Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Opening his briefcase, he took out several old black-and-white 8x10 photographs, publicity shots for the band. “That’s the Barnstormers. A big band: five reeds, four brass, piano, bass, and drums. That’s Mama at the microphone.” A tall, slim woman in a dated dress, old-timey hairdo. “She was beautiful,” I said.

“I thought so.” Jackson smiled. “The tall, thin fella next to her is Mr. Coley Barnes. Wonderful trumpet player. Sounded like a cross between Harry James and Louis Armstrong, only better. Played so fine that some folks said he’d been down to the crossroads.”

“The crossroads?” I asked.

“You know the old legend. Swapped his soul to the devil in trade for his talent. Superstitious nonsense, of course, but that man surely could play a trumpet. And the way things turned out, he maybe knew the devil by his first name.”

“What did happen, exactly?” I asked. “Artie said there was a robbery.”

Jackson nodded. “On the Gin Mill’s last Saturday night. The Barnstormers finished at two A.M. and the club emptied out. Afterward, a few folks hung around, drinkin’. Coley Barnes, my mama, some fellas from the band, old Cy Belknap. ’Course Cy wasn’t old then, wasn’t much more than a kid himself. Twenty, maybe. That’s Cy in this picture here.”

Jackson handed me a photo of the Gin Mill staff. Waiters, waitresses, black and white, all young, looking very proper in aprons, white shirts, bow ties. A lanky kid in a zoot suit stood at the rear. Glaring at the camera, hard-eyed. Trying to look older. Trying to look tough. I knew that feeling well. I passed the photo on to Artie.

“The way I heard it, Coley Barnes pulled a gun, made Cy empty the till. Pistol-whipped him, hurt him bad. Then Coley and the others took off. Took my mama with him. Nate Crowell, Guyton’s grandfather, was there that night. Just a kid, but he’d been drinkin’, too. When the trouble started he ran, fell down the stairs. Lost his sight. It was a terrible thing, all of it.”

“And your mother? Did she come back?”

“No, she never did. Or the others, either. They stayed gone, long gone.”

“Didn’t the police ever—?”

“Police weren’t called into it. Cy Belknap was pretty bitter about what happened. Maybe he had a right to be. Wouldn’t talk about it after, not to police or anybody else. With the A-bomb dropping on Japan and the war ending, nobody worried much about a gin-mill stickup. But there were rumors...”

“What kind of rumors?”

“You have to understand what those times were like. A lot of local rednecks resented blacks getting wartime factory jobs. Both the KKK and Black Legion had chapters here. There was talk maybe Coley and the others were caught by the Klan, lynched, and buried in the pineywoods. Maybe that’s why they never came back.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” Artie asked.

“I don’t know, and it’s a terrible thing not knowing the truth.” Reverend Jackson sighed. “Which is worse, Mr. Shea? Thinking your mama might have been killed all those years ago? Or that she stayed gone because she cared more for her trumpet-playin’ man than her own children?”

I had no answer for him. But I often thought of Reverend Jackson in the following weeks. The pain of loss in his eyes, even after all the time that had passed. It’s not fair. Good memories fade away while bad ones sting forever, painful as ripping a bandage off an open wound.

But I was too busy to worry about Jackson for long. The remodeling was going well. I was sure we could meet the Christmas deadline for phase one. If we didn’t get fired.

Olympia Belknap and I were checking over the condominium plans when the doorway darkened. Huge guy standing there, ancient as an oak and nearly as tall. Black suit, white shirt, a cane clutched in one gnarled fist.

“Grandfather?” Pia said, surprised. “What are you doing here? Mr. Shea, this is my husband’s grandfather—”

“Cyrus Belknap,” I finished for her, offering the old gentleman my hand. “I saw your picture the other day.”

“Who the hell are you?” the old man asked, ignoring my hand. “Pia’s new boyfriend?”

“No, sir,” I said, taken aback by his hostility. “I’m—”

“Mr. Shea is the contractor I hired to renovate the building, Grandfather. I told you about him.”

“And I told you to stay the hell away from this place! It’s a bad place, no decent woman should be here. I want these men gone, right now! All of them!”

“Grandfather, be reasonable. I explained my plans—”

“Your plans? You have no right to make plans. This is my building, and—” He broke off suddenly, listening. “What’s that noise?”

With all the construction clatter outside, I wasn’t certain which one he meant.

“It’s just men working, sir. We’re planing down the doors to—”

He waved me to silence, cocking his head to hear the hallway racket better, his eyes flicking back and forth, anger and fear battling in them.

Fear won. He turned and stalked away without another word.

I glanced the question at Olympia.

“Bob’s grandfather,” she said ruefully. “He’s a handful sometimes.”

Pia had shrugged off the old man’s ravings, so I did, too. I shouldn’t have.