Shaken Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 13): Historical Mystery

by Alice Duncan

  “No,” said he, frowning. “It didn’t. But it sustained much less damage than was done to you, and I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Well, you didn’t run it into me, so I don’t suppose you should be sorry,” I said, not watching my tongue as well as I usually did.

  “Oh, Mrs. Majesty!” Miss Betsy Powell giggled. Her giggle wasn’t as annoying as her scream, but it wasn’t at the top on my list of pleasant things to listen to.

  “It’s nice you’re coming to church with Miss Powell lately,” I said politely.

  “Isn’t it?” Miss Powell squeezed Mr. Randford’s arm.

  With a thin smile, he said, “Yes. I’m enjoying being a member of the congregation.”

  “Did you have a church home before you began attending here?” Not that I cared, but I was trying to be polite.

  “Not really. I have no family in the Pasadena area except for a cousin. We’re really more like brothers than cousins. His health has been poor in recent months.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. And I do hope he gets well soon.”

  Mr. Randford cleared his throat. “I doubt he will. He’s been my best friend ever since we were boys, too,” he said, shaking his head in, I guess, sadness.

  “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes. Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mrs. Majesty.”

  “Likewise,” I told him, although it was a bit of a fib.

  Then Mr. Randford turned and more or less dragged Miss Betsy Powell with him to a table across the room. My chest itched, so I surreptitiously scratched it, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. It’s embarrassing to have to scratch an itch in public, especially when it’s on your chest. Probably scratching an itchy leg would be more embarrassing. Oh, bother, never mind me.

  Sam returned at that moment and sat next to me. He set a teacup at my place. How sweet. “Thanks, Sam.” Ma, Pa and Aunt Vi were chatting with friends scattered around the room.

  “You’re welcome.” He gazed after Miss Powell and Mr. Randford. “I see you got to meet Randford.”

  “Yes. I don’t like him.”

  Sam chuckled. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “What do you mean by that?” I demanded of my darling. “Do you think I’m too quick to judge or something?”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  “You do, too. I can tell.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Daisy. I don’t like him much, either, but I don’t know anything about him that might be considered criminal.”

  “Huh. Miss Betsy Powell has a penchant for selecting the worst men available to her.”

  Sam chuckled again and bit into a sugar cookie. His eyebrows lifted. After he swallowed, he said, “Pretty good.”

  “Bet it’s not as good as one of Aunt Vi’s sugar cookies.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” He finished the sugar cookie and then ate an oatmeal cookie, however.

  “Are you two ready to leave?” asked Pa as he walked to our table. “Vi wants to get home and make sure the potatoes are mashed and the gravy’s gravied.”

  “Gravied?” I tilted my head to look at my wonderful father.

  He shrugged. “Better than gravid, I guess.”

  “What does gravid mean?” asked Sam as he helped me to stand.

  “Full of eggs,” I told him.

  He looked at me as if I were a strange and unusual creature. “How do you know that?”

  I nearly shrugged myself, but remembered not to in time to save my iffy shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I read it in a book and had to look it up once or something. The definition stuck.”

  “You know the strangest things, Daisy,” said my fiancé.

  “I don’t think knowing what a word means is strange.”

  “But why would anyone invent a word that means full of eggs?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I’m sure there’s a reason,” said Pa in an attempt to thwart a verbal spat before it began. Sam and I had been known to bicker from time to time.

  Sam only grinned, and I wanted to thump him. Since my mother, father and aunt were with us, I didn’t.

  An interesting scene awaited us when Sam drove up to the house.

  “Oh, my goodness!” cried Ma, staring out the Hudson’s window.

  “What on earth?” came from Vi.

  “Good Lord,” Pa muttered.

  They had reason to exclaim. Sitting on the stairs leading up to the Gumm-Majesty bungalow’s porch—to distinguish it from the Rotondo bungalow across the street—rested Lou Prophet, his wooden leg extended in front of him, smoking one of his quirlies. Next to him, squirming like a caterpillar, lay a man bound with rope. As Sam parked, Prophet heaved himself to his feet. Or his foot and his peg. Sam got out of the car and hurried to the porch. I wanted to do likewise, but couldn’t. My folks and Vi beat me to Prophet and the caterpillar, but I heard what everyone said.

  “What’s going on, Prophet?”

  “Caught this toughnut trying to get into your house.”

  Toughnut? I wondered if that was another word for a curly wolf. I decided then and there I’d compile a dictionary of western terms. Didn’t have single clue what I’d use it for, but it might be amusing to read all the odd words and definitions to Harold.

  “Really?” Thanks to my trusty cane, I’d managed to make it to the porch. “Which door?”

  “Back.”

  Sam and I exchanged a glance, and I appreciated Sam having bullied me into locking all the doors.

  “Do you know why?” I asked.

  “Prob’ly had something to do with this.” Prophet held up a gun, swinging it by its—well, I don’t know what you call it—the thing that encircles the trigger. Don’t know what kind of gun it was, either. I knew it wasn’t a rifle or a shotgun, but that’s about as far as my knowledge of weaponry extended.

  Sam got out his handkerchief and took the gun from Prophet. “Have you touched it anywhere except the trigger guard?”

  Aha! It was a trigger guard!

  “Naw. No need.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Prophet,” said Ma, staring hard at the bound man and cringing a little. I couldn’t blame her. It’s not often someone with a gun tries to get into your house while you’re not in it. Or even while you are.

  Sam turned to my family. “Why don’t you go on inside. Mr. Prophet and I can discuss this matter. I’ll let you know if I have to make an arrest and take this fellow”—he touched the caterpillar with his shoe tip—“to the station.”

  “Good idea,” said Pa, herding Ma and Aunt Vi into the house. He had to unlock the front door, which was unusual, and which he’d forgot all about until the knob didn’t turn. He fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door. I’d be awfully glad when things got back to normal.

  I stayed outside, in spite of Sam and Mr. Prophet frowning at me. “It’s my life, darn it!” I told them both. “I want to know what’s going on and who’s trying to end it and why, and I’m not leaving until I hear what this…man, I guess you’d call him, although I think he’s probably some other kind of animal…has to say.”

  “Grmph,” said the caterpillar. Guess he didn’t like my disparaging comment. Too bad.

  With a shrug, Prophet said, “Fair enough.”

  Sam only heaved a large-sized sigh. “So do you know this fellow’s name?”

  “Nope.”

  “How’d you discover him trying to get into the house?” Sam asked.

  “Followed him.”

  A little exasperated at Prophet’s terseness, I said, “Why did you follow him? I mean, when did you decide to follow him and why? When did you first see him?”

  With a squint for me, Prophet said, “Saw him goin’ up your drive. The detective here told me nobody should be doin’ that, so I crossed the street and trailed him. Went into the back yard, and I got him when he was trying to jimmy the back door lock.”

  The door to my bedroom. I think I shuddered.

  “How’d you get him?” aske
d Sam.

  “Hit him with a stick.”

  One of Sam’s eyebrows lifted. “Where’s the stick?”

  “Back there.” Prophet gestured with his thumb to the back yard.

  Sam and I walked to the back yard. Yes, I hurt, but I was more interested in the stick that had quelled a gunman than I was my aches and pains. Besides, I used my lovely new cane, thus taking some of the weight off the rest of my mangled body. A giant branch lay at the foot of the ramp Pa had built for Billy’s wheelchair. I watched closely as Sam walked over and picked it up. It appeared to be heavy. It was certainly thick.

  “That’s a big branch.”

  “It is,” Sam agreed.

  “It doesn’t look like a branch from any of our trees,” I said as he brought it to me.

  “I think it came from one of the trees in the back of the yard across the street.”

  “Goodness.”

  “Or something.”

  “Did he damage the lock as he tried to jimmy it open?”

  “I’ll take a look.” So he did. “Looks fine. Prophet must have cracked him over the head before he had a chance to do much damage, although I’ll check it more thoroughly later.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  We returned to the front porch, Sam dragging the branch. Prophet had sat on the steps again and rolled himself another coffin nail. Which was a quirley. Which was a cigarette. Definitely had to start my dictionary of old-west sayings. Maybe somebody would even publish it.

  “Is this the stick you hit him with?” asked Sam, brandishing same.

  “That’s it.”

  “Broke it off a tree in the other yard?”

  “Hacked it off.”

  “You brought an axe with you?” I asked.

  Prophet glanced at me and squinted as if he considered my question a particularly inane one. Then he said, “Yeah.”

  “Very well then,” I said and moved to the other side of the porch where I had a better view of the caterpillar. “You tied him up with rope?”

  “What’s it look like?” asked Prophet. Clearly I’d asked another dimwitted question.

  “Well, it looks like rope, but…Well, where did you get rope?”

  “Silly li’l thing. Any man worth two shots of cheap tangleleg comes prepared.”

  What was this tangleleg of which Mr. Prophet kept speaking? Rye whiskey? Or did the term include other spirituous liquors? If I ever figured out what it was, I’d be sure to add it to my dictionary. “I see.” Then, since I didn’t know what else to say, I rested my back against a porch pillar, leaned a bit on my cane, and watched.

  Sam dropped the branch issue—and the branch itself—and walked over to the caterpillar. “And you have no idea who this is?” he asked Prophet.

  “Nope.”

  “All right. Let me see here.”

  He reached down and grabbed the squirming bundle by one of his ropes. Prophet had done a spectacular job tying the man up. I doubt Vi had ever trussed a turkey or a goose so thoroughly. I noticed, when Sam rolled him over far enough to reveal his face, that Prophet had stuffed a gag in his mouth. I guessed it was a handkerchief or bandanna or something of a like nature. My nose wrinkled, thinking I wouldn’t want one of Lou Prophet’s hankies stuffed in my mouth.

  And that is pure prejudice speaking. For all I knew Mr. Lou Prophet laundered his handkerchiefs every single night. Another glance at Prophet, idly smoking and staring at what Sam was doing from his perch on the porch, squelched that thought nearly before it had been born.

  Sam pulled the handkerchief, or whatever it was, from the man’s mouth. The man spat and cursed. Prophet reached over and whacked him on his ear with the back of his hand.

  The man said, “Ow!”

  “There’s a lady present,” said Prophet. “So watch your mouth, you gutless cur.”

  Oh, my. Was this the famous “Code of the West”? Or did I just make that up? I thought I’d heard the term somewhere but decided not to ask Prophet about it. He didn’t seem to care for my questions.

  “What’s your name?” asked Sam, hauling the trussed fellow into a semi-seated position. He couldn’t bend very well because of the ropes binding him from tip to toe.

  “Go to hell.”

  Prophet smacked his ear harder.

  “Ow!”

  “Answer the man,” Prophet told Trussy.

  “You go to hell with him,” said Trussy.

  What the heck. Since I had my lovely dachshund-head cane with me, I bopped the guy on the ear, too.

  His “Ow!” was much louder that time.

  “Your name,” Sam growled in his I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-hide-your-body-in-the-foothills voice.

  “Bruce.”

  “Who Bruce?” Sam.

  “Or Bruce who? Or whom?” Me.

  “Go to hell.”

  This time Prophet swung his arm out and clobbered the man across the mouth. The semi-seated, bound man fell over backwards and conked his head on the cement porch.

  “Ow!” he hollered.

  “Answer my question,” said Sam in the same deadly voice. “What’s your name?”

  The man wriggled and wriggled as if he were trying to sit up. Finally Sam grabbed one of his rope ties and jerked him up. “Answer…My…Question.”

  The man’s eyes were as round as pie plates by this time. “Bruce. Bruce Petrie.”

  “Another Petrie!” I said. Well, I kind of shrieked it. But really, the Petrie family—except for Regina, who was a pearl among women—had been doing bad things to me and to people I loved for about three or four years by then. “Why doesn’t your clan stay the heck in Oklahoma where it belongs and leave us peaceful Pasadenans alone?”

  Mr. Bruce Petrie didn’t answer me, although I don’t think he was being obstinate. I got the feeling that he was more or less petrified with fright.

  Good.

  Nineteen

  I stayed on the porch while Sam interrogated Bruce Petrie. Prophet sat there, too, looking on with faint interest and smoking one coffin nail after another. I thought about asking him if he thought all that smoke was good for him but decided not to. I got the feeling Mr. Lou Prophet didn’t worry a whole lot about his health.

  After several long minutes of questioning, I learned Mr. Bruce Petrie had been hired by someone—he claimed not to know whom—to sneak into my bedroom and shoot me dead when I returned from church that day. It was a distressing thought, being killed by a total stranger who’d been hired by another stranger. Why would anyone want to do that? To me, of all people? I’d never done any harm in the world, darn it!

  Then again, perhaps a few Petries might retain villainous thoughts about me. After all, it had been a Petrie who’d seduced Stacy Kincaid away from the Salvation Army and into a vile child-trafficking scheme. And Stacy’s precious Percival Petrie had died after tripping over my prone body—prone because Stacy Kincaid had bashed me over the head with a chair—fallen down some basement stairs and killed himself. But I was the good guy in all my dealings with the dread Petrie clan! They were the bad guys. Or curly wolves, if you were Lou Prophet.

  However, I’m pretty sure neither Stacy Kincaid nor the rest of the evil branch of the Petrie clan saw matters in the same light as I.

  “Bet Stacy’s behind all of it, Sam,” I said to him as he was winding up his chat with Bruce Petrie.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. If we can tie this to her, she’s ruined her chance at turning states’ evidence and getting off easy.”

  “Oh, I hope we can!” I said.

  Lou Prophet grinned up at me. “You’re not so bad, Miss Daisy.”

  “Neither are you, Mr. Prophet.”

  The front door opened. Ma stepped outside, looked at us all, and said, “Vi has dinner on the table. Will you be joining us?” Her head turned Prophet’s way. “You’re invited, too, Mr. Prophet.”

  “He should be,” I said enthusiastically. “He saved my life again!”

  “He did?” Ma appeared more appalled than gratified, b
ut I understood.

  “Whatcha got cookin’?” asked Prophet.

  “I don’t cook,” said Ma candidly. “Neither does Daisy. Fortunately for the family, Daisy’s Aunt Viola cooks for us. Today we have roasted pork, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, carrots, and I think she made a pie for dessert, although I’m not sure what kind.”

  “Do join us, Mr. Prophet. Vi is the best cook in the world, and you deserve a good meal.”

  “Just had one,” said Prophet. “She cook that breakfast I ate?”

  “She did,” I said with pride.

  Glancing from Sam to Bruce Petrie and then back to Sam, Prophet said, “What do you say, Detective? I could use a good meal, but what do we do with this hardtail?”

  Hardtail. Yet another word for which I didn’t have a definition. I hoped Mr. Prophet would warm up to me enough to tell me what all those words of his meant.

  Sam stood back, staring down at the still-bound Bruce Petrie, then shrugged and said, “Why not? We can store this pig somewhere while we dine on another pig, and then you and I can go to the station. I’ll take your statement there, and we’ll lock up this bimbo.”

  Prophet pushed himself to his foot and peg once more. He took off his disreputable hat and bowed to my mother. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. I’d like that just fine.”

  “You really will,” I told him. “Vi’s pork roast is wonderful.”

  “It is,” Sam agreed.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Mr. Prophet,” said Ma.

  “What are you going to do with this piece of Petrie scum while we eat?” I asked Sam.

  Sam pursed his mouth, squinted, and said, “Why don’t I just take him inside. I’ll stuff him under the piano bench, and he can wait there until we’ve finished eating dinner.”

  “You got a piano in there?” asked Prophet?

  “Yes. I play it a little,” I told him with becoming modesty. “Guess you didn’t see it when you came in the house this morning. It’s in the living room, but it’s not immediately apparent.” I told myself not to yammer at Mr. Prophet. He didn’t need a detailed explanation of our home’s floor plan.