Charleston Murders

By Robert Daines

Since the year 1840, two families have lived under the roof of Charleston’s magnificent Dorchester Mansion: the Dorchesters are White, and their servants, the Walkers, are African-American. In 1923, after a Walker maid steals the diary of her mistress, a trail of blood begins shackling the two families together in manacles that last beyond the grave. In 2012, the deathbed confession of a cold-blooded killer reveals his part in avenging the secrets contained in the diary. Passion, love, rape and murder are the strands in this sordid tapestry of hatred and revenge. (Adult language and graphic descriptions.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Daines
• Release date: Oct 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9780964505551

Robert Daines

Nicole and Robert Daines are the co-authors of novels, mysteries and inspirational books. They live in Southern California and are the parents of three adult children and eight grandchildren. Their lectures have entertained and inspired audiences across the U.S. and Canada.

Book preview

CHARLESTON MURDERS

A Novel by

NICOLE & ROBERT DAINES

H

EART TO HEART PUBLISHING

www.NicoleAndRobertDaines.com

Charleston Murders

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

Published by Heart to Heart Publishing

P.O. Box 2606

Temecula, CA 92593

Smashwords Edition 121013

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2012 by

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

All rights reserved under International and

Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Photo of Selma marchers used with permission by the estate of Spider Martin.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors

Ebook ISBN 978-0-9645055-5-1

This is a work of fiction. While names of actual historical figures have been included to frame the narrative, all other characters and events are the product of the authors’ imagination, or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real.

DEDICATION

To the men and women who dedicate their lives

to making the world a better place.

"Sometimes we need to laugh to keep from having our head explode."

~Touré

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Dedication

Bibliography

About the Authors

Chapter 1

I’ll bet you and I can agree on at least one thing—that no parent should ever have to bury their own child.

The part we’ll probably lock horns on is where I took vengeance into my own hands. I killed the woman who murdered my wife and daughter; they died excruciating, painful deaths—burned alive if you want the specifics. Maybe you’re the kind of person who believes it’s only right to leave justice up to the authorities. Guess that’s where we’ll have to part company and just agree to disagree.

But before you get all knee-jerky about it, please hear me out. Get all your facts straight before you condemn what I did. It wasn’t as though the justice system would’ve taken care of things. You need to factor-in that my wife’s killer controlled the police department and court systems of our town. What’s a man like me to do in a situation like that?

The killer was none other than Alexis Beauregard Dorchester, from one of the best known and richest families in Charleston. RICH in capital letters. But no matter whether rich or not, every family has its story. Mine’s been handed down orally through the generations. Hers was written in 14K gold ink, on elegant parchment paper, and bound in hand-tooled leather with an embossed coat-of-arms on the front cover. Not literally, but you get the idea.

And every family has its secrets, too. If your family happens to live in a small town, then you already know first-hand that secrets don’t stay under-the-radar for long. Nope. Fast as a bug splats onto a racecar’s windshield, family secrets are out in the open and gossiped about over backyard fences and cups of coffee down at the local cafe. But it’s different here in a big place like Charleston. Family secrets can stay silent and deep for generations. Especially if your family has more money than God and has owned the town forever.

I’m betting you already know the truth that money buys secrecy. At least it did until I came along and upset the apple cart. (Yeah, I know—I’m a walkin’, talkin’ cliché. I’ll do my very best to keep them at a minimum, but please cut me some slack due to the fact that I’m 69, and it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.) But just because I like hackneyed clichés doesn’t make me ignorant; it makes me Southern. And if a cliché fills the bill, I’m more than comfortable using it…yep, just keepin’ it real. In my opinion, years and years of continued use makes a cliché gleam like polished metal, burnished to a luster with each utterance until it rings out pure as a bronze bell announcing a proverbial truth to those with ears to hear. I see absolutely no need to reinvent the wheel, so work with me on this.

Guess I should introduce myself, since we’ll be spending some quality time together: my name’s Malcolm Douglass. Take a load offa your feet, sit down a spell and get yourself in the mood to hear a true story, one that’ll stick to your ribs and become a part of you.

Most everybody loves a good story. Ever since the dawn of recorded history, people have enjoyed listening to tales about their tribe and their gods, stories about how things came into being and what it all means. Think about it—it’s not really so much about what actually happens in the world—it’s about the stories we tell about what’s happened.

But before I drive this story into the ditch, let me get back to the topic of family secrets. The shocking secret that my wife and daughter were killed over was written down in a diary and hidden back in 1923, inside the wall of a mansion in the ritzy-snootzy part of Charleston. And my wife and daughter weren’t the only people who were killed to keep that secret from seeing the light of day. Porgy and George were also killed to keep the whole thing quiet. Porgy who? you ask. Ever heard of the movie Porgy and Bess? How about the folk opera? Or the novel? If you’ve never heard of Porgy, I can tell you aren’t from around these parts. Around here, everyone knows that the original story of Porgy was based on a real-life Charleston man name of Samuel Smalls. Sammy was murdered back in 1924. And the George I’m referring to is none other than the world-famous composer George Gershwin who wrote the Broadway musical Porgy & Bess. Both of those fellahs lost their lives because of the diary’s secret—I kid you not.

I’m not exaggerating when I say this tale of murder and revenge is fascinating—beginning to end. You’ve got yourself a rare opportunity here, to find out the honest-to-God thoughts and motivations of a cold-blooded killer. Hope you’re ready for the unvarnished truth—no holds barred.

The only reason I’m finally coming clean and telling the world what I did—which was murdering two people in cold blood—is because I’m only hours away from my own death and the grueling punishment for my crime. (Imagine the worst possible punishment you can…and then double it.) As soon as I heard my death sentence a year ago, I started writing this story down because I desperately wanted to set the record straight. My college major was English Composition, so I’ll do the best I can to use some highfalutin words, but I warn you there won’t be many complete sentences because that’s not how I roll.

And even though I’m a South Carolinian, born and raised, I promise to tell this story straight-up with no side-trips or meanderings down country lanes. I’ll be as succinct as it’s possible for someone from the Palmetto State to be. And as truthful. (Not a very high bar, I guess—if y’all remember the lie our Governor recently told folks about him hiking the Appalachian Trail, instead of what he was really doing—boinking his mistress.)

But unlike politicians, I’m going to stick to the facts as I explain to you why I retaliated and killed the woman who murdered my wife and child. This may go without saying, but I’m the kind of guy who needs to say it, anyway—deathbed confessions are as real as it gets. And I, Malcolm Douglass, am hours away from dying, knowing that the blistering hell-fires of eternity await my arrival, so I’m feeling compelled to tell the whole truth, and will try to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that in the very broadest and deepest definitions of the moral laws of society—I am not guilty.

Everything’s at stake for me here, because you—along with the four most important people in my world—are going to be my judge and jury; so get ready to weigh the facts…

Chapter 2

Einstein said, The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once. That’s as good a reason as any for telling you this story in linear fashion, from the first event back in 1923, right up until today in 2012.

The parts of the story that relate to Alexis Beauregard Dorchester came straight from her mouth to my ears, word-for-word from the woman who set everything in motion. I have absolutely no reason a’tall to doubt that she shared her honest thoughts with me, because—as I said before—I know first-hand that deathbed confessions are reliable. Plus, I’ve also included the exact transcriptions from her diary—the one my kin was killed over.

And even though the woman I murdered was an unmitigated bitch, there are always two sides to every pancake, so I’ll do my very best to paint an honest picture of both of us.

At the time when Alexis wrote this first diary entry at the age of eighteen, she was a real head-turner. Picture a ripe peach, bursting with juice—yeah, she was just that fine.

* * * * *

Diary Entry August 27, 1923

I’ve never seen such a gorgeous day as today! The sun is coaxing perfume out of the magnolias and jasmine and gardenias on my balcony; the humid air and enticing sweet fragrances are driving me wild with desire!

I’m naked as a jay bird as I sit here writing this. And speaking of birds—they are singing and swooping outside my open window, announcing to one and all that this is Alexis Lee Dorchester’s 18th birthday!

This diary is a birthday gift from Mama. She told me that we Dorchester’s have to write down the important events of our lives, because what we do and say becomes a part of Charleston’s history. This has been the case for generations of Dorchesters in the past, and she’s certain I will be no exception. That may or may not be true for me, but whatever the historical significance my life may be to the future, I will not be sharing the contents of this diary with anyone but me, myself and I. This diary is a Godsend; I need a place to write down my secret. A secret that would absolutely positively get me disowned if it ever got out. And would get Edward killed, but I don’t want to think about that.

Daddy’s birthday gift to me was typically inappropriate. It was a replica of the gun used to assassinate President Lincoln: a .44 caliber Philadelphia Derringer pistol. He informed me that only fools sleep without guns under their pillows. I forced a smile and tried to look appreciative. Maybe someday Daddy will recover from his disappointment that his only child is a daughter and not a son. Oh, well.

Alexis picked up her scissors and carefully cut-out a recent society article about herself from the newspaper. Then she glued it into her diary.

She sighed as she closed the diary, putting it up to her nose to smell the leather. Then she hid the book between the mattress and box springs of her unmade bed; a bed that would later be made-up by her Negro maid, eighteen-year-old Hallie May Walker. Alexis and Hallie did a daily routine—Alexis messed up her bedroom suite, and Hallie restored it to order and cleanliness.

Hallie had learned early-on to be ghostlike and unobtrusive because Alexis made it clear that she wanted privacy in her bedroom. Hallie was only supposed to enter if Alexis summoned her with the annoying bell that reduced the entire Walker family to little more than Pavlovian-conditioned dogs.

Alexis walked over to the full-length, three-way mirror and smiled at her reflection. She was a knockout by anybody’s standards. Her cupid’s bow mouth was painted bright red. And following the current rage, she’d shaved off her eyebrows and drawn on new ones with a black eyebrow pencil. Mascara darkened her thick eyelashes and heavy eyeliner outlined her blue-green eyes, and—as if that wasn’t enough frosting on the cake—circles of pink rouge highlighted her cheeks. Her mother frequently accused her of looking like a cheap hooker, which pleased Alexis to no end.

The most unique aspect of Alexis’ appearance was the mesmerizing color of her eyes; they reminded people of the gemstone aquamarine—being a light, transparent bluish-green in color. Her eyes sparkled and glistened like beguiling jewels—that is, unless she was angry, and then they became hard and cold, warning of impending emotional storms and razor-sharp words. In Hallie’s words: Run for cover!

Alexis looked every bit the up-to-the-minute flapper. She stroked her sleek bobbed hairdo; her black hair shone. Her mother had absolutely, positively forbidden her daughter to cut off her long wavy hair, which had only motivated Alexis to do it sooner rather than later. In Alexis’ personal world-view, nothing was prohibited to her, and tonight she would break a prohibition that would lead to generations of secrecy and deception—and within the coming year, to the deaths of two men.

But on this perfect Charleston morning, the only thing on Alexis’ mind was her looks. She gazed in the mirror at her beautiful face, and then down to her naked body. She slowly turned around, checking herself from every angle. She smiled. Except for her breasts, her body was perfect. Her breasts were too large for the current fashion trend of flat-chested, low-waisted dresses. Well, thank goodness Edward likes my breasts. Worships them, really. Says women are crazy-nuts to bind themselves and try to look like boys.

(In case you aren’t familiar with the fashions of those times, here’s a photo of five flappers to get you grounded, but I must admit that women’s fashions are a mystery to me.)

As she confessed to me years later, thoughts of Edward Greene made her body throb. Whenever she was with him, she felt wildly, passionately alive—mesmerized by his voice, his smile, his seductive eyes…it was nauseating; she was a complete goner.

She sashayed over to her new electric Victrola. After turning it on, she lifted and carefully positioned the needle arm over the turntable, then put it down on the margin of the record and gently nudged it toward the groves of the disc. Orchestra music filled her room with the popular song Charleston.

Alexis danced with abandon, throwing her arms and legs up and down, in and out, doing the dance that Edward had taught her. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and laughed; her naked breasts were bobbing in time to the music.

For her parents, Alexis’ breasts were a constant source of consternation. Ever since those buds of womanhood had matured into majestic hills of voluptuous proportions, her parents had been alarmed by the leering stares their daughter received from males of all ages.

Cause and effect is an interesting phenomenon—Alexis’ developing breasts had caused her parents to restrict her behavior, and those restrictions had caused Alexis to rebel and push the boundaries of proper, lady-like, Southern femininity. At this point in her life, Alexis was a typical eighteen-year-old spoiled rich girl. Given her young age and the family she came from, y’all can’t really expect much more of her. But the wheel of fortune turns, as they say. It won’t be too much farther down the road when life will sock her in the gut and she’ll mature, and suffer and deepen, and you’ll be rooting for her to prevail over her trials.

But tonight she was going to be a quintessential carefree flapper of the Roaring Twenties. Underneath her red silk cocktail dress, Alexis planned to wear a thigh-flask of bootleg liquor, held secure by a satin and lace garter. A gold-plated cigarette case was already hidden inside her beaded evening bag. And even though the Charleston Gazette’s society reporter will know all about her smoking and drinking, none of Alexis’ scandalous behavior will be written about in tomorrow’s society column. That’s because the Charleston Gazette was owned by the Dorchester family.

In many ways, you could say that her Daddy owned the whole damn town. His ancestor—the original Charles Wentworth Dorchester—was one of the founding fathers of Charles Town back in 1670. And even though it’s not at all the truth, a mendacious Dorchester family legend has it that Charleston is named after their ancestor, and not after King Charles II of England.

Since all of these people are new to you, I’ve a mind to occasionally write down the family trees, to help you keep things straight.

As you can see, Alexis’ daddy was Charles Wentworth Dorchester III, and her momma was Paigie Lee Clayton. Charles never let the citizens of Charleston forget his patrician lineage; Arrogant was his middle name, so-to-speak. Due to his financial largess (and propensity for violence) the people of Charleston bent to his will—including, but not limited to: the Charleston Police Department, and the Charleston Town Council, and the Charleston Hospital, and the Charleston Zoning Commission. Charles’s pull went all the way to the State Capital in Columbia, and, for the span of a few years, even reached all the way up to the President of the United States of America. Impressive, to put it mildly.

Suffice it to say that in Charleston, Charles’ word was law. Because of Dorchester connections, generations of Dorchesters had not been arrested for breaking the law; had not been reported in the city’s newspaper for any unseemly behavior; had kept their illegal abortions and nervous breakdowns private; and had their business endeavors pre-approved every step of the way. Even to this day, being a Dorchester in Charleston means that the waters part before you and you pass through to your chosen destination without even getting the slightest bit damp.

But on the night of her birthday, Alexis Dorchester was going to get more than just damp—she was going to set in motion a tidal wave that would soon threaten to drown herself and her family in shame and scandal.

Chapter 3

On Alexis’ birthday—the day that changed her life forever—everything seemed to be floating along as expected: graceful and predictable. Back in 1923, there was an orderly rhythm to life in Charleston. Orderly and beautiful. In Alexis’ neighborhood, that beauty is still in evidence today. I’m talking about the neighborhood called The Battery which is located on Oyster Point at the tip of the Charleston peninsula, facing the harbor, and overlooking the marshy barrier islands and the Atlantic Ocean. Oyster Point got its name from the enormous pile of bleached white oyster shells that were once located on that spot. Years ago the oyster shells were covered up when the old seawall was reconstructed to create a raised waterfront promenade and a park called White Point Gardens.

If you’re not familiar with Charleston’s location, it’s on the Atlantic seaboard of the U.S., in the state of South Carolina. Most people who live in our town describe it as well-mannered, gracious, slow in pace and Southern down to its deep roots mired in the alluvial soil deposited by the two rivers that border it on either side. The tourist’s bureau brags that Charleston has been voted the politest city in America for ten years in a row. After you’ve read my tale, I’ll let you decide about the politest part.

Back at the time of Alexis’ birthday in ‘23, her neighborhood looked almost the same as it still does today—with the same magnificent mansions lining the gracious streets. And just like back in those days, flickering gas lamps still light the way for slow after-dinner strollers; high-walled and gated courtyards continue to conceal hidden gardens and keep out unwanted visitors; and massive oak limbs stretch out over the streets with Spanish moss dripping down from their tired branches like Christmas garlands.

From late-February to mid-November, Charleston looks like a lush botanical garden with blooming flowers galore: azaleas, rhododendrons, jasmine, gardenias, honeysuckle, oleanders, camellias—somebody stop me! Suffice it to say that the sensuous flowers are breathtaking. Mere words can’t convey the beauty of our town. The old saying is true: Even though you only live once, if you live in Charleston, once is enough.

Whether or not you’re a person who’s interested in architecture, I’d like you to take a gander at this sketch of the home that people in Charleston call The Dorchester House.

In any other town, a house this grand would be called a mansion, but pseudo-modesty is a Charleston trademark for good manners, so house it is. As you’ll soon enough find out, this grand house is as much a character in my story as any of the people. You’ll see what I mean as we go along through the years.

Back then the grand house was in reasonably decent shape—especially considering it’d been built eighty-some years before. Because of its age, it oftentimes needed repairs. But then, don’t we all?

As you can see in the picture, the house was quite impressive. There was a full basement, plus four stories above. The main floor had the usual tall-ceiling, antebellum rooms: a grand entry foyer aimed at impressing visitors; and an ostentatious parlor where Paigie Dorchester held court; and a huge, baronial dining room where Charleston’s elite came to eat; and a game room with a billiard table and elegant wooden gaming tables inlaid with marquetry; and a wood-paneled study wherein Charles Dorchester ruled over his kingdom; and a pretentious, just-for-show library which was seldom used. In the back of the main floor was a huge kitchen and a large butler’s pantry. Outside the kitchen was a screened-in back porch running the width of the house.

The second floor contained a grand master suite for Charles and Paigie, plus Alexis’ bedroom suite, and four guest bedrooms.

The third floor was completely given-over to a ballroom which was de rigueur back when the home was built in 1844, but hadn’t been used for that purpose since Charleston’s elite began hosting their balls in their private clubs and grand hotel ballrooms at the turn of the century. (However the ballroom did get used when it was raining, and the children in the family played tag, rode their tricycles around, and played Blind Man’s Bluff in the cavernous room. It rains a lot in Charleston, so the ballroom was often filled with the raucous laughter and scattered toys of children.)

The fourth story was located under the slate mansard roof; technically it was an attic. The area was divided in half, front-to-back, with a partition; one half of the attic was used for storage, and the other half was a long dorm-room with ten beds for the live-in female servants.

All of the rooms on the first three floors opened onto wrap-around porches called piazzas. The floor-to-ceiling windows opened like French doors, capturing the almost constant breezes from the bay, and helped to keep the home cool in the hot months of the year.

The male servants slept in the carriage house located back behind the great house. The brick carriage house had once sheltered the Dorchester horse carriages, but now it was home to their two cars: a 1918 Ford Roadster and a 1923 Cadillac Limousine. On the second floor of the carriage house were three bedrooms, two beds in each.

As our story unfolds, Alexis Dorchester was in her bedroom suite on the second floor of the house, getting ready for her birthday dinner-dance. Her bedroom was fit for a princess, with French-style gilded furniture and pink frills in abundance. Out her window, the 7 o’clock sun looked tired as it lazily descended in the August sky.

She sat in front of her elegant dressing table, assessing her makeup. She checked her teeth for lipstick marks, then blotted and powdered her lips. Wearing makeup required constant maintenance and frequent check-ups in the mirror of her gold-plated compact. I wonder if the fellas realize the absolute hell we go through to look like Clara Bow?

As she brushed her dark hair, a recording of I’ll See You in My Dreams was playing on the Victrola. Two electric fans pushed the stubborn 80-degree air around the room. Alexis dabbed Chanel No. Five perfume behind her ears, on her wrists and behind her knees. She removed a fluffy powder puff from the box of Chantilly Dusting Powder, and gently powdered under her arms. Then she stood up, spread her legs apart and poofed some powder to dry out the moisture between her legs. Edward says he wants to smell my skin without perfume and powder…to taste my salt and lick my vinegary crevices, to know every inch of my body and my soul.

A shudder of desire rippled through her. Edward Greene had turned her world upside down and left her spinning in space, wildly off-balance and with no hope of equilibrium. Falling in love with him had happened in a heartbeat. For seventeen-plus years, Alexis had lived in a predictable world, a world where she knew exactly who she was and precisely where she was going. And then—in one Richter-magnitude-moment, Edward had burst into her life and suddenly she’d forgotten how to breathe. Couldn’t quite seem to get enough oxygen. Breathless would be the word I’m looking for. She’d never met anyone so dashing and self-assured…and blatantly sexy. Yep, head-over-heals from minute one.

If Alexis hadn’t been informed ahead of time that Edward was a Walker cousin from Montgomery, she might’ve mistaken him for a Caucasian, one of her own. But in the final analysis, it didn’t matter one iota, because as Shakespeare said, Love is blind. Blind as a bat. And about as bright.

Truth to tell, the heart doesn’t register skin color or race, or social position…the heart recognizes its other half, its soulmate, its one true love. And Alexis had recognized Edward immediately —in spite of a lifetime of being warned about the evils and the dangers of Negro men.

The first time that Alexis set eyes on Edward Greene, it was in the Dorchester kitchen, ‘round about three hours before the evening meal. As usual, she was so hungry she could eat the legs offa the kitchen table. She needed a little something to help her survive ‘till dinner.

Alexis was wearing a pale blue sundress when she blew through the swinging door into the kitchen, and saw Edward sitting at the table, enjoying one of Beulah Walker’s legendary strawberry shortcakes. When Edward’s and Alexis’ eyes locked on each other, they both stopped moving for a split-second. A real freeze-frame moment. Time stood still…the floor dropped away.

Edward’s caramel-colored skin made Alexis’ mouth water; his face reflected his distant White heritage somewhere back down the ancestral line: slender nose, sensual mouth, and wavy black hair. His flirtatious eyes and enticingly sexy smile could melt butter. But no matter how White he may’ve looked on the outside, he’d been raised by his Colored parents to be proud of who and what he was, which was Negro to the core.

As Edward stood up to be introduced, his muscular chest was barely constrained in his tight white undershirt. He extended his hand in readiness to shake Alexis’ hand. Beulah pushed it down, slapping his offending appendage. She whispered a harsh warning, Whachu thinkin’, boy? Same rules here as in Montgomery.

In the South, the rules back in those days were clear and absolute—Colored men did not touch any part of a White woman’s body—not even her hand. Just to give you an example, when a White woman was shopping in a store, and if the clerk happened to be a Negro, the clerk had to put down any change from the transaction on the countertop; he could not put it directly into the White woman’s hand. I’m explaining this to you because I realize that not all of you readers know about the ways of the old South. Yes sir, those were the rules down here until the Civil Rights Movement of the mid 1960’s.

Here’s another thing you should be aware of: a Negro man was not supposed to look a White person directly in the eyes—especially not a Caucasian female. And let’s not even think about what would happen if a Negro man leered at a White woman with a gleam in his eye. To do so would most likely end in death. You think I’m exaggerating? You need to understand that those rules held true for a long, long time in the South. I remember back in 1955, a fourteen-year-old Negro boy visiting Mississippi from Chicago made the mistake of whistling at a White woman…and paid for it with his life. In case that sentence zipped by too fast for the meaning to settle in your brain, let me say it again in capital letters: A 14 YEAR OLD BOY WAS KILLED FOR JUST WHISTLING AT A WHITE WOMAN. Didn’t mean to be impolite and raise my voice, but once in a while the truth’s gotta be yelled out for emphasis. But that lynching is another story for another day. I just wanted you to completely understand why Edward’s extended hand was causing a major intracranial hemorrhage inside of Beulah’s head.

But Alexis ignored Beulah’s intrusion and reached-out and shook Edward’s hand, holding on to it for just a second more than was necessary.

On that late afternoon in June, the only thing these star-crossed youngin’s knew for certain was that there was a wild, sparking, electrical connection zapping between the two of them that made their knees weak. The flirting and flattery flew fast and furious. In spite of Beulah’s attempts to spray ice water on their lusty desire, nothing could be done to douse the flames.

Edward had been raised by his momma to be a gentleman, so he waited until Alexis’ back was turned as she left the room before he undressed her with his longing eyes.

Beulah sighed and shook her head. Disaster with feet on it, goin’ somewhere to happen.

During the weeks following their cataclysmic first meeting, Alexis took every opportunity to drop by the Dorchester carriage house where Edward was staying during his temporary Charleston visit. She savored spending time with him, gazing at him with smoldering eyes, and hanging onto his every word. He was a natural-born raconteur, regaling her with tales of his life in Montgomery. His deep, sonorous voice enchanted her, his words opening her heart to who he was under the surface of his skin. Even though Edward and Alexis were the same age, he knew so much more about the world than she did.

In addition to being a consummate story-teller, Edward also entertained her with his remarkable drumming skills. He was fond of carrying drum sticks in his pocket and used them whenever the mood struck—drumming on the tops of paint cans, metal trash containers, kitchen counters—you name it. The world was Fast Eddie’s drum. And before you go gettin’ any wrong ideas about his nickname of Fast Eddy, let me inform you that his name didn’t refer to his treatment of women, but rather to his lightning-fast drumming skills. When it came to the female gender, he was all Southern gentleman, thank ya kindly.

However, when it came to men—they skedaddled out of Edward’s way; he was an Alpha Male to the bone and didn’t put up with any bullshit. In a nutshell, Edward was self-assured and confident, which were mighty dangerous personality traits for a Black man in the South.

Edward’s drumming affected both his body and his demeanor. His shoulders and arms were those of an athlete. Whenever Alexis dropped by the carriage house unexpectedly, and caught Edward wearing only his undershirt, her eyes caressed his muscular shoulders. She yearned to stroke his muscles and bite his flesh. Her cannibalistic heat threatened to melt what little was left of her common sense.

Edward moved with the swaggering self-confidence of a man who was comfortable in his own skin. He explained to Alexis, As a drummer, I’m the guy who the rest of the musicians depend on to keep them grounded. They count on me to keep the beat—to always know where I am in time and space. The other players are free to riff and scat, meander and ramble, because they know they can find their way back home by listening to my drumbeat. Without the drummer, jazz would just be chaos.

Along with Edward’s commanding physical presence, the thing that really roped-in Alexis was his intense interest in her—in everything about her—what she believed, what her dreams were, and the things she was afraid of in the dark. As they got to know each other, she became aware that no one else—not even her parents—had tried to know her below a surface level. To her mother and father, she was still their little girl, and not a woman with a personality of her own. They continued to see her as an extension of themselves—of their own goals and dreams. And her many drooling suitors? They were clearly more interested in her breasts than in her mind.

By the time Alexis’ birthday rolled around, she’d known Edward for nine weeks. She was on fire with lust and tormented by her longing for him—the word obsession comes to mind. If you’ve never been there, then it’s gonna be hard for you to understand the driving force behind her foolish actions.

It’s not that she hadn’t tried to talk some sense into herself. Daily she tried to convince herself that Edward was forbidden fruit. She had made a mental list of the things against loving him: he’s a Negro, he’s a Negro, and he will always and forever be a Negro. Back in those days, it was against the law for Coloreds and Whites to have intercourse, let alone to marry. Sad to say, but in 1923 Charleston, Edward Greene was off-limits to Alexis Dorchester, and not even to be considered as a friend, let alone a boyfriend. Yet all of those facts just made him more desirable to rebellious Alexis on the evening of her eighteenth birthday.

Chapter 4

Charles Dorchester was fond of saying, Time and tide wait for no one—with the exception of my daughter. Alexis was a law unto herself, a gal who didn’t let proper etiquette or things like being punctual affect her behavior. Her sense of time was elastic, and she brushed-off all criticism about her tardiness: "Relax, darlin’! What’s the rush? I’m never actually late, because things don’t truly start until I get there!"

Therefore, as usual, she was late as she left her bedroom to go downstairs where her parents were impatiently waiting for her.

Standing at the bottom of the grand staircase, Alexis’ father watched her descend. A lump of sadness constricted his throat as he wondered where the hell his little girl had disappeared to. Alexis Dorchester radiated sexuality, and—as a father—Charles was justifiably worried. His eyes told him the truth—that he’d been a failure at restraining his wayward daughter. Like tryin’ to nail Jello to the wall.

(And if you’re wondering to yourself how I happen to know the inner thoughts that were buzzing ‘round in Charles’ head, it’s because he often verbalized the above words to anyone who’d listen. Believe you me, when I write down any person’s thoughts in this here story, it’s because trustworthy eyewitnesses heard the folks in question saying those things, and then told them to me. But more often than not, the individuals told me themselves what they’d been thinking. So—just to make things absolutely clear, I swear to the veracity of my story on the Holy Bible and the gravestone of my precious dead daughter.)

But, as I was relating before I got sidetracked, Charles was sadly watching his daughter descend the stairs. He appeared every bit the forty-four-year-old wealthy businessman that he was. His perspiring, overweight body was stuffed into his custom-tailored white linen suit. (Visualize a near-bursting sausage.) A lapel pin of the Confederate flag announced his take on things, as did the Stars and Bars that flew everyday on the flagpoles outside his home and businesses. His watery blue eyes were surrounded by hooded lids, and the pinkish skin on his face revealed red blood vessels, divulging his love of Bourbon whiskey. His ruddy complexion made him look perpetually over-heated. What little was left of his salt-and-pepper hair had been combed-over and greased down by hair cream. To put it bluntly, he was not what you’d call an attractive man—not even in the same neighborhood.

Alexis’ mother was also waiting at the bottom of the stairs, all bound-up in her corset of bones and elastic, her old-fashioned dress below her ankles, feeling hot and old and cranky. Paigie Dorchester looked a good decade older than her forty-three years. She was obese and had as many chins as a Chinese phone book. As usual she was wearing the same style of clothes she’d always worn—none of those new-fangled, flapper get-ups for her! She critically watched her daughter descend the stairs, not trying to hide her disgust. Shameless! Ladies do not show their legs. And the makeup! Like she put it on with a gardening trowel. Looks like a hussy…acts like one, too.

Paigie’s harsh face was made all the more stern by her pulled-back gray hair, twisted into an angry bun. It was the kind of face that put her husband on alert whenever he was about to cross one of his wife’s many lines of etiquette demarcation. For years, Paigie Dorchester had been the arbiter of high society in Charleston; however, she had no influence whatsoever on her unbridled daughter.

As Alexis and her parents exited through the front door of Dorchester House and walked down the wide marble steps toward their waiting limo, Vesey the chauffer checked his watch, muttering to himself, Twenty one minutes late! But gots to admit, she do make those minutes count. Lookin’ mighty fine, as usual. Hope to God Mammy ain’t right—that Miz Lexis gonna be the death of cousin Eddie.

Twenty-one-year-old Vesey Walker’s skinny body was as