by Alice Duncan
“Why the devil does Sam’s nephew want you dead?”
I’d have shrugged, but my shoulders weren’t quite up to the effort. “I don’t know. I’m neither Italian nor Roman Catholic, and those are two qualities Frank deplores in me.”
Pa stared at me as if I’d told him I’d been hiding a second head in my bedroom drawer. “He wants to kill you because you’re neither Catholic nor Italian?”
“That’s what he said.”
“There’s got to be more to the story than that.”
“I don’t know. That’s what he said was his reason.”
“That’s insane.” Folding the newspaper neatly, Pa laid it aside, got up from his chair and walked to the stove.
“Yeah, well don’t tell him that. He might use it as a defense.”
“There is no defense for that boy.”
“I agree.” I recalled the peppermint drops. “Say, Pa, did you leave a bowl of peppermint drops on the kitchen counter last night?”
“What?” He’d reached the stove and had just opened the door to the warming oven, but he turned and gazed at me in puzzlement. “No. Your Aunt Vi would kill me if I left sweets on the counter. Ants. She hates ’em.”
“That’s what I figured.” Gazing at my darling father, I saw him take a dish out of the warming oven, using the oven mitts I’d made for Vi sometime or other. Can’t remember precisely when. “Did Vi leave us something good?”
“She sure did.”
My heart wasn’t quite up to leaping for joy, but it staggered to attention. “Oh? What is it?”
“Looks like fried mush and bacon to me.”
“Oh, yum.”
Very well, so I know that if you offered, say, Mrs. Pinkerton some fried cornmeal mush and bacon for breakfast, her aristocratic nose would point right, smack into the air. But if you’ve never eaten fried mush with butter and maple syrup, you really shouldn’t throw stones. Well, you shouldn’t throw stones anyway, but…Oh, you know what I mean.
As Pa brought the dish to the table where he set it, steaming, on a trivet, he asked, “Why’d you ask about the peppermint drops? I got a tin of them from Crosbys’, and as far as I know they’re still in the cupboard. With the lid clamped down tight.”
“There were some things that looked like peppermint drops in a bowl on the kitchen counter last night. You guys were all in bed when Sam and I finally got home from the police station. Sam brought me the morphine syrup since I was about to fall down dead, and he thought those candies were the same as the peppermint drops you’d given me earlier. But he didn’t let me eat one, because he said they didn’t smell like peppermint.”
Pa had retrieved the maple syrup—replenished by our kind relations in Massachusetts every year at Christmastime—and set it on the table. He didn’t bother to heat it for the two of us. Vi would never serve unheated maple syrup, but Vi was Vi. Pa and I weren’t fancy chefs like she was.
His eyes furrowing, Pa said, “What did they smell like?”
“Sam said they smelled like bitter almonds, which means they might have been laced with cyanide.”
Pa dropped the knife with which he’d about to cut into the chunk from the butter he’d taken out of the Frigidaire. “Cyanide! Cyanide?”
“Sam packed them up, bowl and all, last night and aims to have them tested at the station today.”
“Good God, Daisy, who’s doing this to you?”
“Wish I knew.” I buttered a slice of mush for myself. “I also wish I knew why.”
“Could Sam’s nephew be behind everything?”
“I kind of doubt it. I can see Frank painting the front steps with bacon grease, but I don’t think he’s smart enough to steal a rich man’s car and run into me with it. And where’d he get cyanide? If the candies contained cyanide, that is, and we don’t know that yet.”
“But we do know there were no candies left on the kitchen counter last night. At least none left by a member of the family.”
After I swallowed—honestly, if you haven’t eaten fried cornmeal mush with butter and syrup, you really ought to try it—I sighed heavily. “Yes. I guess we do.”
The telephone rang. Since I’d nearly been killed by that car, I never knew for sure who was ringing until somebody answered the silly thing. Before January first, most of the telephone calls coming to our house were for me, and they generally involved my work. After Pa and I glanced at each other over our breakfasts, Pa got up and went to the ’phone.
“Gumm residence,” said he.
Silence ensued. I guess Pa was busy listening. I also hoped whatever he was listening to wasn’t incendiary or intimate, because unless he shooed off our party-line neighbors, they’d all be listening with gusto. If you can listen with gusto.
Finally Pa said, “Right. Thanks, Sam. See you soon.” He hung the receiver in the cradle and made his way back to the table, where he sat and picked up a piece of bacon—when Pa and I are eating breakfast, we don’t cut up our bacon with a knife and fork, either. Before taking a bite, he said, “Sam will be here in a few minutes. I think he’s already made a deal about the Killebrew house. Fast worker, your fiancé.”
“Goodness, I should say so,” I said, impressed. Mind you, now that I knew Sam had money—although I had no idea how much—this quick work on the house didn’t surprise me as much as if he’d had to live on his police earnings. Even a Pasadena Police Detective, which position was far above the common herd of police officers, didn’t make so much money that he could get things that usually took forever—real-estate deals, for instance—to move quickly. But money talked. And people listened. I guess that wasn’t fair, but really, what was?
“Did he mention the peppermint drops?”
“Over the ’phone?” Pa grinned. “Your Sam’s too canny for that. He’d never talk in front of Mrs. Barrow.”
For the record, Mrs. Barrow was the most officious and nosy of our party-line neighbors. She loved listening to my conversations. They were undoubtedly a whole lot more interesting than any she had, but still…
“Will he be here for breakfast?” I asked, having suddenly thought about Sam’s stomach.
“He didn’t mention breakfast.”
“Guess we’ll find out when he gets here.”
Pa and I finished our breakfast, and Pa took away the dirty dishes. He set them in the sink to soak. After I felt a little better, I’d wash them and dry them and put them away. With only one arm. The notion caused no leap of joy to enter my heart.
The doorbell scritched.
Pa and I looked at each other.
“Sam?” I asked.
“Don’t know. I’ll find out.”
Spike, however, already knew. He raced to the front door as if there were a mountain of chopped beef piled on the other side of it. Must be Sam, I concluded. Spike knew his friends.
I guess Pa was a little startled to find the front door locked, because he rattled the doorknob a few times before he figured out why it didn’t open when he turned it. I heard Sam’s deep bass rumble, Spike rapturous barklets, Pa’s friendly voice, and another voice. That of a female. I frowned. Sam had brought a woman to the house in which his fiancée lived? Of all the nerve!
I told myself to calm down and reminded myself how much of a fool I’d made of myself the last time I jumped to a conclusion about Sam and another woman. Therefore, I maintained a demeanor of serenity—I hope—when Pa, Sam and the female walked into the dining room. I glanced up and was overjoyed to observe the woman Sam had brought with him to be a middle-aged person of small stature, plump build and iron-gray hair.
“Daisy,” said Sam, smiling at me. “How are you today?”
I smiled back. “Sore, but getting better.”
“I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Rattle. She’s going to come here in the mornings for a few weeks to help with chores around the house. Mrs. Rattle? This is my fiancée, Daisy Majesty.”
“How kind of you!” I cried, pushing myself to my feet. Not a sound plan on my par
t, although Sam’s thoughtfulness had quite overwhelmed me. Before I even got upright, every muscle in my body yanked on every nerve in my body, and I darned near howled. Suppressing my agony, I said in a thin voice, “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Rattle.” I’d have held out my hand for her to shake, but I couldn’t.
“You just sit yourself down, young woman. Your Detective Sam here has told me all about what happened to you. You don’t have any business getting up to meet an old lady who’s the hired help.” She gave such merry peel of laughter, I almost laughed myself, although my eyes were watery with tears from the stupid pain of my injuries.
“Better do as she says, Daisy,” said Sam, grinning. “She can be quite a tyrant. I have it on good authority.”
“Whose?”
“Officer Doan’s. Mrs. Rattle is Doan’s mother. Mr. Doan passed away, and she married a Mr. Rattle. Doan told me she’s a strict disciplinarian.”
“Get along with you, Detective!” said Mrs. Rattle, using one of Aunt Vi’s favorite expressions. I’m still not sure what it means.
“This is very nice of you, Sam,” said Pa. “Poor Daisy keeps trying to do all the things she used to be able to do, but she can’t use her left arm and she really needs to rest more.”
“That’s why I hired Mrs. Rattle,” said Sam.
“I love you, Sam,” I said with not too much of a sniffle. Maybe a just little, teensy sniffle.
“You haven’t taken any syrup this morning, have you?” Sam said, gazing at me as if I were a cow at a fair he was considering buying.
“No. I thought I could tough it out.”
“Nuts to that. I’ll get the syrup. And, Joe, are those peppermint drops still around, or are they all gone by now?”
“They’re in a tin in the cupboard. I’ll get them while you get the morphine syrup.”
“Sounds good,” said Sam.
“Thank you. I love you, too, Pa.”
He kissed me on top of my head. I sniffled just a weensy bit more. “And you, too, Mrs. Rattle. I’ve met your son a few times, and he seems like a good man.” Better Officer Doan’s mother than Officer Oversloot’s, thought I. I still hadn’t forgiven Oversloot for being mean to me once a year or so back. Not that I ever hold a grudge or anything.
“Oh, he’s a good man, all right.” Mrs. Rattle had a cheerful laugh. I was glad to hear it. It made me even gladder Sam had brought her to help me. What a guy my Sam was! I really did love him very much. When I didn’t want to kill him. If you know what I mean.
“All right. Here we go,” said Sam, pulling a chair closer to mine. He poured out the syrup. Pa set the tin of peppermint drops on the table and pried off the lid. I leaned over a little, nearly upsetting the spoon Sam had poised before my mouth, to see if the candies in the tin really were peppermint.
“They’re the real thing,” said Pa, understanding my trepidation. “I smelled them and ate one.”
“Oh. Good. Thanks, Pa.”
“Ready?” asked Sam, slightly exasperated, although I don’t know why. Shoot, somebody was trying to kill me, for pity’s sake.
I drank the syrup, sucked a peppermint drop to death, and then I sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes longer, trying to get my body ready for the jolt it would receive when I stood up. Stalling, I asked Mrs. Rattle, “Do you want me to tell you where everything goes?” She’d donned an apron and was busily splashing away at the sink, washing the breakfast dishes.
“That’s all right, Mrs. Majesty—”
“Oh, please, call me Daisy. Everyone does.”
“Very well then. Please call me Elvira.”
Elvira Rattle. I don’t know why the name tickled me. It was probably the morphine syrup taking effect. “Thank you,” I said.
“I’ll just look around. I’m sure I’ll figure out where things belong.”
“And if you can’t figure it out, just ask me,” said Pa.
“I’ll do that,” said Elvira.
“Let me help you get to the living room,” said Sam, putting a hand under my right elbow. I’d be extremely happy when Dr. Benjamin let me used my left arm again. Or I would be if it had healed enough not to hurt like heck.
“Thanks, Sam.”
“We’ve got some things to talk about.”
“We do?”
“We do.”
So we did.
Seventeen
The first thing Sam wanted to talk about was me. “You need to take these days while Mrs. Rattle is here to rest.”
“Can’t do much else,” I said, thinking how nice it would be to sleep for a week or two. Spike, who had jumped on the sofa upon which I sat, wagged his tail in accord, I’m sure, with my unspoken wish.
“Good. Don’t go out unless I’m with you.”
“Not even into the back yard?”
“Why would you want to go into the back yard?”
It was a sensible question. Not sure why I asked it. “Guess I don’t. Pa can harvest any stray oranges he finds on the navel-orange tree.”
“Yes, he can. He doesn’t need you to help him.”
I heaved a sigh, beginning to feel like a prisoner in my own home.
“Next, I’m going across the street to sign the final paperwork on the house, and I can begin moving in tomorrow and Sunday, unless I have to work. My schedule is chancy at the best of times.”
“Oh, my goodness. That’s fast!”
With a grin, Sam said, “Well, it’s not quite as fast as it sounds. I’d been looking into buying that place as soon as I heard it would be going on the market. I met Eric Killebrew some time ago, you know.”
“Oh, yes. I remember telling us you met him a while back.”
“Yup.”
“Huh,” said I, borrowing from Sam himself. Did I like knowing the man I aimed to marry was so good at keeping secrets? From me? I’d have to think about it.
“I also cabled Renata this morning. There will probably be an answer from her when I get back to the station.”
“Poor thing. I’m sorry her son is such a toad.”
“Toads are useful,” said Sam. “Don’t tar them with brush of Frank Pagano.”
“True.”
“Next, I’m going to pay a call on Mr. Prophet at the Odd Fellows’ Home to see if he’d like to move in across the street to keep an eye on things while I’m at work.”
“I wish I could work again.”
“You do?” Sam sounded surprised.
“Yes. I miss seeing people. Mrs. Pinkerton’s a bother, but most of my clients are nice people and awfully good to me. Well, so’s Mrs. Pinkerton, in spite of that flowered-dachshund monstrosity.” I cast a significant glance around the living room, where traces of my clients’ generosity yet flourished.
And I still had ten million thank-you notes to write. Oh, Lord…
“Wait until we lock up whoever’s behind the attempts on your life before you start working again.” Sam’s nose wrinkled. He didn’t appreciate how I earned my family’s living. Billy hadn’t, either, but so far Sam hadn’t requested—or demanded—I cease being a spiritualist-medium after we were married. I think he knew I wouldn’t comply if he did.
“I will. Can’t do much else.”
“Good. After I talk to Prophet, I’m going to have a long conversation with my nephew.”
The expression on Sam’s face told me he was looking forward to this “conversation.” I hoped he wouldn’t injure Frank too badly. Not that I cared if he hurt Frank, but his job might be in jeopardy if he killed a prisoner.
Not that Sam would ever do anything like that.
The rest of that day and all of Saturday I pretty much spent on the sofa, reading, with Spike on my lap. He was convenient. I could just prop a book on him and read away. It was kind of hard to turn pages with only one useful arm, but if I positioned my left hand in its sling just so, I could manage. Mrs. Rattle brought my lunch about twelve-thirty, and it was quite tasty considering it wasn’t made by Aunt Vi.
On Saturday evening af
ter dinner, Sam surprised me by saying he aimed to take the whole family to church the next day. “If you’re up to it,” he said.
“Oh, sure. All I’ve done for the past two days is read and sleep. I miss my friends.”
“According to your father, the telephone has rung non-stop for the past several days, and Harold Kincaid brought you lunch from the Hotel Castleton today.”
“Well, yes, it has and he did. But it’s not the same as being able to just go out and about.”
“Also according to your father, Miss Petrie has been bringing you new books daily. And Browning has brought you more of his dime-novel collection.”
“Well…Yes, they have.” I grinned, remembering. “Pa’s fascinated with Mr. Prophet. He can’t wait to meet him.”
“He’ll get his chance if things work out the way I hope they will.”
“Good.”
“Joe said Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham have been here with flowers and knitted items.”
“Crocheted,” I corrected. “Although Flossie can knit, too. Yes, people have been very kind to me. I guess I just don’t like feeling trapped.”
“According to Joe, Dr. Benjamin has been visiting you daily.”
“Yes, but that’s as a physician.” I thought of something else. “And he hasn’t been here today.”
“There’s still time. Anyhow, you know he’s a friend, too.”
“True,” I admitted.
“You can’t forget Pudge Wilson, either,” said Sam, grinning. “I’ll bet anything he’s over here at least once a day, hoping you’ll let him do a good deed for you.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I suppose I shouldn’t complain.” But I did it so well.
Sam, who I swear could read my mind sometimes, said, “But you complain so well.”
“Nertz,” said I.
With a chuckle, Sam said, “Could be a whole lot worse. You could reside in one of Mr. Prophet’s wooden overcoats.”
“Oh!” I cried, sudden clarity shining like the sun in my brain. “That’s what a wooden overcoat is! A coffin!”
“Got it in one.”
I giggled. “All right. I’ll stop whining.”
“Good. Now I have things to get done.”