Things Half in Shadow (22 page)

“How did you come to work for Mrs. Pastor?” I asked.

“She didn't hire me so much as keep me 'round.” While pouring
his own glass of tea, Stokely nodded toward the cellar door. “I came up those cellar steps and never left.”

“What were you doing in the cellar?”

“This here was a safe house.”

“On the Underground Railroad?”

“That's what you folks call it,” Stokely said. “The name don't make much sense to me, though. Makes it sound like there was a bunch of us ridin' the rails in high style. In truth, it was scary. Not knowin' who to trust. Not knowin' if the house you were walkin' into was truly safe. But I could tell this here house was safe. There's a tunnel down there, see. Runnin' from the river right to yon cellar.”

“So this route was literally underground?”

“Yes'sir,” Stokely said. “Word is Missus Pastor's daddy done had it built in secret for the sole purpose of helpin' folks like me. When he took ill, Missus Pastor kept it goin'. Back then she was Miss Grimes. In Virginia, every slave that was runnin' was told to go see Ole Maid Miss Grimes in Philadelphia. ‘She'll help you,' they said. ‘Go see her.' So that's what I done. I was in sore shape by then. I been runnin' for goin' on six months. All the way from Georgia. I was right sick. Fever so bad I was burnin' up and shiverin' cold at the same time. When I popped up from that cellar, the first person I met was Missus Pastor. She done took one look at me and sent me straight to bed. I healed quick, though. Soon I was helpin' out 'round the house. Tryin' to repay Missus Pastor, see. Soon, though, she started payin'
me
. The first wages I was ever paid. And I've been here ever since.”

Stokely's tale was so fascinating that I momentarily forgot to ask another question. I was too busy thinking about the perseverance it took on his part to make the long and dangerous journey here. It wasn't until he said, “Is that all you're gonna ask?” that I remembered the true purpose of my visit.

“No,” I said, taking a quick sip of tea to cover my distractedness. “I have plenty more. For instance, where were you and Claudia during the séance?”

“Right here, like usual. The séances always went the same. Folks show up, I open the door and tell 'em where to go, then I go wait right here in the kitchen with Claudia till it's done.”

“The door was locked during the séance. Was that always the case?”

“Always,” Stokely said.

“Who kept the key while the séances were taking place? You or Claudia?”

“Neither of us. It hangs right here in the kitchen, where both of us can grab it.” Stokely pointed to a nail stuck into the wall near the kitchen door. Dangling from it was a small key that glinted in the afternoon sunlight. “It was still sittin' there when y'all called for help.”

I remembered Stokely being the one to unlock the door after I realized Mrs. Pastor was dead. It was Robert Pastor who had pounded on our side, yelling to him for assistance.

“So no one could have used it to sneak inside the room?” I asked.

“No, sir. Me and Claudia would have seen them grab it.”

“How often did Mrs. Pastor hold séances?”

“Every night 'cept Sunday,” Stokely said. “Lately, though, Missus Pastor started havin' séances on Saturday mornin', too. A one-on-one sittin', she called it. I was never s'posed to answer the door on Saturday mornin', on account of the missus's guests wantin' to keep the visits a secret.”

“How long ago did these Saturday morning sittings start?”

“Six months, I s'pose.”

“And did you ever get a glimpse of who came to them?”

Although Stokely answered with a prompt, “No, sir,” I could tell he was lying. It made me wonder what else he was withholding. Still, since it was clear he didn't want to talk about it, I didn't press the issue.

“Did you notice anything unusual before the séance on Saturday night?”

“Nothin' I can think of other than you and that pretty Missus Collins showin' up.”

“So everyone else present was a frequent customer of Mrs. Pastor?”

“Yes'sir,” Stokely said. “Not Mister Barnum, though. Saturday night was only his second visit.”

“When was his first?”

“I reckon it was a week ago. Maybe more. He showed up, bolt out of the blue like.”

“Do you know why?”

“I s'pose he wanted to talk to the dead like the rest of 'em.”

“Like Mrs. Pastor's regular clients?”

Stokely gave a firm nod. “Yes'sir.”

“The others at the séance—Mrs. Mueller and Mr. and Mrs. Dutton—came quite often, did they not?”

“Yes'sir. They came by lots. Missus Mueller was here two, three times a week. The Duttons not so much, but enough for me to know their names and them to know mine. Mister Dutton always made sure to give me a hello when he came by.”

“On Saturday mornings?”

Stokely, too sly to fall for such a trick, tilted his head and gave me the same look a schoolmarm would use only on her most troublesome pupil. “I seen him once on a Saturday mornin'. Whether he came again, I don't know. Not that seein' him surprised me none. Like you said, they was Missus Pastor's regular customers. Why, Missus Dutton came 'round just this past Friday mornin'.”

“Did she often stop by during the daytime?”

“No, sir. This was the first time. She came 'round wantin' to see Mister Pastor. He weren't here, so I told her I'd pass along that she came by. She said, ‘Don't you worry 'bout that, Mister Stokely.' And then she up and left.”

More than anything else Stokely had said, this caught my attention. “Do you happen to know why Mrs. Dutton wanted to speak to Mr. Pastor?”

Stokely looked more exasperated than irritated. Just when I was getting on his good side, too.

“I can read the newspaper,” he said. “But I can't read minds.”

Taking that as a no, I gulped down some more tea before asking, “Other than the Duttons and Mrs. Mueller, did Mrs. Pastor have any other frequent visitors?”

“None that I can recall,” Stokely replied. “People came and went 'round here. Some came every week for months then never came again. Others done come only once. Others came, then stayed gone a year, then came back. It didn't matter none to Missus Pastor. She just enjoyed helpin' folks.”

“Do you think she truly helped them?”

“I think so. Folks came lookin' for comfort and that's what Missus Pastor done give 'em.”

“Did you ever attend one of her séances? Perhaps to find comfort yourself?”

Stokely gave an emphatic shake of his head. “No, sir. Missus Pastor tried, though. Back when she was still Miss Grimes. She'd say, ‘Stokely, come sit and we'll try to talk to your mama.' But I didn't want no part of it. I don't mess around with the dead. Some folks that passed, you don't want to meet again.”

“When did Miss Grimes become Mrs. Pastor?”

Stokely took another long sip of iced tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”

“I know,” I said, well aware that I had already posed an absurd number of them. I blamed that on being a momentarily silenced journalist. “But your answers have me very curious. Now, about Mr. and Mrs. Pastor's marriage—”

“They got married about nine years ago or so,” Stokely said with a sigh. “Mister Pastor came callin' in 1860. Spring, it was. Don't recall when they wed, but I think it was a month or so after that.”

“Was Mrs. Pastor a medium back then?”

Stokely shrugged in response, his broad shoulders rising and
falling. “I s'pose she was. Folks just knew she had the gift, so some came by on occasion. It didn't grow to nothin' till Mister Pastor came 'round and married her. Not too long after that, Missus Pastor was famous.”

“So it was her husband who pushed Mrs. Pastor to become a full-fledged medium?”

I got another shrug from Stokely. “I guess. I s'pose he thought Missus Pastor could make good money talkin' to the dead like she could. But Missus Pastor refused to charge folks. Said it was wrong to make folks pay for somethin' God gave her for free.”

“And what did Mr. Pastor think of this?”

“I suspect he wanted God's gift to start payin' the bills.”

“To your knowledge, did Mr. and Mrs. Pastor often talk about finances? Did you ever overhear any arguments, for instance?”

Stokely raised an eyebrow. “You mean, was I eavesdroppin'?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I was simply wondering if they ever discussed it in front of you.”

“All the time Mister Pastor was askin' the missus to change her mind. He thought she was born to money, which is the truth. Her daddy's the one who done built that waterworks in the park 'cross the way. Made a lot of money in the process. And when he died, Missus Pastor inherited it all. But she loved her charity work. Went and gave it all away. That plain livin' again, see. Finally, though, she told Mister Pastor she'd be willin' to take money if it went to her charities.”

“What made her change her mind?”

“I reckon she got sick and tired of hearin' Mister Pastor harp about it so much,” Stokely said. “Also, she had a lot of rich folks come sit with her. Some so rich, they could buy the whole city. I s'pose Missus Pastor thought if they was givin', she'd be takin' and helpin' others in the process.”

It crossed my mind that Robert Pastor was just another of those unscrupulous rascals who found wealthy old maids to marry them. When I asked what Mr. Pastor did for work before he was married,
Stokely said, “He was a salesman. That's how he and Missus Pastor met. He came 'round wantin' to sell her supplies.”

“What kind of salesman and what kind of supplies?”

“Medical supplies. On account of her daddy bein' ill. His sickbed was upstairs instead of the hospital. That's also the Quaker way. They don't like no hospitals, see. But as soon as they was married, Mister Pastor stopped his sellin'.”

The more Stokely talked, the more the puzzle pieces fell into place. I pictured a desperate Robert Pastor arriving in town, acquiring the only job he could find. He probably had contact with some of the city's doctors, finding out where he could sell his wares. It was easy to assume that a physician who knew Mr. Grimes was ill would also know that they—he and his unmarried daughter—were wealthy. Perhaps he was even informed about her gifts as a medium. This, of course, didn't mean Robert Pastor was the one who killed his wife. If he had, then he surely wouldn't have requested an examination of her corpse.

“I have a favor to ask you,” I told Stokely. “A sizable one.”

“Bigger than that harp?” Stokely asked, cracking a white-toothed smile for the first time that afternoon.

“Much bigger,” I said.

“What is it?”

“I need to speak to Mr. Pastor. Alone. Without the presence of the police.”

Stokely opened his mouth to protest, but I kept talking. “Someone killed Mrs. Pastor during that séance, and it certainly wasn't me, I swear to you. I believe the person who killed her did so for a specific purpose. They felt wronged by Mrs. Pastor somehow, or were angry enough to do her harm. It is also my belief that Mr. Pastor knew about this threat to her safety.”

“Now what makes you think that?”

“He asked the police to perform an autopsy,” I said. “You do know what that is, right?”

Stokely nodded. “Cuttin' open a body to see what done killed it.”

“Exactly. I think he immediately suspected that Mrs. Pastor was murdered. I would like to know why.”

“He ain't goin' to want to talk to you,” Stokely said.

“I know that. This is where you come in. You could convince him to speak with me by telling him that you know I'm innocent.”

“But I
don't
know you're innocent.”

Still, from the way he lifted his chin slightly, I could tell Stokely was giving my request some thought. I studied his face, noticing how well the darkness of his skin hid the deep-set wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. Other than patches of gray at his temples, there was no immediate indication as to how old he really was. Someone seeing him for the first time could have pegged him as forty or eighty. My assumption was that his true age was somewhere in between.

“And you think talkin' to him could help you shed light on who killed Missus Pastor?” he asked.

“Possibly, yes.”

“Let me stew it over,” Stokely said. “I don't risk my neck for strangers, and you're a stranger, Mister Clark.”

“Then do it for Mrs. Pastor,” I told him. “Please.”

We heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Light and quick, they echoed into the kitchen. A voice soon accompanied them.

“Edward? Where are you?”

It was Lucy, of course. I'd heard enough of her voice by that point to recognize its singularly determined tone.

“We're in the kitchen,” I called back.

A moment later, Lucy appeared, practically dragging the poor servant girl behind her.

“Edward,” she said. “We have a bit of a problem.”

T
he problem, as far as I could tell, was that Claudia refused to speak. Sitting at the kitchen table, the thick braid of her hair thrown over one shoulder, she gazed at Lucy and me with a wide-eyed mixture of innocence and fear. But she didn't make a sound.

“She's not talking,” Lucy said. “I've asked a dozen different questions, but she refused to answer a single one.”

Stokely, standing behind her, grumbled, “I warned you she ain't gonna tell you nothin'. Claudia can't talk.”

“She's mute?” I asked, looking first to Stokely, then the girl, then back to Stokely again.