by Alice Duncan
“Aw, I bet he’ll act like a little angel. If he doesn’t, Mr. Prophet will just throttle him with his ketch rope.”
“His what?”
“Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”
“Just be sure he comes with you,” said Flossie, sounding incredibly firm for her. I guess motherhood toughened a woman. Not that she hadn’t been tough before, but she’d been tough in a gangster-ish way, not a mother-ish one. I preferred her present toughness, because it had been born of love.
Merciful heavens, I can get soupily sentimental at the drop of a hat, can’t I?
“I’ll do that. In fact, I’ll walk across the street right now and ask him to join us.”
But I didn’t have to. Evidently, as soon as Pa heard me talking about taking Flossie to lunch, he’d gone across the street for me. Before I’d hung up the receiver, he’d returned, bearing Lou Prophet with him.
“Mornin’, Miss Daisy,” said he when I’d hung the receiver on its cradle and turned to espy him in the kitchen with Pa.
His sudden appearance startled me. “Mr. Prophet! I was just going to see if you’d like to go to lunch with Mrs. Buckingham and me.”
“Happy to. Your pa said you were going to go to a Mexican place. Haven’t had my trough filled with some Mescin-spiced frijoles an’ carne de vaca since Jehosophat’s cat was on his first life.”
Wasn’t there some guy named Jehoshaphat in the Bible? Given Lou Prophet’s earlier years, I decided I’d be better off not asking. “Do you like it? Mexican food, I mean?”
“Oh, yes. Like me some tarantula juice, too, but I reckon you can’t get any of that here, what with Prohibition and all.” His face took on a forlorn expression.
I almost asked him what tarantula juice was, too, but again decided against doing so. “Why don’t you and Pa wait in the living room while I get dressed to go? I’d like to visit the library after we eat, if you’re up to it.”
“The library? That where the good Petrie friend of yours works? I heard from Sam there’s at least one good Petrie in town.”
Smiling at the thought of Regina and Robert—and of Robert’s collection of yellow-back novels—I said, “Yes. Regina Petrie. She’s a great friend of mine, and she works as a librarian there.”
“It’ll be nice to meet a good Petrie,” said Prophet, and he and Pa turned around and walked to the living room.
Spike followed them, deserting me. Oh, well. I couldn’t really fault the dog. Lou Prophet was ever so much more interesting a fellow than were most of the guests at our house. Or me.
As this would be my first real outing since New Year’s Day—I didn’t count choir rehearsals and going to church—and as the early February day was brisk, if not downright chilly, I decided I’d wear a new creation I’d sewn for myself in December. It was a straight, two-piece suit I’d made of green wool jersey, bought from a bolt-end at Maxime’s Fabrics. I wore it with a low belt I’d bought at Nash’s Department Store when they had a huge sale. The top had a V-neck and a lacy, pointed white collar. I’d added a green velvet bow at the neckline, and it hung nearly to where my waist would have been if women had been allowed to have waists back then.
Hmm. Does that sound strange? It shouldn’t. A woman was supposed to be shapeless in 1925. I even had to wear a bust-flattener, thanks to the generosity of Mother Nature. I’d be glad when women could look like women again. Being a female in 1925 could be downright painful if you had any curves at all.
When I walked into the living room to fetch Mr. Prophet, I had a feeling he felt the same way about women’s shapes, although probably not for the same reason. In fact, several times since I’d met him, I’d seen him eyeing a woman as if he wished she weren’t wearing all the curve-flattening things women had to wear in order to be fashionable.
Ah, well. With luck, both Mr. Prophet and I would live long enough to see women look like women again. I never wanted us to go back to the tightly corseted waistline and bustle days, though. I’d seen pictures of how some women’s rib cages had been deformed by those cursed corsets. Fashion could be a cruel mistress, darn it.
“You look mighty fetching this morning, Miss Daisy,” said Prophet.
“Thank you.”
“Yes, Daisy, you do. Is that new?” asked Pa.
“I made it in December, just after Christmas. Haven’t had a chance to wear it until today.”
“You got a coat?” asked Prophet. “It’s crisp outside.”
“Yes. It’s the black one on the coat rack. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll fetch it for you,” said he. And he did. Gentlemanly fellow, Mr. Lou Prophet. Occasionally. He even held it out for me as I put my arms in its sleeves. My left arm still hurt a bit when I lifted it, but I felt so much better than those first few days after the car hit me, I wasn’t about to grouse about a slightly achy arm.
“And would you mind carrying these for me, Mr. Prophet?” I asked scooping the few books on the table reserved for books the family had read and were ready to be returned to the library.
“Happy to help,” said he, and he took the books from me. At my instruction, he laid the books on the back seat of the motorcar.
After I backed the Chevrolet out of the driveway—which took all my concentration, since I’m not a very good backer-upper—I said, “I understand Sam took you to meet the Buckinghams when I was laid up.”
“Yes, he did. Nice folks. Miss Flossie’s a right pretty gal.”
I smiled in remembrance. “Yes, she is.” She was a heck of a lot prettier now than she used to be, when she’d slathered makeup all over her face and dyed her hair silvery blond. At least I thought she was.
“She says you saved her life.”
I darned near ran up over the curb and onto the sidewalk, Mr. Prophet’s words so surprised me. “She said what?”
“Take it easy, Miss Daisy,” said Prophet, clutching his seat back. “Miss Flossie said you saved her life. Sam said you did, too.”
“He did? Gee, Sam doesn’t usually give me credit for much of anything. Especially…Well, especially given the way Flossie and I met.”
“You mean in the speakeasy?” When I glanced his way, I noticed Mr. Prophet grinning not unlike Mr. Carroll’s Cheshire Cat.
“He told you that?”
“He did.”
“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say I saved her life. I think Johnny Buckingham did that. I just sort of introduced them.”
“I see.”
“I get the feeling you don’t believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you, all right, but I’ll wager there’s more to the story than that.”
“If Flossie wants to tell you her story, she can do it. I’m not going to tell tales about my friends.” Boy, I sounded snooty, didn’t I?
It didn’t matter. Mr. Prophet only chuckled.
Twenty-Seven
Flossie and her adorable little Billy were waiting for us in front of the Salvation Army Church. Almost before I’d come to a full stop, Mr. Prophet had the front passenger door open and was holding it for Flossie and Billy. He bowed politely at Flossie. “Cute kid you got there, Mrs. Buckingham,” he said, smiling at Billy, who stared at him and clung to his mother. I guess Billy and Mr. Prophet hadn’t met when Sam had taken Prophet to meet Flossie and Johnny.
“Thank you, Mr. Prophet. It’s so good to see you again.” She sounded as though she meant it.
“You, too.” So did he.
Little Billy, still clinging to his mother, stared as Mr. Prophet got into the back seat. Billy seemed kind of scared. I considered this understandable, as there were so few people who looked like Mr. Prophet in Pasadena. In fact, I do believe he was the only one. Very rugged-looking individual, Mr. Lou Prophet.
“As a friend of both Daisy and Sam,” said Flossie, “I’d also like to thank you for taking such good care of Daisy. Sam told us how you rescued her several times during her imprisonment at home.”
“Golly, Sam sure is a blabbermouth, isn’t he?” I s
aid. Unkind of me. But for pity’s sake, had Sam spread tales of my travails all over town? And why hadn’t he told me he’d done so? I didn’t like the idea of marrying a man who held secrets so close to his vest, darn it.
Laughing, Flossie said, “No, he isn’t really. But he wanted everyone who loves you to know your life was in danger. You have to admit it was, Daisy. And you also have to admit Mr. Prophet was of material assistance to you several times.”
“Aw, it wasn’t nothin’,” said Prophet, grinning like a Chinese imp I’d seen in a Chinatown shop once. “We have to take good care of this pretty little gal. The detective needs her.” With a wink I witnessed in the rearview mirror, he added, “She needs him, too.”
Because I didn’t like being talked about as if I weren’t there, I changed the subject. “Mr. Prophet said he hasn’t eaten Mexican food for a long time, and that he likes it.”
“Mijares is a wonderful place to eat,” said Flossie. “I’m from New York City, and I’d never even heard of Mexican food until I moved to California.”
“I been all over the southwest and down into Mexico,” said Prophet. “Don’t seem like folks living in a place like this’d be big fans of Mexican food. Mexican food is…well, kinda folksy.”
“And we citizens of Pasadena aren’t,” I said, smiling. He was right, by golly.
After chuckling, Prophet said, “Depending on where you are in Mexico, the food’ll taste different. It’ll be interesting to find out what variety crawled up into Pasadena.”
“I didn’t know that,” I told him, keeping my eye on the road because I decided peering into the rearview window was probably not good for anyone’s health and safety. “But it makes sense. We here in California don’t eat all the codfish and lobsters and so forth my relations in Auburn, Massachusetts, dine on.”
“We can get really good fish, though,” said Flossie. “So near the ocean as we are. But you’re right about regional food. I haven’t had clam chowder since I moved here.”
“That’s all right with me,” I told her. “I don’t like clam chowder. Fried clams are another matter altogether. The one time the family visited our relations in Massachusetts, I loved fried clams and boiled lobster. And crab. Crab is delicious.”
With a sigh, Flossie said, “Yes. There’s not a lot I miss about New York, but the seafood was wonderful. I haven’t seen a lobster for ten years or more.”
“I never saw a lobster,” said Mr. Prophet.
“They’re delicious,” said Flossie. “Although I don’t like the idea of dropping them into boiling water while they’re still alive.”
Ew. I wished she hadn’t said that.
“And I also,” said Flossie, “never saw a tortilla in New York.”
“I do like me some tortillas,” said Mr. Prophet. “Filled with carnitas and frijoles, you can’t beat ’em.”
I dared another glance into the rearview mirror. “What’s a carnita?”
“Not sure how they make ’em, but they’re cooked pork. They fix ’em with onions and chilies, wrap a tortilla around ’em, and you can’t beat ’em.”
“I don’t think Mijares has carnitas,” I said, feeling a little sorry about our lack of such a flavorful food.
“They’ll probably get here eventually,” said Prophet philosophically. “Never saw me a sopaipilla outside of Mexico or New Mexico, either.”
“Goodness. I’ve never heard of either carnitas or sopaipillas,” said Flossie.
“Me, neither,” I said. “What’s a sopaipilla?”
“Fried bread. When they fry the stuff, the dough puffs up, so they’re hollow inside. You can eat ’em like bread, fill ’em with beans and meat, or rip ’em open and pour honey inside of ’em. Delicious. Louisa and I used to eat ’em whenever we hooked up.”
“Louisa?” I said. “Um…is Louisa a friend of yours, Mr. Prophet.”
“Love of my life,” he said succinctly. “Six feet under now.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Prophet turned his head to stare out the window, and I decided to allow the subject of Louisa to drop. I vaguely recalled someone called the Vengeance Queen in one or two of the dime novels I read. I think her name was really Louisa Something-or-other. What an odd nickname to acquire: the Vengeance Queen. How did a woman come by such a sobriquet, anyway? Probably not by nursing sickly individuals back to health or anything like that. Mr. Prophet had lived an extremely interesting life. I hoped I’d be able to find out more about him in person, since I don’t think the yellow-back novels did him justice. Maybe he’d even tell me about Louisa if I continued being nice to him. And, shoot, there was no reason not to be nice to him. Flossie had been absolutely correct about Mr. Prophet having saved my life several times.
We’d arrived at Mijares’s tiny parking lot by that time, so I nudged the Chevrolet into a free space, and we all got out of the car. Billy still stared worriedly at Lou Prophet.
As for Prophet, I guess the mention of Louisa had dampened his spirits. I hoped we could lift them, Flossie, Billy and me. I didn’t care for the notion of Mr. Lou Prophet being sad.
He played the gentleman again once the Chevrolet had stopped puttering. He climbed from the back seat as agilely as if he had two sound legs, first opened the passenger door for Flossie and Billy, and then almost made it to my side of the car to open my door, but I beat him to it.
“Thanks, Mr. Prophet, but you don’t need to cater to me.”
“No trouble at all, Miss Daisy. I like catering to pretty women.”
I know I blushed, because I felt the heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks. How could an elderly man have such a devastating effect on a female my age? I suspect the man had lots and lots of practice wooing and winning women, Louisa or no Louisa.
If he weren’t so nice and old and one-legged, I might even call him a cad. The word made me grin, but my grin faded as soon as Mr. Prophet opened the restaurant’s door for Flossie, Billy and me. Flossie held Billy’s hand, and he marched like an adorable little sailor into the place. I loved that sailor suit!
Wouldn’t you know it? The first people we saw when we entered the restaurant were Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Bernard Randford. Were they following us?
No. That was silly. They’d arrived before us, so they couldn’t have followed us. And why was I so suspicious of Mr. Randford? Just because he was walking out with Miss Betsy Powell and worked at the Underhill Chemical Company? Those were two really stupid reasons.
Therefore, because I don’t like stupid reasons, I smiled at the pair. They were seated at a table close to the entrance of the restaurant. Mr. Randford rose from his seat and smiled back at me. Taking in the rest of our company, his smile faded slightly. I think Mr. Prophet had something to do with his change of mood. When I glanced at Prophet, I noticed his eyes had narrowed, had gone kind of flinty, and his face was set into austere lines.
Billy wrapped his arms around his mother’s leg. He’d begun to relax in Mr. Prophet’s company in the motorcar, but I guess Prophet’s latest expression of sternness—if not outright hostility—had him worried again. Flossie bent to pick him up, and he nearly strangled her as he hugged her around the neck.
“Good day to you, Mrs. Majesty,” said Randford. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friends.”
“No, you haven’t,” I said, not sounding any too friendly to my own ears. I tried to warm my tone up when I introduced my allies. “Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Bernard Randford, please let me introduce you to Mrs. Johnny Buckingham, her son Billy, and Mr. Lou Prophet. They’re very good friends of mine.”
Flossie stuck her hand out to be shaken first. Then Mr. Prophet did likewise. I saw Mr. Randford wince a bit when the two men shook hands, but Miss Powell tittered like a love-struck schoolgirl. I swear to goodness, I don’t think I’ll ever understand the effect Mr. Prophet had on vulnerable women!
“I’ve been trying to talk Bernard into visiting that lion place you told us about, Mrs. Maj
esty,” said a still-twittering Miss Betsy Powell.
“Gay’s Lion Farm? Yes, we’re going to go there tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it. Should be interesting to see how people train lions to do tricks and so forth.”
“Tomorrow, eh?” said Randford. “Don’t get eaten by a lion.” He smiled, probably thinking he was being funny.
I didn’t. I said, “I’ll try not to,” in a voice about as arid as the Mojave Desert.
Fortunately—I didn’t like either Miss Powell or Mr. Randford, which probably bespeaks some character flaw on my part—a waiter came and escorted us to a table in the back of the restaurant. He pulled out chairs for Flossie and me and asked Flossie if she’d like a highchair for Billy. She said yes. I scratched my chest surreptitiously as I sat, wondering why it was suddenly itchy. It wouldn’t surprise me if proximity to Miss Betsy Powell had given me some kind of allergic reaction.
“I didn’t know they provided highchairs for little kids,” I said, surprised at the sophistication of Mijares’s customer service.
“I’m glad they do,” said Flossie. “It’s hard to feed Billy when he’s on my lap.”
“I think he’s scared of me,” said Prophet, tilting his head and peering at Billy.
Billy instantly covered his eyes with his hands and hid his head on Flossie’s shoulder.
“I think he is, too,” I said. “I wonder why.”
“Oh, I’m a hard case, you know,” said Prophet, grinning. “Kids know stuff grown-ups have forgot all about.”
“You’re not, either, a hard case,” I said. “You’re a wonderful man who’s saved my life more than once.”
“If you say so, Miss Daisy, I reckon I’ll just have to agree with you. I’m not a man to argue with the ladies.”
“Good thing, too,” I said with a grin of my own.
The waiter came back with the highchair and three menus. Billy wasn’t too pleased to vacate his mother’s arms and reside in the highchair, but Mr. Prophet then did something that fairly astounded me.
As Billy peered at him askance, looking as if he aimed to leap out of his highchair and into his mother’s arms any minute, Mr. Prophet reached into his coat pocket and said, “Want to see some pretty things, young Billy?”