by Alice Duncan
Spike, who had evidently become bored roaming the back yard, trotted into the kitchen and then raced, barking like mad, to the front door. I wondered why he wasn’t still on the deck lapping up blood until I heard a pounding at the door. Aha. Probably the police. I glanced at Mrs. Rattle, who turned down the fire under her cocoa pot and headed to the door.
Sure enough. Sam, followed closely by Stephen Doan and Officer Oversloot, ran into the kitchen. Sam stopped at my chair, but the two officers, at Sam’s instructions, continued through my bedroom to the back deck.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked, sounding a wee bit panicky.
“The bullet missed me, if that’s what you want to know,” I said, not unkindly, but thinking Sam shouldn’t be panicking. To me, panic on his part bespoke something terribly wrong.
“Thank God for that,” said he, and went to join the rest of the police contingent, my father and Lou Prophet on the back deck. I decided what the heck, got up from my chair and joined them. Six people and a grown man mewling inside a bed sheet made the deck fairly crowded, but we managed.
“Do you know who this is?” Sam asked of Prophet.
“Never saw the owlhoot before in my life. Saw him goin’ up the drive, though, and followed him. He ran to the bushes in back of that rose bed. I didn’t see him draw, but I saw the flash. I shot him then.”
Owlhoot? I hoped I’d remember all these words.
“Thank you,” said Sam. Kneeling next to the prone man, he said, “Who are you?”
“Hurt,” whimpered the man.
“Yeah. I know. You tried to kill my fiancée. Who the devil are you, and who hired you?”
More whimpers.
Lou Prophet nudged the man’s thigh with his peg. The man howled. “Tell the detective what he wants to know, old son,” advised Prophet. “Or I’ll open that wound up consider’ble with my peg here. You think it hurts now!”
“Petrie!” squealed the man. “Clifford Petrie.”
“Another one? How many of you are there?” I demanded of Clifford Petrie. “And do you all want me dead?”
“Don’t know,” said Petrie. “Big family we got.”
“Yes,” I said, wanting them all to die. Except Regina, of course. “You have an excessively big family. Entirely too big.”
“Is your Chevrolet in the driveway, Joe?” asked Sam, standing again. I thought it a strange and irrelevant question until my father answered it.
“Ah, yes. I’d better move the machine so the ambulance can get back here.”
Very well, so Sam and my father and Lou Prophet were all thinking more clearly than I. No surprise, under the circumstances.
“Who hired you to kill me?” I asked Clifford Petrie.
“M’mother. Didn’t pay me,” said Petrie. “Did her a favor.”
“Some favor,” I growled. Sam put his hand on my shoulder, probably to keep me from kicking Mr. Petrie to death.
“Who’s your mother?” asked Sam.
“Mrs. Petrie,” sobbed Petrie.
“Which Mrs. Petrie?” I asked, still growling.
“Myrtle. Myrtle Petrie.”
Sam and I exchanged a glance of incomprehension. I’d heard of all sorts of Petries since they’d crawled out of the pig sty in which they lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but I’d never before heard of a Myrtle Petrie.
“Who’s she?” I snarled.
“M’mother,” Petrie said, still whimpering.
“What does she have to do with Bruce Petrie or Eloise Petrie Gaulding or Percival Petrie or any of the other accursed Petries who’ve been darkening my life for the past three or four years?”
“I should probably do the questioning,” suggested Sam gently.
“She’s doin’ all right,” said Prophet, grinning at me. “Let her take the devil by the tail.” Whatever the expression meant, I appreciated him for it.
Sam shrugged. He probably figured it didn’t matter who asked the questions as long as this particular putrid Petrie answered them.
“Aunt Eloise is m’mother’s sister.”
“Oh.” That figured. “Are you Bruce’s brother?”
“Yeah.”
“I swear to goodness, you people ought to have stayed in Oklahoma. We don’t want you here in Pasadena. You bring down the tone of the place.”
“Daisy,” said Sam. He was trying not to laugh, curse him. “Leave the man alone. He’s hurt.”
“If he’d had his way, I’d be dead.”
“True.” After saying that, Sam kicked Clifford Petrie, too.
Petrie shrieked. Lou Prophet laughed. I felt somehow vindicated.
Just then we heard the siren of an ambulance approaching from the south. I expect it had originated at the Castleton Hospital, which sat on the corner of Orange Grove and Pasadena Avenue. I stepped back so the ambulance attendants would be able to get up the steps and retrieve Clifford Petrie’s lousy carcass. Well, he was still alive, so technically he wasn’t a carcass. Yet.
And then everyone except Clifford Petrie, walked into my bedroom. I didn’t want them there. Well, Sam could stay…
“Come on into the kitchen, fellows,” said Mrs. Rattle chirpily. “I’ve made some hot cocoa to warm you up, and Mrs. Gumm has some wonderful Scotch shortbread in the cookie jar.”
“Doan, you and Oversloot go in the ambulance with Petrie. Be sure he’s booked as soon as a doctor patches him up. Attempted murder.”
Doan saluted. I didn’t know people actually did that, although Sam could sound awfully authoritative when he wanted. So Doan and Oversloot didn’t get any of Mrs. Rattle’s hot cocoa or any of Aunt Vi’s Scotch shortbread. Poor fellows.
“Save that rope,” said Prophet to the two policemen. “That’s a good rope.”
Doan and Oversloot glanced at Sam, who nodded and said, “Just keep it. I’ll pick it up at the station.”
“Right,” said Doan.
“Come on in here, fellows,” said Mrs. Rattle. “Cocoa’s all ready.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rattle,” Sam said as he walked into the kitchen, followed by Lou Prophet, still holding his gun.
Pa blinked at the firearm. “I haven’t seen one of those in decades,” said he.
Prophet lifted his rifle. “This here purty lady? It’s my Winchester ’73. Haven’t used her much lately, I’m sorry to say. She gets lonely, this lady does.”
“Did you use it when you were bounty hunting?” I asked, wishing he’d prop the thing against a wall somewhere other than the kitchen. It looked deadly. Which, all things considered, I guess it was.
He patted the weapon lovingly. “’Bout brings tears to my eyes, remembering all the curly wolves me an’ my lady here turned toe-down.” Tears of fondness, I gathered. From a different place in time, Mr. Prophet…
Shaking his head, Pa said, “My father had one of those Winchesters. Used to hunt with it.”
“So’d I,” said Prophet, grinning.
“But you hunted men,” I said, deciding a grin wouldn’t do me any harm either. “I think my paternal grandfather hunted deer and rabbits and stuff like that.”
“I’ve bagged a few of those in my day, too,” said Prophet. “Men pay better, though.”
Grim thought. Mr. Prophet took his gun to the service porch, for which I was grateful, and came back to the kitchen where he took a seat.
“Guess you’re going to have to arrest a Myrtle Petrie now, Sam,” I said. “Do you think you’ll ever be able to clean up the squad of Pasadena Petries? I swear they’re like ants! They just keep coming back.”
“More like rats,” said Prophet. “Or cockroaches.”
“I guess so. But Spike could do away with any rat or cockroach having the poor judgment to enter our house.”
“Yeah?” Prophet squinted down at Spike, who smiled up at him. “Never saw a dog looked like that one before. What kind is it?”
“Dachshund.”
“Bless you.”
I laughed. “No, no. I didn’t sneeze. That’s the breed of the do
g he is. Dachshund. They were bred in Germany to hunt badgers.” I sniffed. “They’re the only thing from Germany that’s worth a rap, if you ask me.”
“Badgers?” Prophet repeated, round-eyed. “Them things are bad bas—I mean, cusses.”
“Yes, they are. But Spike is a mighty hunter.”
“He is, is he?” Prophet seemed doubtful.
“He really is,” I said in hot defense of my wonderful dog. “In fact, he’s brought us more than one opossum during his tenure at our house.”
“’Possums make for good eating,” said Prophet.
Ew. I didn’t pursue the opossum subject.
“Where did you live that you ate ’possums?” asked Pa, sounding interested.
“Georgia. When I was a tyke. ’Possums, squirrels, rabbits, all of ’em. They’re all good in a stew.”
“Oh, you’re from Georgia? I didn’t know that.” Again I wondered how old Lou Prophet was. I didn’t ask, believing it would be impolite. I did, however, ask, “I suppose you were too young to fight in the Civil War.”
Prophet pinned me with a squinty, flinty glare. “The War of Northern Aggression? I was a tadpole, but I got my licks in.”
“You fought for the Confederacy?”
“Oh, yes. I’m a Georgia boy! It was hell. The war, I mean. Not Georgia. Georgia was heaven on earth. Leastways, long as your skin was white.” He winked at me.
“So I’ve heard,” I said tartly. “My grandfather fought for the Union Army.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nertz.”
“You won’t hold it against me?” Prophet grinned some more.
“Of course not. After all, our side won.” I gave him a genteel smile.
Mr. Prophet’s grin faded some.
“Daisy,” said Pa.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Prophet,” I felt obliged to say.
But he only laughed. “You’re something else, Miss Daisy. But hell, neither the war nor the curly wolves got me. I’m still on this side of the sod, stompin’ with my tail up.”
Whatever that meant.
Twenty-Three
Sam left shortly after we’d each eaten several pieces of Vi’s Scotch shortbread and drunk a cup or two of cocoa. I felt considerably less anxious after Sam said he’d be sure the Pasadena Police Department found and locked up Mrs. Myrtle Petrie.
I called the library and asked to speak to Miss Regina Petrie. She didn’t generally take telephone calls when she was at work, but I wanted her to know about this latest attack on my life by one of her awful kin.
“Oh, Daisy, I’m so sorry!” she cried. Well, she whispered because she was in the library, but you know what I mean.
“Not your fault. But I’d kind of like to know how many more members of the rotten side of your family live in Pasadena at the moment.”
“I have no idea,” she said sorrowfully. “I wish I did. I’ll call an exterminator.”
I chuckled at that. “I’ll help pay for one. I’d never even heard of Bruce or Clifford or Myrtle Petrie until the past week or so.”
“I think Myrtle is an aunt of mine or something. My family has nothing to do with those people. I’ve told you about what some of them have done. I used to think Percival was the worst of the lot, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Do you think either Bruce or Clifford killed girls and fed their bodies to pigs?”
That question isn’t as irrelevant as it probably looks, because Percival Petrie had killed girls and fed them to his parents’ pigs.
“I think that was only Percival, although don’t know for sure. Given the rest of that rotten limb on the family tree, they all might have been in cahoots with each other. I wish none of them had moved to Pasadena.”
“Me, too.”
“They were personae non grata in Tulsa, but I wish they’d moved to…well, anywhere but here.”
“Did Myrtle’s family have trouble with the law, too?”
“Oh, my, yes. It was difficult for my parents and me to hold our heads up with that gang of monsters living in the same town.”
“I’m sorry. You’ll be marrying Robert soon, and your last name will be Browning. That will probably make you feel better.”
“It will definitely make me feel better. I’m almost afraid to tell Robert about these latest crimes. I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to marry into my family.”
“Nonsense. He knows all sorts of things about me, and he still speaks to me. He loves you, Regina! He won’t hold the bad side of your family against you. In fact, from what I’ve learned about Robert Browning in the past few years, he’s a wonderfully tolerant and kind-hearted man. And he can keep a secret like nobody’s business.” That aspect of Robert’s character had peeved me at the time, but I honored him for it now.
“Yes.” Regina sounded wistful. “He’s a wonderful man.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“Me, too.”
“And I’m getting better by the day, so I’ll definitely be able to make your bridal gown and bridesmaids’ dresses soon.”
“Don’t worry about those things,” said Regina. “Just get well. Do you need any new books?”
How sweet she was! “Not at the moment, but thank you for asking. Everyone’s been so nice to me.”
“We thought we’d lost you, Daisy. We were all frightened for you.”
“Yes. Thanks. I was kind of worried, too.” I hesitated for a second, then blurted out, “Actually, I’m still scared. All sorts of people I’ve never even heard of seem to want me dead. I don’t know why, and I hope Sam gets them all locked up soon.”
“There can’t be an endless supply of bad Petries in Pasadena,” said Regina, although she didn’t sound too awfully sure of herself.
“I suppose not.”
We said our good-byes, and I went out to the deck to see if Clifford Petrie had made a mess on the paint. Mrs. Rattle was already there with a bucket of soapy water and a mop, scrubbing away like mad.
“Is there a big stain?” I asked.
“Not very. And I got at it with the soap and water before the blood dried.”
“That’s good.” I sounded feeble. Truth to tell, I felt feeble. Getting shot at isn’t any fun. In fact, it’s downright terrifying.
Spike and I retired to the living room sofa, where I curled up next to my hound and took a nap. I felt a little better when I woke up about an hour later.
Harold Kincaid and Lou Prophet liked each other. I could tell. Harold brought Vi home from Mrs. Pinkerton’s house at about four o’clock, and he and Mr. Prophet exchanged pleasantries in the living room. Pa joined them as Vi worked in the kitchen. I made sure to be there with them, just in case either man got out of hand. I’m talking Harold and Lou here, because my father never got out of hand.
And what an odd expression that is. Never thought about it before I wrote it down, but what does “out of hand” mean, anyway? Oh, never mind.
“So you work in the flickers?”
“Yes.” Harold heaved a sigh.
“I was hired to consult on a couple of what they call westerns,” said Mr. Prophet. “Didn’t look like any west I’ve ever been in, but the money was good.” He squinted at Harold. “You’re not an actor, are you? Don’t recall seeing you in any of the pictures I’ve been to.”
“No. I make costumes for the folks who act in them,” said Harold.
“I wouldn’t mind dressing some of them women,” said Prophet.
“Actually, you probably would. Most of them are nitwits.”
“Yeah?” Prophet shrugged.
“They are. If they ever figure out how to make talkies, most of the so-called stars will be out of jobs, because they’ll have to be able to read and remember lines.”
“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”
“No.” Harold sounded definite.
“I worked on a picture set once, Mr. Prophet. Lola de la Monica hired me to be her spiritual advisor.”
Harold chuffed out a large-sized guff
aw. “Spiritual advisor, my foot.”
“Well, that’s what she hired me for,” I said, because it was the truth.
“Now that woman’s got fire in her,” said Prophet. “Gorgeous female. I would’ve liked to’ve met her forty years or so ago.”
“She wouldn’t have been alive then,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but I would’a been. If we were the same age, I guess is what I’m saying.”
“I understood. Just thought I’d give you a hard time.”
“Miss Daisy, you ain’t got the stuff in you to give me a hard time. I’ve been worked over by experts.”
“She is a little too nice,” said Harold in a musing sort of voice, eyeing me sideways.
“I am?” I didn’t think people could be too nice.
“Yeah,” said Prophet. “She is. She’s had some problems lately, though.”
“Yes. I heard about today’s dust-up,” said Harold.
“Dust-up,” I repeated. “I guess that’s one word for it.”
“Two words,” said Prophet.
Harold laughed.
I said, “Picky, picky. I didn’t know you were so persnickety, Mr. Prophet.”
“Damned right I am. Anyhow, I said the wrong thing. What I meant was, I wouldn’t mind undressing some of them women.”
Harold snickered.
I frowned at Prophet and he rolled his eyes. I swear, he and Sam might as well have been twins. Only Mr. Prophet was older than Sam.
Speaking of Sam, he arrived not long after Harold brought Vi home. Harold went to the door to let him in, since I wasn’t allowed near any door in the house any longer. Of those that led outdoors, I mean. I did, however, rise and walk over to greet him. He surprised me with a hug and a great big kiss. Right in front of Harold, Lou Prophet, Pa and Vi!
After I recovered, I said, “What was that for?”
“Because I love you, and because we’ve got all of them locked up at last!” He hung his hat on the rack, shrugged out of his coat and hung that up, too.
“All of them?” I said, my voice faint. I pressed a hand over my heart, hardly daring to believe Sam’s news. “Are you sure?”