Black Orchid Blues (12 page)

“I beg you not to put any of this in your column,” Phyllis Bernard said. “Alfred and I … we’re so sorry you had to be brought into this, but we’ll take it from here.”

“But that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do, try to handle it on your own.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Dr. Bernard repeated. “It was some horrible mistake that this package arrived on your doorstep.”

“I’m not sure it was.”

“What?” Dr. Bernard’s lips parted in surprise. His family stared.

“I’m not sure it was a mistake,” I said. “I was there when he was kidnapped. Now a package containing his finger just happens to land on my doorstep, and I just happen to live across the street from you.”

“What are you saying?” Dr. Bernard asked.

“That I think the kidnappers want my involvement.”

“But why?” Phyllis Bernard looked both horrified and stunned. Sheila just stood there with her mouth open in a state of fear and shock.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Most kidnappers like to work in secret. Obviously, this one doesn’t.”

“But the letter, the phone call …” Sheila started.

“Both times, he said not to tell anyone,” Dr. Bernard said.

“Naturally. But look at what he’s done. Kidnappers usually nab their victims in secret, but this guy chose to do it in a crowded nightclub, before a slew of witnesses, right in front of a reporter—”

“He couldn’t have known you’d be there,” Dr. Bernard said.

“He didn’t have to. He knew the club would be packed.”

It was hard to tell if my words were sinking in. The Bernards seemed shell-shocked.

“Even if he didn’t know who I was that night, he must’ve found out since then. The package on my doorstep then becomes an incredible coincidence. At first, I tried to tell myself it was a house number mix-up. But I don’t buy it. I believe the kidnapper, or kidnappers, left the box there intentionally. Whoever is behind this wants the story covered.”

The worry on the Bernards’ faces deepened.

“Pardon me, but your explanation’s more than a bit self-serving,” Dr. Bernard said.

“When do you expect your husband back?” I asked Sheila.

“Tomorrow. We hope.” Sheila glanced at her father, looking for help, or confirmation, or both. He gave a barely perceptible nod and she continued. “Junior will be horrified when he …” Her eyes went to the box. “When he finds out what they’ve done to Billy.”

“Junior wanted us to pay,” Dr. Bernard said. “He begged me, but I held out. And this box is the result.” He took a deep breath. “We can’t take another chance on doing the wrong thing.”

Guilt and fear were driving their decision and that was never a good thing, but it was to be expected. What could I do about it? I had promised myself that I would abide by their wishes, at least for now. Perhaps I could help them in another way: get them thinking.

“I know you’d like to be alone,” I said, “but I’d like to ask you one more question.” I looked at each of them, trying to make eye contact. “Who else knew William’s secret?”

“I don’t know,” Sheila said. “I’ve been racking my brains since this whole thing started. Billy’s a good man, a really great guy. I know he’s a little different, but I don’t see why anyone would want to hurt him—I mean, not because he’d done anything to them, for sure.”

“You misunderstood my question. I’m trying to figure out if the kidnappers knew who they were taking. If we know that they were aware of Queenie’s identity beforehand, then we can narrow down the number of people who might be responsible.”

“The fact is, we can’t say when they found out,” Dr. Bernard said. “All we know is that they did. That’s what’s important. Furthermore, my wife and I, we don’t really know all that much about William, his friends, or what he does. We were totally surprised when the kidnapper called us. We didn’t even know that someone named Queenie Lovetree existed, or that she’d, I mean he’d, been kidnapped. Not until we heard it on the radio. Normally, we just don’t have anything to do with those kinds of people. You understand?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I do.”

A clock chimed the hour somewhere deep inside the house. Time was a-moving.

I pressed them: “Are you absolutely sure that you want to try to take care of this yourselves and not take it to the police? You do realize that the kidnappers are counting on you to refuse the kind of expert help you need, right?”

I could have saved my breath. The Bernards remained resolute. Dr. Bernard got to his feet with a polite little smile that just about telegraphed what he’d say next.

“We appreciate your help. We really do. But we will take care of this on our own. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to ask you to go. We don’t have much time and we’ve got plenty to attend to.”

He started to show me out. Then the telephone rang and everyone froze. All eyes went to the receiver, which sat on a small table lamp next to the sofa. Dr. Bernard strode back across the room and put the candlestick phone to his ear.

“Yes?” His body stiffened and his eyes shot over to me. He made a waving gesture, indicating that he wanted me to leave. I stayed put. Irritated, he half-turned and lowered his voice. “Yes, I received it … No, there was no problem with the delivery. No one else has seen it.”

Again, he glared back at me and tried to shoo me out. I ignored it. I was going to listen till there was nothing left to hear. As he grew increasingly frantic, Phyllis Bernard started toward me, obviously intending to usher me out, but an exclamation from Dr. Bernard stopped her in her tracks and riveted all attention back on the conversation.

“Twenty-five thousand!” he roared. “But that’s five thousand more than—” His hand tightened on the receiver. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I don’t have that kind of money—”

I moved closer, trying to listen in—Dr. Bernard was too upset to even attempt to stop me—but I couldn’t hear the kidnapper’s voice clearly.

Dr. Bernard turned away and hunched over the phone; his voice was desperate. “And then what? What do I do? … But—… No, you can’t! You can’t just—”

There was a click. It was so loud, even I heard it. The line had gone dead.

Bernard stared at the receiver, then slowly lowered it back to its cradle. For a long moment he stood there, looking down at the phone. Finally, he raised his eyes to me, their expression bitter.

“So now you know. You have all the confirmation you came for. What are you going to do with it?”

Sheila stood in the center of the room, wringing her handkerchief, tears glistening in her eyes.

So much love for her brother-in-law. Under other circumstances, I would’ve wondered whether she was having an affair with him. But if I was confident of anything, it was that Queenie only slept with men.

Then again, Queenie might’ve swung both ways. What did I know?

I started to say something, but changed my mind and turned to go. Sheila followed me out and opened the front door. As I exited the house, she whispered, “Please, you won’t write anything or tell anyone, will you? You won’t do anything that’ll get him killed?”

I tilted my head. “One last question.”

“Yes?”

“Did people ever call you Janie? Is that your middle name?”

Sheila frowned. “No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It was just a thought.”

C
HAPTER
17

I
t was around eleven when I got to the newsroom. The place was bustling. I glanced down the main aisle between the cluttered desks and saw Sam at his, work piled high on either side, his office door open. I dropped my coat in my chair and went over to him. He spoke without looking up. “Close the door.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I did, but I wasn’t too thrilled with the tone of his voice. I was about to let him know it when … well, something about the way he put his pencil down and rose from his chair made me hold my tongue.

He rounded his desk and came up to me. Then he reached around my waist, closed the blinds that covered the glass panel of his door, and took me in his arms. “Because,” he said, “I want to do this.”

His kiss was luscious. It was so hard, so probing, that it left me dizzy. Then he released me, stepped back, and reopened the blinds.

“Now,” he said, “let’s get down to business.” He gestured for me to take a seat and perched on the edge of his desk. “How’d it go with the Bernards?”

I summed up their reaction to the cigar box.

He was thoughtful. “So the Black Orchid really is related to the Bernards by marriage. Well, well, well.”

Then I described the phone call from the kidnappers.

“I don’t like it.” He rubbed his chin. “The Bernards are in over their heads.”

“They’re terrified we’ll go to the police—”

“We have to.”

“What?”

“I went to see Ramsey.”

“Oh.” I suddenly felt ill. Ramsey was the executive editor. What he said went, and he was no fan of mine. “What did he say?”

“Bottom line is we have to tell the police what we know.”

“Shouldn’t we put the family’s wishes first? We don’t have the right to make this kind of decision on our own.”

“By keeping mum, we could be doing them more harm than good. And we could be setting ourselves up for charges of obstruction.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“All right. But can I at least warn them?”

“That’s up to you. And you will tell Blackie about the box and the letter in it.”

“The letter! But—”

“You don’t need to give the name of the family or individuals to whom the letter was addressed. Okay?”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“No,” I said slowly, “I don’t.” I eyed him as if he were a traitor. “The Bernards will be furious.”

“I’ll accept that.”

“
You’ll
accept it? I’m the one who’ll have to deal with them.”

“If you can’t handle them, just send them my way.”

All I could do was shake my head. “You’re stirring up a hornet’s nest. And for nothing!”

“I’m looking out for this paper.”

“We’ll upset the Bernards. They won’t talk to us anymore.”

“They’re not ‘talking’ to us now. They only let you in because of that damn box. It’s the kidnapper who’s cut you in, not them.”

He was right.

“Fine. But what about Blackie? He’ll demand to know our sources.”

“You just don’t tell him. Simple.”

“Yeah. Simply impossible.” I gave him a look of utter exasperation. “So, when’s this little interview supposed to take place?”

“Whenever we can arrange it. The sooner, the better.”

“Like tomorrow?”

“Like right now.” He leaned over his desk and pushed the phone to me.

I looked from the phone to him, quietly fuming. “I gave the Bernards my word.”

“The decision’s been made.”

With obvious reluctance, I picked up the phone and held it in my lap. I cranked it up and stuck the black horn-shaped receiver to my ear, leaning forward and shifting slightly away from Sam as I did so. Then I lightly rested my thumb on the drop hook—cutting off the connection—and started dialing.

“Detective Blackie, please,” I said, talking into the dead mouthpiece. “This is Lanie Price of the
Harlem Chronicle
calling.”

Sam went back to sit behind his desk.

I went on: “He’s not there? … Working the Cinnamon Club massacre. … Yes … Yes, I know, but …” I glanced at Sam to see if he was listening. He was sitting in profile, staring at a map on the wall.

My imaginary conversation continued. “Mm-hmm, I see … Yes, I understand, but … Well, would you at least take a message, please? … Yes, a message … All right, I’ll just—”

I stopped abruptly, stared at the bell-shaped mouthpiece. “Would you believe he hung up on me? Said Blackie was too busy to talk to nosy reporters.” Sam swiveled back around. “I thought you knew everyone down there.”

“Yes, well, there’s always a new one.” I replaced the receiver, set the phone back on Sam’s desk. “You see? I tried. They don’t want to hear from me.”

“Try again later—and next time, take your finger off the hook.”

The phone suddenly rang. He reached for it and I got up to go. But he raised a finger for me to wait.

There’s more?
I wondered. I dropped back down in the chair and prepared to wait, worried and fidgeting.

He kept the call short, hung up, and paused in thought. Whatever he had to say, I was not going to like it.

“Given what’s happened,” he began, “I’ve decided to put out a special edition. It’ll—”

“Sam, no!” Memories of the Todd case, when one of my articles inspired a killing, shot across my mind. “This is a man’s life we’re talking about. Telling the police is one thing, but printing it is another.”

He held up a hand. “We’ll only report on the news conference. We won’t mention the cigar box. That make you happy?”

Happy wasn’t quite the word for it. Relieved, though. “Thank you.” I moved toward the door. “I’ll get to work on the story, right after the news conference.”

“No, Lanie, you won’t.” His voice stopped me.

I turned back, puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“You’re off the story.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

I felt as though I’d been punched. “I … I don’t understand. Why?”

“Journalism 101. You don’t report on a story when you’re part of it. And you are definitely part of this one. Whether you wanted to be or not, you’re knee-deep in it. And it’s affecting your judgment.”

“No, I—”

“Decision’s made.”

“But I’m objective.”

He gave me a sorrowful look. “No, baby. You’re not.”

“Don’t
baby
me. I’m a professional, just like you. And I do my job, just like you.”

“I know that.”

I threw up my hands. “I don’t believe this! Who are you giving it to?”

He nodded to a point past my shoulder. “Selena.”

“Selena!
You can’t, she—”

He raised a hand to hush me. “Now, I know you don’t like her.”

“Oh, and you do?”

“Lanie, don’t go there.”

“Not possible. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her. And neither should you.”

“Why not?” He met me eye-to-eye. “Fact is, Selena has never done anything to undermine my trust. And, unlike someone else I know
,
she has never done anything to endanger this paper.”