Backdrop to Murder: A Lanie Price Mystery

By Persia Walker

For 1920's society reporter Lanie Price, the photographer found shot through the eye in the back of his studio isn't just another story. It's personal.On a dank night in September, Lanie is called to the scene of a grisly double murder. The victims: a popular photographer and a Cotton Club beauty. The suspect: the dead man's jealous wife. Found weeping over his body, her wails of grief and regret condemn her on the spot. The cops say the wife did it and an outraged community believes it.

 

Can Lanie Stop an innocent woman from getting a date with the electric chair -- or is this innocent woman not so innocent after all?

 

Set against the backdrop of the Harlem Renaissance, Backdrop to Murder is the latest book in the Lanie Price mystery series. If you like suspense, then you'll love this 1920's noir mystery. Pick up Backdrop to Murder to discover this exciting series today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blood Vintage Press
• Release date: Feb 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201608972

Book preview

1

You ever heard of the colored photographer Andrew King? Never did? Well, that’s a darn shame. But in a way, it would’ve surprised me if you had. Not many people remember his name nowadays, but a lot more would’ve—if he’d survived.

As a young man still in his twenties, Andrew was more than making his way. He was giving that guy with the Dutch name a run for his money. You know the one. James Vanderzee. He’s famous now. Took a load of pictures of Harlem hot-shots: Florence Mills, Hazel Scott, and the like. Don’t get me wrong. Vanderzee was something all right. But the way people talk, you’d think he was the only colored man taking pictures in Harlem back then; that just wasn’t so.

There was a man named Woodard—William E. Woodard—and a couple of guys by the name of Vernon and King on West 135th, and Walter Baker, up on 133rd and Lenox. There was even a woman, Winfred Hall. She and her husband ran an institute that taught photography.

Then, there was Andrew.

I was a reporter for the Harlem Chronicle. That little paper kept up with all the doings in Harlem. It was a weekly and it was hot. We knew who was doing what, where and with whom. But to say it was all gossip would be unfair. This was a legitimate paper and we dished out any social news that was fit to print.

I had my own column, a little slice of life called Lanie’s World, sort of a paper within the paper. My photo ran with it, and I got to pick and choose what I wanted to write. I’d just finished covering the Joplin murder trial when the King story broke and I jumped on it.

Brandy Sullivan was one of those café au lait chorines you always heard tell about. Tall, tan and terrific, she was the lead dancer in the nightly floor show at the Cotton Club. She had grown up in the tobacco fields of Virginia, then come up North to the big city and made good. All was going well for Brandy, till the night she met a pit bull by the name of Big Earl, and up and married him.

Big Earl was a prizefighter, heavyweight division. He was also an albino. The white folks didn’t know what to make of him, this giant black man with milky white skin, but the colored folk loved him. He didn’t have the elegance of Jack Johnson or the charm of Tiger Flowers, but he did pack a mean right uppercut. He was hot-headed, brash and jealous. He knew not to threaten white men if they came on to Brandy, but he’d deck a colored man in a second.

Which brings us back to Andrew.

Rumor had it that Brandy had fallen for him. You see, Andrew wasn’t just talented. He was fine, one of the finest men I have ever seen, and I’ve seen aplenty. To top it off, he didn’t seem to know just how fine he was. He was a good man, thoughtful, funny and kind—had a heart as big as a mountain. Legions of people were in love with him, most of them women, but more than a few men could’ve been counted in there, too.

To Andrew, that was all just bunkum. It meant nothing. He had his love, his one true love, and that was his wife, Tessie. She was talented, too. Her collection of essays, The Bitter Herbs of May, had drawn rave reviews. I had read it, and loved it. Tessie, it seemed, was one of those rare, gifted writers whose work appealed to both the critic and the general public.

Unfortunately, Tessie herself didn’t appeal to either one. She was reserved, socially awkward and beyond plain. I had spoken to her only briefly before the events I’m about to relate, and that was at a party she’d attended with Andrew. She had seemed out of place. She was tall and thin and about as curvy as a pencil. So, she actually had the perfect figure for the times we lived in. But she had a way of dressing like a middle-aged spinster and those thick spectacles she had propped on her nose didn’t help.

Rumor had it that she was every bit as smart and perceptive as the esteemed W. E. B. DuBois. Having read her work, I didn’t doubt it. But she was a woman, and an unfashionable one at that, living in a society that valued beauty over brains, silliness over sanity. So, she got no kudos for her intelligence, only darts for her dullness.

In point of fact, a lot of folk didn’t think Tessie made a fitting wife for such a fine-looking man. I remember hearing them whispering at that party, talking about her as she and I walked by.

Hmm-hmph! Just what does he see in her?

And they weren’t whispering all that softly, either. If I heard them, then she must’ve heard them, too.

Nevertheless, for a while there, it looked as though they both were going to be stars. Andrew was making marks as a photographer and Tessie, popular or not, was destined for a place at the top, right up there with Zora Neale Hurston, Nella Larson and Jessie Fauset, on the vanguard of Harlem literati.

But all that changed one bleak September night, and all it took was a bullet—two to be exact.

2

It was ten minutes after midnight when my telephone rang, interrupting what promised to be a lovely night with the man of my choosing. He sat propped up in bed with thick white pillows behind him. The only item he was wearing was the cologne I’d given him for his birthday, and the white sheets that pooled around his waist. His bronze skin glowed in the dancing light from my bedroom fireplace.

He was a good-looking man, and a tender and generous lover. The last thing I wanted to be doing was leaving him alone in that big warm bed.

It had been a long day, and an even longer evening at a social club meeting. I’d tried to hide my impatience; these clubs and the women who ran them were my bread and butter, my being a society reporter and all. Normally, I enjoyed the meetings. Some of these ladies were incredibly smart and entrepreneurial. But that evening, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Couldn’t wait to be with him. We were looking forward to a luscious night.

So, when the phone jangled, I tried to ignore it. But when the ring got so shrill, the phone looked about to jump off the hook, I snatched it up. What the caller told me made me forget all about sleeping. What the caller told me totally killed the mood. Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed. I kissed lover a temporary good-bye, said I’d see him in the morning, and jumped in my car, speeding from my Strivers’ Row townhouse down to 122nd Street.

I didn’t want to believe what I’d been told. Andrew seemed like the most unlikely of victims. He was popular, and so easy to get along with. Everybody wanted him to take their picture. Everybody trusted him to make them look good, unforgettably good.

He had a studio on Lenox Avenue, midway up the block between 122nd and 123rd, in the half-basement of a three-story brownstone. I remember the day my late husband, Hamp, and I went to see him, the day Andrew ended up taking the only decent picture I had of me and Hamp together.

Andrew had been so proud. He’d just hung his new sign over the door: King’s Photography Studio, it said, with a blurb beneath it that read, Every customer is treated like royalty. He’d pointed it out to us, folded his arms across his chest and beamed with pride. Clearly, he was a man with a vision, a sense of where he wanted to go and how he meant to get there.

It was hard to accept that that vision would never be fully realized.

I parked my motorcar on the corner of 122nd, in front of the still lit windows of Darleen’s Fish ’n’ Fried, and hurried through the chilly night, sidestepping puddles. You could see the studio from afar. The cops had turned on all the lights, so the place was aglow, the lights reflected in the puddles on the sidewalk.

The newspaper stand across the street was shuttered and dark. This street was mostly residential, but a couple of small restaurants broke the monotony, and a slew of nightclubs stood around the corner. The clubs always brought foot traffic. On this night, they had brought a throng to the studio’s door.

The crowd was at least five-people deep, thickly knotted and clogging the entrance. I excused and elbowed my way through. The entrance was three steps down from the sidewalk, sandwiched between steps leading up to the brownstone’s front door on the left and the boarded-up street entrance to a defunct grocery store on the right.

At the head of the steps, a young patrolman put up a hand to bar the way. I held up my press ID. He looked unsure, then relented and let me through. I hurried down the cracked and worn concrete steps. The front door was open. I stepped inside and slowed to a halt.

After the chill outside, it felt incredibly warm, warm and stuffy. Men in uniforms and men in white, filled the small space just inside the entryway, in front of the cash register, the counter and displays of religious bric-a-brac. They moved in a busy stream that flowed from the back to the front, and back again. From the rear, where Andrew had his studio, came the wretched sound of a woman weeping and a man’s voice, trying to calm her.

I shouldered my way to the back, only to be blocked by another patrolman, this one older and tougher than the last.

Nah, nah, you can’t come in here. He waved me away.

It’s all right. I’m a reporter. I flashed my press card.

He raised an eyebrow. A colored reporter? he asked, Is there really such a thing? Oh, go on with you and stop waving that silly card in my face. What do you take me for?

Reilly, let her in, said a voice from inside.

It was the Irish burr of Detective John Blackie, from Homicide. He and I had known each other for years, going back to when I was working the crime beat at the Harlem Age.

Reilly stiffened and his lips tightened in resentment.

He said to let me in, I told him.

For a moment, it looked as though he was going to be dumb and defy orders. But he must’ve thought better of it, because he did the smart thing and stepped aside.

Andrew’s studio was a magical place. From the Victorian chairs and Edwardian tables, to the leather-bound books and grand piano; from the faux fireplaces, Greek columns and gothic gates, to the moose head on one wall, it was magic, magic everywhere. Clothing racks stood in the corner, draped with finery that ranged from canes and top hats to homburgs, trilbies, and fedoras for the male customers, to necklaces, pearls, and feather boas for the female.

The walls themselves were a sight to behold, painted with floor-to-ceiling murals that evoked moods and fantasies. The moon over water appeared sweet and romantic; the villa garden was genteel. In this room, you could go anywhere, be anyone, and pay to have the illusion preserved in black and white.

All that whimsy. Gone now. Stripped away. Violence had turned the murals into backdrops for murder.

I’m so sorry, baby. Please, forgive me. Please.

The weeping had faded. There was only the sound of a broken whisper, and the repeated babbling of words of regret.

So sorry. So, so, sorry. Please, please, forgive me! Please!

A police photographer had set up a triangle of tall, thin tripods and suspended a camera overhead. Under the harsh glare of his lights, the scene was grisly, surreal.

Two figures lay at the center of the spotlight, contorted and still, united by a pool of blood. Sprinkled with bits of brain matter and skull, the blood had sprayed across the floor and laced the lower part of the wall behind them.

Brandy Sullivan lay on her back, her right arm flung back, her right leg folded beneath her. Her upper torso was partly blocked from view by the thin man crouched over her: Doc Winslow, from the medical examiner’s office.

Andrew lay alongside her, his arms splayed, both knees bent. Tessie sat next to him, cradling his head. She caressed his face, weeping, and whispering over and over again, I didn’t mean it, baby. I didn’t mean it. God knows, I didn’t. Please, don’t leave me, please.

Blackie was squatting next to her, urging her to let them examine Andrew, but she shook her head. She clung to her dead husband. She wasn’t about to let go.

Blackie glanced up at me, just long enough to acknowledge my presence with a nod, then beckoned the nearest patrolman to come over and help him. Together, they grabbed Tessie up under her arms and pulled her to her feet. Winslow quickly moved to bend over Andrew. Tessie gave one last wail, buried her face in Blackie’s chest and sobbed, shoulders heaving.

Now, now, Mrs. King, he said, patting her on the back. Ease on up, lassie. Ease on up. We’re going to have to ask you some questions now. Understand?

She raised her head, wiped her eyes on the back of her hand and nodded.

Briefly, I thought he might question her in my presence. But no such luck. Instead, he handed her over to the patrolman with the instruction to take her to the station.

As I watched the officer lead her away, I heard her words over and over again. Confession words. Could she have really done this? Had she?

Blackie’s hard gaze met mine. It was pretty damn clear what he was thinking.

I returned my attention to Andrew and Brandy.

They had died hard. The bullet had punched through his right eye. Orange-brown lesions dotted his face—burn marks from having been gunned down at close range. The three middle fingers of his right hand were gone. Shot off. He’d probably held up his hand to defend himself.

Then, there was Brandy.

She’d been beautiful, once. Now, her lips were scorched and blackened; her teeth broken and exposed and crusted with blood. The physical damage was bad enough, but it was her expression that got me. It was her eyes. They were open and staring, frozen in a rictus of terror. Her mascara was smeared and her makeup streaked by trails of tears. She must have wept, must’ve begged for her life.

You gonna throw up? Blackie asked, suddenly standing at my side.

You know me better than that.

But I was, in fact, having a hard time keeping my dinner down. This wasn’t my first murder scene. Far from it. I’d covered a good number when working as a crime reporter, but I’d never gotten used to them. And the fact that this one involved someone I knew, someone I liked and admired …

Blackie hitched his trousers and crouched down next to Winslow. You got anything for me?

The medical examiner removed his wire-rimmed spectacles, squeezed the bridge of his nose, then slipped them back on again. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired.

I’d say death occurred sometime within the last two hours. The apparent cause in both cases was a gunshot to the head. With the man, it was to the right eye; the shooter just aimed and fired. With her, he sighed, it was a bit different.

He took her lower lip and pulled it down, exposing the damage. You see here, he pointed to the inner lining of the lip. The mucosal hemorrhaging? It’s an indicator of externally induced pressure. You can practically see the impressions left by the gun.

In other words, Blackie muttered, the killer shoved the gun right up against her mouth, then pulled the trigger.

Winslow sighed. I’ve never seen anything like it. Homicidal shootings through the mouth are rare. Whoever did this, they really had it in for her.

You’re sure this wasn’t a murder-suicide? I asked.

Blackie shot me a look. He knew that if a trial grew out of this, then murder-suicide would be the most likely line of defense.

You mean, as in she shot him and then shot herself? Winslow asked.

Or vice versa, I said, even though I found either way hard to imagine.

No, Winslow shook his head. "Not