The Last Clinic (18 page)

She pulled up to the semicircular driveway. An elderly African American man in morning coat and white gloves stood at the top of the steps of the main entrance. He smiled, nodded to her, came halfway down the stairs, and offered her a hand. It was the sort of thing her husband used to do for women.

“I’m Swarthmore,” he said. “How nice of you to come see us, Detective. I trust you had a safe trip?”

He opened the front door and led her into a foyer, then through that into a parlor. Both rooms looked more grandly decorated than any of the other half dozen Natchez mansions she’d visited with Hugh, back when they were out and about, the state hero and his bride.

The style is French—Louis XIV
, she thought. Fine reproductions of period furniture, or maybe even originals, impossible for an untrained eye like hers to tell. The parlor windows were open, letting in the fragrance from the azaleas and magnolias that surrounded the building.

She heard the sound of young women’s voices talking and laughing, carrying on about girlish matters. Under the voices, as though coming from another room further away, she heard what sounded like a string quartet rehearsing something baroque. It was as though she had arrived during the final preparations for some grand and formal party.

Swarthmore led her to the far end of the parlor to a brocade love seat. She sat, her knees pressed together, feeling out of place and time in her blouse and jeans, her .380 Taurus visible under the bottom of the jeans.

Another middle-aged man, a Caucasian, entered the room and clickety-clacked across the marble floor to where she was seated. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, riding britches, and polished English saddle boots—the lord of the manor, in from his morning romp.

 “I’m Charles DelNegro. Welcome to Hemings. Mr. Boudreaux told me that you have come on urgent matters.”

“I feel like I’ve wandered into the middle of a 19
^th
century novel.”

“As you may have guessed, that’s the intention. Can I offer you something to drink, Detective?”

A dark-haired young man, a Caucasian, in a white waiter’s coat, entered the room on cue.

She waved him off. He disappeared as quickly as he had come.

“You can tell me what you know about Reverend James Aldridge, or RJA Enterprises,” she said to DelNegro.

“We don’t have access to television or radio on the premises, but word reached me he was taken.”

“He was taken out. That would be more accurate. Shot in the chest three times. So whatever it is you know about him, I need to know it.”

He smiled a smile that said he was two or three steps ahead of her and was going to try to help her catch up if she’d take the trouble to listen. “Come walk with me. This is the best time of the year to see the grounds.”

He held open the side door, and they stepped into a formal English-style garden.

He offered Darla his arm as they began to stroll, and she slipped her arm in his.

“Perhaps it would be helpful if I gave you a short tutorial on what it is that we do here. I think you’ll find we’re a very unique organization. Then we can discuss our dealings with the Reverend.”

“Maybe you’d better. I’ve seen a lot of things in the flesh trade, but nothing like this.”

They paused by a bronze statue of a handsome looking African American woman.

“Recognize her?” he said.

“Sally Hemings, I’m guessing. Are her descendants supposed to be connected to this, whatever it is?”

“Oh, heavens no. I doubt they are aware of our existence, and if they are, I doubt they approve. Miss Hemings is more of, how shall I put it, an archetype?”

“She was a black woman who was raped by a white man. That’s how I remember it.”

“Thomas Jefferson, who happened to be the author of the Declaration of Independence.”

Darla thought Mr. DelNegro sounded like a college professor correcting an incoming freshman.

“He authored a few bastard children too.”

“Very clever, Detective.”

“I’d say he was a perp who never had to face a jury because he was white and his victim was black.”

“Ah, yes. The age-old question in such matters. Was it rape? Or was it consensual? Was Miss Hemings forced? Or was she seduced? Or perhaps it was she who was the seductress? Or were they simply deeply in love?”

 “You’re right. All we really know is that she was his property. And he could do whatever he wanted with her.”

“And history tells that Mr. Jefferson took care of her. Provided for her throughout her life.”

“And for that he deserves praise? By the way, he didn’t free her, even in his will.”

“Detective, I’m sure you’re aware that Mr. Jefferson was not the only slaveholder to fall prey to the charms of his African American wards.”

“You mean his slaves?”

“At times the draw was irresistible.”

“Come on, Mr. DelNegro. It was the women who couldn’t resist. If they did they’d be beaten, or sold, or murdered.”

 “Be that as it may, it became a rite of passage for young white men, sons of the plantation owners, to consummate their manhood with the most desirable young African American woman on the plantation. It was a widely held view that a man was not a man until he had experienced interracial conjugal relations.”

“Consensual or not.”

“That aside, for the purpose of our discussion, on certain plantations, the event, the consummation, became a highly anticipated and much celebrated ritual. I’m sure many cultures participate in coming-of-age ceremonies.”

“So you are saying, what? This was like a Bar Mitzvah? I’m not sure my Jewish friends would buy into the comparison.”

He paused for a second, sighed, and continued.

“Great care was taken in the selection of an appropriate young woman. Not only must she possess physical charms, she must be of a high moral standard.”

“You mean she had to be virgin? That she couldn’t have had sex with one of her own race. That’s where all this is going?”

“The woman lucky enough to be selected—lucky is how she viewed it, by the way—she would be accorded special privileges.”

“How do we know she viewed it that way?”

He ignored her question with something close to a huff.

“She had the advantage of a better diet, sent to her from the main house. She was groomed daily, provided with special clothing—gowns and bedroom attire—specially made of the finest imported silks.”

“She gets to play dress-up too. Sounds like fun.”

“For weeks leading up to the celebration, she would reside in special housing, far from the slave quarters. On the eve of the consummation, a party would be held for the young man by his male contemporaries, wherein the young woman, in all her finery, was presented to him at midnight.”

“Brought in on a platter?”

“She was carried in, if that is what you meant, but more in the style of a queen.”

“Then he took her upstairs and raped her. And after he finished, she went back to the slave quarters, working the fields, eating turnips and pigs tails. A regular Cinderella story, only without the happy ending.”

 “In some cases, many cases, the young woman was given a gift—money or jewelry. In other cases she would be accorded special privileges for providing this service, special quarters, more agreeable duties.”

They had finished their walk. Darla looked back at the garden; her eyes swept the grounds, the entire plantation, taking it all in.

“So, that’s it, right? That’s what this place is about? Selling black virgins to white guys who want to live out their slave owner fantasies?”

He looked her straight in the eye, his expression solemn as a priest about to give communion.

“This institution exists to carry forward that tradition. Only here, under our protection, the activity is voluntary and extremely rewarding financially for the young lady.”

“And I’m going to bet you don’t make out so bad yourself.”

“We’re a niche marketer with a unique service. In fact, I know of no other organization in America like ours. We price ourselves accordingly and are quite proud of our success.”

“God bless the USA. Right?”

“That is precisely how we look at it.”

“Okay, mission accomplished. I get what you’re doing here. What I need to know, was Reverend Aldridge, was he a client? Conway said he sent him to you.”

“Under different circumstances, a police officer such as yourself would never receive an invitation to Hemings Mansion. But a man—in our view, a good man—has been murdered, and we wish to see his killer brought to justice. As I’m sure you realize, we operate with the full knowledge of the local and state authorities. The threat of exposure does not motivate our actions toward you. Whatever assistance we offer is strictly at our own discretion.”

Darla understood. DelNegro was doing somebody a favor by letting her in, answering her questions. If she tried to play tough with him and issue threats, he’d freeze her out, and she wouldn’t get the information she needed.

“Look, I think what you do here is sick. But I’m not here on a moral crusade, not that it would do me any good.”

“As long as we understand each other.”

“I’m trying to solve Reverend Aldridge’s murder, not whether he was a good man. That’s all.”

“To answer your question, Reverend Aldridge had made inquiries about our service. Fees were discussed.”

“What kind of fees? How much and for what?”

“Understand, the event we are talking about is quite elaborate. From a financial point of view, very much along the lines of a large-scale wedding. Then there are the fees to the young lady, which are not inconsiderable.”

“I don’t need a breakdown. Just, all in, how much?”

“For what Reverend Aldridge had in mind, somewhere in the range of two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

“For the one night?”

“Price is almost never an issue for our clients.”

“That’s a pretty steep slope for a minister though.”

“I confess I was surprised, but he didn’t seem in the least put off by the fee. In fact, he indicated that obtaining the money would not pose a problem.”

“So, what happened?”

“His name was put on the list.”

“The list?”

“It’s a seller’s market, Detective There are far more gentlemen interested in our service than there are suitable young women. Making a match always involves a lengthy search. And not the sort one does on the internet. The lady must, of course, be attractive and well mannered. She must be untainted but easily aroused, athletic, docile, and if called upon, erotically adventurous, while at the same time possessing a sweet, agreeable and altogether docile disposition. And of course, she must be in need of financial assistance. Finding someone with all these qualities takes time and considerable research. Once the candidate is confirmed there is the matter of putting in place certain conditions that would assure her discretion.”

“Wouldn’t want her shooting her mouth off to the media or writing a raped and tell book.”

“You understand perfectly.”

“So, how long is this waiting list?”

“At present, two years, more or less.”

“That’s a long time, two years.”

“Yes, well, the Reverend was not pleased with this aspect of our service. In fact, he offered to increase the amount of our fee for priority treatment.”

“Deliver the goods sooner.”

“It would be fair to say he was quite impatient. However, this was not possible. Applicants are accepted in the order of receipt. No exceptions.”

“So he went on the list. How long ago was this?

“About six months ago.”

“And did Reverend Aldridge put up a deposit? Don’t worry I’m not here to retrieve any money.”

“A deposit is never required. With a two-year backlog of potential suitors it’s hardly necessary.”

“Did he meet the girl? Know her name? See a picture of her? Have any contact with her?”

“We initiated a search. However, a suitable candidate had not been located at the time of his death. Please understand, even after the young lady has been selected and a contract drawn, the potential suitor doesn’t meet the young lady until a month before the nuptials themselves. It’s usually during an afternoon tea that’s quite formal and elegant. Even at that stage, actual names and backgrounds of both parties are withheld.”

“So Revered Aldridge had no contact with any of the women who work here?”

“None. None of our clients have advance contact. He dealt only with me. And there was only the one meeting between us.”

“Does anybody else know he visited here?”

 “Not unless Mr. Boudreaux has told someone other than yourself. And from my experience with Mr. Boudreaux this would be out of character.”

Mr. DelNegro opened the side door, leading back to the foyer, but stood, blocking the way. He nodded to the path leading around to the front of the mansion.

“I hope I’ve been of some assistance.” He looked at her as a monk might look at a visitor from the outside world. He shook her hand and again bowed at the waist.

“Forgive me if I don’t curtsey. It would look a little funny in jeans,” she said.

“Life in this part of the world must seem quite foreign to you Detective.”

“No more foreign than, say, life in Japan.”

He walked her to the front of the garden and waited under the mansion’s tall columns until she reached her car. When she looked back in his direction, he waved goodbye and then slipped behind the large white front door.

Driving home, Darla tried putting the pieces together.

Dr. Nicoletti remained the primary suspect. He had both motive and opportunity, but Darla didn’t buy him as the killer. Maybe she just didn’t want to. Maybe it was a number he was doing on her, a fantasy figure that helped her cope with the still unbearable loss. Or maybe it was something else.

Then there was Reverend Aldridge himself, the larger than life victim with his larger than life secrets. He was a man of God on what he thought was a holy crusade. But he also had a penchant for extortion and a sexual obsession with young black virgins.

And finally, there was the mystery money. Over a hundred and fifty thousand if Conway was telling the truth about the amount and length of payments. Uther would have an answer on that soon. But where was the money going? Who was making the withdrawals? What were they doing on these road trips? She had a suspicion, but it was not the sort of thing she wanted to talk about without some kind of substantiation.