Spirits Unearthed

by Alice Duncan

  After carefully wiping away mud and grit with a cloth, Evans asked, "Do you recognize him?" He looked up at me. His face displayed displeasure. I'm sure mine did, too. Dr. Wagner wasn't a pretty sight.

  "Yes. That's Doctor Wagner, all right." My nose wrinkled of its own accord.

  "Did he live here? In Altadena?"

  "He lived in Pasadena," I said.

  "Do you know if the Pasadena police have received any missing-person reports on the fellow?"

  "Don't have a clue," said Sam, shaking his head.

  "Hmm. And who were his next of kin again?"

  I repeated all the names. The other officer, who hadn't introduced himself, wrote them down.

  Evans said, "You know their address?"

  "No. It's in Pasadena, but I don't know the street or number."

  "Hmm." He peered closely at the earth surrounding what was left of Dr. Wagner's head. "Looks as though he was killed elsewhere and dumped here."

  Dumped? Ew. On the other hand, we were talking about Dr. Wagner, and he surely didn't deserve any respect.

  "Huh," said Sam, his hand tightening on my shoulder. "Does that make it a county case or a city case?"

  With a sigh and a grunt, Evans rose from his tarpaulin. "Henry, will you please fold up that thing? I'll call the coroner. He's in Pasadena, so I expect you're going to have to be involved in this one, Detective Rotondo."

  "Great," said Sam, his hand nearly denting my shoulder by that time. He was clearly not happy to hear the news. "Merry Christmas."

  "Right," said Evans. He grinned.

  Henry, who never did get introduced to Sam and me, stood guard over the body while the rest of us walked back to the parking area. Sam opened the passenger door of his Hudson and I climbed in. Then Sam and Marshal Evans drew away from the machine and commenced chatting with each other. Typical. Sam wanted me out of the way before he'd discuss the case. Darned men.

  When he eventually entered the driver's side of his Hudson, he growled, "This is terrific. Now I have to notify the next of kin."

  "Do you have their addresses?"

  "No. We're driving to the marshal's office, where all will be revealed."

  "Why does Marshal Evans think Doctor Wagner was killed elsewhere and then driven to the cemetery?"

  "Not enough blood in the soil."

  Another ew.

  "Want to come with me when I notify his wife and daughter? I'll tackle the sons by myself, but you know both ladies, so it might make them feel better if you're with me."

  "Sam!" I cried. "You're letting me butt in! You've never done that before."

  "I figured I might as well let you come with me, because I know you'll get involved anyway since you know some of the people involved. Plus, as you're so fond of telling me, people are more apt to speak frankly to you than to the police, especially when it comes to family problems."

  I shot him a beaming smile. "I knew you'd see it my way one of these days."

  "Oh," said he grumpishly, "I've always seen it your way. I just don't like it."

  "Hmm."

  He grinned. The fiend. He loved teasing me and getting me all upset for nothing.

  Sam's Hudson followed the marshal's auto up to the marshal's office, which wasn't very far away from the cemetery, and we all got out and trundled inside the building. There, one of the marshal's minions first called the county coroner and then grabbed a telephone directory and looked up Dr. Wagner's address and that of George and Marianne Grenville. Sam jotted the addresses in his pocket notebook.

  "Any listings for..." Sam glanced at me. "What are the sons' names?"

  "Gaylord and Vincent," said I. "Last name Wagner."

  The minion scoured the telephone book for Gaylord and/or Vincent Wagner, then shook his head. "Maybe they live with their mother."

  "Maybe," said I.

  "That it for now?" Sam asked.

  "Guess so," said Marshal Evans. "I'm going to write up a report on this. Then I expect your chief and mine will get together and decide who's going to do what regarding the case. I'm sorry, Detective Rotondo, but if most of the people involved are Pasadena residents, especially if we determine the man was killed in the city, you'll probably have to take the case."

  With a sigh, Sam said, "I'm used to it. May I use your 'phone to call the station? I want to know if anyone's filed a missing-person report on Doctor Wagner. Any idea how long he's been dead, or do you have to wait for the coroner to report?"

  "Better wait for the coroner. The recent rains might have interfered with decomposition. I imagine he's been in the dirt for two or three days at least."

  Yet another ew.

  So Sam called the station, determined no missing-person report had been filed for Dr. Wagner, hung up the receiver and told Evans so.

  "Does that seem odd to you?" asked Evans.

  "Don't know. According to Daisy here, Doctor Wagner was a bad man who mistreated his wife and daughter. Maybe they didn't care if he went missing. I don't know anything about his sons."

  I said, "From everything I've ever heard, they're as bad as he is. Was. You know what I mean. Well, I don't know if they beat up on women, but they're both snobs and supercilious and... Well, not very nice."

  "Hmm," said Evans.

  "His daughter ran away from home a couple of years ago, but that turned out all right. She's married to the Grenville fellow now," Sam said. "He owns that big bookstore downtown on Colorado."

  "Ran away from home, did she? Not a ringing endorsement as to the state of affairs in the family."

  "Right. Do I need to know anything else before I visit Mrs. Wagner?"

  "Don't think so. I'll telephone you with any information I receive, and we'll send a report to you at the police department."

  "Thanks," said Sam, not meaning it.

  Marshal Evans smiled at him, and Sam and I walked back to his car.

  "So, I have Mrs. Wagner's address in my notebook. I also have that of her daughter and son-in-law. Where do you want to go first?"

  "Um... I don't know. What do you policemen usually do?"

  "Tell the wife, then, if the kids live elsewhere, get in touch with them."

  "Then let's go to Mrs. Wagner's house. Where is it?"

  Sam reached into his front jacket pocket, pulled out his little notebook and handed it to me. "You tell me."

  His handwriting was quite nice, for that of a man. Legible, anyway. Smallish. Neatish. I squinted down at the pad. "Um... It says here she lives on El Molino Avenue south of Colorado Street. Nine fifty-three."

  "Must be a nice place. That's a fancy neighborhood."

  "Yes, it is. The houses down there are huge and beautiful."

  "We don't typically get calls to go to places like that."

  "Except for Mrs. Pinkerton."

  "Except for Mrs. Pinkerton," he agreed.

  Mrs. Pinkerton was my very best, most lucrative client. That was because her daughter, Stacy, was a horrible person and was always getting into trouble. Since Mrs. Pinkerton actually believed the bilge I spewed as a spiritualist-medium, and since she always hoped the tarot cards or the Ouija board would change their minds and predict that Stacy would become a good person someday, she called upon my services a whole lot. Anyway, the police had been obliged to visit Mrs. Pinkerton's house on several occasions because of Stacy's appalling behavior. Well, and then there was the time the Ku Klux Klan tried to kill her gatekeeper, but that's another story altogether.

  Wow. The Wagner home was impressive. Gigantic and creamy yellow, it looked cheerful even on a crisp December day.

  "Shoot, Sam, how many rooms do you suppose that place has?"

  He drew his Hudson to a stop outside the huge lawn to allow us to gape for a few minutes. "I don't know. Six or seven hundred?"

  "May be," said I, still gaping.

  The place had a black wrought-iron fence surrounding it, but the front gate stood open, so Sam turned right, tootled his car up the drive and parked it next to the stairs leading to a gigan
tic porch that wrapped around most of the house. The place appeared to have approximately a zillion windows, and I couldn't quite feature Dr. Wagner in that house. It looked too friendly a place in which an ogre like him might dwell. I'd have expected a dark and gloomy house—one that looked more apt to house a troll. Like, say, a cave or something along those lines—but this sure wasn't one of those.

  Sam exited the Hudson on his side, walked around and opened my door.

  "Thanks, Sam." I got out of the car.

  "Any old time."

  "You're still grumpy, aren't you?"

  "Why wouldn't I be? I took a day off because you had a whim to see our late spouses' graves and ask a couple of coffins for a blessing on our union, and I ended up saddled with another murder on my hands. It's as if you attract them. Like honey attracts flies."

  "I don't, either."

  Actually, as I thought about the dead bodies that seemed determined to show up here and there in my vicinity—no matter where that vicinity was—Sam was right. What a melancholy reflection.

  Sam said, "Huh," and we climbed the stairs to the porch.

  We passed a charming table and a couple of chairs sitting on the porch, and I was surprised yet again. The whole place seemed warm and welcoming. Strange. I couldn't imagine the evil Dr. Wagner allowing his wife to decorate the place, but it sure didn't fit what I knew of him. Maybe he had the rack, thumb screws, and iron maiden locked in the basement.

  The door was some kind of wood—I don't know one kind of wood from another unless it's birds-eye maple—and massive. Wide; what they used to call a "coffin door," because folks used to lay out dead bodies in their homes until the undertakers brought the coffin, moved the corpse into it and carried it away. The door had to be wide enough to accommodate the folks carrying coffins out. It was the first evidence of something that reminded me of Dr. Wagner. Nobody'd be using this door to haul out his coffin, however.

  Sam rang the bell.

  Nothing.

  Sam rang the bell again.

  Still nothing.

  "Damn," said my beloved, ringing the bell once more and pounding on the door for good measure. "Ow. Hard wood."

  He was still shaking his hand and looking crabby when the door finally opened to reveal a scared-looking maid in a black dress and a white apron. She squinted at us and didn't speak.

  "We need to see Mrs. Wagner," said Sam to the girl.

  "Um... She's not available to see visitors right now."

  Withdrawing his wallet, Sam showed the girl his police credentials. "Police business. She will be available to see us."

  The girl licked her lips, still looking scared, and said, "Um... I don't—"

  "We need to see Mrs. Wagner," said Sam. "Now." He didn't raise his voice, but when he used that tone on people, they generally did what he told them to do. It was deadly, that tone.

  The girl jumped about seven inches and backed up. "I... I..."

  Deciding the poor thing needed a friend, I said softly and soothingly, "It's all right. We really do need to speak with Mrs. Wagner. It's important, or the police wouldn't be calling."

  She gave up. "Follow me then," she said, sounding as if she expected to get a whipping for her action.

  Lordy, the Wagner men even intimidated the staff who kept their charming home neat and tidy.

  The frightened girl led us up a staircase to the second floor, turned left and walked down a wide hallway. When she reached a door at the end of the hall, she tapped lightly on the door then pushed it open. "She's on the balcony," said the girl, pointing to an open door on the other side of the room. She turned and fled.

  Sam and I exchanged a glance. I'm not sure what Sam's glance denoted, but mine probably showed bewilderment.

  Undaunted—or perhaps only slightly daunted on my part—we walked to the open door and stepped outside onto a gorgeous balcony with a wrought-iron railing protecting folks from falling into the lovely gardens exposed thereby. Mrs. Wagner sat huddled in a chair with a quilt wrapped around her and her feet resting on a hassock. She turned with a jerk, then winced.

  Rushing over to her, I cried, "Oh, my Lord, Mrs. Wagner, I'm so sorry! What in heaven's name happened to you?"

  Chapter 4

  The woman was a mess. Her face featured a mass of bruises, which were evidently not of recent origin because they were turning green around the edges. I took her hands and gazed down upon her. She made a truly pathetic picture, hunched, wrapped and brutalized. She wasn't the first battered woman I'd seen, but I felt particularly sorry for her.

  "Mrs. Majesty?" she quavered, as if it was difficult for her to speak. The bruises on her throat probably accounted for that.

  "Yes, Mrs. Wagner. It's I. I'm so sorry..." My words trailed off. I was sorry her late husband had used her as a punching bag? I couldn't say that.

  Fingering a swollen cheek, she said, "I'm glad you're here." Then she began crying as if her heart were broken. It probably was.

  Still holding her hands, I knelt before her. "Did your husband do this to you?"

  She nodded, still crying. I contemplated fumbling in my handbag for a hankie, but she held my hand tightly, so I didn't.

  "I'm so sorry." Repetitive, Daisy Gumm Majesty. But I didn't know what else to say. Why didn't you leave the bum years ago? Why didn't you go live with your daughter and her husband? I'm sure they wouldn't have minded. Why didn't you knife him while he was sleeping? Heck, she could then have messed up the room and blamed his death on burglars or something.

  Feeling totally helpless, I said softly, "Mrs. Wagner, Detective Rotondo here has some news for you. It... It might actually make you feel better, although I don't suppose I should say that."

  Diane Wagner dipped a hand into a pocket of the robe she wore under her quilt and pulled out a hankie. After wiping her eyes, she said, "The only thing that would make me feel better is knowing Everhard will never come home again." She wiped her eyes once more. "Although, that would still leave the boys."

  "Good Lord! Do they beat you, too?"

  She shook her head and winced again. "No, but they're not awfully nice boys."

  Boys? They were men, curse it! Not-very-nice men, even according to their mother.

  "I'm sorry," said I yet again. Then, still kneeling, I scooted to one side of her, allowing Sam to loom over her. She shrank back some more.

  Because I was irked with my beloved, who didn't quite know how to handle problems of this nature—crying women, I mean—I said gently, "Sam, why don't you pull up that chair over there. Then you can speak to Mrs. Wagner more easily."

  "Good idea," said he, grabbing a chair and sitting in it. He still looked menacing, because that's just how Sam looked, but at least he no longer towered over her. He spoke softly when he addressed the woman again. "I have some new for you that will probably come as a shock, Mrs. Wagner. I'm sorry."

  Good Lord, now he was sorrying her. Oh, well. Just went to prove I wasn't the only one who lacked imagination in the face of trying circumstances.

  "Please tell me he's dead," whispered Mrs. Wagner.

  I don't know if Sam was shocked but I, oddly, was not. If I'd had to live with a man who did that to me, I'd want him dead, too.

  "That's what I'm here to tell you, all right," said Sam.

  Mrs. Wagner's eyes opened as wide as they could, considering the swelling around them. "He is? Are you sure?" She buried her abused face in her hands and muttered, "Thank God." She resumed crying, this time with relief, unless I missed my guess.

  Rising to my feet—my knees were sore by that time—I patted her on the shoulder. When she winced, I stopped patting. What an evil man Dr. Wagner had been!

  "Detective Rotondo needs to ask you some questions, Mrs. Wagner—"

  "Oh, please don't call me that! Call me Diane. Anything but Wagner."

  "Very well, I understand," I said, using my most soothing tone. "Detective Rotondo will need to ask you some questions, Diane."

  After giving her eyes another wipe, she
said, "All right. What do you need to know?" She squinted, decided that didn't feel good, and opened her eyes wider once more. "What did he die of? He didn't have a heart, so it couldn't have been a heart attack."

  Guess we knew how she felt about her old man, didn't we?

  Placing one of his huge hands over one of hers in her lap, Sam said gently, "I'm afraid he was murdered, Mrs.—Diane."

  She stiffened. "Murdered? How? Who did it?"

  "He was struck on the head with a blunt instrument, and we don't yet know who did it."

  "Good Lord. I probably should tell Gaylord and Vincent. Not that they'll be heartbroken. I'll call Marianne, though. Perhaps she and George will allow me to stay with them for a while. They've asked before, but I was afraid Everhard would find out where I was and take it out on them."

  "Your late husband doesn't sound like a very nice man, Diane," said Sam, foregoing subtlety since it would have been wasted anyway.

  "He was mean and hateful, and I'm glad he's dead. I'd like to thank whoever did it." She glanced from Sam to me. "That sounds terrible, doesn't it?"

  "After having met him and Marianne and you, it doesn't sound terrible to me," said I, though her words had startled me a little bit—but not much. I'd had dealings with beaten-up women before. I'd discovered the ones who wished their abusers dead had been receiving the brunt of their violence for long enough to understand abuse like that was in no way connected to feelings of love or esteem.

  "Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted him out of the way?" Sam asked.

  Diane heaved a sigh and commenced thinking. After several seconds of that, she said, "He had problems with so many people, it's difficult to pinpoint just one. Lately, he was in what sounded like a feud with another doctor in town, but I don't know the other man's name." She shot me a quick glance. "I fear his business suffered a decline after Marianne left home. And that's not your fault!" she hastened to add, looking at me squarely. "You assisted Marianne, and I'll always be grateful to you for that. She didn't deserve what that man did to her." She shook her head. "How can a man be all charm and niceness until you marry him, and only then show his true colors? Why does that happen?"