Huh?” Alice, who was sitting next to me, smelled like lawn mower fuel. She popped a chip in her mouth before taking a big bite out of her corned beef on pumpernickel.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you hear anything during the night?” Mr. Fitzgerald wasn’t going to give up.
“Only the ghost.”
I was busy eating my sandwich, so it took a few seconds for me to realize that everyone in the room had stopped talking and were staring at me. “What?” I said.
“J.R., you didn’t say anything about any ghost,” Biggie said.
“No’m.”
Alice picked up her fork, then put it down again. She put her big old elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “Tell me all about it, boy,” she said. “The last person to see old Lucy was …”
“Abraham Tilley,” Lucas put in. “Back in, let me see, nineteen-oh-one, I believe it was.”
“Well, now isn’t that a coincidence,” Hen Lester said from across the table. “Wasn’t that the night Maudelle Baugh was killed? And wasn’t she helping out in the kitchen, just like this girl was?”
“My soul.” Biggie popped a chip in her mouth. “Now, isn’t that a coincidence?” She looked around at the shocked expressions on everybody’s faces. “Well, surely you don’t think there’s any connection? Besides, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. If Biggie said there were no ghosts, I believed her. Biggie’s never wrong. Still, I knew Willie Mae would never lie, and she said she did believe. I felt the lump crawl back into my throat. When it came to the spirit world, I had to go with Willie Mae. After all, she was an expert on those things, being a voodoo lady and all.
“How did Maudelle Baugh get killed?” Butch squirmed around in his chair to face Lucas.
Miss Mary Ann had been sitting at the end of the table with Lew Masters. Suddenly, she stood up and faced the room. “She was shot in the back with a Colt .45,” she said. “They never found who did it. Anybody want coffee?” Several of the adults nodded, so she got up and served coffee all around.
“You’re wrong,” Lucas said. “Her husband did it.
Maudelle was going to leave him for a railroad man. My papa used to tell about the incident. It happened shortly before I came into this world.”
“Are you sure that was Abraham Tilley?” Hen Lester asked. “I thought he was the abolitionist.”
“The abolitionist was Hosiah Tilley.” Alice drained her Diet Coke. “He was Abraham’s granddaddy, I think. That right, Lucas?”
“You had an abolitionist here in Quincy?” Biggie laid down her sandwich and looked at Alice. “I would have thought a person with those views would have been ridden out of town on a rail.”
“Not so.” Lucas pulled a cigar out of his pocket and sniffed it. He noticed Hen Lester glaring at him. “Don’t worry, Hen. I’m not going to light it,” he said and turned back to Biggie. “During the years before the Civil War, we had all kinds of people with divergent views living in this town. Quite cosmopolitan, actually, what with the river travel, and all.” He sniffed his cigar and put it in his mouth. “Hosiah Tilley owned this very hotel and the livery stable that used to be next door.”
“He helped runaway slaves,” Alice LaRue said. “Emily, honey, get me a piece of that apple pie.” Emily LaRue jumped up and got the pie off the long table. She set a clean fork and a fresh paper napkin next to it in front of Alice before sitting down and continuing to eat her sandwich. When she ate, she took little, bitty bites, pecking at her food like a chicken.
“How’d he do that?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.
“He would hide them in a secret place here in the hotel
until dark, then provide them with a twenty-dollar gold piece, a good horse, and a map.” Lucas took a sip of his coffee.
“My lord, how did that help them?” Biggie asked. “Texas was a slave state. They would have been hunted down and brought
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you hear anything during the night?” Mr. Fitzgerald wasn’t going to give up.
“Only the ghost.”
I was busy eating my sandwich, so it took a few seconds for me to realize that everyone in the room had stopped talking and were staring at me. “What?” I said.
“J.R., you didn’t say anything about any ghost,” Biggie said.
“No’m.”
Alice picked up her fork, then put it down again. She put her big old elbows on the table and leaned toward me. “Tell me all about it, boy,” she said. “The last person to see old Lucy was …”
“Abraham Tilley,” Lucas put in. “Back in, let me see, nineteen-oh-one, I believe it was.”
“Well, now isn’t that a coincidence,” Hen Lester said from across the table. “Wasn’t that the night Maudelle Baugh was killed? And wasn’t she helping out in the kitchen, just like this girl was?”
“My soul.” Biggie popped a chip in her mouth. “Now, isn’t that a coincidence?” She looked around at the shocked expressions on everybody’s faces. “Well, surely you don’t think there’s any connection? Besides, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. If Biggie said there were no ghosts, I believed her. Biggie’s never wrong. Still, I knew Willie Mae would never lie, and she said she did believe. I felt the lump crawl back into my throat. When it came to the spirit world, I had to go with Willie Mae. After all, she was an expert on those things, being a voodoo lady and all.
“How did Maudelle Baugh get killed?” Butch squirmed around in his chair to face Lucas.
Miss Mary Ann had been sitting at the end of the table with Lew Masters. Suddenly, she stood up and faced the room. “She was shot in the back with a Colt .45,” she said. “They never found who did it. Anybody want coffee?” Several of the adults nodded, so she got up and served coffee all around.
“You’re wrong,” Lucas said. “Her husband did it.
Maudelle was going to leave him for a railroad man. My papa used to tell about the incident. It happened shortly before I came into this world.”
“Are you sure that was Abraham Tilley?” Hen Lester asked. “I thought he was the abolitionist.”
“The abolitionist was Hosiah Tilley.” Alice drained her Diet Coke. “He was Abraham’s granddaddy, I think. That right, Lucas?”
“You had an abolitionist here in Quincy?” Biggie laid down her sandwich and looked at Alice. “I would have thought a person with those views would have been ridden out of town on a rail.”
“Not so.” Lucas pulled a cigar out of his pocket and sniffed it. He noticed Hen Lester glaring at him. “Don’t worry, Hen. I’m not going to light it,” he said and turned back to Biggie. “During the years before the Civil War, we had all kinds of people with divergent views living in this town. Quite cosmopolitan, actually, what with the river travel, and all.” He sniffed his cigar and put it in his mouth. “Hosiah Tilley owned this very hotel and the livery stable that used to be next door.”
“He helped runaway slaves,” Alice LaRue said. “Emily, honey, get me a piece of that apple pie.” Emily LaRue jumped up and got the pie off the long table. She set a clean fork and a fresh paper napkin next to it in front of Alice before sitting down and continuing to eat her sandwich. When she ate, she took little, bitty bites, pecking at her food like a chicken.
“How’d he do that?” I asked, interested in spite of myself.
“He would hide them in a secret place here in the hotel
until dark, then provide them with a twenty-dollar gold piece, a good horse, and a map.” Lucas took a sip of his coffee.
“My lord, how did that help them?” Biggie asked. “Texas was a slave state. They would have been hunted down and brought
Similar Books
