm getting any with that going on over there. I thought they had laws—”

“They do have laws,” Walter Lee said. “But Miss Peaches don't hurt nobody. She works as an orderly at a hospital during the week. Been working there since she was a teenager. If she wants to dress up on Saturday—”

“Hey, Walter Lee.” The hail came from Marvin, one of the redcaps. He was pushing a cart containing several suitcases. “This lady's in your coach.”

Changing his expression to eagerness to be of service, Walter Lee moved to welcome the woman. He was caught off guard by the slow, lazy smile that she gave him. He touched his fingers to his cap.

“Yes, ma'am, let me show you to your accommodations.”

She adjusted the little black hat that set atop her own shimmering blonde hair and pulled the fur collar of her jacket a bit higher against the nip in the evening air. “I'm meeting someone,” she said. “My friend. But I'm running late, and I'm sure by now he must have just about given up on me.”

Her voice still had more than a trace of Kentucky backwoods. Not as citified as she'd like people to think with that outfit, Walter Lee thought.

“I don't think he would have given up on you, ma'am,” he said. “So far, only two gentlemen traveling alone come aboard my car at this station. One of them was a major, and he—”

“No, that couldn't be him.” Something had flickered in her eyes, was covered up with a smile. “My friend Johnny wasn't in the Army. Flat feet.”

From the corner of his eye, Walter Lee saw Zach Garfield make a movement. Zach had been 4-F too. Bad knees.

No shame in that. But it was no use trying to tell the boy that.

“Well, why don't I show you aboard, ma'am,” Walter Lee said. “We have a few more minutes before—”

“Ruby, baby, there you are!” A man darted through the crowd. In his
late twenties or early thirties and chubby, already balding, he reached out to stroke her arm. “I was afraid you were going to miss the train, honey.”

She smiled at him. “So was I. But here I am.”

Walter Lee said, “Ma'am, sir, if you'd care to board . . .”

The man signaled to his own redcap. “Get the bags on board, boy.”

“If you and the lady will go on ahead, sir,” Walter Lee said. “We'll be right behind you.”

The woman linked her arm with the man's. “First-class service all the way, Johnny. Just like you said.”

“Nothing's too good for you, Ruby, baby.”

His eyes still eating Ruby up, Johnny started up the steps and almost bumped into Zach, still standing there. “Watch out, boy!”

That temper that Walter Lee had warned him about showed for a second on Zach's face, but he held his tongue. “Yes, suh,” he said, stepping back and to the side.

“Please, pardon us,” the woman said, sending her smile in Zach's direction.

He stood there, staring at her.

The man looked from one of them to the other. His face flushed red. “I said, watch yourself, boy. Come on, Ruby, honey.”

“Anything you say, Johnny,” the woman said, her voice amused.

She was teasing old Johnny some, Walter Lee thought. Except he was too busy pushing his chest out and playing big man to notice.

As he followed the couple on board, Walter Lee shot Zach a look. He liked the boy, but he had no patience with his manner. Zach might think he was better than his kitchen job and the white folks who thought colored men weren't fit for nothing but to serve them. But as long as he was wearing the uniform, he might try to do what he was being paid to do.

Not that Zach was likely to be around much longer. The way he was going, he was gonna get himself fired as soon as a passenger complained or one of the spotters the company put on board wrote him up.

“Yes, sir,” Walter Lee said as he opened the door of the first room. “Here we are. And ma'am, you're right in here.”

“Oh, Johnny,” Ruby said, hugging his arm. “You really know how to treat a girl right.”

“This is just the beginning, honey,” Johnny said, sticking out his chest some more. “Just the beginning.”

“Let me show you how everything works, ma'am and sir,” Walter Lee said.

When he had gotten them settled, he went back to check on the other passengers who had come aboard at this station. The widow—a pretty girl, in her twenties, looking like she was weighed down by her grief. Well, that was to be expected when her soldier husband's casket was up there in the baggage car. She had her son with her. But the boy looked like he was more than she could handle. Couldn't be more than six or seven, and not likely to pay attention to his mama telling him to behave himself.

There was a minister and his wife in the room next to them. The flashy kind of slick-as-grease minister who preached hell and brimstone from his pulpit—and could probably shoot crap and drink moonshine with the best of them. Odd that him and that little whey-faced wife of his would be traveling first-class. Probably traveling on money they borrowed from the collection plate.

But the other passengers who had gotten on didn't look like they'd be any trouble. The major was still in his uniform, not long back from the front, judging by the look of him. His hands still trembling a little. Still limping.

The spinster schoolteacher who had given Miss Peaches that look was in the room next to him. At least, that was what Walter Lee had decided she was—a schoolteacher. Her brown hair pulled back in a bun and glasses perched on her nose. Wearing a plain brown dress that covered her body—and that was about all that could be said for it. It was a shame when a woman who could have done something with herself just gave up like that.

'Course they did say that there was a man shortage now because of the war. That would explain why a beautiful woman like that Ruby was settling for old Johnny. Probably making do with him until he got her to Chicago where she could do better.

Walter Lee paused as he passed the open door of the room on the end. The young man inside was on the floor on his hands and knees peering at something.

“Anything I can help you with, sir?”

The young man—rounded face and rosy-cheeked—sprang to his feet. “No, thank you. I was examining the room's design. It's very efficient. Good use of space.”

Walter Lee nodded. “The company would be pleased to hear you say that, sir. Sure there's nothing I can get for you?”

The young man shook his curly brown head. Then he stepped forward and held out his hand. “Dwight Kent. I'm a cartoonist.”

Walter Lee looked at the slender, long-fingered hand held out to him. He clasped it with his own. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Walter Lee Stuart. Just call me if you need anything.”

The young man nodded. “Thank you, that's very good of you.”

Walter Lee stepped back and into the corridor. He was grinning as he turned away. Now, that one was still newly hatched. Wonder where he'd come from?

“Your hair smells funny, and I don't like your ugly dress.”

The woman Walter Lee had named “the schoolteacher” raised her gaze from her book to the boy hovering over her chair. “You are testing my patience, young man.”

She said it in a voice that was calm but firm. It was that rather than his mother's weak, “David, please don't say things like that. Leave the lady alone,” that made him back off.