November 19, 2024

Graydon House Trade Paperback

Set in the sparkling 1920s jazz era, The Jewel of the Blues pulls back the curtain on all the romance, danger and drama in the bustling backstage life of a young performer.

Billed as the Little Girl with the Big Voice, blues singer Lucille Arnetta Love always dreamed of life under the lights. From traveling family gospel band to lead singer in a riotous vaudeville troupe, Lucille is on the rise. But a devastating family secret, one that’s poised to shatter every dream she’s ever had, casts an inescapable shadow over Lucille’s career.

Decades ago, a botched robbery ended in a suspicious death—and all signs point to Lucille’s own father as the culprit. It’s a secret that Lucille’s family is determined to keep buried—even from Lucille herself. For a time, a fresh start feels possible, especially when Marcus Williams, Lucille’s manager—and sometimes paramour—sets her up with a band to tour the country: Miss Lucille’s Black Troubadours. Lucille’s dream of seeing her name in the bright lights of Broadway may happen yet, if she and the Troubadours can endure the highly competitive, rocky road to fame.

Beneath the dazzling glamour of the vaudeville scene lies a wicked underbelly, as drinking, gambling, salacious love affairs and racial tensions compete to dim Lucille’s shining star. And when shady figures from her father’s past emerge, their thirst for revenge threatens to silence Lucille’s career—and the sultry singer herself—for good.

Excerpt

Evansville, Indiana
1906

“Straaaw-ber-ries… Fresh pa-lumms… Suc-cu-lent fresh fruits and vegetables! Cuu-cumbers!” Hank Love swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead before singing out the next verse. “Get your nice, plump straaaw-ber-ries here!”

Caught in the rapture of the heat and white streaks of baking sunlight, the sweet perfume rolled off the peaches, plums and strawberries. To get Caesar, his steadfast silent partner for the day, to take a couple steps forward, Hank patted the horse’s hind parts. Caesar bobbed his head in compliance and pulled the fruit cart deeper into the cooler alley and out of the sun. The handmade sign advertising Fresh Fruit and Produce posted at the alley’s entryway, along with the wafting fresh fragrance of the fruits and vegetables, would be enough to entice buyers to his makeshift stall. It wasn’t quite noon, and the city streets were filled. But, unfortunately, only a few passersby took the steps off the sidewalk to inspect Hank’s display.

Hank took a rag out of his pocket to wipe his forehead that was now peppered with beads of sweat. The heat wasn’t the only cause for Hank’s perspiration—it was also worry. He had to sell as much as he could today because he desperately needed money to pay for his tenancy. So far, it didn’t look promising. He had never missed a payment, but he couldn’t count on any leniency from the landlord—not here in Evansville, Indiana. The landlord made no bones about wanting him off the property that Hank and his family had worked for all the years they’d stomped their feet across the dirt. He, his wife, Evelyn, their baby girl, Lucille, as well as the rest of their blood and extended family that lived under the same roof, never lacked for food; they ate what they grew. But coming up with the money to keep the little family on the plot of land had become increasingly tough. Most times Hank was able to put aside his worry and leave it in God’s hands. Month after month, He never failed him. But this month was promising to be a test of faith because the money just wasn’t there.

Evansville had become a sundown town. There was a law on the books that colored folks had to be off the road before dusk or risk going to jail—or worse. So Hank needed to sell what he had while the sun was still in the sky, and in enough time to be home by sunset to avoid trouble. There had been racial skirmishes in nearby cities as of late. He, along with his neighbors, raised their voices to protest, but city leaders refused to hear their case. They also included the threat of coming to every Negro’s home within the city limits to discuss the law in detail. Despite the veiled intimidation, the protests continued. Until the law was overturned, Hank didn’t want to take any chances of being a victim of repercussions.

A stray black cat shot through the alleyway. Startled, both Hank and Caesar jumped. Then Hank froze in his tracks. Following the cat’s trajectory was the progressive padding sound of boots striking cobblestone coming from the street. Hank turned slowly, intending to chase off a random kid who sometimes tried to steal from him, but the sharp click of metal told him he needed to take a different course of action.

The top of his head went cold when he caught sight of a shotgun barrel pointed directly at him. At the other end of the gun were the steady gray eyes of a grimy white man leaning against the back of the wagon. Caesar danced from side to side from the unexpected weight of the stranger.

“Whoa boy,” Hank whispered as he gently patted the horse and kept his eyes on the shotgun. The horse’s muscles vibrated, and Hank could tell Caesar’s nervousness matched his own.

The man pushed away a bushel of cucumbers that went rolling across the ground. “Boy, you better do exactly what I say or today is gonna be your last day.” He hopped in the back of the wagon, kicking aside a box of peaches. A few tumbled over and their rose-colored bottoms hit the stones.

Caesar threw back his head, gave a deep-throated whinny and jerked the wagon forward.

The man wriggled his way between the boxes and bushels and lay down flat against the wagon bottom. From clenched teeth, the man squeezed out, “Now, let’s get going—and just ’member I’ve got this gun aimed right at the back of your head.”

Hank saw the man was bleeding. A growing red stain spread across the front of his jacket, but the man made no effort to conceal his wound. He kept both hands on his shotgun and held tightly to a large sack tucked under his arm. A piercing staccato of gunshots suddenly rang out from the main street and reverberated against the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. Hank whipped his head toward the entrance of the alley and saw the silhouettes of men in long coats with long guns and bags in their arms, whizzing past. In their wake was a chaotic commotion of gunfire, shattering glass and people screaming and shouting. Even from where he stood, Hank could see that the men who raced by looked just like the man who was now hidden from sight, wrapped around bushels and boxes of produce, tucked away in the back of his wagon.

Caesar suddenly bolted, grapevining his hooves from one side of the alley to the other, tugging on his reins with the intent of escaping the noise. The frightened horse lunged against his reins in every direction, and each time the wagon tipped from one side to the other, sending heads of lettuce and tomatoes flying to the ground. The wagon swayed deeply until it finally flipped over—along with its passenger—crashing against the cobblestones. Spooked even more, Caesar dragged the overturned wagon farther into the alleyway, which dead-ended into the back of another building.

Hank peered through the capsized wagon’s splintered planks. The man, buried in a rubble of produce, grunted and wheezed. “Get me out of here, nigga! Help me…”

Hank could see the man’s eyes rolling back into his head. The corner of a broken wagon slat was embedded squarely in the man’s chest. His pleas for help faded against a cloud of footsteps and the grinding sound of vehicles from the street. Hank looked up from the recesses of the alley to see people running in one direction—toward whatever happened—or seeming to chase the new motorized police wagon that had barreled past. Hank couldn’t imagine what possibly occurred to draw such a stream of curious people, but he knew his bleeding passenger had a hand in it.

Hank peeled back broken wood to try to free the man. It was then the sack that the man had held firmly pressed against his body caught Hank’s eye. It was partially hidden under pieces of fruit and splintered wood. He wasn’t sure what drove him to do it, but Hank slowly reached into the mass of rubble and tugged at the corner of the sack. It was heavy. When he received no resistance—an assurance that the man was dead or close to it—he yanked the bag to release it from between sharp edges of broken slats. Property of Second National Bank and Trust appeared across the bloodstained cloth. Hank looked toward the street. Still, no one came to his rescue or even seemed to notice him. He managed to stuff the sack under his arm inside his jacket. Watching the wagon for any movement, he moved slowly toward Caesar, who calmed at his touch but bucked to give the wagon a final hard kick.

A shotgun blast exploded from the wagon. Hank fell backward. A spray of splintered wood and pulpy fruit flesh splattered his face. Hank felt searing pain rip through his skin leaving a trail from his cheek to the top of his head. From that point, all Hank heard were the muted sounds of Caesar’s hooves stomping at the ground and screams coming from somewhere in the far distance. All he could see was a blur of purple, orange and red until it faded to black.

When Hank regained consciousness, searing pain shot from the top of his skull and a hot stream of blood stung his eyes. He winced as each of Caesar’s four legs hit the ground. He held his head, which felt like a heavy sack filled with cotton. He couldn’t recall how he unhitched and mounted the horse or when he left the remnants of his wagon along with the dead man in the alley. He couldn’t remember how he ended up on the silent road leading away from town. Although the road in front of him was a blur, he knew the horse would find his way back home.

***

When he could no longer focus, Hank let Caesar make his way down the roadway at his own pace, allowing the pain take over and send him back to unconsciousness. When he opened his eyes again, through a gauzy haze Hank saw the small white clapboard church he called home in front of him. He took a deep breath and fell against the horse’s neck, relieved. Through a peephole of light, Hank could barely make out a neat dirt path leading to a prim white two-story house with four windows. White sheets pinned to a clothesline whipped in the light breeze. He slid to the ground, leaning against the side of the building. Hank’s heavy limbs seemed plastered to the spot. The grass was cool and wet beneath him. The bag had fallen open and gold coins spilled out over his legs and the grass that he now saw was tinged red with blood.

His head rang with a hymn that climbed octaves, piercing through the bright blue sky. It was the beautiful soprano voice of his wife, Evelyn, accompanied on the piano by her father, Reverend John Pike. Her operatic high notes stung, or maybe it was the big black rowdy bees that were buzzing around the windowsill above his head.

Am I in heaven? Hank thought.

As if to answer his question, Hank patted the hard ground before digging his fingers into the earth. Pushing hard against the ground, he lifted his body, attempting to stand. He succeeded only a few inches until his knees gave way and he collapsed.

“Daddy!” A barefoot little girl ran up to him but stopped short a few feet away at the edge of the building. A rustling of skirts followed closely behind the child.

“Hank! Hank!” Evelyn knelt beside him, delicately touching his face to examine the extent of his injuries. “What happened, Hank? Where’s the wagon?” Jumbled thoughts spilled out in a collage of sentences. “I… I gotta go back… Evelyn, they be looking me…them fruit is gonna spoil… They’re gonna hang me for sure…”

“Hank, you’re talking gibberish. What’s all this?” Evelyn picked up the bag and a shower of coins fell to the ground. “Where did you get this money?” The little girl, sensing fear and confusion, started to cry.

Hank mumbled, “Is that my baby…my little angel? C’mere, Lucille.” He weakly waved his hand, motioning the child to come closer. “C’mon over and hug yo’ daddy.”

The child hesitated at first, but then bounced over, flung her body into her father’s lap and proceeded to pick up a handful of gold coins. “Daddy, are you hurt?”

Hank winced, gritted his teeth and sucked in his breath before responding in an even tone. “I’m all right, girl. I ain’t hurt.”

“Good. But what happened to you? You look hurt. Are you sure? I love you, Daddy.”

“Ah, now that’s the sweetest sound I’d ever wanted to hear.”

“Get out the way, Evelyn. Let me get this man to the house.” Reverend Pike rounded the corner. The reverend was a commanding figure both in stature and voice. When he spoke, anyone in earshot did exactly as they were instructed. Evelyn stepped aside.

Reverand Pike bellowed, “Can you stand, Hank?”

Evelyn instructed the child to go to the kitchen to help the cook. She then joined her father and wrapped Hank’s arm over her shoulder to help lift her husband up the stairs. They reached the stairs to the house, and Hank could no longer lift his leg. His head throbbed and his sight was fading.

***

Hank, having passed out again, awoke in a gray fog. Wrapped tightly in starched sheets and under a pile of quilts, Hank wrestled with the covers until he freed his arms and torso enough to sit up. He touched the damp, sticky, blood-spotted bandages that were wrapped around his head and half of his face. The slow-moving mechanism in his head ground gears trying to piece together the previous events. Through the haze of cotton gauze, Evelyn’s face came into view. Her knitted brows and lined forehead told him all he needed to know—that he must look like he was on death’s doorstep. Hank shifted his body, swiveled out from underneath the stiff sheets and blankets, but the pain held him locked in his spot on the bed.

“Don’t even try to move, Hank. Rest. You need to rest. We can talk about what happened later.” “Evie, wipe them frown lines from your face. Don’t worry. I’m all right.” He took a deep breath, puffed out his cheeks to blow away a wave of dizziness. “Ooo, it feels like you pulled a shade down over my eye. He hovered his hand over his left eye. “It feels like sharp knives are poking me in this eye, but I can still see pretty good out of this one.” He gently patted the right side of his face to lightly rub tears running from his good eye. “Yep, I can see my sweet angel.” He tried to give her a smile, hoping it would ease his wife’s fears. “How long have I been out?”

“Hank, you haven’t been laying here long at all. It’s only been about a half hour or so since we brought you in here and cleaned you up. Now, please lay still till we can get a doctor over here to have a look at you.”

“Ain’t gonna be no doctor. No need.” Grimacing, a thunderbolt of pain shot through Hank’s head and he plopped back against the headboard.

“How you doing, Hank?” The reverend’s deep voice cut through the conversation.

“I’m trying my best to keep him still, Father. Did you find anything out?”

Before answering his daughter, Reverend Pike leaned in close to whisper into Hank’s ear. “They gonna be looking for that money, Hank.”

Hank nodded feebly. “But they don’t know I have it. Wasn’t nobody in that alley but me, Caesar and a dead man that’s buried underneath the wagon.”

“That dead man was one of them bank robbers. Right before we found you, Zeke came running up here saying that the police are looking for three men who took all of Second National’s money. They shot up Main Street and killed some innocent folks as they escaped.”

Evelyn jumped in. “Robbers? Dead man? Hank, what have you gotten into?”

Hank stayed silent. Reverend Pike continued, “I don’t want anyone to pin nothing on you. In this town they’ll kill you. Just like that, no questions asked. For safekeeping, we’ll give that money to the freed spirits for now.”

The reverend was referring to a crawl space under the third pew where only decades before many a black family hid, lying flat on their backs until they were safe from slave owners who ventured north of the Mason-Dixon line in search of their escaped property.

“In the meanwhile, you and Evelyn can go visit her sister in Kentucky. Eliza Beth and Harper will take good care of all of you.”

Hank said softly, “No, Rev. I’m not going back that way.”

“Think about it Hank. You and Evelyn will be safer going down there than staying here.”

Hank held a hand to his head. “Evelyn, can you go get me some cool water, please? Rev, I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“Hank, there’s a pitcher of water right by your bed. There’s no need for me to leave.”

Hank grimaced as he squeezed out, “Woman, please.” Evelyn sniffed, turned and marched out of the room. As she retreated, Hank, having regained some of his strength, recounted the course of events that occurred downtown in the side alley.

Reverend Pike stayed silent, hovering over Hank as he listened. “Hank, you’ve always been such a determined man. I knew you would break down barriers to get what you wanted. That’s one of the reasons I allowed Evelyn to marry you, even though you didn’t have a penny in your pocket. Her mother, on the other hand, would’ve wanted her to marry into high society—God rest my sweet Delilah. But my Evelyn chose you to love, so I let her. I did that because I believed your ingenuity, devotion to hard work and to the Lord would keep my daughter living a comfortable and safe life.”

“Rev, I’m doing the best I can.”

When Evelyn returned with a new pitcher and a mason jar filled with water, she found the two men nodding their heads in agreement as if there was nothing left to do but execute a plan. A plan that started with packing up the wagon and heading south, and staying with relatives until things died down. The immediate flight would be framed as a trip to visit family and a mission to spread the gospel to the small churches along the trail.

Reverend Pike hugged his daughter and left the room, leaving the explanations to her husband. “You mean we’re running away? But you didn’t do anything. Why can’t we just return the money and explain to them how it came into your possession? You can say you found it, that is, if someone asks.”

“You know exactly why, Evelyn. This ain’t the time or place to think that them folks are going to be rational. Besides, no matter what happened, it will be an excuse for them to kick us off the property, endangering your father and the church we built here. I can’t put you and Lucille in danger like that.”

She quickly spit out, “Well, you already done that, haven’t you? I overheard something about a dead man, a bank robbery and…and just look at you! I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. You and my father have got it all wrong, keeping things from me. I deserve to know—and have a say in what we do and where we go.”

After a beat, Evelyn began snatching up the family’s belongings, jamming them into suitcases and carpet bags. She marched from one side of the room to the other, turned and stomped to the dresser, then over to the closet. Her heels dug sharply into the wood floors as if intending to leave a mark. The swish of her apron, skirt and petticoats accented the staccato drumbeat of her steps. “Well, for how long, Hank? And why can’t we just take the train like civilized people?”

The reverend wanted them to take the train but Hank, being cautious, knew that the family traveling by train down south would make them an easy target to spot if someone just happened to be looking for them. The safest bet to go unseen would be by wagon. Reverend Pike reluctantly offered Jupiter, the dapple-gray workhorse, when Hank insisted Caesar stay behind.

“No time for that, Evie. Now get some things together so we can head down to your sister’s. We don’t need a lot, just a few things to tide us over for a few weeks.” He knew as he said it that he was lying.

“Why? What’s the rush? First, you need to see a doctor about your eye and that gash in your head. What about the farm? What about—”

Hank stopped her midsentence. “Enough with the questions! Get Lucille and let’s go. You got to trust me here, Evie.”

“I do, husband. I really do. I don’t want to argue. Before God and everyone who loves me, I said my vows to honor our marriage. I’ll go with you anywhere. But Hank, this has gone too far.”

Peering between strips of gauze, Hank watched the tall, robust woman he’d been married to for over ten years paced back and forth in front of him. She was taller than him, even when she was barefoot. From the view of the bed, she looked even taller. Like her father, she cut a commanding figure. The tight bindings of her apron could barely contain her. The thick, wavy hair piled on top of her head could hardly be restrained by her movements, and spindles of curls dropped around her face. The woman’s smooth walnut brown skin bore a tinge of red across her freckled cheeks. He knew it wouldn’t be easy, and he understood her anger, but he needed his wife to just go along with him. When she finally stopped pacing, a sure sign that the peak of her anger had passed, Hank dropped his head as if it was too heavy to carry.

Evelyn softened when she saw her husband’s hands pressed against the sides of his face. Still, not quite ready to give up the fight, she continued her protests. “But what about Father? He’s gonna be left here by himself. He’s not going to have a wagon, or a horse or anyone to help with the farm.”

“The church folk will take care of that. We’ll take Jupiter and leave Caesar so your daddy will have a plow horse. Rev will be okay. Going to your sister’s was your father’s idea anyway. I didn’t agree with him at first, but now I do…one hundred percent.”

She asked quizzically, “My father told you that we needed to go back down south? I can’t believe that. If it wasn’t for the church and my sister, Daddy said he would never go down south ever again. Besides, sis don’t even know that we’re coming.”

“She will soon. Your daddy will take care of that. He’ll get word to her in his own way. You know we know how to send messages faster than the government.”

Hank was now sitting up and pushing himself off the side of the bed. He stiffened and slowly turned his head from one side to the other, wobbling slightly as he adjusted to the darkness and heaviness on the left side of his head. Evelyn rushed to his side to help him stand but he brushed her off. “We’ll take the unpaved roads down to the river. We’ll rest a bit at the Quaker house, then take the ferry over to Kentucky. You know the route.”

“I haven’t been that way since I was a child. A whole lot of things have changed since then,” she grumbled.

“Evelyn, my dear wife, please just trust me,” Hank begged. “Both you and Lucille need to come with me. This is important. I’m doing this to keep you and Lucille safe. The Rev too, but I know hell will freeze before your daddy leaves this place. Someone is going to be coming soon. Maybe it’s the sheriff or some other crackers, but they’re going to be looking for me. They know money is missing and they know that one of the men who had a hand in taking it is dead in my wagon. They’re going to have a lot of questions and no matter how I answer them, they won’t be satisfied. I know it. You don’t want to know what they might do if they find me.”

Evelyn stopped. Her eyebrows rose and her large brown eyes widened. “If you’re so set on going and not telling me the whole story, then maybe you should go by yourself!”

“Evelyn, I got caught up in some bad action and I did something on impulse. You have to believe that what I did, I did for you and Lucille. On the way down to the Ohio River, I’ll explain everything. You’ll see why. We’ll come back after a while, and we’ll have everything we ever wanted after that.”

Deep down, Hank knew not a soul would believe the pieces of the story he could remember, but many would understand his motivation. Even his wife would be hard-pressed to believe he took part in a plan to break the law. Apart from his participation in the demonstrations about Evansville’s sundown laws, he had traveled a straight and narrow path to stay alive.

So when it came time for questions from his closest kin, the police and a group of county sons, Hank and his family were already gone.

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About the Author

Monica Chenault-Kilgore was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio and currently lives in Edison, New Jersey. She is a graduate of The Ohio State University School of Journalism. Her published works include Liberty and Justice for All…Profiles of Middlesex County African American Veterans of WWII and the Korean War which is available in the public library. She formerly worked as a Contributing Reporter for The Home News Tribune and The Courier News newspapers.

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