by Alice Duncan
Bless Harold's heart! I didn't think anyone could penetrate Mrs. Pinkerton's elephant-like ability to remain miserable, no matter what. Not that I think elephants are miserable. I meant about their hugeness and thick skin. Oh, never mind. "I'm so glad to hear it," I said honestly.
"Yes. Harold said I've done everything I can do up until now. I hired that lawyer, and I make sure she has spending money at the jail and sent Father Frederick to speak with her. And I do believe that Buckingham fellow from the Salvation Army has been to speak with her, too."
"I'm sure he has," said I, thinking warmly of Johnny and Flossie Buckingham, another two of my best friends. Johnny had saved Flossie from a life of sin and degradation—heck, they were now joyfully married and parents of a delightful little son—and he'd done his best to save Stacy, too, but some problems were too difficult even for Johnny. "Captain Buckingham is a special and caring man."
"Yes, he is," said Mrs. P with sigh. She hated that it had been a Salvation Army person and not an Episcopalian who had kept Stacy on the straight-and-narrow path for as long as she'd been able to stand it, which was not long enough. "Still, I do wish Stacy had... Ah, well. It's past time to worry about it now, I guess."
"I'm sure you've done everything in your power to help Stacy, Mrs. Pinkerton. It's also past time Stacy began taking responsibility for her own actions." This was a bold speech for me to deliver to Stacy's mother, even though it was the truth.
"That's precisely what Harold's been telling me. Over and over. Yes." Another sigh. "I know you're right. And so is Harold."
I remained silent for once.
"But I'm so glad Laura is having you conduct a séance for poor Diane. I'm sure I'll see you on Wednesday. Oh, but Daisy, do you think you could possibly visit me tomorrow? Just for a little while? Just so Rolly can assure me I'm doing the right thing by Stacy? Please?"
See what I mean? Rolly, being me, told her the same thing every single time he spoke to her. But she lived in hope that he would change his tune. As Rolly and I were one, she didn't have a prayer of that ever happening. Anyway, even if Rolly told her Stacy was an angel come to earth, the Pasadena Police Department still held her in a cell for abetting a cold-blooded murderer. The PPD didn't put as much stock in Rolly as did Mrs. P.
"Of course I can come to see you tomorrow, Mrs. Pinkerton. Will eleven o'clock be a good time for you?" That way I could visit the library beforehand, return my family's stack of already-read books, and see if Miss Petrie, my favorite librarian, had tucked away any other gems for us.
"Eleven would be perfect, dear. Thank you so much."
"You're very welcome, Mrs. Pinkerton." Bravely daring, I added, "Although I doubt Rolly will have any information for you other than that he's already imparted." Seventeen billion times.
Very well, so I exaggerate every now and then.
"I know it, dear. But you and Rolly are such a comfort to me in these dismal times."
"That's good to know, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"You're a sweet girl, Daisy. I wish my Stacy were more like you."
Pshaw. "Thank you, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"It's only the truth, dear."
I was glad to hear it, I think.
"Rolly and I will be over to see you tomorrow, Mrs. Pinkerton. Try to bear up and take Harold's excellent advice to heart."
"I will, dear. Thank you."
We disconnected, and my gaze paid a brief visit to the ceiling. After having catered to wealthy women for more than half my life, I'd come to understand that money, in fact, couldn't buy happiness. It could, however, buy the next best thing to it, and that was pretty much everything else in the world.
Because I was already at the telephone, I dialed Harold's number. Roy Castillo, his houseboy, a nice lad whom Harold had saved from slavery a few years back, answered the telephone. Yes. Slavery. I swear, sometimes I despair of the world.
"Good afternoon, Roy. This is Daisy Majesty."
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Majesty. Mr. Harold isn't at home now. I expect that's whom you called for."
Roy's grammar was better than most of the native-born American citizens I knew. He'd originated in Tortuga, which is an island somewhere. Geography is another of my not-so-well-developed characteristics.
"Yes, it was. Thanks, Roy. Will you please ask Harold to telephone me when he gets the time? It's not urgent, but I'd sure like to talk to him."
"Happy to do that, Mrs. Majesty."
"Thanks, Roy."
We each hung up, and I couldn't think of anything else of a productive nature to do. Therefore, I dust-mopped the floors, dusted the furniture, and settled in our comfy living room to read for a bit until Vi came home. Spike joined me, although I don't think he was interested in the book.
Chapter 7
Sam showed up at our house a little early that evening. We Gumms and the remaining Majesty dine at six p.m. Not a fashionable hour, but good for those of us who actually had to work for a living and arise early in the morning. At five-thirty, Spike raced to the front door even before Sam twisted our doorbell.
"Sit, Spike," said I to my dog. He sat, bless him. He was such a well-trained hound. I opened the door and smiled at my beloved. "Evening, Sam. How was the rest of your day?"
"Glamorous and exciting," he said, sounding exhausted and cranky. Everything was as usual, in other words.
"I'm sorry." I looked down at Spike whose shiny black tail was sweeping the floor excitedly. Thanks to my recent housekeeping, there was no dust for him to stir up. "Okay, Spike," I told him, giving him the word to cease being a good dog and resume being man's best friend. Woman's too, by gad.
Grunting, Sam leaned over to pet Spike, who had commenced leaping on his right leg. Sam had strategically put his right leg forward, sparing his wounded limb from Spike's friendly mauling.
"Yes, buddy, it's good to see you, too," said Sam.
"Let me take your hat and coat. Do you need more aspirin?"
Handing me the items I'd requested, Sam said, "Yes, I could use a couple more aspirin tablets. Thank you."
"You're more than welcome. I'm so sorry your day didn't go as we'd planned it to." Heck, we'd been aiming to take lunch somewhere after we received our late spouses' blessing for our eventual marriage, and then spend some time at his darling bungalow in a court of same on South Los Robles Avenue. What we'd planned to do there is nobody else's business. Poor Sam hadn't even been privileged to eat a meat-loaf sandwich. "I hope you managed to get lunch somewhere."
With a sigh, Sam limped to the dining room and sat. He said, "No time. I'm famished."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I should have made you a sandwich to eat on the way to that stupid club."
"Thanks for the thought. It's all right," said Sam, sighing. He smiled up at me, though, and that made me feel less guilty
"Did I hear someone tell Daisy he's famished?" asked Vi, grinning as she poked her head out of the kitchen and looking at Sam.
"You did, Vi. It's been a rough day."
"I heard about it from Mrs. Pinkerton," said Vi. "Actually, Harold told me about it. You and Daisy don't seem to have much luck avoiding dead bodies, do you?"
"No," said Sam. "We don't."
"Which isn't my fault," I said, defending myself before I'd been attacked. I guess I was a little sensitive about the dead-body issue.
Vi only laughed. Sam sighed again and said, "May I have a couple of aspirin tablets? Then I'll tell you about the rest of my day. After I left you here, I mean." He sniffed the air. "Something sure smells good."
"Thanks, Sam. And the house always smells good when Vi's cooking." I went to the bathroom, shook two tablets out onto my palm, detoured through the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and delivered tablets and water to my fiancé, who had commenced rubbing his face with his hands. He really did look exhausted, poor thing.
I allowed him to swallow his aspirin tablets before I began grilling him. And I didn't grill hard. The man was already worn out.
"Did you find the Wagn
er brothers at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club?" I asked after waiting a few seconds to make sure Sam had settled into his chair and the aspirins had begun making their way to wherever aspirin tablets did their magic.
"Yes. Mrs. Wagner was right. A lot of rich young men live there." Sam made a grimace of distaste. "The Wagner brothers appeared broken up about their father's death, and both of them even shed a tear or two."
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. "They did? Really?"
With a shrug, Sam said, "They seemed to. They acted more emotionally wrenched than either the late doctor's wife or daughter."
"Did you believe them to be sincere in their feelings?"
"How should I know? I'm not a mind-reader. That's more along your lines than mine."
"No need to get snippy."
"I don't mean to be snippy," Sam said with another sigh. "I'm just tired."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"So tell me about your day. I'm sure you didn't spend it idly. I expect you were on the telephone talking to everyone in town about the doctor's murder."
"Not everyone. In fact, I didn't telephone anybody except Harold, and he wasn't home. People telephoned me."
"Huh."
"Mrs. Frasier asked me to conduct a séance on Wednesday night to ascertain the doctor's murderer."
"I'm sure that will be helpful."
"Don't be snotty. Then Mrs. Pinkerton called. She was overjoyed about Doctor Wagner's death. I guess I was a little surprised, but not a whole lot. Evidently nobody liked Doctor Wagner."
"Evidently. The two sons said he'd been having a real feud with another doctor in town. Hasn't come to pistols at dawn yet, but the two men apparently had words all the time. Bitter words, and sometimes in public."
"Oh? Can you tell me which doctor?"
With a shrug, Sam said, "Why not? You're already involved in the case. Have you ever heard of a Doctor. Ferdinand? Doctor William Ferdinand?"
"Um..." I thought hard for a couple of seconds. Darned near sprained my brain. "No. I've never heard of him."
"Well, he's the one purportedly feuding with Doctor Wagner."
"Did Gaylord or Vincent tell you why?"
"Claimed they didn't know. I'll have to talk to Doctor Ferdinand, of course. I was hoping maybe you could tell me something about him and why the two doctors were at each other's throats."
"Neither of the sons could tell you?"
"Don't know if they could tell me. They didn't tell me, and that's what matters. I'll have to find out why they were fighting via another route. Nothing's ever simple."
"No. It doesn't seem to be. I'm sorry, Sam."
"Not your fault."
Boy, there was a first!
"By the way," Sam said after a moment or two of silence on both our parts, "Mr. Pinkerton's two sons also live at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club."
"I didn't know that. But if I had a choice, I don't think I'd want to live in the same house as Mrs. Pinkerton, either."
"Tut, tut," said Sam, grinning.
Deciding to leave the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club and all its inhabitants alone for a while, I asked Sam, "Would you like me to ask Doc Benjamin if he knows anything about the two other doctors and why they might be feuding?"
"Couldn't hurt, I suppose."
I pressed a hand to Sam's forehead, surprising him into a little start. He said, "Ow!" I guess because his bad leg had twanged.
"Just checking to see if you're feverish. You never ask me to snoop into your cases. Sorry if I startled you."
"I figure this one was a lost cause from the beginning. You're involved whether I want you to be or not."
"I know. Poor Sam." Delighted, I said, "Why don't you rest in the living room with Pa while I set the table. I think Ma's resting up from working at the Hotel Marengo all day."
"Thanks. Think I'll do that." He sniffed the air again. "What's cooking, Vi? Whatever it is, it smells great."
"Swedish-style smothered chicken and, according to reports from the Pinkerton home, it is great. I'll let everyone here decide for themselves."
"Huh. I've heard of Swedish meatballs, but not Swedish smothered chicken."
"I've never even heard of Swedish meatballs," I told my beloved. "When Vi makes meatballs, she generally serves them with that delicious Italian sauce you told her about."
"Ah. We Italians. We might not be good for much, but the food is great." Sam tried to smile as he rose to his feet, but I guess his leg pain vanquished his smile, because he ended up grunting and frowning.
"I'll be so glad when your leg heals completely, Sam," I said with huge sympathy. Sam didn't deserve to be crippled because of some evil people's evil actions. But, according to our darling doctor, Doc Benjamin, he wouldn't be crippled forever and the leg would eventually stop hurting so much. The waiting time was hard on him, though, and he probably used his leg too much. I'm not sure how much was too much, but his leg kept hurting. I know it hurt Sam more than it did me, but I still felt for him a good deal.
After Sam had joined my father in the living room, I heard the two men begin talking about the upcoming Rose Bowl game. The competing football teams were coming to Pasadena from Notre Dame, known for some reason mysterious to me as the Fighting Irish—I mean, wasn't Notre Dame Cathedral in France? Ah, well. Anyway, Notre Dame aimed to play Stanford University's football team. My father and Sam knew a good deal more about sports than did yours truly, who didn't much care, even though baseball was supposed to be the USA's national pastime and men seemed to love football. All I knew were that the coaches of the two teams involved in the upcoming bowl game had interesting names: Knute Rockne and Pop Warner.
"That really does smell good, Vi. What's the difference between Swedish smothered chicken and anybody else's smothered chicken?"
As I began setting the table, Vi said, "I have no idea. I got the recipe from Evelyn McCracken. She has all sorts of foreign recipes, and she's happy to share them."
"Isn't she the one who told you about that Mexican sausage?"
"Chorizo. Yes." I could hear the smile in Aunt Vi's voice. She truly loved to cook, a love that baffled me. I guess everyone has an idiosyncrasy or two.
"Does Mrs. McCracken still cook for Mrs. Bannister?"
"Yes, she does."
"How's Mrs. Bannister doing these days?" I only asked because I, along with Harold Kincaid, Flossie Buckingham and a few other noble souls—not that I'm calling myself noble, mind you—had probably saved Mrs. Bannister's life a few months prior. She was yet another victim of a brutish, cruel man.
"She's much better, according to Evelyn. She still credits you, Harold and Flossie for saving her life."
"Aw, that's sweet."
"It's the truth," said my aunt, always one of my staunchest supporters, even when I got myself involved in unusual problems.
"Actually, you're probably right, although Flossie and Harold played a bigger role in her rescue than I did."
"That's not what Evelyn said."
"Oh." I was pleased, although I tried not to gloat. In truth, those several weeks during which Harold, Flossie and I hid Mrs. Bannister from her evil husband, had been extremely nerve-wracking. They'd culminated in the shooting of Sam Rotondo, too, so I guess there wasn't really much to gloat about. Sometimes I hate the truth.
"What kinds of serving dishes will you need for this Swedish treat, Vi?" I asked my marvelous aunt.
"A serving bowl for the buttered noodles."
My mouth began to water. Anything buttered is all right by me.
"And another, larger serving bowl for the smothered chicken. Then we'll need the bread basket, and you'd better set out bread-and-butter plates, too, because the sauce will cover most of everyone's plates."
"Yum. I can hardly wait."
"Then you'll need two more serving dishes, one for the buttered carrots and another for the green beans."
"Oh my goodness, Vi, I don't think I can wait until dinnertime!"
"You're going to have to, Daisy Maje
sty," Vi said with mock sternness.
Ma entered the kitchen, yawning. "Oh, my, it smells good in here," said she.
"Smothered chicken, Swedish style," I informed my mother as if I knew what I was talking about.
"What's the difference between Swedish chicken and any other kind of chicken?"
"That I don't know," I told her. "But Vi can explain."
"No, I can't," said Vi. "That's just the name of the recipe, and I don't know what it has to do with Sweden."
"Oh," said Ma, and she finished helping me set the table.
At six o'clock precisely—she was like a finely tuned watch—Vi called me in to the kitchen to begin carrying out viands to the table. "And tell your father and Sam to come to the table," she added.
So I did both of those things, and we all took our places around the dining table. We had a nice dining room. It led directly from the kitchen, and boasted a built-in china hutch and side board. I'd stacked the plates at Vi's place at the head of the table as she'd told me to do, and placed various bowls and dishes elsewhere on the table. I did use the bread-and-butter plates, and we all put them to good use. After Pa said the usual grace over the meal, we dug in, Vi filling each plate with chicken and sauce, and each of the rest of us passing around the noodles, vegetables and dinner rolls.
The meal was spectacular. But then, all of Vi's meals were spectacular.
"Boy, this chicken is delicious," said Sam in a variation of what he always said when he got to eat one of Vi's meals. "I didn't even know Swedes used chicken."
"I suspect every culture dines on chicken or some other types of birds," I said after swallowing a bite of chicken and noodles. "Vi makes regular old meatballs, too, sometimes." I frowned. "Or maybe she doesn't. Usually the only time we get meatballs is when we have Italian sauce with them. She said Swedes make meatballs, too."
"I didn't know the Swedes made meatballs either. I thought we Italians were the meatball kings. Most of the Swedish stuff I ate when I was a kid in New York consisted of pastries and other kinds of sweets."