by Alice Duncan
“Thanks, Sam.”
“I’ll pick you and your family up in plenty of time for church tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you come to breakfast?”
“You talked me into it,” he said with a grin.
“You’re so hard to persuade.”
“One of my few weaknesses.”
And off he went. Spike and I meandered to the bedroom. I guess resting all the time was a good cure for what ailed a person, because I noticed my aches and pains were considerably less tender that evening than they’d been even the prior day. This, in spite of the fact I hadn’t taken any of that detestable morphine syrup. Things were definitely looking up. If you discounted the fact that someone seemed determined to murder me.
I hoped Dr. Benjamin would unwrap my left side soon. I was tired of being unbalanced, darn it. And I’d never speak that sentence aloud in front of Sam or Harold because they’d make a joke out of it, and I’d get mad. Being unable to use my left arm was downright annoying, however.
Crumb.
At that moment, a knock came on our front door. Saturday evening after dinner seemed a peculiar time for someone to be paying a social call, although I hoped a social call was what the knock portended, and not the arrival of yet another villain. Spike zoomed to the door, always elated to greet a visitor. Because I didn’t want to open the door in case someone who wanted to murder me stood on the other side, I was pleased when Pa called out, “I’ll get it!”
“Thank you!” I called back.
“Just me,” came Dr. Benjamin’s always-welcome voice. “Want to check on my patient.”
“Good evening, Dr. Benjamin,” I said. “I’m feeling a whole lot better.”
“Happy to hear it. Sorry I couldn’t get over here earlier. Two emergencies had me running around all day long.”
“I’m sorry.”
“One of them was to assist bringing a healthy baby girl into the world, so that was a happy emergency. The other was a little boy’s broken leg. Poor kid fell out of a tree.”
“In January? What was he doing climbing trees in January?”
“I have no earthly idea. Turned out to be a bad choice on his part, though. But let’s go to your room, and I’ll check that arm of yours. It’s been wrapped up for two weeks. If I think you’re healed enough, I’ll unbind it.”
“Yay!” I cried. “I’m so tired of being unbalanced!”
Doc Benjamin laughed. “Don’t know if this will balance you, but you might be able to get around better. If,” he cautioned, “you’re up to it. And I’ll be the one who will make that decision.”
“That’s all right. I trust you. But I sure hope you can unwrap me. I feel like a mummy.”
So the doctor and I retired to my bedroom along with Spike, who was an eager participant in most things that went on in our house. Because I had expected Dr. Benjamin to visit me some time that day, I’d worn a loose house dress that could easily be slipped from my shoulders so he could inspect my left arm. He first inspected all my cuts, scrapes and gouges.
“These are healing very well, Daisy. Are your muscles still sore?”
“Yes. They twang a good deal, although not as much as they did at first.”
“Good. Good. You might be able to get by on aspirin tablets now. You needed the morphine syrup at first because you were so banged up, but this is the end of your second week of recovery, and aspirin might do just as well.”
“I’d like that. I hate morphine syrup. Not only does it taste vile, but…Well, Billy killed himself with it.”
“I know, Daisy. You and Billy went through some rough years together. But I think you and Sam make a great couple.”
“Thanks, Doc.” I think I sniffled a bit. Pathetic. But not as pathetic.
“All right, now. Let’s look at your left arm.”
I lowered my dress and he palpated my arm and shoulder, squinting at my bruises.
“That car really got you, didn’t it?”
“It did,” I agreed.
He carefully took the pins out of the bandage holding my left arm to my body. “Don’t drop your arm suddenly. Move it slowly,” he told me.
I complied. “Oh, my! It doesn’t hardly hurt at all!”
“Good. Good. Let me move the arm a little bit, just to be sure the shoulder is properly in place.”
So he did. The shoulder hurt some, but not too badly. I began to think I’d actually live through this ordeal.
“Don’t lift anything heavy for a couple of weeks,” he told me. “And don’t try to play baseball or anything.”
“Baseball?”
“Just a little doctor humor, Daisy.”
“I figured as much.”
“But you do need to be careful. No lifting of crystal balls. You might be able to use the Ouija board, but I suggest you stay away from your work for another week at least. And yes, I know Mrs. Pinkerton is your best client and she calls you every day, begging you to read the cards or whatever, but you’ll have to stand firm, or I’ll wrap you up again, and this time I’ll tie both arms to your torso.”
“Golly, what a dreadful threat.”
We both laughed.
“Just be careful, Daisy. I know you want to be able to do all the things you used to be able to do, but don’t push yourself. I’d even recommend no shuffling of cards at this point.”
“What about the piano?”
Dr. Benjamin cocked his head to one side as I repositioned my day dress. Boy, doing things like that was so much easier if you could use two arms instead of only one.
“You can try the piano. Maybe a couple of Chopin’s etudes to start with. They’re delicate. You can begin with them.”
“I think I have some Chopin sheet music in the piano bench.”
“If you can play an etude without hurting yourself, you can work your way up to…I don’t know what young people sing these days.”
“I don’t know about singing, but I love to play ‘The Charleston.’”
“Catchy tune,” said Dr. Benjamin as he closed his black doctor’s bag. He rolled up the yards and yards of gauze with which he’d wrapped my left arm and handed it to me. “If your arm hurts at night, you can just cut some of this off and tie your arm to your body. You might need someone to help you.”
I instantly thought I’d like Sam to help me with that chore, but until we were married, I guess I’d have to call on my mother if I needed help wrapping myself.
Then I blushed. Dr. Benjamin looked at me as if my blush puzzled him. I didn’t enlighten him.
I did, however, remove myself to the piano in the living room. There, after the kindly doctor opened the lid for me, I rummaged in the piano bench until I found some easy sheet music.
Playing the piano didn’t hurt!
Sam was as good as his word. He knocked on the front door at about eight o’clock on Sunday morning. Spike galloped to the door. Pa followed. I didn’t, but sat wrapped in my bathrobe at the kitchen table. I hadn’t been awake for very long that morning, and I hadn’t yet determined the precise soundness of my physical condition. My left arm, having been allowed its freedom all night, was slightly sore that morning. I moved it carefully, hoping I wouldn’t have to have it wrapped again.
“Good morning, all,” called Sam, hanging his hat and overcoat on the stand beside the front door.
“Good morning,” I called back.
“Happy Sunday, Sam,” said Vi, who was busily frying bacon in a big cast-iron skillet. She could fling that heavy thing around as if it weighed a mere nothing. Amazing woman, my aunt.
“Morning,” said Ma, walking into the kitchen. I was pleased to see she wore the pretty blue suit I’d made for her and given her at Christmas. “How does it look?” she asked me, giving a little twirl in front of those of her family who’d gathered in the kitchen—which was all of us by that time.
“Lovely,” said Sam, nodding.
“Looks great,” said Pa, smiling.
“Beautiful,” said Vi, tonging bacon from the skillet and on
to a piece of butcher’s paper she’d flattened out as a grease receptacle.
“It really does look good, Ma,” I said. “I like that color on you. Goes with your eyes.”
“And yours,” said Ma, walking over to deposit a kiss on my head.
“I’ll be glad when I can sew again, too,” I said, wishing time would fly and it were about a month later than it was, my would-be killer was locked up (or dead. I didn’t care at that point), and all my wounds had healed. Even though my left arm was sort-of usable, I couldn’t lift the lovely White side-pedal sewing machine out of its case yet, because the machine weighed too darned much.
“Soon enough,” said Sam. “But I’ve brought a guest for breakfast.”
“You have?”
“Don’t fuss at Sam, Daisy,” Vi advised. “He called and asked if it was all right.”
“I wasn’t going to fuss,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat. Very well, so I had been prepared to tell Sam he was a mighty pushy fellow to spring a guest on Vi and the family on a Sunday morning without warning.
“Ladies and gents,” Sam said, smiling at all of us, “please allow me to present Mr. Lou Prophet, who will be residing in the house across the street until we can figure out who’s trying to do in my fiancée.”
And darned if Lou Prophet didn’t shamble into the doorway between the dining room and kitchen! He looked as if he felt out of place in our pretty Pasadena bungalow. He’d probably have been more comfy in an adobe hut or something of that nature.
“Mr. Prophet!” I cried, standing with a little too much precipitation. “How good to see you again.” I didn’t wince or anything, even though my sudden getting-to-my-feet maneuver had severely twanged several of my muscles and scabs.
Holding a disreputable-looking bowler hat in his hand, Mr. Prophet scanned the room with a scowl, then said, “Howdy.”
“Thank you so much for rescuing my daughter, Mr. Prophet. Daisy’s told us so much about you!” said Ma.
Eyeing me without favor, Prophet said, “Probably ain’t true.”
Puzzled, Ma said, “What isn’t true?”
Flipping a hand my way, he said, “What she told you.”
“Nonsense,” said Pa. He walked to Prophet, grabbed his hand, and shook it vigorously. Prophet looked at my father as if he wished he hadn’t done that. “Daisy said you saved her life. Or nearly saved her life, anyway.”
“She saved her own life,” said Prophet in his smoky, rusty growl. “She turned her head right in time. Otherwise, she’d still be skewered to that bench.”
“And on that note,” said Sam in a loudish voice, “let me show Mr. Prophet the house across the street. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
They left. I gazed after them in some bemusement.
So did Ma. “What a curious character,” said she.
“He is,” I agreed. “He used to be a bounty hunter in the wild, wild west.”
“The wild, wild west?” Ma gazed at me as if I were someone other than her staid Pasadena daughter.
“Yes. Pa and I have read several stories about him.” I turned to my father for confirmation. “Haven’t we, Pa?”
“We have indeed. Wonder if any of them are true. If they are, he’s lived a…colorful life.”
Vi laughed and began breaking eggs into a big bowl. “I expect that man’s seen a lot in his days on this earth. He certainly doesn’t look as though he belongs in Pasadena, though, does he?”
“No,” I said. “I guess I already told you he’d been hired by a studio as a consultant on the set of some western flickers. But he…had an accident. Lost his leg.”
“Goodness,” said Ma, looking as if she might just cry for Mr. Prophet’s lost leg. “That’s too bad.” She sat on a chair near mine at the kitchen table. “Did you say he used to be a bounty hunter?”
“Yep,” I told her, keeping the western theme alive in my response.
“My word. The old west seems…so long ago.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I agreed. “Maybe it isn’t, but it seems odd to have found a relic of it living here in Pasadena.”
“True,” said Pa.
“He’s just a man,” said Vi. “Like any other man. Did a job for money, just like most of us do.”
Silence filled the kitchen along with the delicious cooking smells residing there. I wondered if Vi was right about Lou Prophet. Somehow, I kind of doubted it.
Mr. Prophet didn’t return to the house with Sam for breakfast. This caused Vi no end of upset. “The poor man needs his food!” said she, looking at Sam as if he’d deliberately withheld Lou Prophet from her table for some fell purpose.
“He’s kind of a strange man, Vi,” I told her. “I don’t think he’s awfully sociable.”
“You should etch that on a plaque and hang it on the wall,” muttered Sam. “I’ll take him a plate, Vi, if you trust me not to drop it.”
“Nonsense! I know you won’t drop it,” said Vi. “Here, I’ll just fix a nice breakfast for him. And don’t forget to take silverware, unless you have some over there already.”
“Not yet. Mrs. Killebrew left several items of furniture, but she took all her silverware and so forth.”
“You can probably get some cheap at Nelson’s Five and Dime,” I told my beloved.
He turned and looked at me with a squinty-eyed frown. “Or you could come with me to Nash’s or another nice store and pick out a pattern you like.”
“Oh.” I felt silly, although I’m not sure why. Ours would, after all, be a second marriage for both of us. I didn’t have any silverware or china left from my marriage to Billy, but that’s because we’d never had any. I’d just graduated from high school, and we’d only been married a few weeks before Billy was shipped off to fight in the Great War. Then, when he’d come home again, I’d had to work like the devil to support us, he being unable to do so. He’d hated that.
Anyway, I’d also neglected to remember the salient fact that Sam was, evidently, rich.
“How sweet, Sam,” said Ma mistily.
“Yes, that’s very nice of you, Sam,” said Pa. He didn’t sound as if he aimed to burst into tears any time soon.
“Here you go,” said Vi, handing Sam a plate piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon, and three (maybe four) of her light-as-air biscuits. She wrapped a fork, spoon and knife in a napkin and jammed them into the breast pocket of Sam’s Sunday suit. Then she then added a huge dollop of butter to the plate. “I’d better give you some preserves to go on those biscuits, too,” she said.
To give Sam credit, his knees—even his left knee, which was attached to his wounded left thigh—didn’t buckle. He did stare with fascination at the huge pile of food before him. I suspect he was wondering how he was going to carry the plate, silverware and whatever kind of preserves Aunt Vi aimed to give him with only two hands. “Um…”
Pa rose from the table. “I’ll help you, Sam,” he said, grinning.
“Thanks, Joe.” Sam sounded relieved.
Eighteen
“Mr. Prophet isn’t coming to church with us?” I asked as my family piled in to Sam’s Hudson. I had my trusty dachshund-head cane with me to assist with my balance as I maneuvered around the church.
“No,” said Sam. “I asked, and he politely declined my invitation.” The way his lips twisted into a grin made me doubt the “politely” part of Mr. Prophet’s refusal. “Anyway, he’s staying there to watch for trouble or people lurking around your home.”
“That’s nice of him. I’m just kind of sorry we won’t get to see more of him.”
“I think you’ll get your chance.”
I hoped so.
That Sunday’s church service was uneventful. Of course I didn’t sit with the choir because I was still lame, although I was no longer wrapped up like the silverware Vi’d given Sam that morning. The choir sounded good even with me not in it. I kind of resented that.
After church, we walked to Fellowship Hall for tea and cookies. Sam assisted me so I didn’t limp too
badly. He was so good to me. Most of the time. My cane helped, too.
I sat at one of the tables in the hall while Sam went to the front of the room to get some cookies for himself. I didn’t want any cookies, since Aunt Vi had a lovely pork roast cooking away at home, and I wanted to save myself for pork. That doesn’t sound right. Never mind.
“Oh, Mrs. Majesty!” came the voice of Miss Betsy Powell. I turned as much as I could and saw her clinging to the arm of a person whom I presumed to be her new gentleman friend, the owner of the car that had nearly killed me, Mr. Bernard Randford.
I smiled and said, “How do you do, Miss Powell?”
“I’m fine, thank you. But please. Let me introduce you to Mr. Randford.”
I faced the gent in question. I didn’t like his looks. Not that I’m the least little bit judgmental or anything, you understand. He was a little taller than Miss Powell, who was maybe five feet, five inches tall; had brown hair with lots of white hair scattered in it; he was little chunky; and he had one of those stupid tiny mustaches that looked as if somebody’d drawn a line with a pencil above his upper lip. Or maybe he’d glued a black worm there. Anyway, I disliked mustaches of that nature and, for some reason unknown to me, I disliked Mr. Randford upon our first meeting.
“How do you do, Mr. Randford?” I said politely, holding out my right hand for him to shake. I’d propped my cane against the table and hoped nobody would trip over it or knock it down.
He had a damp, limp handshake, which was another thing not to like him for. Not that I wanted anyone to shake my hand so hard he mangled it, but I think a man’s handshake should at least be firm. Bet you anything Lou Prophet’s hand wouldn’t feel like a dead halibut when he shook hands with somebody else. Mr. Bernard Randford, upon first viewing, was about as different from Mr. Lou Prophet as a man could get.
“I’m very sorry my machine was used to do you harm, Mrs. Majesty. I trust you’re recovering well?” said Mr. Randford. He had a nasal voice. Yet one more reason not to like him.
Dislike, however, didn’t negate the fact that, as a spiritualist-medium with a long client list, I had to be gracious no matter to whom I spoke. Therefore, I said, “Thank you, Mr. Randford. It’s been a difficult couple of weeks, but I’m healing nicely according to Dr. Benjamin. I’m sorry your automobile was used for such a nefarious purpose. I hear it didn’t escape unscathed.”