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

by Alice Duncan

  “I know. I know. One of these days.”

  “When can you start working again? My mother’s already had three nervous breakdowns, a stroke, and several major spasms without you being able to cater to her during the endless days of your recovery.”

  “Tell you what, Harold. If you agree to take us to the lion farm on Wednesday—and let Mr. Prophet sit in your Bearcat while you drive it there—I’ll visit with your mother on Thursday. Tell her that, please. Just to prevent her from dying before Stacy does.” I hesitated before adding, “Even though Sam hasn’t been able to pin any of the attacks on me to her, I still don’t trust her.”

  “You’re a wise woman, Daisy Gumm Majesty. Say, are you going to change your last name to Rotondo when you marry the detective?”

  His question confounded me for a second or two. I hadn’t actually thought about changing my name. I kind of liked Majesty. I mean, really, how many people do you know named Majesty? Now that Billy and his mother and father were deceased, I was the only Majesty I knew. Mind you, Sam was the only Rotondo I knew, too, but Majesty was…I don’t know. Such a splendid name for a spiritualist-medium, if you know what I mean. “Um…I guess.”

  “You guess?” Harold sounded as if he disapproved.

  “Well, Rotondo doesn’t sound very spiritualist-mediumistic, does it? Majesty does.”

  “Hmmm. So you’re going to continue working after your marriage, eh?”

  “Um…I guess so. I don’t know! Harold, why are you asking me all these hard questions?”

  He laughed. “Don’t get upset, Daisy. Just wondered, was all. Take your time.”

  “Thanks heaps.”

  “You’re welcome. You know, you can always keep Majesty as your working name and use Rotondo for everything else. Actresses do that sort of thing all the time. Which is good, since so many of them change husbands as often as most of us change our bed linens.”

  “And upon that note…”

  “Yes, dear. I’ll be in touch about Wednesday.”

  “Thanks, Harold. You’re a true pal.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  We disconnected, and I turned around to see that Ma had finished putting all the dishes away. She gave me an understanding look.

  “Mrs. Pinkerton?” she asked.

  “Well, it was Harold, but we spoke about Mrs. Pinkerton,” I confirmed. “I told Harold to tell her I’d visit her on Thursday.”

  “At least you’re well enough to go back to work,” Ma said in a weakish voice.

  “Yes. And the income will be handy.”

  “But Mrs. Pinkerton gave you all that money when you were injured. That was extremely generous of her.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was.”

  Having thus been reminded of the kindness of friends and relations, I took myself to the sewing room, where I also kept note paper and so forth. I retrieved a box of pretty note paper Aunt Vi had given me for Christmas, a bottle of ink, my fountain pen and Spike—he’d trotted along with me to the sewing room—and retired to the dining room. The men continued playing gin rummy in the living room, and I began writing approximately ten thousand thank-you notes.

  My hand wore out before it was time for bed, but I’d made quite a dent in the number of notes I had to write. And really, I was pleased to thank people for their many kindnesses to me when I’d been laid up. People were so nice, sometimes they made my eyes drip a little.

  “What the matter with you?” came a gruff question from Sam as I sat at the dining-room table, getting sentimental about the kindness of friends and neighbors.

  “Yeah,” said Mr. Prophet. “What’s the matter? C’mon, girl, don’t cloud up and rain all over us. What happened now?”

  Peering up to see both men looming over me, I stopped feeling sentimental and became irritated instead. “I’m not raining on you! I’m writing thank-you notes, and it’s quite moving to know how many genuinely kind people there are in the world. They almost make up for the snake pit of Petries.”

  “Guess that makes sense,” said Prophet. He’d fetched his new—I guess it was new—suit coat from the coat tree beside the front door and shrugged it on.

  Sam bent over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m glad I don’t have to write all those notes.”

  “You probably wouldn’t write them even if you were the one people had given gifts to.”

  “You’re wrong there. If I didn’t do my duty of politeness, my mother would fly out here on her broomstick and then beat me to death with it.”

  “Sam!” I said, shocked before I burst out laughing. “Your mother isn’t a witch!”

  “She can come damned close to it when one of her children misbehaves.”

  “’Leastways you got a mother. Mine’s been gone for a million years.”

  “Both of you men have a habit of exaggerating the tiniest little bit, you know,” I said, pushing myself up from the table. “Anyhow, you should sic your mother on Frank. Maybe she could straighten him out.”

  “I think both my mother and my father have given up on Frank.”

  “I don’t much blame them.”

  “Me, neither,” said Prophet. “Kid needs a bullet to the brain-pan.”

  “That’s kind of drastic, isn’t it?” I asked, a little startled.

  With a shrug, Prophet said, “He wanted to stick a knife into you. I figure turn-about’s fair play.”

  “Guess I can’t argue with you there,” I said, still disturbed, although I’d never tell Lou Prophet so.

  Pa had joined us in the dining room and was looking upon us with a benevolent smile. He approved of Sam, Lou Prophet and me together. I could tell.

  Which gave me pause.

  Sam, Lou Prophet and me? Were we, like, a team or something? Oddly enough, the notion held some appeal. And if we added Spike, we’d be an unbeatable quartet of by-gum heroes. Well, three heroes and one heroine. And one of the heroes would be a canine, but dachshunds are mighty hunters. Heck, they’d probably be great at bounty hunting.

  That idea made me smile as I walked the men in my life to the front door. Two of them, Sam and Prophet, went across the porch, down the steps, and headed for our—our–bungalow across the street.

  It was a happy Daisy Gumm Majesty who hit the sack with her faithful dachshund that night.

  Twenty-Six

  The only exciting thing that happened before Wednesday, when we were scheduled to go to Gay’s Lion Farm, was news that the largest house on the block had been sold. I hadn’t even known it was for sale, but neighborhood telephone wires buzzed non-stop on Monday and Tuesday.

  I managed to get a vague idea who’d bought the large house from picking up the telephone at odd times, intending to call a friend, only to hear someone else speaking over the wire.

  “…widow woman.”

  “…Mrs. Evangeline Mainwaring!”

  “…private investigator.”

  “…heard of her.”

  “…bought that huge old house?”

  “…owns a lot of orange groves.”

  “…name’s Bowman, I think.”

  Merciful heavens. What was this? On Tuesday morning, as I’d been about to call Flossie Buckingham to see if she’d like to take lunch with me at Mijares Mexican Restaurant in downtown Pasadena, I heard that last bit of gossip. I didn’t like it when people listened in on my own private conversations, and I tried not to listen to other people’s, but golly, you can’t avoid learning some things by accident. I quietly replaced the receiver on its hook and turned to see Pa gazing at me from the kitchen table.

  “Gossip mill running at full-speed, I presume,” he said.

  “You betcha. Somebody named Mrs. Mainwaring or Mrs. Bowman—or maybe Mrs. Widow Woman—bought that big old house down the street. You know the one. Been empty for a few years? Gigantic? I didn’t even know it was for sale.”

  “I know the one. Looks like it belongs on Orange Grove instead of Marengo? That’s the one, right?”

  Taking a seat a
cross from Pa at the table and reaching for a part of the morning newspaper, I said, “Right. I think that’s the one everyone’s talking about. I heard something about an orange grove and a private detective, too, so I’m not sure precisely what’s going on, but it sounds interesting.”

  “I think that was the first house constructed in this part of Pasadena. The other houses grew up around it when the original owner sold off bits of property.”

  “That sounds logical. Kind of like when Mr. Woodbury sold pieces of his land. He planted that whole row of deodar trees to create a grand entrance to the castle he never built.”

  “Right. I think someone used to live in the house down the street, though, unlike Mr. Woodbury’s un-built castle. Can’t remember the name, if I ever knew it.”

  “I can’t remember when it was last occupied.”

  Pa flapped his section of the newspaper and said, “When the new folks move in there, we should host a welcome-to-the-neighborhood party for them. Your mother and Vi will love that.”

  “Great idea, Pa! You come up with some doozies.”

  With a chuckle, Pa said, “It’s not exactly an original idea. Folks did it for us when we moved in, if you remember.”

  “Oh.” I rooted around in the junk drawer of memories in my brain for a second or two. “I remember. Yes. That was nice. Mr. Killebrew was alive then, and Mrs. Killebrew baked a chocolate cake, and someone brought a ham and some potato salad, and it was quite a do. I think that’s when we got to know the Wilsons, too. Pudge was only about a year old then, and I swear he’s been sweet on me ever since.”

  “You’re good with children, Daisy. I hope you and Sam have some of your own one day.”

  That gave me pause. “Let’s get us married first before saddling us with children, all right?”

  “Oh, very well.” Pa tried to sound pained, but he couldn’t carry it off. He chuckled as he resumed reading the paper.

  I opened my section of the newspaper, searching for the crossword puzzle. The Pasadena Star News had begun running a crossword puzzle every day, bless its inky heart, and I loved solving them.

  The telephone rang. I listened for a second to be sure the ring was meant for our house. It was, so I rose and went to the ’phone. “Gumm-Majesty—”

  “For God’s sake,” said Harold Kincaid. “I know who you are. But do you know who just bought that house on your street?”

  “Hey, Harold. I’m fine, thank you. And how are you today?”

  “Cut it out. Do you know?”

  “Who bought the house down the street? Not really. I’ve managed to pick up the ’phone and hear party-line neighbors talking to each other, but I haven’t gathered much about the owner except, I think, she’s a widow, and her name is either Mainwaring or Bowman.”

  “Mrs. Evangeline Mainwaring! She owns the largest orange grove in Pasadena! She moved here in ninety-six, and I heard she lived a very interesting life before she moved to staid old Pasadena.”

  “What do you mean by a very interesting life?”

  “Like the kind of life Pasadena matrons would deplore if they knew about it. In rugged towns in the west.”

  “We’re in the west.”

  “For God’s sake, stop being so literal. She’s another refugee from the Tombstone and Deadwood era.”

  “Good Lord. You mean she’s the female equivalent of Lou Prophet?”

  Harold roared out a laugh. “I didn’t think of it that way,” said he once he could speak again, “but you may well be right.”

  “Hmmm. You’ll have to come to the neighborhood party we throw for her once she’s all settled in.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You ready for tomorrow?”

  “Yup. I’m even ready to see your mother on Thursday.”

  “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Pretty much anyone’s a better man than you are, Harold Kincaid.”

  “That’s not nice, Daisy Gumm Majesty.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. It’s the truth. So I’ll be at your house at ten a.m. We’ll go to the lion farm and then stop at Philippe’s for a French dip sandwich.”

  “Whatever a French dip sandwich is, I’m game.”

  “Daisy, Daisy, Daisy, where have you been all your life.”

  “Right here in stuffy old Pasadena.”

  “Ah, right. That explains it.”

  Harold and I disconnected, and I returned to the table to tell Pa who was moving in down the street. Not that I knew much more than I had minutes earlier, but at least I had a name. And a tidy piece of gossip I decided I’d keep to myself. I personally didn’t know a single, solitary thing about Mrs. Evangeline Mainwaring—hadn’t even known her name until Harold confirmed it—and I wasn’t going to blacken it before the rest of the neighborhood even learned what it was.

  “Owns an orange grove, eh? Profitable business, oranges.”

  “I guess so,” said I, and I went back to my crossword puzzle.

  A little after I finished the crossword, I tried again to get in touch with Flossie, and this time I succeeded. She said she’d be delighted to go to luncheon with me at Mijares, but she wouldn’t hear of me picking her up.

  “That’s so far for you to drive,” she said. She was such a lovely person. Always thinking of others, by golly.

  “Nertz. I have to drive to downtown anyway, in order to get to Mijares. Besides, you’ve not only knitted and crocheted approximately three thousand afghans, robes and bed jackets for me, but you’re one of my best friends, and I owe you a whole lot for seeing me through my recent ordeal. Also, I want you to bring Billy.” Billy was Flossie and Johnny’s son, named after my late husband, but I think I already mentioned that. “Anyway, Mijares is close to where you live, so I won’t be driving much farther than I would be anyway.”

  “Nonsense. Are you even fit to be driving yet? You were in such bad shape for a while after your accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident.”

  Flossie sighed. “Yes, I know. Johnny talked to your Sam about it.”

  “He did?” That surprised me.

  “You bet he did. Johnny and I don’t want anything else bad to happen to you. When Detective Rotondo came by, he asked us to be alert for anyone who looked the least bit suspicious.”

  “He came by?” Now I was more than merely surprised.

  “Of course, he did!” said Flossie, as if I were an idiot for even asking the question. “He adores you, Daisy! He doesn’t want anything to happen to you. And neither do Johnny nor I.”

  Wow, Flossie Buckingham had said “nor” after “neither.” I was impressed. I doubt she’d had any education at all after she hit her teen years. Not that she wasn’t a smart cookie; but she’d come from miserable circumstances and hadn’t had many chances in this old life until Johnny had taken her under his wing.

  Oh, very well. I’d kind of thrust her at him, if you want the bare truth. What’s more—this makes me cringe every time I think about it—I’d been trying to get rid of her at the time. But really. She’d showed up at our door, escorted by Pudge Wilson—doing his good deed for that day—beaten to a pulp, and I couldn’t not help her. At the time, I also had a crippled, cranky husband; a full-time job as a spiritualist-medium, and…Oh, all right. The complete truth is that Sam had more or less blackmailed me into helping him round up a gang of bootleggers. Flossie had been entangled with the gang. However, all things considered, matters had worked out just fine.

  Which just goes to show that, even when you aren’t happy about it, doing a good deed can sometimes be worthwhile. Flossie and I were now great friends, and I adored both Flossie and Johnny. And, of course, little Billy.

  “I’ll pick you up,” I said in a voice against which no one could argue.

  “Nonsense.” No one except Flossie. Darn it.

  “It’s not nonsense. I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty. Does that adorable little sailor suit you made for Billy still
fit him?”

  “No, but I made another one for him.”

  “Have him wear that. Everyone dining at Mijares will fall in love with him.” He was a good-looking little boy even when he wasn’t wearing his sailor suit, but the sailor suit was…well, precious.

  “Very well, Daisy, but I don’t like it.”

  “Fiddlesticks. I’ve about gone stir-crazy during these last few weeks when I wasn’t even allowed to go out on the back deck.” I shuddered as I remembered the one time I’d dared venture onto the back deck.

  “Are you sure it’s safe for you to go out now?” asked Flossie, sounding worried.

  “Sam has assured me—pretty much—that all the bad guys are locked up,” I told her.

  After a noticeable hesitation, Flossie said, “All right. But you bring that fellow with you. The one who’s living in back of your new house.”

  Astounded, I nearly bellowed, “Lou Prophet? How the heck do you know about him?”

  “He was with Sam when he came to visit us. He’s an interesting fellow. Sam told us all about him when he warned us to watch out for Petries. And we found a great suit for him in our thrift shop. That old frock coat of his was a little worn out.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  “But the suit was almost new, and it fit him perfectly,” said Flossie, explaining the suit Mr. Prophet had worn in church on Sunday.

  Interesting. “Did either one of them tell you Mr. Prophet used to be a bounty hunter in the old west?”

  “The old west?” Flossie laughed. “Not in so many words, but I gathered he’s lived a pretty rough-and-tumble life. So many of us have, you know.”

  I sighed. “Yes. I know. You lived a rough life in New York City, and Mr. Prophet lived a rough life in some of those old towns in the wild, wild west. I think he even went to Mexico.”

  “Yes, but we’re both in Pasadena now.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling a little awed as I said it. “You are.”

  “So you get him to come with you, and we’ll have a fun time at Mijares. I hope Billy will behave.”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “He’s two years old, Daisy. Two-year-olds aren’t known for behaving themselves.”