by Alice Duncan
"I think all countries have their own variety of meatballs or meatloaf. Not to mention chickens, ducks and geese," said Vi. "After all, we humans have to eat more or less the same things."
"I guess that's true," said I, adding my bit to the conversation. Not that I knew beans about cooking, but I had been to the Middle East and read a lot of National Geographic magazines. "Except for people in Africa, who probably eat kudus and wildebeests and other ungulates like that, we basically have the same major meats available to us, and then we use what we can get from local sources."
"What's an ungulate?" Ma wanted to know.
"Horses and antelopes and animals like that. I think," I said, trying to remember the last article about Africa I'd read in the National Geographic. "I expect people who lived in the Wild West ate buffaloes and antelopes. They used a lot of lamb when we were in Egypt and Turkey. I love lamb."
"So do I," said Ma, who was kind of a picky eater.
"They use different kinds of beans there, too. Not like our baked beans, I mean. They just grow different vegetables in the soil they have to work with, I suppose."
"Makes sense to me," said Pa, grinning. He knew all about cooking and me. Well, by that time in our lives, everyone did.
"We Italians eat a lot of beans, too," Sam said. "Beans are cheaper than meat, and they're filling."
"What kinds of beans to Italians eat?" I asked, curious.
Sam shrugged. "Darned if I know. My mother fixed noodles and beans a lot. Called them pasta e fagioli. Only we pronounce it past'fazhool. That's Italian for noodles and beans. We Italians make approximately six million different types of pasta." Sam exaggerated sometimes, too. At least I think that was an exaggeration. Maybe it wasn't. What I didn't know about food and cooking could and did fill shelves and shelves of books in the library.
"Hmm. I don't think I've ever had pasta and beans together," said I musingly.
"They're good," said Sam.
"You'll have to tell me what your mother puts in with her beans and pasta, Sam," said Vi.
"I'll find out. All I know for sure is garlic and tomatoes." Sam savored another bite of chicken with his buttered noodles. "Depending on where your family comes from—Sicily, Tuscany, Rome, or wherever—you'll find different shapes of noodles. Some of them are tiny and look like rice. The rice-shaped ones are called orzo."
"My goodness, I didn't know that," said I. Not that I needed to because, as mentioned several times already, cooking and I didn't get along. "Didn't we eat some kind of noodle called couscous when we were in Turkey, Sam?"
"Don't remember," said he, taking another bite of his noodles and chicken. After he swallowed, he said, "I suspect all cultures have noodles of one kind or another."
"By the way," said Pa, dropping the beans-and-pasta theme, "Herb Hull gave me a couple of bushels of apples today. Do you want to help me dig out the cider press from the basement, Daisy?"
"Sure. I love fresh apple juice." Pressing apples for juice and cider was one job even I couldn't mess up. So far, anyway.
"Save some of those apples for pies, you two," said Vi.
"You betcha!" said I, thinking about Vi's marvelous apple pies. Of course, everything she made was marvelous.
"How do you make juice and apple cider?" asked Sam, looking puzzled.
"You never made apple juice in New York City?" I asked, surprised.
"Naw. We Italians only make wine."
We all laughed, even though he was probably telling the truth.
"We have an old wooden apple press we brought here from Massachusetts," Pa said. "We keep it covered in the basement until apple season. Then we haul it out, press the apples and make juice. Vi will turn some of the juice into cider." He peered at my aunt. "What's the difference anyway, Vi?"
"Cider has cinnamon and sugar. Sometimes I'll add allspice. The juice is just the juice. I'll preserve the cider in jars, but we have to drink the juice while it's still fresh. Apples can be stored fairly well as long as they're kept in a cool, dark place, so we tend to make juice and cider out of most of them, and then I'll used the rest of them for pies, tarts, applesauce, or whatever. I'll dry some of them, and when they're out of season and we can't live without apple pie for another minute, I'll make a dried-apple pie."
"Interesting," said Sam, sounding as though he meant it.
"You can help us press the apples if you want to," I offered.
"Thanks," said he, eyeing me as though he thought I were up to something.
"But I don't want you carrying the press up the basement stairs," Pa told him. "It wouldn't be good for your leg."
"Is the thing heavy?" Sam asked.
"Not awfully, but you still shouldn't help carry it," I told him. "As Pa said, it's an old wooden one. I guess Pa's grandparents used it on their farm. Is that right, Pa?"
"Yup. We had an apple orchard. Tons of apples. Used to sell 'em to the grocers in town, give them to our friends, and make gallons of juice and cider."
"I'll be darned," said Sam. "I guess I missed a lot, living in the city all my life."
"Maybe so," said I, "but you had a whole lot more interesting experiences in New York City than we've had in Pasadena. Heck, the food alone in New York is so varied, I'll bet you never ran out of new things to eat."
"Not in my family. We were Italian all the way. Although I did get to eat some falafels and other Arabic food when I was with my friend Armen."
"Oh, yes, I remember you told us about Armen. You got to eat a lot of Middle-Eastern food with him, didn't you?"
"Well, I wouldn't say a lot, precisely, but his family cooked the way they were brought up. Mine cooked the way they were brought up. I don't think either the Italians or the Armenians used cider presses. Come to think of it, I'll bet both Italians and Armenians had olive presses, though. They had to get olive oil somehow."
"I've never even thought about olive oil," said Vi meditatively. "But I expect you're right, Sam."
"Maybe they'll do an article about how to make olive oil in the National Geographic someday," I said.
Everyone laughed, but I was serious. Oh, well.
"Have you heard from your nephew recently?" I asked Sam. Frank Pagano, the son of one of Sam's many sisters, ran away from home a month or so ago and landed in his uncle's bungalow. Sam hadn't appreciated Frank's visit one little bit. Neither had we, mainly because Frank pilfered stuff.
"No, thank God," said Sam. He sounded as if he meant it.
And the telephone rang.
Chapter 8
It was Harold. "Harold! Did you hear the news?" I asked excitedly.
"About somebody finally bumping off that Wagner bimbo? Yup. Past time, if you ask me."
"Me, too, but I don't want it to be... Wait a minute, Harold." I cleared my throat. "Will our party-line neighbors please hang up your receivers? This call is private and it's for me."
Three clicks. My gaze paid a visit to the ceiling. "Mrs. Barrow? Will you please hang up your telephone? This call is for me."
Another, louder, click. If Mrs. Barrow hadn't helped solve a murder case once, I'd have been inclined to holler at her. It's not nice to listen in on other people's private conversations. Mind you, I'm sure the calls to my house were more interesting than any calls she ever got, but still...
"Party line," said Harold. "You really ought to spring for a private wire, you know."
"That's expensive Harold. Not all of us are rich, you know."
"I know. I know."
"But Harold, has Doctor Greenlaw ever said anything to you about Doctor Wagner? According to the reports I've been hearing, Doctor Wagner has been having a terrible fight with another doctor in town." I put my hand over the receiver and hollered into the dining room. "What's that doctor's name, Sam?"
Sam limped into the kitchen. He didn't look at all peeved, as he usually did when I poked into his cases. Guess that's because I could give him more information than most of his other sources. He said, "Ferdinand. Doctor William Ferdinand."
<
br /> I uncovered the receiver and said to Harold, "Doctor William Ferdinand."
"Don't know him. I've never heard Fred talk about him. Why? What was Wagner's beef with Ferdinand?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."
"Sorry. Can't help you there. I'll ask Fred. Heck, you could ask Fred yourself, for that matter."
"I think I'd rather you ask him, thanks. I really don't know him very well."
"You're just afraid he's mad at you because of that Bannister affair."
I heaved a sigh. "Yes. That's probably it. I don't want to disturb him again."
With a laugh, Harold said, "He's not mad at you, but I'll ask him if he's heard why Doctors Wagner and Ferdinand were beefing with each other."
"Thanks, Harold. You haven't heard anything else about Doctor Wagner, have you?"
"Other than that everybody hated him and they're all glad he's dead? No."
"But do you know why everybody hated him? I mean, I know why I hated him. And I know why Diane and Marianne hated him, but why did everybody else hate him?"
"Because he was a creepy pill and gave everyone the jitters? He was a really unpleasant person. I think that idiotic goatee made him even more ghastly. That's all I know about him. Nobody's seen much of him recently, according to people I know. So maybe he hit the skids or something."
"I know his business went downhill after Marianne's escape."
"Escape. Good word for it."
"I think so, too. Thanks, Harold. Talk to you later. Oh, wait. Is Doctor Greenlaw staying at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club?"
"Yeah. Until his house is built. Why?"
"Just wondered. The Wagner brothers are staying there, too."
"Lucky Fred," said Harold sarcastically.
"Right. Thanks, Harold. See you soon."
"I guess we'll see each other Wednesday evening at Mrs. Frasier's place. I understand your spirit control plans on figuring out who murdered the bad doctor."
"Right," I said again, this time with a sigh. "Wish Rolly and me luck."
Harold laughed again and hung up his receiver. I did likewise and turned to Sam. "He doesn't know why the two doctors were at each other's throats."
"Figured as much," said Sam, sounding almost as weary as he looked. "I'm going to take off now, Daisy. I aim to talk to Doctor Ferdinand tomorrow. If you could see Doctor Benjamin, maybe we can compare notes later in the day."
"Sounds good to me." Something occurred to me. "Say, Sam, your juju didn't get hot when you were speaking with anyone in particular today, did it?"
During the last murder case Sam worked on, the Voodoo juju given to him by Mrs. Jackson, a real, honest-to-goodness Voodoo mambo from New Orleans, got so hot it nearly burned his skin any time he was close to the murderer. Sam didn't like to believe the thing had actually communicated with him, but I couldn't think of any other reason his juju might have acted up only when he was in the presence of the killer. The one Mrs. Jackson had given me never did anything at all. It just hung on its woven cord around my neck and... Well, that's all it did. I thought Sam's was considerably more interesting than mine, although I'd never tell Mrs. Jackson that.
Sam slapped a hand over his chest and frowned. "For God's sake, Daisy, you're not going to start in on that Voodoo nonsense again, are you?"
"If you'll recall, Detective Rotondo," I said coolly, "that juju told you who the murderer was. Quite distinctly. It got so hot, you had to take it off at one point. You do recall that, don't you?"
"Yeah, yeah. I recall that. Pure coincidence."
"Sure it was. Tell me another one, why don't you?"
"Nuts. Jujus and Voodoo are just superstitious nonsense."
"If you still believe that after what happened last month, you're a hard case, Detective Sam Rotondo."
He grinned and chuckled. "Yeah. I've heard that before."
I laughed, too, and Spike and I walked Sam out to his machine. We smooched a couple of times, but then he had to go home to rest, and I had to wash the dishes. Therefore, Spike and I watched as his big old Hudson rolled away, and then we walked slowly back to the house.
After I'd washed the dishes and put them all away, I contemplated reading for a while, but I was kind of pooped, too, after the excitement of the day, so Spike and I went to bed. We slept like the dead for many hours, but we were both bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Tuesday morning. After visiting the bathroom, I practically bounced into the kitchen, ready to begin my day of spiritualist-mediuming and snoopery.
"You're looking perky this morning," said Pa, eyeing me from the kitchen table as I tied the ties on my bathrobe.
"I'm feeling perky. Are Ma and Vi still here?"
"They are. It's only seven, sweetie." He smiled broadly at me. "Your aunt left some breakfast for you in the warming oven."
"Bless Vi's heart." I trotted over to the warming oven, found a plate filled with waffles and sausages and silently blessed Aunt Vi again.
Vi and Ma strode into the kitchen, pulling on their hats and coats. The weather remained chilly. Well, heck, it was December, even if we did live in paradise. More or less.
"Good morning, dear," said Ma, coming over to kiss me on the cheek.
"Morning, Ma. Would you like me to drive you and Vi to work this morning?"
"No, thanks. It's nice out, if a bit brisk. The walk will be pleasant."
"I don't need a ride, either, thanks," said Vi. "I think Harold will bring me home. I'm planning something special for tonight's dinner." She smiled wickedly. She's the only person I've ever met who could find pleasure in surprising her family with food. If I ever tried to feed us, every day would be a surprise, but not a good one.
"You're a peach, Vi," said I, lavishly buttering my waffle and then reaching for the maple syrup, which was sent to us each Christmas by a relative in Massachusetts.
"I know it. Will you be visiting Mrs. P today?"
"Yes. At eleven."
"Come to the kitchen after you're through with her, and maybe I'll feed you some lunch."
"I love you, Vi! You, too, Ma. But Vi feeds us."
My mother, who didn't have much of a sense of humor, actually laughed.
After cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I went for a walk with Pa and Spike. Spike was so well trained that he would heel off the leash, but I attached his leash to his collar anyway, just in case we encountered a stray cat or something. Spike was the best-behaved dog I knew, but I didn't want to take any chances.
When we got back home, I opened my over-stuffed closet to find a suitable costume for the day. I aimed to visit Dr. Benjamin, the library and Mrs. Pinkerton, so I had to look businesslike. Plus, the weather required warm clothes. Therefore, I chose a newish butterscotch-brown flannel suit I'd made not long before from material I'd bought on sale at Maxime's Fabrics. With it, I wore a white shirtwaist, a dark green man's tie, neutral-colored stockings, my brown shoes with a low Louis heel, and a brown cloche hat with a dark green ribbon around it.
After I'd put everything on, I looked into the cheval-glass mirror and asked my dog, "What do you think, Spike? Do I look like a professional spiritualist-medium? And will my old black coat look all right with the brown and green?"
Spike wagged his tail, and I took that for approval. So I got out the brown handbag that went well with my shoes, stuck everything I'd need in it, and exited the bedroom. Pa sat at the kitchen table reading the morning Star News.
"Anything in there about Doctor Wagner's death?" I asked him as I pulled on my brown gloves.
"Only a paragraph on page two. Let me see... Ah, here it is. 'The body of Dr. Everhard A. Wagner was found Monday morning. The cause of his death is unknown at this time. Dr. Wagner was a well-known medical practitioner in the Pasadena-Altadena area for at least fifteen years. He is survived by his widow, Diane Marie Chapman Wagner; his daughter, Marianne Louise Wagner Grenville; and his two sons, Gaylord Sidney Wagner and Vincent Chapman Wagner.'" Pa looked up at me from his paper. "You look nice. But there isn
't much here that you don't already know. I guess the paper didn't want to get into the murder issue."
"Probably not," said I, heading for the table beside the front door where my family puts already-read books. I picked them up and headed for the side door. Our Chevrolet perched at the foot of the side porch steps, ready for me to get in and drive. Spike wanted to go with me, but I convinced him that Pa needed his company more than I did. "He was definitely murdered, so I don't know if the folks at the newspaper are just fudging or don't quite know how to write an article about a rich doctor being bumped off. It sure wasn't an accidental death."
"For certain?"
"For certain. Heck, if he'd died by accident, why was his head bashed in, and why was he buried in a shallow grave at the Mountain View Cemetery? Not in a coffin."
Pa grinned. "You have such a way with words, Daisy."
"Nerts." I kissed my father on top of his head, bent down to give Spike a farewell pat, and headed to the machine. I piled the books on the passenger seat and climbed into the driver's seat. It was so nice to have a car that didn't need to be cranked. I don't think I'll ever cease being grateful for that.
My first stop was Dr. Benjamin's office on Beverly Way in Altadena, which was a good deal north of our bungalow on South Marengo Avenue. I wanted to visit his office before I did anything else, because Doc Benjamin had office hours in the morning and made house calls on his patients in the afternoon. As long as he hadn't been called out to deal with an emergency, he could usually be found in his office during the morning.
Evidently I was the first person to visit him that day, because no one else sat in the outer office when I got there. Mrs. Benjamin, his wife and office help, smiled at me.
"Good morning, Mrs. Benjamin," said I, smiling back.
"Good morning, Daisy. You're looking healthy as a horse. I hope you're not feeling ill."
"Nope. I'm hoping to ask your husband a few pertinent—or maybe their impertinent—questions about something else."
"Ah," said she, winking. "A mystery?"
"Kind of," I said, wondering if it would do any good to ask her what she knew about Dr. Wagner. "Is the doctor free?"