Spirits Unearthed

by Alice Duncan

  I'm sorry, God.

  Anyway, after we'd sung our way through "Savior to the Nations," Mr. Hostetter told us to get out "O Come, All Ye Faithful," which most of us could sing by heart at that point.

  After we plowed our way through that one, Mr. Hostetter pinned Lucy and me to our chairs with a stiffish frown. We hadn't been chatting! Honest.

  "Mrs. Majesty and Mrs. Zollinger, I would like the two of you to sing a duet during the third verse of 'What Child is This' on Christmas Eve. Do you each know your part?"

  Lucy and I nodded in unison. We were asked to sing duets a lot, Lucy being a soprano and me being an alto, and both having good voices. We looked at each other, and I whispered, "Come over Saturday, and we can practice." That's because we Gumms and this Majesty had a piano at home.

  Afraid to whisper back, Lucy only nodded. We both turned our attention back to Mr. Hostetter, who said, "All right, let's sing 'What Child' now. Remember, only Mrs. Majesty and Mrs. Zollinger will be singing the third verse."

  You probably already know this, but "What Child" is sung to the tune of "Greensleeves," and was supposedly written by King Henry VIII. Knowing King Henry's history, I'm surprised music created by him had been allowed to enter the doors of any church, but I'm glad it did, because it's pretty. Even if Henry himself was a pig.

  Dang. There goes my judgmental self, leaping o'er obstacles to get to a quick conclusion. Truly, all I knew about Henry VIII was stuff I'd read about him. As a Methodist, I probably should thank him; otherwise, my family and I would certainly have been Roman Catholics instead of Methodists. Still, he seemed like man of dubious character.

  I should talk. Phooey.

  Anyhow, Mr. Hostetter tapped his little baton thing on his metal music stand and nodded at Mrs. Fleming, who began the introduction of the song. We did a pretty good job on that hymn, too, except that Mr. Finster, a bass, began singing the third verse. He caught himself almost instantly, so Mr. Hostetter didn't yell at him.

  "Very well," said Mr. H when we'd knocked down "What Child." "I know your won't do that on Christmas Eve, Mr. Finster."

  "Of course not," said Mr. Finster. "I apologize."

  "That's all right," said Mr. H. I guess he felt benevolent that evening.

  And so it went. We went through all of the hymns we'd be singing on the coming Sunday, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, and I was all hymned out when practice ended. As Lucy and I put our hymnals and folders away, she said, "I'm going to gargle with hot salt water when I get home. This was the most intense choir practice I think we've ever had."

  "I think you're right," said I. "And that's a good idea about gargling."

  Lucy's Albert met her right outside the choir's door, and I was pleased to see their enthusiastic greeting one for the other. What's more, they walked to their automobile with Albert's arm over Lucy's shoulder. I thought that was sweet. See? I'm not totally bad.

  "Mrs. Majesty?"

  I'd been so busy thinking about how lovely a couple Lucy and Albert made—even if he was a million years older than she—that I started and whirled around when I heard my name.

  Slapping a hand over my heart, I said, "Mrs. Dermott!" Violet Dermott was another alto. Much older than I, she had pretty white hair and always looked as if she'd just been discharged from a beauty parlor, with perfect, very lightly applied makeup and stylish clothing.

  "I'm sorry I startled you, Mrs. Majesty."

  "That's all right," I said, laughing. "I was so deep in my thoughts, I didn't hear you behind me."

  She laughed a little, too, and then sobered. "I-I'm not sure I should be telling anyone this, but... Well, I know you're engaged to that nice detective fellow."

  That nice detective fellow? Huh. Mind you, I adored Sam, but he could come across as quite stiff and formal if you didn't know him. That's because he had to project a stern and policemanly demeanor.

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, I am. Um... did you want me to give him a message or anything?"

  Mrs. Dermott stood before me—we were approximately the same height at five-feet, four-inches or thereabouts, so neither of us had to stand on tiptoes or stoop—and appeared nervous. Interesting.

  "Well... Oh, I don't know. I just thought perhaps someone might be interested in something my son said to Mr. Dermott and me last night at dinner."

  "What did your son say?" I asked her, wishing she'd speed up her narration. I was tired after a long, extremely frustrating day, and all I wanted to do right then was go home and read a bit more of A Passage to India with my hound on my lap before retiring to bed.

  "It's... Well, it's probably nothing, really, but he said something that surprised me. It might have to do with the death of that awful Doctor Wagner."

  In a flash, all thoughts of Spike and India flew out of my head, and I was all ears.

  Chapter 23

  "My goodness, Mrs. Dermott, please tell me what your son said. As you know, Detective Rotondo is investigating the Wagner case, and he'll be overjoyed to get any information at all." Incorrect word selection, Daisy Gumm Majesty. I hedged and said, "I mean... I don't suppose overjoyed is the proper word for it, but... Well, I'm sure you know what I mean."

  "Yes, of course." Mrs. Dermott smiled sympathetically. Perhaps she'd had a rough day, too.

  "Thank you for your understanding."

  "It must be difficult to investigate such horrible crimes."

  "Yes, it is." I experienced a mad urge to grab the woman by her shoulders and shake information out of her. Couldn't she see I was exhausted?

  "Well, our son, Claude, works at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club. He's the assistant manager there."

  "How nice for him."

  "Yes, it's quite a responsible position, and he does a good job."

  "I'm sure. But you said he heard something?"

  "Oh. Oh, yes, he did."

  Yeesh. I wasn't physically able to stand there palavering with the woman all night, darn it. I'd fall over in a heap if she didn't spit it out soon. "Yes?" I said sweetly.

  "He overheard several of the young men who reside there last night. Evidently, they were laughing together in the locker room. They'd been playing handball, you see."

  "I see." I didn't care, but I saw.

  "The club isn't merely for golf and tennis. Young men actually live there."

  "Yes, indeed." I forced my face to remain serene.

  "Well, Claude was in one row of lockers, and these fellows—he didn't know how many there were, or who they were, but he thought there were at least three of them—were in another row. I guess there are several rows of lockers in the club." She paused again, and I suppressed the urge to strangle her.

  "Yes?" I said once more, wishing she'd get to the point.

  "Well, Claude said they were laughing about something someone in the club did."

  "Yes? What did this other gentleman do?" My voice was still sweet as candy, curse the woman.

  "According to what Claude heard, someone hid something in Mr. George Grenville's home somewhere."

  I waited, but she didn't continue.

  "Um... Did your son say what it was they'd hidden?" Bet I knew.

  "No. He didn't, but he felt uncomfortable about having overheard their conversation. He doesn't ordinarily eavesdrop, you understand."

  "Of course not." I'd bet on that one, too, but against Claude's fond mother. And again, I'd probably win.

  "But he was a trifle concerned about their nonchalance, given the circumstances of Doctor Wagner's death. Not that the man didn't deserve to die, but I heard from a friend who was in Grenville's Books yesterday that the police had come into the bookstore and carted George Grenville off to the police station. Claude is worried whatever that person—whoever he was—hid on Mr. Grenville's property might have something to do with Doctor Wagner's murder." Her face screwed up into a caricature of its usual oldish, stylish face. "Do you think it's important? I mean, does it even make sense?"

  It made a whole lot of sense to me. "Yes," I told Mrs.
Dermott. "It does make sense, and I'm sure Detective Rotondo will be more than happy to learn what your son overheard." A thought occurred to me, and I said, "Please tell your son not to be alarmed if Detective Rotondo or another member of the Pasadena Police Department visits him at the club. They'll only want to question him about what he heard from those men."

  "Oh, no! He can't do that! I mean, nobody from the police can go to the club to question Claude! Oh, dear. Now I'm sorry I said anything."

  The poor woman appeared stricken with fear. "My goodness, Mrs. Dermott, why ever not?"

  "Because if one of those men who were talking ever learn Claude overheard their conversation and told the police about it, he might be in danger! One man has been murdered already, and whoever was talking in the club yesterday might have done it! Some of the young men who live there are... Well, they aren't wholesome young men. Claude has told us more than once that many of those boys don't do anything but drink and waste their parents' money. A disgrace, is what I call it." Mrs. Dermott frowned heartily.

  Can't say as I blamed her. There was a lot of irresponsibility in young people going around in those days. Bright young things seemed to care for nothing and no one, and only wanted to go to parties and drink their lives away. I think the war had a lot to do with their attitudes, but I also think Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, in glorifying their frivolity, had contributed to the seeming epidemic of lousy behavior in so many of the youth of the day. Stacy Kincaid, to my mind, was a prime example of how not to live one's life. She had all the money in the world, didn't have to work, played all day every day, and had actually ended up participating in horrible crimes!

  But I think I got distracted again.

  "I didn't know," I said, not speaking the precise truth. I didn't know too many men who lived at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club. However, of those I did know, I thought the Wagner boys were warts on the skin of society. On the other hand, I knew Dr. Fred Greenlaw to be a peach of a guy.

  "Oh, yes. Claude said most of them are nothing but wastrels and louts! And Claude has no idea where and how those silly boys get their liquor, but he's told us more than once that drunken parties take place there."

  "Good heavens," said I.

  "So the police simply can't question Claude at work. You do understand that, don't you?"

  "Y-y-yes," I said slowly, thinking furiously. "But the police will certainly need to question your son about what he heard. Perhaps he could drop in at the police station sometime tomorrow? Or call and set up an appointment with Detective Rotondo? Or... I know!"

  "You do?"

  "Yes. Please have your son telephone me, and I'll set up a time and place for him and Detective Rotondo to speak. That way none of the men who talked about hiding something at the Grenvilles' place will ever have to know your son had anything to do with the matter. I mean, they won't know he overheard them talking and then told anyone. I mean, if you use me as a go-between, those worthless boys will never know your son heard anything at all. I mean... Oh, dear. I'm not sure what I mean."

  "Ah. I think I do. You want Claude to telephone you, and then you'll get together with the detective and tell him Claude needs to tell him what he heard? And perhaps Claude and the detective will set up an appointment somewhere other than the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club to meet and discuss the matter?"

  I don't know about anyone else, but I was getting terribly confused. Nevertheless, I said, "Yes. Exactly. Our number is in the telephone book. We're listed under Gumm, and we live on Marengo. Just south of the church a couple of blocks."

  "Yes, I remember you live close by. So do we, but not quite so close." She opened her handbag and took out a little notebook and pencil. Gee, she was about as organized as I was. I approved. "Just tell me your number, I'll write it down, and then I'll have Claude telephone you."

  "Thank you. I'll call Detective Rotondo as soon as I get home, and perhaps I can give your son a definite time and place for the two of them to meet. Your son will need to talk to Detective Rotondo in person, because otherwise my word on the matter would be... I can't remember what it's called. Hearsay, I think."

  "Heresy? Oh, surely not!"

  "No. Not heresy. I think that's a religious term. Hearsay is a legal term, and hearsay isn't accepted in court." As a matter of fact, I almost got into fisticuffs with an attorney during a trial when he told the judge what I'd said was hearsay, and I maintained it wasn't. But I didn't want Mrs. Dermott to know that.

  "I don't understand legal jargon."

  "Nor do I. But I think this strategy will work."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. I feel better for having spoken with you. I still don't want Claude to be involved in this matter, though. Some person murdered that awful doctor, and if it's one of the men Claude heard talking at the club, he might be in danger, too."

  "True. I think we can prevent anyone from knowing Claude heard a thing."

  "I hope so. Not that I'm sorry Doctor Wagner is dead. He used to abuse Diane terribly."

  "Yes, I know."

  "But I'm sorry. That wasn't a very Christian thing to say, was it?"

  "I don't think God will be unhappy with you for telling the truth."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. We all felt so sorry for Diane."

  "As did I."

  "Thank you, dear. I'll have Claude give you a ring."

  We said our good-byes, and I finished walking to the Chevrolet, contemplating the state of things and of human beings.

  I hadn't understood until recently that pretty much everyone in Pasadena seemed to know about the evil Dr. Wagner and his victims. Too bad nobody ever tried to do anything about him before his life ended in murder. Then again, he probably didn't deserve any better than murder. Then again again, his wife and daughter had deserved infinitely better than what he'd done to them.

  Bother.

  Anyway, if anything Claude Dermott had overheard at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club helped the investigation into Dr. Wagner's murder, Sam would be pleased. I hoped. As I drove home, I wondered whom Claude had overheard at the club. I hoped it wasn't Dr. Fred Greenlaw, because I liked him. Perhaps the Wagner boys had done their father to death. That would solve the crime, but Diane and Marianne might be upset.

  But what the heck. The worst that could happen to Diane or Marianne had already happened; at least I thought so.

  * * *

  I was about to collapse from fatigue by the time I finally got home from choir practice that night. It was almost nine o'clock, later than usual, and too late to telephone anyone, but I still thought I'd better call Sam before Spike and I hit the sack.

  Pa and Spike were the only beings still awake in our bungalow when I entered through the side entrance. Spike greeted me with hysterical wagging and leaping—but he didn't bark out a welcome. That's because I'd thought to put my finger to my lips in preparation. He knew the signal for silence. Boy, I do believe I had the best-trained dog in the whole world. I knelt and hugged and petted him.

  "What a good boy, Spike!" I told him. It was nothing but the truth. Spike knew it and wagged harder.

  "You looked worn out, sweetheart," said Pa.

  Gazing up at him from my kneeling position, I said, "Is it that obvious?" Crumb. I really must look haggard if Pa had noticed.

  He chuckled softly. "You just seem a little tired, is all. You're as lovely as ever, of course."

  Getting to my feet with an audible grunt, I said, "Of course."

  "Choir practice went well?"

  "Oh, yes. We managed to sing 'Savior of the Nations, Come' without one person messing it up, and Lucy and I are singing a duet during verse three of 'What Child Is This?' at the Christmas Eve service."

  "I love to hear the two of you sing together," said Pa, which made me smile.

  "Thanks, Pa. Lucy's coming over Saturday so we can practice."

  "Fill the house with music. That's what I like to hear."

  "But now I have to telephone Sam."

  Pa frowned. "At this time? I
sn't it kind of late?"

  "Yes, but it's important."

  "If you say so."

  "I think Sam will think so," I said a little stiffly. "And that's what's important."

  "Right." Pa smiled to let me know he wasn't upset with me.

  Therefore, although I didn't much want to, I walked to the kitchen, looked at the clock on the wall—it was then nine-o-three—and dialed Sam's telephone number. I didn't bother shooing party-line neighbors off the wire, since I didn't aim to impart anything of particular intrigue. Well, not anything that would intrigue nosy neighbors, anyhow.

  Sam picked up his receiver on the second ring. He sounded trepidatious, if that's a word. I expect he equated late telephone calls with bad news, being a policeman and all.

  "Sorry to call so late, but a member of the choir has some information for you that I believe might be important."

  "Oh? What?"

  "Not on the 'phone. I'll either telephone you at the station or visit you and give you the info. Just wanted to warn you some information is coming."

  Silence.

  Hmm. Perhaps this telephone call hadn't been precisely important after all.

  "Are you there?" I asked in a small voice.

  "Yeah. I'm here. So somebody said something to you, but you can't tell me what it was."

  "Not over the telephone!" I realized I'd raised my voice and lowered it again. "Shoot, Sam, I just wanted to give you fair warning some vital information might be coming your way. Will you be in the office tomorrow?"

  "Yeah. Desk duty tomorrow. Doctor Benjamin's orders."

  "Why?" I asked instantly. "What's wrong? What happened?" My worry level soared astronomically.

  "Nothing's wrong," he said in a weary voice. "I already told you anyway. Doc just said I've been overdoing it with the exercise lately. All that walking in cemeteries isn't good for me, apparently."

  "Pooh. You didn't walk all that much."

  "It hurt."

  "I know." Feeling guilty, I added, "I'm sorry."