Photo, Snap, Shot (11 page)

She snorted. “Endowments, gifts, and donations are a fact of private school life. Speaking of which—”

Another mom came strolling up the driveway dragging a couple of garbage bags behind her. “Connie, I dumped the empty pots in these trash bags. Where shall I put them?”

Connie pointed toward a molded plastic wheelbarrow, sitting off to one side of the driveway. “We’ll take them back to the plant store where they’ll recycle them.”

“I like old wheelbarrows better,” I said, running my hand over the molded plastic. “These never look quite real. Too much like those Big Wheel Trikes. I prefer heavy metal.”

“That reminds me,” and Connie smiled at the newcomer. “How’s Sissy’s little boy, Christopher?”

The other mom shifted her weight nervously. “I’ve heard he’s having a hard time of it. A few outbursts.”

Connie nodded. “That’s to be expected. Good thing Patricia Bigler is working in the kindergarten. The other teachers tell me first thing he does in the morning is ask where she is.”

The mom nodded. “She really loves kids. You can tell.” With a glance at her watch, she announced she was done for the day.

Time to change the channel. “Speaking of sacred trusts,” I edged in my comment, “what on earth were Mahreeya and Ella going on about at book club?”

“You aren’t from St. Louis are you?” asked Connie.

“No. Is this place fascinating or what?”

“Sure as shooting. You mean that conversation about the Veiled Prophet Ball? I’d give my eyeteeth to see that. All four of those moms were involved: Ella, Mahreeya, Jennifer, and Patricia.”

“Because they all went to school together?”

“As I understand it, the families were friends. All four of them were part of the Veiled Prophet’s court.”

“Pretty tight knit, huh? I guess diversity wasn’t a goal back then.” I thought back to the oblique comments and the implication that Corey Johnson had been arrested because of his color.

“It certainly is now. Elliott works very hard on recruiting families with diverse backgrounds. The school board expects that of him.” She rocked back on her heels. “Believe it or not, Kiki, even the old guard here in St. Louis is changing. Slowly, perhaps, but still …”

I tamped down the dirt around a mum. “I suppose it would be easier to marry into a family with similar world views.” I thought about Sheila a minute and added, “Or at least a family that wanted your marriage to succeed.” I didn’t add “instead of trying to destroy it and you.”

Connie nodded. “I researched the Veiled Prophet shortly after we arrived. The Queen of Love and Beauty serves as the Veiled Prophet’s emissary. She’s chosen from hundreds of young maidens—”

Maidens? The last time I heard that word I was reading Shakespeare. I laughed out loud and Connie did, too. “Goodness, me, I got carried away. See, the Queen wears white at the Veiled Prophet Ball like a bride does.”

“Sort of like a city-wide beauty pageant?”

“You haven’t seen their photos, have you?” Connie brayed with laughter. “It is certainly not a beauty pageant. The Queen is a symbol of power and purity, from her bloodline to her conduct. Someone explained to me that the purpose of the Queen is to show the ‘less fortunate’ what they can aspire to. Ha! Ha! Only if they believe in reincarnation.”

Now we both got tickled and laughed so hard I nearly sprang a leak. Connie got hold of herself first, wiped at her nose, and sported a smear of dirt across her cheek. She continued, “Years ago, the Queen wasn’t supposed to go to college or get married during her reign. That left her free to make special appearances.” With this, Connie waved her trowel around like a scepter, spraying me with fine pieces of soil.

“Get this: even today she’s remembered as the Queen for the rest of her life. Ever noticed those big pearl and rhinestone pins some of the alumnae wear? Those were originally parts of their tiaras.”

“No kidding? Here I thought they all patronized the same jeweler. Hey, who pays for all this?”

Connie glanced over her shoulder and dropped her voice to a whisper. “It’s complicated. Look, Kiki, if you really want to understand what Ella and Mahreeya were feuding about at the mothers’ book club meeting, go on over to the library and do a little research on the Veiled Prophet. Meanwhile, we should be careful. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”

“Why?”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground,” said Connie, looking around nervously. “When it comes to the Prophet, opinions tend to get heated.”

___

Less than five blocks away from CALA was the St. Louis County Library. With a modern rounded entry of glass blocks and an unimposing beige façade, it doesn’t look like much from the outside, but I’ve never met a library I didn’t like. My mood lightened considerably as I walked through the book detectors to the help desk. I told a librarian what I was after, and she was glad to direct my efforts. She even offered to look through the Special Collection for me in case the library had anything back there that I might want to see.

Halfway into the open reading room, a sharp right led me to the stacks under the mezzanine floor. Truth be told, something about the Spartan shelves and lack of cushy seating seemed to underscore the seriousness of the information offered back here, away from the fiction holdings. No lightweight reading sat on these bare shelves. Calculating the Dewey Decimal numbers quickly, I walked my fingers down spines searching for copies of books about the Veiled Prophet. I withdrew these from the shelves and settled myself at a table to read through each of them.

According to the first author, many African Americans participated in a week-long general strike that paralyzed the city back in 1877. To demonstrate their courage and commitment, approximately fifteen hundred workers marched four abreast through the downtown business district while carrying clubs on their shoulders.

In response to this show of strength, business owners of St. Louis countered with their own citizens’ militia parade which was essentially a show of armed power. From this public display came the impetus to create an annual extravaganza designed to make perfectly clear that the elite of the city had the upper hand. Thus the Veiled Prophet was born.

A history teacher of mine once said that to grasp the import of any event, you must view it in the context of the times. In an era devoid of television and video imagery, the pageantry of the Veiled Prophet parade must have been spectacular indeed. At twilight on October 8, 1878, a crowd of thousands gathered by torchlight to watch the waters of the mighty Mississippi River. A cry went up. Rockets exploded. A band began to play. Eyes strained in the fading light to watch a barge make its way slowly to the shore. From that vessel arose a lavishly costumed figure. The Veiled Prophet had arrived to favor St. Louis with his blessing. Once seated on a colorful float, the Prophet and his court were pulled by a phalanx of prancing horses past a cheering throng lining the streets of St. Louis.

I rubbed my eyes. I tried to imagine the times. Less than ten years before, the Civil War had brutally divided Missouri with the northern half of the state supporting the Union, and the southern half supporting the Confederacy. The bloody aftermath of brother fighting brother gave way to a period of grim reconstruction. Men returned to farms left largely untended in their absence. The manufacturing age arrived, and with it came a lack of personal freedom, a new kind of slavery as business owners preyed on cheap labor. Day to day life would have been very dull.

It was hard to imagine the glamour and drama of the myth created by the city fathers. I wanted to see the images with my own eyes. I skipped deep inside the book I held to the photo section and reeled back in horror. The rotogravure picture from the
Missouri Republican
showed a masked man garbed in a peaked white hat and matching robe. This was the Veiled Prophet? The benevolent bestower of love? Surely not. I went back to the text and read that during the parade itself the Prophet was dressed in dark green, and his face was covered in a veil of white. So where did that original ominous figure come from—and what was his purpose? I shook my head in confusion.

“Anything wrong, dear?” The reference librarian laid a faded October 28, 1946, copy of
Life
magazine beside my elbow.

“No,” I said hastily, “and thank you for your help.”

The second book on the subject proved more enlightening. This author posited that the Veiled Prophet festival began with the good intentions of reviving the St. Louis economy after the damages wrought by the Union army during its occupation of the city. The brothers Slayback had looked to their former home of New Orleans for inspiration and for floats and decorations to bring to Missouri. The veneration of young white maidens from prominent families was a central portion of the celebration, but it was also a way for a secret society to pledge their familial support as the Veiled Prophet, dressed much as one might imagine a Roman god, descended from his lofty throne to choose the Belle of the Ball and present her with a pearl necklace.

I couldn’t decide whether to feel confused or disgusted. Which version of the Veiled Prophet was the truth? Was it a jolly Mardi Gras type event for all to enjoy? Or a thinly disguised show of white power to perpetuate the upper hand of the moneyed elite?

I gently slipped the copy of
Life
from its archival wrapper and turned its yellowed, brittle pages. A musty odor filled the air. “
Life
Goes to the Veiled Prophet’s Ball: St. Louis society turns out for its biggest event” crowed the headline. According to the writer, three hundred thousand people witnessed the V.P. parade which featured twenty floats. But only a fortunate twelve thousand were invited to the ball in Kiel Auditorium. I sank back in my seat and did a quick calculation. In other words, if you filled old Busch Stadium six times, you’d have an equal number of spectators lining the city streets.

My eyes drifted to the large black and white photo covering both pages. A legion of guards in tall hats and carrying lances—I counted twenty-eight—edged an enormous multi-leveled platform. Using my thumb as a measure, I reckoned the size of the elevated stage was at least forty feet long. A woman in a white gown carrying a bouquet that extended past her knees and her tuxedoed escort approached a robed figure in a white mask and snowy wig. According to the accompanying article, this was the queen-designate and the young ladies lining the tiers along her way were members of her court.

As far as I could tell, there was only one ceremony in the world that rivaled the Veiled Prophet Ball, and it was the coronation of Elizabeth I. What would it have been like to be the darling of that ball? To have a rich father who wanted to show you off? To walk like a queen through a crowd of well-wishers?

My fingertip traced the beautiful girl’s image. I hated to admit it, but I envied the four alumnae. From all I could see, this was as close to being royalty as you could get.

I pulled myself together and slipped back into research mode. The books noted that the V.P. festivities continued year after year. But the world changed. In the 1960s, civil rights protesters blocked the parade route with nonviolent sit-ins. In the early 70s, activists decried the V.P. festivities as a symbol of exclusion.

The elite didn’t give up easily, and the celebrations continued. To enhance security, the parade was moved to the daytime. The ball was moved from the publicly funded Kiel Auditorium to the Chase Park-Plaza Hotel. The timing of the ball was changed from autumn to the Friday before Christmas to uncouple it from the parade. Even so, over the next decade consciousness-raising activities continued and the angry voice of the outsiders grew louder. What was designed as a festival to boost the city’s image was seen by some as an embarrassing symbol of economic, social, and racial disparity. Instead of bringing the city together, the Veiled Prophet “celebration” tore St. Louis apart. Again, I turned to the photos to get a better idea of exactly what the words meant. I pulled my magnifying glasses from my purse. Something about an image seemed familiar.

A young Ella Latreau stood shouting at the cameraman with her right fist raised in the well-known salute to black power. Holding her left hand was a tall and equally strident young man, an African American.

The golf team was
finishing up practice at the course. No other cars with CALA stickers were in the lot when I arrived, so I stayed in my BMW, reading my new library book about the Veiled Prophet Ball and its participants.

The air in the car grew stuffy. I stepped out and leaned against my car hood, nose deep in the library book. Since childhood, I’ve always had the ability to lose myself in what I was reading. I often read a couple of books a week, weighing open the pages with whatever’s handy. And if I’m not reading a real book, I indulge in borrowing books on tape from the library. Lately, though, I’d noticed that more and more of what I wanted to hear was on CDs—and my old Beemer only has a tape player.

Books, creating scrapbook pages, working with crafts. I lived my life in my head. Maybe to escape the childhood I’d had. Maybe because that was the way I was made. Who knew?

Patricia startled me. “They’re running late again.”

I nodded in agreement, tucking the book under my arm. She tapped her watch, a tiny timepiece bordered in diamonds.

“I need to get Anya back home and started on her homework.” I said, thinking out loud. My eyes swept the clubhouse and its privacy fence for signs our children were coming. “Hey, what’s this?”

Dangling from a matching set of silver chains, the clubhouse sign said CLOSED. I hadn’t noticed it when I pulled up. Had the coach changed the location of practice? Wouldn’t be the first time.

“Is this the right place?” Patricia asked. We fell into step, staring at the plaque board, a shared sense of purpose bonding us. We were three feet from the sign when the clubhouse door opened. A weathered man as thin as a putter with hair a similar shade poked his head out and scanned the parking lot.

“Are you closed?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“The girls from CALA here?”

He nodded his head.

“How come your sign says CLOSED?”

I pointed with my free hand. Bellowing a mighty “hmph,” he let go the door and marched up to the plaque. Never was a fellow so badgered by women. Yanking at the board, he turned it over to read OPEN, and stomped back into the building.

“That clears that up.”

“Good thing we asked,” Patricia laughed as we walked over and leaned against her car. Her black pants were perfectly cut and hitting her shoes just right.

I mimicked her stance by settling back onto my own bumper. I’d just gotten comfortable when my cell phone rang. After digging into my purse, I flipped it open to check the number. It was Detweiler. Not wanting to seem rude, I hit the talk button and held the phone to the ear farthest from Patricia.

“Did Connie McMahan check out?”

Patricia stared off into space, ostensibly studying a gate with hinges along the far edge of the clubhouse wall. A tiny sign bore the legend “Driving Range” in woodburned letters. When was the last time I saw a woodburning set. Back at Girl Scout camp? In arts and crafts?

“Uh, fine. We had a nice visit. She’s fine.”

“Anything else?”

“No, I’m waiting for Anya to finish up here. I’ll be over in time for dinner, Sheila.” I hoped using my mother-in-law’s name would alert him to my plight. I didn’t want Patricia to overhear or to suspect I was discussing the murder.

I waited. When Maggie had called me “Mother,” I’d caught on pretty quickly. Would Detweiler see through my ruse?

“You can’t talk.”

“You got it,” and we said our goodbyes.

Patricia turned to me slowly. “Who do you think it was?” A deep crease interrupted Patricia’s forehead.

“Pardon?” I tried to seem confused. “On my phone? My mother-in-law.”

“Silly. I mean, who do you think killed Sissy?”

“Beats me. This’ll probably be one of those weird cases where the cops discover someone, a person we don’t know about, held a grudge against her.”

“You think?” Her eyes flickered with concern. “A lot of people didn’t like her. You should have heard the teachers in the break room today. They’re all glad she’s gone.”

That was awful. I shivered. I didn’t want my child picking up on those attitudes. I mused out loud, “One important question is, why now? There must have been a trigger, some event that caused the killer to make his move.”

The gate attached to the side of the clubhouse began to shake as one of the golfers worried the latch. The signboard bounced and threatened to flip back to CLOSED. The players’ voices rose behind the fence, loud and whiny. The girls were overtired, what with two emotional days at school and these overlong golf practices. They bolted out of the doorway, jostling each other along, acting more like children than young ladies. They carried their clubs low, nearly dragging the ground, as they scanned the lot for their mothers’ cars. The tension showed on their faces. All of them were more than ready for the comforts of home.

I finished my thoughts as Patricia jingled her keys. I didn’t want the girls to hear us. “The police have their ways. They’ll keep interviewing people, comparing stories, and checking what they learn. Sooner or later, someone will crack, someone will say something. All the cops need is a motive. Maybe Corey Johnson will give them information. Maybe that’s why they let him go, because he’s cooperating with them. Maybe they’ve found a new direction.”

Anya stumbled toward us, her khaki pants grubby around the hem and her royal blue and gold golf shirt rumpled. Tilly followed close on my daughter’s heels. “You’ll see. They’ll catch up with the person who did it—”

“And then?” Patricia whispered right before the kids were in earshot. “What do you suppose they’ll do?”

I pitched my voice low. “Missouri has the death penalty.”

___

“Where’s your jacket?” It wasn’t much of a greeting, but Anya had forgotten her jacket twice the week before and her backpack once. Now her clubs were in the trunk and she’d settled into the passenger’s seat, her hands suspiciously free of her belongings.

In answer to my question, she shrugged, guzzled Gatorade, and wiped her face on her sleeve.

“Oh, Anya! You need to go get it!” I felt bad about my outburst, but I was also fed up with her forgetfulness.

She threw open the passenger door and exploded from the car, narrowly missing Patricia who shot me a crooked grin and then climbed into her car.

“I’ll be back,” and Anya was off.

Tilly was sprawled across my backseat. She sipped her own Gatorade and fingered her backpack. Geez. Maggie’s kid was so much more self-reliant than mine. “That’s because you do too much for Anya,” Maggie once told me. She lectured, “Never do anything for them that they can do for themselves.”

But for heavens’ sake, then why have a kid? I wanted her, and I loved doing things for her. However, I didn’t enjoy nagging her. And I especially didn’t like the way I channeled my mother each time I was forced to remind Anya of her responsibilities.

Ella pulled up to take Patricia’s place. I stepped out to say, “Hi.” We exchanged hugs.

“You okay? You didn’t seem yourself at Jennifer’s.” I envied her the navy-blue designer jeans and marine-blue, scoop neck tee she wore so stylishly. She’d changed clothes after the book club. I was still in the outfit I’d put on that morning. By now, I could barely stand myself. The sweat I’d worked up gardening was now making me itchy and sticky. I wanted and needed a shower desperately.

“I’m okay. Mahreeya knows how to push my buttons. Always has. And I have a lot on my mind.”

“I stopped at the library and looked up the Veiled Prophet.”

“Bet you got a surprise.”

“What was it really like? Was it really that grand?”

She raised an eyebrow. “All cotillions involve spectacle. Remember, there are other debutante balls here in St. Louis. The Fleur de Lis for example.”

“I did a scrapbook for one of the attendees. But it’s only fifty years old, whereas the Veiled Prophet is 132 years old!”

“That’s the point. What you saw was a history lesson. Nothing more, nothing less. The world has changed. That’s what vibrant societies do—they grow and change, sometimes slowly. What was acceptable and even desirable a century ago is viewed differently today. Whatever the V.P’s original mission, isn’t it important to concentrate on who they are now?”

“And who are they now? I mean, I still don’t know.”

“It’s a philanthropic association that provides community services through a number of local organizations. It supports a parade modeled after the Mardi Gras in New Orleans.”

I mulled over her comments. “But its history is quite different.”

“That’s my point. Let me ask you this: Are you the same person you were two years ago?”

“Not even close.”

“The Veiled Prophet organization has changed, too. It’s less about exclusion and more about inclusion. If you look at photos in the
Ladue News
you’ll see black fathers and their daughters attending the event. Let me ask you this, if Anya was invited to attend, would you let her go?”

The question caught me off guard. Suddenly, I stood face-to-face with my own hypocrisy. I could whine about privilege with the best of them, but wasn’t that exactly what I wanted for my child? A chance to live a better life than I had?

I made one last clutch at my prejudices. “But isn’t it a secret society?”

“The prophet’s identity is a secret. Other than that, you have to be proposed for membership just like a country club.”

“Then why did you protest?”

“So you saw the infamous photo?” She peered at me and tried to read the source of my interest, whether looking for dirt or simply curious.

Actually, I was in awe. “Must have taken a lot of guts to be in a march like that.”

“I marched because I had to. I knew what I needed to do. Blacks had already been admitted to membership in the 1980s, but the group needed to take their concerns more seriously. Things had to change. I had my reasons. Protesting wasn’t hard. I wasn’t alone. The repercussions were harsh, but being involved was important. For once in my life, I followed my heart. Well, maybe not for once, maybe for the second time.”

“But the cost!”

She shrugged. “You see, the Queen is actually a stand-in for her father.”

“So it isn’t really a beauty pageant?”

Her laugh was harsh. “Heck no. Believe me, the Queen of Love and Beauty is not about good looks. It’s about your family, especially your father and his status. Having a daughter rise up against the organization, well, it hit my dad hard.” She stared off toward the horizon. “He had his first stroke a week after the picture ran. A second one finished him off. Shortly afterward, my mother lost the will to live.”

“Oh, Ella! I’m so sorry.”

“You needn’t be. They’re all gone now. I’ve been sorry enough for two people. Or three. If I’d been more patient … if I’d let things take their natural course … things would have changed anyway … without my involvement.” She tilted her head to the sky and studied the changing colors of the clouds. Above the tree line, the sky was crayon orange. A pink layer with maroon streaks rose up until it faded into gray blahness. The color thinned out quickly into a neutrality. The sun was setting, and the air was so temperate that the atmosphere echoed the nothingness of the faded sky. We were floating, out of time and space, and not anchored to the earth or this moment.

“I can certainly understand why you were upset about Corey Johnson being arrested. That must have seemed like a throwback to—”

“No. I had my own reasons for being upset about Corey. He’s a good coach. He’s very understanding, and Corey deserves better.”

“Mom?” The gate banged opened, and Ella’s daughter Natalie walked out, with Anya following close behind. My daughter carried her jacket tucked under her elbow.

Ella turned away suddenly.

“Great round,” said Natalie, tapping my daughter on the shoulder. I saw Anya smile up at the older girl, a beam of pure sunshine on her face.

Ella stepped to the kids, “Hi, Anya, how’re you? Natalie, honey, how’s your new putter?”

“Hi, Mrs. Walden,” said Anya. “I’m fine. Mom, let’s go. I’m hungry. See you, Nat.”

Ella’s daughter was tall, blonde, and lean. As she started toward their car, her brother Frederick jumped out to help her with her clubs. The boy made a quick nod toward Anya and me. I could see the family resemblance: his thin straight nose—what did they call it? Patrician?—his high cheek bones and his pointed chin.