With Cruel Intent (9 page)

the border of the plantation. Black male

servants stood at the entrance to the

gardened expanse, helping individuals in

and out of carriages as more and more

people arrived, filling the porch and

surrounding area.

She knew that some sort of party

was taking place but was confused, not

really knowing anyone but being the center

of attention. She flirted, fanning herself

and bending lower than needed to allow

the young men to get a better look at her

assets. Within minutes she had men

fawning over her, offering her drinks and

requesting the opportunity to dance with

her later in the event. The power of her

position was readily apparent and she was

reveling in it. In her dream, she looked

about, taking in the eyes of the men around

her, all intent on her form.

Her role as plantation tease

complete, she excused herself and

retreated

into

the

mansion.

Large,

imported doors from England swung open

to a grand entryway, hardwood floor and

spiral staircase that dominated the center

of the home. Two butlers opened both

doors to allow her entrance; the bone

hoop skirt needed a wide birth. She could

hear herself speaking with a thick

Southern accent, moving freely among the

guests in the drawing room, stopping to

see if any conversation was of interest to

her but knowing that she was only there to

entice the men and drive them crazy. A

goal she was easily attaining. Growing

tired of the little game she was playing she

looked about for the man she knew truly

wanted her and she, him.

Searching the main floor he was

nowhere to be seen. Gliding up the stairs,

she went from room to room, trying not to

be obvious that she was looking for a

particular individual, for if she was found

out it would lead to certain ruination.

Unable to locate him in the plantation

mansion she ventured outside to the rear

of the house that led to the river and the

rice fields beyond. Holding up the dress to

move more quickly, she moved to the

kitchen adjacent to the mansion, peered

inside and saw the source of her yearning.

Two black female slaves stood, sweat

beading up on their skin from the intense

heat of the kitchen and the warmth of the

day. Both reacted with surprise when they

saw Blanche at the doorway.

“You ought not to be here ma’am

this here’s for slaves and kitchen worka’s.

There be sumpin’ we can hep ya wit?” the

older one asked.

“Not you, but I need a strong back

to do some lifting for me, need that big

fella there,” Blanche said, pointing to the

black man, back to her, putting wood on

the large fire where the pig was roasting.

Jasper recognized the voice,

turned around, but could not stand fully

without cracking his head on the shallow

ceiling. A wide smile crossed his lips,

which he immediately muted when the

kitchen workers scowled in his direction.

“Yes ma'am, Ms. Delaney, ya’ll be

needin’ Jasper’s help with somethin’?”

His broad, hairless chest, turned

dark from the hours in the cotton fields

glistened with droplets of perspiration,

expanding in and out as he recuperated

from the job of feeding the fire.

“Yes, I surely do Jasper, come out

here a minute and let me get a better look

at you. Need to make sure you’re up to the

job,” winking at just the right moment so

the other help couldn’t see.

Jasper ducked his head low

enough to exit the kitchen and stood before

his owner.

“What you be needin’ missy?” he

said, a knowing look in his eye.

“You know perfectly well what I

‘be needin’ and I’m not going to get it

here! Come with me.”

Blanche turned and strode in the

direction of the river, Jasper close behind,

looking over his shoulder to see if anyone

was looking or following. Once at the

river, the pair knew there was an old

kitchen structure that had partially burned

down, with three walls still erect.

Standing inside, one could see across the

river but those in the house could not see

what was going on inside. Blanche

scurried around the wall and into the

structure, turning to face Jasper as he

entered.

She went to him without worry of

soiling her dress or fear of retribution but

to quench the fire that was burning in her

loins. Their lips meshed, his massive arms

pulling her close, lifting her from the

ground he dropped his hungry mouth to her

neck and lower. Blanche pushed his mouth

away and motioned for him to put her

down. She backed up, reached for the

rope that ran through the loops of his knee-

length pants and began untying the knot.

She struggled with the knot,

frustration level rising, working it this

way and that, using her nails to pry at the

thick fibers without success. Her dress,

without reason, became a cocoon,

enclosing her, cutting her off from Jasper

and

the

beautiful

plantation.

Claustrophobia, shortness of breath, heart

pounding, sexual tension all but gone...she

opened her eyes to find herself wound up

in the sheets and blankets of her bed, both

hands pulling at the knot of her pajama

bottoms. Throwing her arms wide she

breathed deeply, and then crossed her

arms under her breasts in an effort to slow

down

her

breathing

before

she

hyperventilated. Blanche looked at the

clock, 5:55 a.m. glared at her through the

dark.

Literally

jumping

from

bed

Blanche grabbed her ‘shower kit’, key and

towel, knowing that ‘Mr. Wonder’ would

be trying to beat her to the bathroom at

6:00 a.m. Throwing the door open and

stepping into the hall she saw him from the

corner of her eye moving down the hall

toward

the

bathroom.

His

pace

accelerated when he saw Blanche’s door

open and was at a fairly good lope when

he reached her. Without a word, Blanche

spun, tucked the kit and towel under her

left arm like a running back for the

Falcons and sprinted for the bathroom.

Blanche and ‘Clueless’ reached the door

at the same time, both slamming into it,

overpowering the antique little lock,

throwing the door open in the process.

The unlikely tandem stood in the

doorway of the bathroom, side by side,

filling the area between the jams.

Blanche’s arms crossing her chest, and his

arms at his sides, towels and shower kits

on the floor. Before them a young black

couple sat in the old style porcelain tub,

facing one another with bubbles spilling

over and onto the floor. They sat

motionless, faces turned to the doorway

following the abrupt interruption and

entrance of their neighbors. All were

speechless. It was Blanche who moved

first. She bent down, picked up her things

and without saying a word headed back to

her room. Once Blanche was inside she

grabbed her pillow, wrapped her arms

and knees around it and drifted back to

sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Okay class, can I have it quiet

please, can I get everyone to settle down

so we can get started,” a pause, chairs

sliding, books dropping on tables, then

quiet. “Thank you, I know this is the first

time that we’ve met since the Thelma

Riddle story broke. We’ll take a few

minutes to talk about it and see what you

think and do some comparisons,” said

Mrs. Ella Pinkerton Wild.

Mrs. Wild taught the ‘Deviant

Behavior’ course in the department of

Criminology where Seymour was taking

classes. She was a direct descendant of

Allan

Pinkerton

of

the

legendary

Pinkerton Detective Agency
. The agency

was formed in the mid 1800’s and the

founder gained fame when, in 1861, he

uncovered and foiled an assassination plot

against Pres. Abraham Lincoln. The

agency continued to make headline for

years with their exploits, tracking the likes

of Jesse James, The Dalton Brothers and

the Wild Bunch.

Ella had worked at the Pinkerton

Forensics Lab in Atlanta for 25 years,

long enough to draw her retirement, but

was too young to actually retire. She and

her husband, a former Georgia State

Trooper, had settled on Valdosta when

Ella heard through the grapevine that the

university was expanding its criminology

department. The dean could hardly contain

himself when he learned that an actual

‘Pinkerton’ would be applying for the job.

The decision to hire her had been made, at

least in his mind, before the interview

began.

Mrs. Ella Wild, or ‘Pink’ as she

was known by friends and family, was a

no nonsense woman in her late 50’s with a

wry sense of humor, warped by too many

hours staring through a microscope and

dealing with materials directly related to

death in one way or another. Her sense of

humor was, more than likely, a defense

mechanism but it was endearing to her

students who thought the world of her.

Not overly attractive but not ugly

either, just kind of plain in her own unique

way, she wore round glasses with a

prominent bifocal line bisecting the lens

over each eye. Her skin was pale,

chronically clammy, with age spots

forming on her hands, neck and face. The

sun was not her friend and she knew it.

Most days she wore clothing not

characteristic of those living in the South,

which seemed a trifle odd. While weather

and community standards called for short

sleeves, tanks and shorts, she wore long

sleeves and slacks with her silver-

streaked hair wound into a ponytail.

Her frame was ‘thick’, not

unfeminine, but just thick and sturdy;

however, this was not to say that she was

in

poor

physical

condition.

Every

Wednesday night she and her husband

taught, as volunteers, a free self-defense

course for anyone that wished to learn a

thing or two about the art. She excelled at

chokeholds and groin kicks where Dave,

her husband, was the boxer.

Today, ‘Pink’ had her hair in the

traditional ponytail but wore an Atlanta

Braves baseball hat with the ponytail

dangling out the back. Her countenance

was pleasant but focused.

“I trust you each had a good

weekend and are ready to get back to

work. Mr. Rickert, I saw your rugby game

on Saturday, you played well, need to

learn to avoid those elbows.”

Mr.

Rickert

replied

in

the

affirmative with a very nasty looking

swollen, black eye and bruised cheek.

“Let’s put aside what we were

dealing with last week to take a closer

look at this newspaper report that had you

all abuzz this morning,” she said, turning

to the overhead which she illuminated,

projecting a copy of the newspaper article

onto the wall.

“What’s your first impression?”

There was a long minute without any

volunteers. “Come on now, surely there is

someone brave enough to express their

opinion.”

Seymour slowly raised his hand.

“There was a follow up to the first article

this morning, don’t know if you’ve seen it

yet, but the police are playing it down and

saying that it was just a prank. I don’t

know if I’m buying that but they said Mrs.

Riddle was back in her home and there

have been no further problems. But it did

say she’s sleeping with her shotgun.”