by Alice Duncan
"What's your idea?" asked Sam of Harold, giving up on me as a lost cause, I guess.
Harold elucidated. "The Wagner brothers have been tippling quite heavily this evening, and—"
"Tippling?" I cried, horrified. "You mean they're drinking? Alcohol?"
Harold and Sam both rolled their eyes. I swear, if they only knew how alike they were...
"Get a grip on your sanity, Daisy. Of course, they're drinking alcohol," said Harold. "What else would you expect two idiots like them to drink? Christmas punch?"
"But where do they get alcohol? In the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club?"
"They probably have their own bootlegger and stocked up before they even arrived at the party."
"But—"
"Never mind, Daisy," said Sam, annoying me, although I'm not sure why. "It's too damned cold out here to talk about how the Wagners get their booze. What's your idea, Kincaid?"
So Harold explained. "They've both drunk enough that they're being unwise in their communications. They and their pals have been chuckling and guffawing over something, thinking they're being coy. Fred Greenlaw is with them, and he and I just decided he should lure the Wagners into a back parlor, where Fred might be able to find out what they think is so damned funny. I think you and I, Detective Rotondo, should pay a surreptitious visit to the same back parlor. If Fred is a good-enough actor—and I think he is—and if they confess to murdering their old man, maybe Fred will get them to tell all. After all, Fred's a doctor. He also loathed Doctor Wagner because, not only was Doctor Wagner a bad egg, but he also... uh... interfered with Hazel when she was younger."
I gasped and cried "No!" although I don't know why. At that point, I was willing to believe anything atrocious of the late and exceedingly evil and unlamented Dr. Wagner.
Ignoring my outcry, Sam said, "Good idea. You think Greenlaw will be believable? If the Wagner boys are guilty of murder, they probably won't take kindly to people butting in on their revelations."
Harold waived Sam's worry away with an airy hand. "Don't worry about Fred. He's been buttering up the two dim-witted Wagners all evening long. So has Hazel, but Fred has a better chance of prying the truth out of them. They don't want women interfering in their business. They think of women as being stupid and undeserving and good for only one thing."
"The cads!"
All right, all right, I know the old-fashioned epithet was ridiculous under the circumstances, but I couldn't help myself.
"Sounds like they take after their old man," said Sam.
"They do," said Harold.
"I'm freezing to death," said I.
Sam put an arm around me. "Let's get you back inside. You can continue to read your crystal ball, and Kincaid and I will see if we can hear the Wagner boys confess to something for which we can arrest them." He eyed Harold with some misgiving. "You're sure your friend will be able to convince the brothers he's on the up-and-up?"
"Fred is an acting genius," said Harold.
"If you say so," said Sam.
So I went back into the club before Harold and Sam so no one would think the three of us had been out there together. Boy, I hadn't realized how many rich people in Pasadena smoked cigarettes and cigars. Coming into the fuggy atmosphere from the clean out-of-doors, made me stop in the doorway and wave my hand in front of my face, trying to clear away some of the smoke. Didn't work.
Nevertheless, eyes watering from the smudgy air, I returned to my table in my little private part of the front parlor and sat once more in front of my crystal ball. Which was, at that very moment, a sickly mud-gray color. I lifted my head and glanced around the room. Sure enough, Gaylord and Vincent stood in front of the wall of chairs, chatting with a few of their friends. I noticed Fred Greenlaw among their cohorts. It looked to me as though Harold had been correct about Fred. He was laughing it up and slapping people on the back, and being as much of a hail-fellow-well-met as any of the other rich young men he huddled with. I also noticed no women graced their group.
As Sam would say, "Huh." Well, Harold would say it, too, come to think of it.
Then Gaylord hollered, "Stanley, old man!" and I jumped a little in my chair.
"Gay and Vince," Stanley hollered back, making my ears ring. Those fellows were loud.
I knew the reason. Since Harold had let me in on their secret, I now understood those pretty flowered teacups each man held didn't contain tea, but some kind of illicit alcohol. Well, except for the cup held by Fred Greenlaw. He was no scofflaw, unlike the other men in that group.
But I had to get back to work. I wanted to sneak to the back parlor, where it looked as if the gang of Wagners and their cronies were headed, but I had to leave that up to Sam and Harold. Curse all men! I wanted to be there! I wanted to hear what those horrible men said to each other. I wanted to see Fred Greenlaw practice his acting skills on a bunch of fellows who weren't nearly as smart as he.
Mind you, I was only assuming the last item on that list. But the man was a doctor, for Pete's sake. You couldn't become a doctor unless you were pretty darned smart.
Instantly my mind leapt back to that wet green cemetery where Spike had discovered the muddy body of the late Dr. Everhard Wagner, and I revised my doctor theory. But only slightly. I'm sure medical colleges were much tougher on their students in these modern times than they'd been when Dr. Wagner went to school.
Or maybe they weren't.
It didn't matter. That's because my crystal ball had become the hit of the Christmas party, young maidens were once again lined up, so I had to get back to work. Piffle.
But the young ladies were nice and sweet, all a good deal younger than I—and I was only twenty-five, for crumb's sake—and they appreciated my talents, such as they were. Then again, maybe I felt so much older than they because I'd actually lived for a few years. I'd been married; seen the love of my life come back from an unspeakable war the shell of his former self; I'd nursed him through terrible times; and I'd mourned his loss when he finally put himself out of his misery. These young things had been pampered and petted and given everything they'd ever wanted ever since they were born. Our lives were...
Marianne Grenville's face appeared in my crystal ball.
I swear to heaven, it did. What's more, Marianne's face was then replaced by the face of Miss Emmaline Castleton, who had lost her fiancé in the late Great War and who also suffered from tuberculosis. I looked around, flabbergasted, but saw no one peering oddly at my ball or at me.
Good. However, I did revise my scenario regarding the lives of the young women who were asking a piece of glass for advice about their various lives. I didn't know what any of them were going through or had gone through, and I had no right to judge a single one of them. I almost wish Johnny Buckingham were there so I could relay to him my profound revelation.
I swear to heaven, I didn't think that line of young women would ever get smaller. It seemed to me every lady in the club that evening wanted to ask something of my crystal ball. Most of them had questions about their love lives, but some actually had problems they wanted advice about. From a piece of glass...
Never mind. It made them happy when I told them the ball had told me something.
I was sitting across from a young woman named Natalie Levine when loud crashing noises came from the back of the club, along with several loud bellows of what sounded like rage. A shot rang out, nearly scaring the socks off of me. Both Miss Levine and I jumped a foot or so and turned to see what had caused the ruckus.
Darned if we didn't see Detective Sam Rotondo, Officer Doan, and another uniformed policeman hauling the handcuffed Wagner brothers from the premises. Fred Greenlaw and Harold Kincaid followed at a distance that made me think they didn't want to be known as having had anything to do with how and why the Wagner boys had been arrested.
Miss Levine, her hand to her mouth, said, "Oh, my!"
I couldn't have said it better myself.
Claude Dermott, looking frazzled, entered the room from anothe
r door, casting wild glances around the room. "What happened?" he hollered. "What's going on?" Poor fellow. He was supposed to be in charge of the place.
Harold hooked him by the elbow and led him over to my table. He—Harold, I mean—bowed politely to Miss Levine and said, "I beg your pardon, Natalie, but I need to talk to Mrs. Majesty for a moment or two. I'm sorry for the interruption."
"That's all right," said Miss Levine. "Whatever is going on?"
It sounded to me as if she were more interested in why the Wagner brothers had been hauled away than in my crystal ball. I was glad of it, because I wanted to hear Harold's tale, too.
Therefore, Harold drew up another chair in front of my table, shoved Claude Dermott into it, gestured for Fred Greenlaw to stand guard over us, and both he and Fred leaned over the table.
"It worked," said Harold gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. I know that's not possible, but it's a time-honored expression, so it's fair to use it. Harold's grin was certainly wide.
Astonished, I said, "You mean they confessed to murdering their father?"
Natalie Levine gasped.
"What?" barked Mr. Dermott? "They did what?"
"They confessed!" I said.
"Not precisely," said Harold.
"What the heck does that mean?" I asked, irked.
"They said enough for us to know they buried their old man in the cemetery. Sam sneaked away to call in his two outriders, and we listened another couple of minutes. They were laughing about it!"
"Who was laughing about what?" I asked.
"The Wagners were laughing about hauling their father to the cemetery and dumping him into a hole."
"Good heavens," I said, my nose wrinkling in disgust.
"I don't think heaven had anything to do with it," said Harold.
"So they were the ones I heard in the locker room?" asked Mr. Dermott.
"I guess so," said Harold. "You didn't recognize their voices?"
"Well, no, but lots of men are members here. I don't know them all, and I certainly don't know what each of them sounds like."
"I guess it doesn't matter. Sam said he thinks he can break them."
"What does that mean?" Claude Dermott asked, appearing horrified, probably because he thought it meant Sam would batter them about the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument until something actually did break.
"It's only a figure of speech. He already has them confessing to burying their father, and they wouldn't have done that if the guy wasn't dead. I figure they must have killed him if they knew he was dead and they buried him, right?"
"Oh. Yes. That makes sense," said Mr. Dermott, who wasn't quite as quick-witted as Harold.
"What about the baseball bat in George Greenville's garden shed?" I asked.
"They were chortling about that all night," said Harold, sounding disgusted. For good reason. "They thought that was the cream of the jest. Pin the murder on poor old George, who's never even held a baseball, much less hit one with a bat."
"I guess," said I, thinking Harold was probably right.
"Oh, dear. Oh, dear," said Mr. Dermott. "It looks as if the crowd is getting upset. I think I'd better call the festivities to an end."
"Good idea," said Harold.
I glanced around the room and, sure enough, people seemed to be fidgeting, staring at the front door to the club and looking worried and upset, as if they weren't sure what had just happened or what they should do now. Fred Greenlaw turned to Mr. Dermott.
"Want me to make an announcement, Claude?" he asked.
"Oh, would you? Thanks, Fred. Your voice is much louder than mine."
All it took was a loud voice? Well, who was I to argue?
But darned if Mr. Dermott wasn't correct.
Fred stood on a chair, lifted his arms in the air and hollered, "Friends! Sorry for the disruption of our Christmas party! But it's now..." He shook his arm, thereby allowing his coat sleeve to fall and reveal a gold wristwatch, and said, "...nearly midnight, and it's time to call a halt to the festivities. The recent disruption isn't any fault of the club or the club's fine manager. So if everyone will fetch your coats, hats, et cetera, we'll all go home and have a jolly and happy Christmas!"
The orchestra began playing again. This time it was "Jingle Bells," which got everyone out of their surprised stupors and put grins on all their faces.
"I guess I'd better go, too," said Natalie Levine, whom I'd forgotten all about. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Majesty."
Had I helped her? I couldn't even remember. Nevertheless, I smiled enigmatically and said, "You're most welcome. Have a lovely Christmas."
"Thanks. You, too." And Natalie Levine hurried off.
I had no idea where Sam was, or how Harold and I were going to get home.
Chapter 31
I needn't have worried. As ever, Harold took care of me.
"Just wait here, sweetie. I'll make sure everyone's able to drive home. I'll call a cab for the ones who aren't compos mentis."
"Why wouldn't they... Oh." Only then did I recall the imbibing that had been going on in the club that evening.
"Yes," said Harold. "Oh. But put everything away and wait for me. Fred will drive us to the police station. I want to know what's transpiring on the Wagner front."
"So do I." Darn Sam anyhow. He could have scooped me up on his way out the door, couldn't he?
Oh, very well, that would have been unprofessional of him.
Harold and Fred scurried off to see that everyone at the party was able to get home, and I began packing up my spiritualist paraphernalia. I was about to pick up my crystal ball from its stand when I noticed it had turned dead black.
I jumped slightly, my hands flying away from the ball, and sat back in my chair. Black? I glanced to my left and to my right, and then looked at the ceiling, thinking someone had turned off the lights. No one had. Tentatively I peeked again at the ball. Still black.
Lordy, Lordy, what did this mean?
I jumped about three yards in the air when I heard, very softly, from behind me, "Don't say a word, Mrs. Majesty. You're going to help me get my brothers out of jail now."
Whirling in my chair, I saw the fellow I'd heard people call Stanley. Stanley? Brothers? What was the man talking about?
"Wh-who are you?"
"Stanley, Mrs. Majesty." He pointed a teensy little gun at me. I think those things are called derringers, but I'm no gun expert.
"But... Who are your brothers? What are you talking about?"
"Tut, tut, Mrs. Majesty. And here I'd been told you were a clever woman."
"No. I'm not. And I don't know who you are or why you're pointing that gun at me. It's a rude thing to do and I wish you'd stop it."
"Can't."
"Nonsense! You could if you wanted to." All right, it probably wasn't wise to argue with a man holding a gun on me. I was upset.
"Gaylord and Vincent Wagner are my brothers, Mrs. Majesty."
"Your brothers?"
Squinting at him, I discerned a vague family resemblance. Gaylord and Vincent were both stockier than Stanley, but they all three had the same squinty weasel eyes and pointy weasel chins. Marianne didn't inherit ugly eyes from her father. Still and all... brothers?
"Yes. Their old man knocked up my mother, and I was the result."
"I-I-I—"
"Don't bother trying to figure it out. The dead doctor was a son of a bitch. Everyone knows that. My mother knew it, too, but she kept me anyway after I was born. I got to know my brothers quite a few years ago. They hated Dear Old Dad almost as much as I did."
"Did... Did you kill him?"
"Now why would you think that?"
"Because you're pointing a gun at me."
"You're not as dumb as you look, I guess."
"That's not nice!"
"Shut up," said Stanley, sounding more serious than he had before. He looked it, too. In fact, he looked downright mean and nasty. "Gather your things together, Mrs. Majesty. Then we're going for a ri
de down to the police station. There I aim to get my brothers and hightail it out of Pasadena forever. I'm sure your tame detective will trade my brothers for you."
"But—"
"I said shut up! Damn you, get your things and come with me. Now."
He'd walked up to me and now stood directly behind my chair, inducing an anxiety I couldn't recall feeling before in my life, although I'd been in some mighty tight corners, so maybe I'd merely neglected to recall the feeling. If so, I don't blame myself. It was a most unpleasant one. "Um... Um... I'll get my handbag. May I do that?"
"I just told you to do that," he reminded me, snarling. Now he looked kind of like a rabid weasel, although I don't know that for sure, never having seen a rabid weasel.
"Oh, yes. I'm sorry. You're making me nervous."
He shook his head in mock sympathy. "What a shame. Now hurry up."
So I leaned down to fetch my handbag and darned if I didn't first feel Sam's cane. I'd completely forgotten about it. I could use it as a weapon! Maybe. What could I do with Sam's cane? Against a gun?
I had no earthly idea.
"Ready, Daisy?" came Harold's voice from across the room. "Fred's—Hey, what's—?"
The sound of a very loud gunshot ended Harold's sentence for him.
Horrified, I forgot all about being afraid, grabbed Sam’s cane from under my table, held it by its curving top, swung it like a baseball bat, and bashed Stanley Whatever His Last Name Was on the side of his head with it. Stanley stumbled, fell over my chair, and crashed onto the table, taking my still-black crystal ball with him. The gun flew somewhere. I didn't keep track of it. I just kept thumping Stanley's head with Sam's cane.
He screamed. "Stop it! Bitch!"
"What the devil!" came from Fred Greenlaw.
He, too, rushed into the room, and he and Harold raced over to where I continued battering Stanly Whomever on the head. He'd lifted his hands to cover same, so I flailed at his fingers, too.
"Daisy!" Harold cried.
"Daisy!" Fred cried.
"Make her stop!" Stanley cried.