by Alice Duncan
“As sure as I can be,” said he.
“That doesn’t sound like you’re absolutely, positively sure,” I said. I grabbed his hand and walked him into the living room, where Harold, Pa and Lou Prophet stood, Pa and Harold smiling broadly, Prophet with a calm expression on his weathered face.
“Is that so, Sam?” asked Pa. “You really have all the bad guys—”
“And girls,” I said, interrupting. Impolite, I know.
“And girls,” said Sam, squeezing my hand gently. “Yes. As far as I know, they’re all locked up and, from what we’ve been able to gather by questioning them all, there are no more people who want to kill you out and about in Pasadena.”
I pressed a hand over my heart. “I can hardly believe it.”
“You’re still going to have to be careful,” warned Sam. “Just because I think we have all the culprits stowed away, we can’t be sure until we’ve thoroughly questioned all the ones we have.”
“Need any help?” Prophet asked. “I’m purty good at getting folks to spill the beans.”
I could imagine how he did it, too.
With a grin, Sam said, “No, thanks. We’ll handle the questioning at the station.”
“Suit yourself,” Prophet said and shrugged.
“Joe and Sam, will you please come here and help set the table?” Vi called from the kitchen. “It’s just about dinnertime, and I don’t want Daisy lifting heavy plates and so forth for a while.”
“But Ma’s not home yet,” I called back.
“Yes, I am,” said my mother, surprising me.
“Where’d you come from?” I asked her.
“Through the side door,” she said with a laugh. “That door’s easier to unlock than the front door, which is heavy.”
“Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Ma. I wish we didn’t have to keep all the doors locked. But Sam thinks they have all the bad guys locked up now.”
“Really? How wonderful! Joe and Sam, get back in the living room and talk to Harold and Mr. Prophet. I’ll set the table.”
“I’ll get the silverware out,” I said. “That’s not heavy.”
“Very well. If you’re sure,” said Ma.
So my father and my fiancé—men don’t have to do any work around the house, which I don’t think is fair, but nobody asked me—loafed on into the living room to talk to Harold and Lou Prophet. I got out a neatly folded tablecloth from a drawer in the dining room’s built-in hutch, flapped it open—gently, so as not to jar my left arm too much—and smoothed it over the dining room table. Then I set seven places at the table and put folded napkins under each knife and spoon. Gee, there usually weren’t so many people dining at our place, except on holidays and times like that.
Sniffing the air, I called to Vi, “What are you fixing us, Vi? Whatever it is, it smells wonderful.”
“Hungarian goulash,” she answered. “I just have to put it in a serving bowl. I’ve got some buttered carrots to go with the goulash.”
“Have you ever made Hungarian goulash for us before? I don’t remember it.”
“Nope. Got the recipe from Evelyn McCracken.”
“Boy, she gives you lots of recipes, doesn’t she? And they all seem to be from other countries. First it was chorizo, then it was Swedish chicken, and now it’s Hungarian goulash.”
With a laugh, Vi said, “Mrs. Bannister’s late husband liked to travel.”
Yes. He had liked to travel. He went to foreign countries to kidnap children and bring them to the United States. If he hadn’t beaten his wife nearly to death, and had she not then been rescued by Flossie Buckingham, hidden by Harold and me, and treated by Dr. Fred Greenlaw, Mr. Bannister would probably still be doing his evil work. But Mr. Bannister had been murdered by another ghastly Petrie person. Every now and then, I reckon a Petrie will kill someone who needs killing. But I wasn’t one of those people. And I was glad Bannister was dead and the rest of his gang locked up—and that Mrs. Bannister didn’t have to live in terror any longer.
Ma brought out plates and set them at Vi’s place. She put the bowl of buttered carrots in the center of the table, stuck a serving spoon in the bowl, stood back and surveyed our work. “Did I forget anything?” she asked me.
“I don’t think so.” Thinking of other meals Vi had fixed for us, I called, “Do you have a basket of rolls or biscuits, Vi?”
“Nope. There are dumplings in the goulash.”
“Dumplings. My goodness,” said Ma, a worried frown on her face. Ma wasn’t an adventurous diner.
“It will be great, Ma,” I assured. “Everything Vi cooks is great.”
“That’s true,” said Ma, her frown lines smoothing out.
“Here we go!” said my marvelous aunt, toting a gigantic serving bowl to the table and setting it carefully at her place. “See? Everything’s in there: meat, potatoes, onions, and we have carrots on the side.”
“It looks…interesting,” said Ma, never one to take chances on things until she was sure of them.
“It’s delicious,” said Vi. “It’s become one of Mr. Pinkerton’s favorites, and I got Mr. Larkin to cut the beef into chunks for me, so I didn’t have to do it.”
“It sounds as though you’re getting mighty chummy with Mr. Larkin, Vi,” I said, a little worried myself, but not about dinner. I didn’t want Vi to marry Mr. Larkin and desert us for him.
“Daisy!” said Ma, shocked.
Vi only laughed. “Mrs. Larkin would probably have something to say to me if I ran off with her husband, Daisy Gumm Majesty.”
“Oh, he’s married? Thank God!” Relief flooded through me.
“Daisy,” said my mother again. I didn’t mind.
“It’s all right, Peggy. Mrs. Pinkerton is one of Mr. Larkin’s best customers, and he’s very nice about doing little favors for me now and then. You know what he said to me about cutting up a beef round?”
“No. What?” Maybe I should write down cooking tips from Vi. If I could create an old-west dictionary, why not a recipe booklet? Except that every time I try to do anything in the kitchen, havoc ensues.
“He said that if you freeze the beef first, and then partially thaw it, it’s much easier to cut!”
“Oh,” I said. “How does he freeze the beef?”
“He has a freezer in the butcher’s shop at Jorgensen’s, Daisy! How else do you think they keep meat fresh?”
“Um…I guess I never much thought about it.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Vi, not sounding mean about it. “But for this goulash, you need to slice a hunk of about two or three pounds off the lower part of the beef round and then cut the hunk into approximately one-inch cubes. You need a sharp knife, and Mr. Larkin said the beef cuts more easily when it’s slightly frozen. That way, the meat’s harder and isn’t squishy when you cut it.”
Squishy meat. Oh, dear. If Vi ever died, I’d have to hire a cook, I reckon. The mere notion of squishy beef made my stomach feel funny. “Want me to call the men in to dinner?”
Vi and Ma and I took another long look at the table, and Vi said, “Looks like everything’s ready. Go fetch the men. I have some lemonade all made up. Your father can bring in the pitcher. There’s some ice in the ice box, too.”
“Thanks, Vi!” The one thing I could do at mealtimes without incurring disaster was call folks to the table. So I did.
For the record, Vi’s Hungarian goulash was delicious. We didn’t even leave enough in the bowl for lunch the next day.
Twenty-Four
The rest of that week passed peacefully. Nobody would allow me out of the house by myself, but I was able to build up my strength slightly by taking short walks with Pa and Spike in the mornings.
Lou Prophet pretty much settled in to the cottage behind Sam’s bungalow across the street from us where, Sam said, he’d still be able to keep an eye on things. Just in case.
I didn’t want there to be a just in case, but I didn’t argue. My poor battered body was healing nicely, but it still wasn’t one-hund
red percent better, especially my left arm, which ached when I used it too much. I found that out on Thursday evening at choir practice.
Sam and Lou Prophet sat like a couple of carved statues in the front pew as we choir members sang. Every now and then, Sam would turn his head and survey the sanctuary. Mr. Prophet just crossed his arms over his chest and stared at us. Their presence was slightly—only slightly, mind you—disconcerting. I tried not to glance at them very often.
Our anthem for the coming Sunday was “Ye Servants of God,” yet another hymn written by one of Methodism’s founding fathers, Charles Wesley. It was an all-right hymn. Not my favorite, but nice.
“Mrs. Majesty, are you up to singing a duet with Mrs. Zollinger on Sunday?” asked Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director. “The third verse would work nicely as a duet.”
“Um…” The truth of the matter was: I wasn’t sure. Mr. Hostetter, who didn’t cotton to equivocation, stared at me critically.
“Um…I can try. My left arm is still a little weak.”
“Humph.” Mr. Hostetter didn’t cotton to weakness either.
“Perhaps we should allow Mrs. Majesty another week or two to mend,” said Lucy, surprising me. Lucy wasn’t known for stating her opinions out loud in front of people.
“Let me try,” I said, smiling at Lucy, appreciating her support.
“Very well,” said Mr. Hostetter, tapping his music stand with his baton. “The both of you please step up to the front here, and we’ll see how it goes.” He expected it to go well; I could tell.
So Lucy and I stepped up to the front of the chancel, and lifted our hymnals. My left hand gave out and I instantly dropped mine. It landed with a thump. It landed pages-down, what’s more, and I gazed at it in horror. One doesn’t damage hymnals in our church, especially if one is standing smack, dab in front of Mr. Floy Hostetter.
He scowled at me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, bending to retrieve my hymnal.
“I’ll get it,” came Sam’s thunderous bass voice. He stomped up the chancel steps, retrieved my hymnal from the floor and turned to stare down at Mr. Hostetter, who backed away a step. Sam wasn’t enormously tall; maybe six feet. However, he was formidable, especially when compared to the pallid, soft, musical Mr. Floy Hostetter.
“Um…” said Mr. Hostetter.
“Use a music stand,” came from the first pew in a rusty voice.
Glancing pew-wards, I saw Lou Prophet grinning at the group of us.
“Great idea!” I said, aiming for a perkiness I didn’t quite feel.
“Very good idea,” said Sam, still glowering at Mr. Hostetter.
Lucy gave me a big smile. “Brilliant!” said she. I don’t think she quite dared look at Mr. Prophet. She also avoided eye contact with Sam.
“Um…Yes,” said Mr. H at last, fluttering a trifle. It didn’t take a whole lot to make him nervous. I suspected Lou Prophet and/or Sam Rotondo could do it any old time one of them took it into his head to do so. “Using a music stand is an excellent idea. That way you won’t need to hold the book, Mrs. Majesty, and the two of you may share a hymnal.” He spoke the last words to Lucy and me. “I’ll set it up before the third verse.”
“Good,” said Sam. He unbent enough to return to his pew next to Lou Prophet.
“Sounds like a great plan to me,” I told him.
“Me, too,” said Lucy.
So he did.
As for me, I couldn’t remember the last time the choir had sung this particular hymn, but since I could read music, I didn’t have any trouble following the alto part. Lucy and I sounded good together. We always did. That’s not an unseemly boast. It’s the truth. Believe me, if Mr. Hostetter didn’t agree with me, we’d never be asked to sing duets.
After Lucy and I had sung the third verse of the hymn and seated ourselves next to each other in the first row of the choir, I turned a little and whispered, “Would you like to come over and practice one day before next Sunday, Lucy?”
“Good idea,” she said. “How about…Well, what’s a good day for you?”
“It really doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be able to work for a while longer, so any old time is fine with me.”
“Albert is taking me to Gay’s Lion Farm on Saturday, so perhaps Friday evening? Tomorrow?”
“Oh! I’ve always wanted to go there!” I said, irking Mr. Hostetter, who whacked his baton on his music stand a little harder. “Whoops. Tomorrow evening it is. Want to come to dinner?”
“What a lovely offer!”
Another whack from Mr. Hostetter, and Lucy and I shut our traps.
After choir practice ended, however, Lucy and I set a date. Sam and Mr. Prophet joined us in the choir room, where we members of the choir stored our coats, handbags, hats, robes, books and hymnals. “We dine at six, Lucy. Not fashionable, but who cares?”
“I certainly don’t,” she said, laughing. “Will your aunt mind another two people coming to dinner on such short notice?”
“Naw. Vi loves feeding people, and she also loves company.”
“Thank you so much. Albert and I will be at your home tomorrow a little before six.” She glanced around the choir room and leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Um, will Mr. Prophet join us?”
“Yes. He’s living in the cottage behind the house that used to be Mrs. Killebrew’s, but which Sam bought for us to live in after we get married.”
“He did?” Lucy’s eyes went huge. “And Mr. Prophet is?”
“Mr. Prophet is what?” asked the gent in question. Guess he heard Lucy’s whisper.
“You’re living in the little house behind Sam’s bungalow,” I told him. “So you can keep an eye on things for us.”
“Oh, my,” said Lucy, her enthusiasm suddenly less intense. “I thought you said all the villains had been locked away.”
“They have been,” I said firmly. “Only…Well, we want to make sure.”
“I see.”
“It’s not fun to know somebody wants to murder you, Lucy. I can attest to that from first-hand knowledge.”
“Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry, Daisy.”
“We think the bad guys are all locked up now, though,” I said, perhaps a little too brightly. I hoped like heck all the bad guys were locked up, was what I meant. Since nothing had happened to me, the house, or anyone or anything near me for several days, I believed they were. I hoped.
You know, I’m not being wishy-washy here. Unless you’ve been targeted for death by a person or persons unknown, you can’t possibly imagine the anxiety and terror the situation wreaks on one.
“Ready to go?” asked Sam, looking impatient.
“Yes, dear,” I said in a mock-loving tone. “Don’t get out the hickory stick yet.”
He rolled his eyes at me. Figured.
Lou Prophet grinned.
When Sam, Mr. Prophet and I got home that evening, Vi was still up and about, so I asked her if she’d mind having another couple of people dining with us on the morrow.
“Mind? I love feeding people!” she said, thus confirming the statements I’d made to Lucy. “Who’s coming?”
“Lucy and Albert Zollinger. Lucy and I are singing a duet on Sunday, but I can’t quite hold my hymnal steady yet, so Mr. Hostetter’s going to put a hymnal on a music stand for us. Lucy and I can practice tomorrow after dinner.”
“What’s the hymn?” asked Pa.
“‘Ye Servants of God’,” I told him.
Wrinkling his brow, Pa said, “Never heard of it.”
“That’s why we need to practice,” I said.
Shortly thereafter, Sam and Mr. Prophet walked across the street to Sam’s new home, and the rest of us went to bed at our house. Because my left arm ached, I took a couple of aspirin tablets, but I swore I’d never touch that bottle of morphine syrup again. Well, unless somebody else ran a car into me.
Dismal thought.
At any rate, Lucy and her precious Albert arrived at our home at about five-thirty on Friday evenin
g. Vi was already home, having been delivered by Harold Kincaid an hour or so earlier. The entire house smelled heavenly. That’s because Vi aimed to serve us Italian-style spaghetti and meatballs. Sam had given Vi the recipe a couple of years previously, and a tastier dish would be difficult to find anywhere. Vi said she had to simmer the sauce for some time in order to bring out its full flavor, but I think she only wanted us to suffer torments of drool as we waited for our dinners.
“I’ve never smelled anything so wonderful,” said Lucy in an awed whisper.
“That’s Vi for you,” I said, grinning, and showing her where to hang her coat and hat. Well, Lucy already knew, because she’d been to our house before. Albert caught on quickly. He was a nice man, although I thought he was a little old for Lucy. However, after the Great War, eligible young men were thin on the ground, and one had to take what one could find.
Golly, that sounds really awful, doesn’t it? However they’d ended up together, Lucy and Albert seemed quite fond of one another, and that made me happy.
Right after Lucy and Albert arrived on our front porch, Sam and Lou Prophet showed up. As soon as he stepped foot—or perhaps it was his peg—inside, Mr. Prophet stopped in his tracks, lifted his head and he sniffed the air. Didn’t blame him. The air in our house was most definitely worth sniffing that evening.
“That smells real good,” said he, an understatement if I’d ever heard one.
“It is,” I said. “It’s Italian.”
“Yeah?”
“My recipe,” said Sam.
Prophet looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You cook?”
“Sure. I’m a bachelor. That is to say I’m a widower. If I didn’t cook, I wouldn’t eat.”
“Until you met us,” I reminded him.
With a grin, Sam said, “Yeah. Until I met you.” He turned to Prophet and said confidingly, “That’s the only reason I’m marrying her, you know.”
“Sounds like a good-enough reason to me.”
I whapped Sam softly on the arm. “Don’t listen to him, Mr. Prophet. He adores me.”
Both men laughed. I led them into the living room and introduced Mr. Prophet to Lucy and Albert. Prophet had more or less met Lucy before. The two men shook hands, Mr. Z giving the impression he wasn’t sure he should be touching anyone who looked like Prophet. To be fair, Prophet looked at Mr. Z the same way. Not cut of the same cloth, those two, although they seemed to get along all right after they were introduced.