by Alice Duncan
"You might well be right," I said as I led him into the dining room. There I rummaged through the china cabinet until I found a nice vase. "These will be a beautiful centerpiece," I told him, retreating into the kitchen to fill the vase with water.
"Glad you like them."
"Oh, how lovely!" Vi exclaimed when she saw Sam's flowers. "What a nice thing to do."
"What?" said Sam, standing in the kitchen door and rubbing his hands, which, I knew because I'd felt them, were cold from the outdoors. "I thought it was traditional for a man to bring flowers to his best girl."
"That's so sweet," Vi gushed.
As for me, I squinted at Sam, wondering if he was up to something. He must have read my mind, because he smiled and said, "What? Isn't it a tradition?"
"Whatever it is, the flowers are pretty, and I appreciate them, Sam Rotondo."
"You're more than welcome, Daisy Majesty."
Okay. I guess that took care of that. I placed the vase of flowers in the center of the table. I'd had to add an extra leaf—to the table, not the flowers—in order to accommodate that evening's extra diners. The flowers did look nice there.
About fifteen minutes after Sam's arrival, the Dermotts twisted our old-fashioned doorbell. Sam, Spike and I went to the door to greet them. Mr. Dermott, too, held a bouquet of flowers, which he thrust at me.
"Thank you for inviting us this evening," said he.
"Thank you for the flowers!" I exclaimed, not having anticipated them, although I guess it was also a tradition to bring hostess gifts to people who invited you to dinner. Not that I was the hostess, but... Well, maybe I was, come to think of it. Just because I couldn't boil an egg, didn't mean I hadn't spearheaded this evening's get-together.
"You're more than welcome," said Mrs. Dermott as she, her husband and her son walked into our house. I noticed her glancing around, as if checking to see if our home was as nice as she thought it should be.
Personally, I thought our home was perfect, but I wasn't Mrs. Dermott.
I'd met the Dermotts, except for Claude, at church get-togethers. Claude never came to church with his parents, but I knew him from years back when we'd both been little. We'd attended Sunday school together. He looked a lot like his mother, only taller.
Mr. Dermott was also tall, although not quite as tall as Sam. I made introductions all around, not leaving out Spike, who adored having people visit. To a person, the Dermotts claimed to adore Spike. Good thing, too.
Sam and Mr. Dermott helped Mrs. Dermott off with her coat and hat as I went to get another vase, into which I ran water and then stuck the Dermotts' flowers. Then I took that vase into the living room and put them on a doily on top of the piano. They looked good there. By that time the Dermotts and Sam had ambled into the living room. There Sam asked Claude to repeat what he'd heard at the club.
Claude did so, and Sam asked, "And you have no idea who was talking when you heard them?"
"No. I'm sorry. I didn't feel comfortable looking to see who they were. Well, whoever it was might have murdered someone. I didn't want to be next on the list."
"Understandable," said Sam.
"Oh, and here's the list I made of the club members. It's supposed to be confidential information, but... Well, I thought this was a valid exception." He peered closely at Sam. "You're not going to tell anyone I gave you that list, are you?"
"No," said Sam, looking at the paper in his hand before folding it and putting it into his jacket pocket. "This will remain our secret."
"Thank you." The words came from Claude along with a sigh of relief.
As for me, I thought Claude was kind of a sissy. Then again, he probably didn't get in trouble for snoopery as I sometimes did.
When Vi called us in for dinner, Claude had approved Harold's notion of Sam and me (and Harold) attending the following night's Christmas party. Sam didn't seem particularly thrilled, but I figured that was par for the course. And I just used a golfing expression! Boy, you just never know when you'll need a sporting term, do you? And such an appropriate one, too.
Dinner was spectacular, as usual. In actual fact, it was more spectacular than usual. The lamb was succulent, the popovers delicious, and Vi served us baked Roman beauty apples for dessert. When Mrs. Dermott asked her for the baked-apple recipe, Vi said she just cored the apples, put a dab of butter in the holes, and sprinkled them with cinnamon and sugar. The recipe sounded simple, but I knew if I ever tried it, I'd ruin it somehow. It's actually quite depressing to know one is a total failure at something so necessary to life as cooking.
Vi served the apples with thick, delicious cream. Perhaps I couldn't actually spoil cream, although it would probably be better for my family if I didn't attempt to do anything with cream except eat it.
After dinner, Ma and I stacked the dishes in the kitchen with the understanding I'd wash them after the Dermotts left. We all gathered in the living room and chatted some more, mainly about Dr. Wagner's murder.
"I didn't know him well," said Mr. Dermott at one point. "I only knew who he was, and I'd heard rumors that he mistreated his wife. We aren't rich enough to travel in the doctor's circles."
"Nonsense, Henry. You provide a very good living for us."
"Yeah, Pop, who wants to be rich, if you have to be like the Wagners?" said Claude, the dutiful son.
"I wouldn't mind being rich," I said.
Everyone turned to look at me. I shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't."
"Too bad you're aiming to marry a policeman then, isn't it?" said Sam. He smiled as he said it, so I don't think he was annoyed with me, although sometimes it's hard to tell with Sam.
At long last—far too long, in my opinion—the Dermotts took their leave. They thanked us over and over for inviting them to dinner. All three of them told Vi they'd never eaten a better meal. I'm sure that was true, but I was tired and wanted them gone quite a while before they left. But at least we'd solidified party plans for the following evening. Shoot. Tomorrow Lucy was going to come over to practice "What Child is This?" I wouldn't be at all surprised if I got an emergency telephone call from Mrs. Pinkerton, and then I had to be a fortune-teller at an evening party. Saturday sounded as though it was going to be an exhausting day.
It was almost midnight when I put the last plate away, and I was bushed. Whatever bushed means. Just another one of those idiosyncratic English sayings, I guess. Sam had left when the Dermotts did. Ma asked if I'd like her to help with the dishes, but I declined her kind offer. After all, she had to work on Saturdays. Mind you, the Hotel Marengo only demanded a half-day of their employees on Saturdays, but still, I didn't have to get up early as she did.
Naturally, I did anyway. My room led directly off the kitchen and no matter how quiet my family tried to be in order to allow me to sleep, Spike and I always knew when the kitchen was occupied. I think this had more to do with the scent of food than noise on anyone else's part. Spike and I were both food-hounds.
After breakfast and after Pa and I took Spike for a longer-than-usual walk around the neighborhood, I telephoned Lucy Zollinger. She answered the telephone sounding happy, which made me happy. Lucy had always been an even-tempered sort of person, but since her marriage, she seemed almost giddy with joy most of the time. I approved, as if anyone cares about that.
"Hey, Lucy, it's Daisy. When would you like to come over to practice?"
"Actually, why don't you come here? We can dine in the restaurant here at the Castle Green. Albert said he'd be delighted to escort the both of us. Then we can use the piano in the Valley Hunt Club's parlor."
"Won't the members of the Valley Hunt Club mind if we use their parlor?"
With a delighted titter, Lucy said, "Oh, my, no! Nobody uses it except when they hold meetings and events here. The Hotel Green is the Valley Hunt Club's headquarters, you know."
"Yes, I did know. Well... Thanks, Lucy. That sounds like fun. I..." I hesitated. What I had almost said was that I expected an hysterical Mrs. Pinkerton to telephone me and beg me
to bring Rolly and the tarot cards to her house for a reading or three. Then I decided that was ridiculous. Who was Mrs. Pinkerton to dictate how I spent my Saturdays? Well, besides being my most persistent and lucrative client. Hmmm.
Oh, heck. I could fit Mrs. Pinkerton in somewhere. The notion of taking luncheon at a fine restaurant at someone else's expense appealed to me more than attending to Mrs. P's whims.
"You what?" Lucy prompted.
"Not a thing," I answered. "I'd love that, Lucy. When should I arrive, and will we practice before or after we dine?"
"I want to show you our apartment first. Then I thought we'd take luncheon, and then practice. I don't suppose we really need much practice. We sing that hymn every year, after all."
"Yes, we do. I'm looking forward to seeing your apartment, Lucy. I love that hotel."
"I do, too. It's going to be a shock when we move to our own home, and I have to cook for poor Albert." She giggled, and I had a feeling poor Albert wouldn't mind. I also had a feeling Lucy was a much better cook than was I. Then again, most people were.
"Why don't you come here about twelve-thirty? Albert and I usually dine at one or thereabouts. Is that all right with you?"
"Perfect," I told her. "Thanks, Lucy. I'm looking forward to it."
"I am, too, Daisy. You're so talented."
I was? I didn't know that. But I didn't argue. "Thanks, Lucy. See you then."
We each hung our receivers on their cradles. I was about to turn around and head to the living room to resume reading A Passage to India when the telephone rang again. After glaring at it malevolently for no more than a couple of seconds, I answered it in my expert spiritualist-medium voice.
Mrs. Pinkerton. Although I'd anticipated this, I wasn't happy about it.
"Oh, Daisy! I know it's Saturday, and I know how busy you are, but could you please visit me today? Please?"
She sounded pathetic, which was normal. She'd had a brief respite from her woes, but it hadn't lasted long enough to suit me. Before answering her, I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten-o-five. Doing some quick calculations in my head—which hurt. I wasn't a mathematical genius—I finally said. "Yes, Mrs. Pinkerton. You sound as if you are having a hard time, and that grieves me." Boy, could I lay it on, or couldn't I? "I'll be happy to visit you at eleven this morning. I have a luncheon engagement and will be busy all afternoon, so that's the only time I can come." Technically, that was a fib, but I hoped to get in a short nap between lunch and dinner so I wouldn't be totally worn out when I played detective—I mean fortuneteller—at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club's Christmas party that evening.
"Yes!" Mrs. P shrieked, hurting my ears. Darn the woman! I'd just offered to sell her a part of my day; why'd she have to shriek at me about it? But then, Mrs. P seldom needed reasons for her shrieks. "Thank you so much, dear! I'm so very glad you can come. Please bring the Ouija board and tarot cards."
"I shall."
"Thank you," she said again. Then she commenced sobbing, my glance paid a visit to the ceiling, and I heard Pa chuckle in the background. I turned my head and stuck out my tongue at him. Childish, I know, but he didn't mind. In fact, he chuckled harder.
After that was over, Spike and I retreated into our bedroom and I flung wide the closet doors. Things were getting squishy in there, and I decided it was past time for me to cull my wardrobe. I could donate the clothing I no longer wore to the Salvation Army. Flossie and Johnny were always thrilled to get donations to give to the deserving—and sometimes the undeserving—poor.
The weather remained chilly to us spoiled Pasadenans, so I decided to wear a fairly new gown I'd made using the rendition of a Jean Lanvin creation I'd copied from a Vogue magazine at the library. The dress was a dark, chocolaty brown, which suited the weather, and had cream-colored inserts in the slashed bishop sleeves. The sleeves were a little poufy at my wrists, but I didn't think they'd get in the way of my knife and fork. Or the piano keys. The dress was ankle-length, and it was supposed to have a high collar, but I don't feel comfortable in high, tight collars, so I just rounded the neck band and left the collar off entirely. The waist was dropped, as was fashionable, and I could wear my brown cloche hat, brown shoes with a short Louis heel, and carry my brown handbag.
My gorgeous emerald engagement ring looked quite spiffy with the color of the gown. Cream-and-brown embroidery—in a pattern reminiscent of fleur-de-lis, at least to me—around the neckline and at the lowered waist made any other adornment unnecessary. Which was a good thing, since I didn't happen to have a string of matched pearls or an emerald necklace to go with my elegant chocolate-colored gown. Not that Sam wouldn't give me something like that if he had the money. Probably. His father could undoubtedly get a deal on the emeralds or pearls and create the necklace himself. But such a flamboyant piece of jewelry wouldn't fit my image as a sober-sided spiritualist-medium, so it was just as well.
I grabbed my Methodist hymnal from the piano stand before leaving home, figuring I'd need it once I got to Lucy's place.
Naturally, my first stop of the morning after I dressed myself was at Mrs. Pinkerton's house. There everything went as I'd anticipated. In other words, Mrs. P was in a State (with a capital S), cried and moaned, and Rolly and the tarot cards told her the same things they always told her. I was glad to get out of there. I did pop into the kitchen to say hey to my wonderful aunt, but she was up to her elbows in flour, so I didn't stay.
As I drove from Mrs. P's mansion on Orange Grove to the Hotel Green on Raymond Avenue and Green Street, I contemplated the dinner-table conversation the night before.
I really wouldn't mind being rich. And if I were, I wouldn't pester phony spiritualist-mediums or wear flashy jewelry, either.
Did God believe that?
Heck, I'm not sure if I believed it. But as there was little possibility I'd ever find out, I don't suppose it mattered.
Chapter 27
Lucy was delighted when I rang her doorbell and she answered same.
"Daisy! I've been wanting to have you over for the longest time. After all, you've invited us to your house several times, and this is the first chance I've had to reciprocate."
Interesting. I'd never thought of dinner invitations and so forth as events needing reciprocation. Then again, my society manners, while fairly well ingrained due to my profession, hadn't taught me everything about how life is supposed to be lived. I don't think Vi expected us to take her out to dinner every time she fed us one of her delicious meals, which was a darned good thing. We'd be broke in no time flat if she did. Sam sometimes took us all out to dinner, but we didn't think of his invitations as reciprocation exactly. He wanted us to know he appreciated us as a family that had, in a way, adopted him as one of ours.
"Nonsense!" said I heartily. "You needn't reciprocate. We love to have you and Mr. Zollinger over." We hadn't had them to dine but once or twice, so I don't know why I'm going on about this topic.
At any rate, the Zollingers' apartment was lovely, and I could imagine their home on Holliston Avenue would be likewise spiffy. Mr. Zollinger clearly made a lot of money. I was glad for Lucy. And for him, too, of course.
I raved about Lucy's pretty furnishings and admirable decorating skills until Mr. Zollinger corralled us and led us downstairs via the elevator and guided us to the Castle Green's restaurant, which was mighty fancy.
There we dined on chicken a la king—the Castle Green's pastry wasn't as flaky as Vi's—and then Lucy and her Albert led us to the Valley Hunt Club's parlor. Sure enough, the room was empty save for a grand piano and several chairs scattered here and there.
"What a pretty room," said I as I walked piano-wards. It really was. The walls were decorated with, appropriately, hunting prints and pictures of past Tournament of Roses Parades. The Hunt Club had sponsored the Rose Parade until interest in the parade grew too large for it to handle. Then the Tournament of Roses Association was formed. If anyone cares.
"Yes, I think it is, too," said Lucy. "Why
don't we sing the whole song and not just the third verse?" she suggested. "After all, we'll get more practice that way."
"Sounds like a good plan to me," I said.
So I sat at the piano and practiced a few chords. I had to push my sleeves up a trifle due to those puffy bishop sleeves. Too late I realized they actually did get in the way. I do believe I'd even picked up a little gravy from my luncheon. Ah, well. Such is life. I could wash the dress.
After I felt comfortable at the piano, Lucy stood beside me, folded her hands in front of her waist like an opera singer getting ready to belt out an aria, I played the introduction to "What Child is This?" and we both began to sing. We started at the beginning and went through all four verses. That is to say we sang the four verses we Methodists had in our hymnals.
For all I know, there are dozens more stanzas to the song, the music for which has been around for a really long time. In fact, I read somewhere that folks in British public houses—we here in the USA call those things saloons or bars, or did until Prohibition when they turned into speakeasies—used to sing the melody as a drinking song in the 1600s, although I'm not sure about that. History contains a whole lot of iffy information. If you want to get to the absolute truth of any matter, you have to do more digging than I usually care to do. Our Methodist version was first published in 1871.
Anyway, by the time we'd finished the fourth verse, I was surprised to learn we'd attracted an audience. Applause came from the door. I spun on the piano seat to see a whole bunch of men standing with Mr. Zollinger, clapping to beat the band. I know I blushed, because my face went all hot. Darn my red-headed coloring.
To my astonishment, Gaylord Wagner shoved his way through the crowd and swaggered over to Lucy and me. I gazed at him and tried to hide my discomfort. What the heck was he doing there?
"That was lovely, ladies!" he cried, all ebullience and heartiness. "A gorgeous rendition of a gorgeous hymn by two gorgeous ladies."