Spirits Unearthed

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by Alice Duncan


  "You shot Harold!" I bellowed at him. "I'm not going to stop until you're dead!"

  "Daisy!" Harold yelled, trying and failing to grab the cane from my grasp. "He didn't shoot me. The bullet missed."

  "I don't care! He tried to shoot you! He was going to shoot me!"

  "Daisy! Stop it!"

  Fred and Harold finally managed to grasp an arm each and hauled me away from Stanley. I managed to get one last vicious whack in, which effectively did in the cane as a weapon, unless Fred and Harold let go of me. Then I aimed to stab Stanley with the broken, pointy end of what used to be a pretty sturdy cane.

  Stanley whimpered on the floor, his hands still over his head and beginning to show bruises, a relatively gory puddle of blood growing around him. Panting, I stood over him, held in four strong hands, longing to finish killing the fiendish whimperer.

  "What on earth is going on in here?"

  Claude Dermott screeched to a halt in front of what was left of my fortune-telling table. I had no idea where my crystal ball had rolled.

  "He pointed a gun at me! He shot Harold!"

  "Did not!" Stanley screamed.

  So I kicked him. Hard.

  He screamed again.

  Fred and Harold dragged me a couple of inches farther back. I continued, panting like a winded racehorse, "He's Gaylord and Vincent's brother! He made my crystal ball turn black! He said he was going to take me to the police station to get his brothers out of jail! He said Sam would trade them for me!"

  "Huh?" said Mr. Dermott.

  "I don't think she's coherent yet," said Harold.

  "Can we let you go, Daisy?" asked Fred. "Don't hit Stanley again, all right? Or kick him. He's subdued now."

  "He's a devil!" I screeched.

  "All right, enough is enough, Daisy. Drink this."

  And darned if Harold didn't hold a flask to my lips, tilt my head back, and make me swallow something vile that burned its way down my gullet.

  My fit of rage ended in a fit of convulsive coughing.

  However, thanks to Stanley’s having shot a gun in the sacred confines of the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club, Claude Dermott, when he called the police, learned a car was already on its way because someone else had telephoned to report the gunshot. He and Fred managed to tie Stanley up with some ribbon that had lately decorated a table. By the time the police arrived, he was trussed as neatly as a Christmas package, but he looked nowhere near as inviting. He also bled a lot from various bashed placed on and around his head.

  In actual fact, I'd damaged him a good deal. I'd have been ashamed of myself if he hadn't threatened me with a gun and shot at my best friend. Later Sam told me I'd given him a concussion, and he'd probably lose at least some of the hearing in one of his ears. I'd wanted to kill him, so I thought those results were paltry.

  When I told Sam that, he only looked at me and shook his head.

  * * *

  Anyway, here’s what ultimately happened to Dr. Everhard A. Wagner and the aftermath of the 1924 Christmas party at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club.

  Of his three sons—Diane and Marianne had no idea Stanley even existed until after that fateful party at the club—Stanley was probably the one who hated him most. That, he claimed at the police station, was because he was a bastard—Stanley, not Dr. Wagner—and he resented Gaylord and Vincent for being born to Dr. Wagner's wife, when Stanley's mother was only one of the doctors many mistresses.

  Stanley got to know Gaylord and Vincent, who thought it was a hoot that they had a brother who'd been born out of wedlock. Stanley buttered up the Wagner boys, although he still resented them like fire. He badgered his father to acknowledge him as a full-fledged son, mainly so he could partake of the doctor's wealth, of which he—Dr. Wagner, I mean—seemed to be losing a lot in recent years.

  Because of that, and because all three of Dr. Wagner's sons were awful people, they plotted the old man's demise, Gaylord and Vincent promising Stanley a portion of the doctor's fortune after they inherited same. Stanley—whose last name, I eventually learned, was Clarke (with an E, as Stanley was quick to point out, probably because he thought it looked classier than plain old Clark)—did the actual deed by battering Dr. Wagner over the head with a baseball bat. Not, in fact, unlike what I'd done to him with Sam's cane, so Stanley got what he deserved in my opinion. Sam only sighed when I told him so, but that's neither here nor there. After Stanley had done the actual deed, Gaylord and Vincent helped wrap the dead doctor in a rug, carry the corpse up to Mountain View Cemetery in Gaylord's motorcar, and bury it in a shallow grave.

  And there he would have stayed had Sam and I not taken Spike to the cemetery that soggy Monday two weeks before Christmas in 1924.

  Oh, and my crystal ball had rolled across the room and stopped underneath a lovely wing chair in a corner of the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club's decorated-for-Christmas parlor. It was clear as a bell when I hauled it out from under the chair, dusted it off, and put it in its embroidered bag. It hasn't turned gray or black since, and I sincerely hope it never will again.

  Diane and Marianne were stunned to learn of Stanley's existence, although they weren't surprised. They'd even postulated other children in the doctor's life to me once or twice before. George and Marianne Grenville decided to sell their home on Catalina Avenue and move into the beautiful house on El Molino Avenue. Diane objected at first, wanting nothing to do with the place where she and Marianne had been tortured, but Marianne and George promised her they'd redecorate the home and make a happy, friendly, welcoming place for the three of them—and any children George and Marianne might decide to adopt. Thanks to her loathsome father, she'd never be able to bear children of her own; but she, George, and Diane, all three, possessed loving hearts and wanted to help children in need.

  I thought that was sweet of them.

  Harold, Fred, Sam and I didn't get home until the wee hours of Sunday morning after that wretched Christmas party. Fred dropped Sam and me off at my family's Marengo bungalow, Sam spent the night on our sofa. Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi and Spike were all delighted to see him Sunday morning. Both Sam and I were still groggy from the night before, but we revived a bit over breakfast as we told my family the story of the party.

  "Good Lord," Ma gasped. "He had another son out of wedlock? Oh, poor Mrs. Wagner!"

  "Yes, and poor Marianne," I agreed. "Neither she nor her mother deserve what that terrible man did to them. And all the Wagner sons seem to be chips off the old block." I suddenly thought of something and stared at Sam, appalled. "Oh, Lord, Sam, you don't think there are any other Wagner bastards running around loose in Pasadena, do you?"

  "Daisy!" my mother cried, horrified by my language.

  "I'm sorry, Ma, but that's what Stanley is. I didn't mean it as a bad word." My nose wrinkled, acknowledging my last sentence as a lie. Oh, well.

  "I hope not," said Sam, shoveling in a bite of Vi's delicious scrambled eggs.

  "What an awful thing to happen, though," said Vi. "Are you sure you're all right, Daisy? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

  Sam and I exchanged a long glance across the table. I finally said, "Um, no. He didn't hurt me."

  "Daisy, however, nearly killed him," said Sam. He would.

  "You did?" Pa looked at me with approval.

  Ma and Vi didn't.

  "Well, he shot at Harold," I said in a lame attempt to justify my out-of-control behavior the night before. "When I first hit him with the cane, I thought he'd just killed my best friend."

  "He got what he deserved," said Sam, sticking up for me. And this, after I'd ruined his cane. What a great guy he was. "He murdered his own father, don't forget. And Daisy's right. He would have shot Harold if his aim had been true. I'm sure he'd have shot Daisy, too."

  "Oh, my word," said Ma in a horrified whisper.

  "Good Lord," said Vi, likewise afflicted.

  "Good for you," said Pa.

  Have I mentioned I love my father?

  Anyway, although it was a struggle, I manage
d to get dressed and ready for church on time. Sam, wearing the non-evening clothes he'd left at our house what seemed like years before, but had only been the last evening, drove us in his Hudson.

  I staggered into the choir room, donned my robe, and got in line behind Lucy Zollinger. I have to admit my eyes teared up during "Savior of the Nations, Come," our anthem for that day, but I think they were only the result of emotions left over from the previous night. We didn't stay for cookies and tea after church, but hightailed it back home, where Sam dropped us off and then took off for his own home. Spike and I went to bed and napped for hours.

  Lucy Zollinger and I sang a wonderful duet during the third verse of "What Child Is This" the next Wednesday, Christmas Eve. The rest of the Christmas Eve service was beautiful, the ladies of the church having outdone themselves decorating the church for the occasion.

  I bought Sam another cane and gave it to him on Christmas Day when he came over to our place for dinner.

  "It's not your real Christmas present," I said, feeling a little silly about handing him a beautifully polished Malacca cane, complete with a horse's-head handle and with a green Christmas ribbon adorning it. "But I thought since I broke your other one, I owed you a new one."

  Sam stared down at me for a long few moments, during which I twitched and fidgeted. Then he smiled, said, "Thank you," and kissed me.

  I breathed easier after that.

  My brother and sister, Daphne and Walter; their respective spouses, Daniel and Jeanette; and Daphne and Daniel's two children, Polly and Peggy, all oohed and aahed when told the tale of the terrible doctor and how Spike had managed to find his foot in a shoe in the cemetery.

  They also oohed and aahed over the lovely Christmas gifts I'd made for them, thanked Ma and Pa for the practical gifts they'd given them, devoured Aunt Vi's delicious Christmas dinner, and generally had a great time. I played the piano and we all sang Christmas carols. By golly, Sam sang with us. He, as I may have mentioned, has a glorious bass voice. I love Christmas.

  And then came 1925. Oh, my.

  The End

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  SHAKEN SPIRITS

  A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

  Book Thirteen

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  Aunt Vi's Swedish Smothered Chicken

  ~

  When I woke up at home, aching to beat the band, I couldn't remember what had happened. The last thing I remembered was sighing when the last band and the last float in the 1925 Tournament of Roses Parade passed us by, and we got ready to walk home, chatting happily amongst ourselves.

  My fiancé, Detective Sam Rotondo, who worked for the Pasadena Police Department, had joined us for the special event. Even though we weren't married yet, Sam was part of the family.

  The weather was brisk, it being the first day of January and mid-winter and all, although you can hardly tell one season from another in Southern California. However, winter is colder than summer, even in Pasadena.

  Therefore, I worried a bit about Sam's left leg, which had sustained a bullet wound a few months prior to that day. It seemed to hurt him more when the weather turned chilly. "Are you sure you can walk all that way?" I asked him before we left home, being the solicitous fiancée I was.

  "Of course, I'm sure," said Sam grumpily. He didn't like to have his weaknesses pointed out, even if they weren't his fault.

  "Just asking," said I, a trifle miffed, although I'm not sure why. I knew Sam well enough by then to know he'd be a touchy old grouch if anyone mentioned his leg. "Have you taken any aspirin this morning?"

  He heaved an exasperated sigh. "You know I have. You're the one who gave them to me along with the glass of water."

  "Yes, yes, I know. I just worry about you, is all."

  Sam rolled his eyes ceiling-wards. He was always doing that.

  "Well, I do! It's because I love you."

  "Are you going to be a nagging wife?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Just checking."

  He grinned, and I felt like smacking him. He enjoyed getting me all riled up, the fiend.

  "Anyhow," Sam continued, "I have this lovely new cane to use if my leg bothers me." He brandished same, and I felt my face flush. I'd given him that new cane, a Malacca number with a swell horse's head handle, as one of his Christmas presents. He'd needed it because I'd broken his old cane over the head of a vicious murderer. But I didn't like to think about that.

  After we'd settled the cane-and-leg issue, Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, Sam, and I all began the walk up to Colorado Boulevard, where we aimed to find a place from which to watch the big parade. We were joined in this endeavor by the Wilsons, our next-door neighbors to the north. Pudge Wilson, the young scion of the family, had celebrated his thirteenth birthday not long back and had graduated to full Boy Scout status. He wore his uniform proudly, and always attempted to do at least one good deed every day, preferably early so he didn't have to think about it again.

  It became apparent shortly after the Wilsons joined our party that Pudge's good deed on that New Year's Day was to assist Sam Rotondo, who didn't appreciate Pudge's efforts on his behalf. I kind of wanted to take Pudge aside and tell him to lay off that particular good deed, but didn't get the opportunity. We walked in a clump and got to Colorado Street together. Pudge then made himself useful by clearing a spot on the curb for us to stand. I worried about Sam having to stand for so long, but I didn't press the issue. Anyhow, Pudge had thought to bring his camp stool, which folded up when not in use.

  "If anyone gets tired of standing, just sit here," said he, giving Sam a meaningful glance.

  "Thank you, Pudge," I said, since Sam didn't seem inclined to thank the boy.

  Pudge, who had been sweet on me for quite a while by then, blushed up a storm. He was so cute. I have no idea why his nickname was Pudge, because he was approximately as big around as a broom straw. I'd asked Mrs. Wilson once, and she'd merely shrugged and said she wasn't sure how he'd come by the moniker either.

  The Rose Parade was beautiful, as usual. The Tournament of Roses Queen that year was Miss Margaret Scoville, a pretty young woman whom I didn't know personally. Criminy, that made me feel old—and I'd only just turned twenty-five in November! But there you go. All my school friends were married or working or having babies or whatever, and a whole new crop of lovelies had sprung up while I wasn't looking.

  After the parade ended, we started the short walk home.

  And that was all I remembered.

  When I woke up, Dr. Benjamin, our wonderful family doctor, stood at the head of my bed. Spike, my late husband's beloved black-and-tan dachshund—everyone else in the family loved him, too—lay on the foot of the bed, staring at me and looking worried. Sam, Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, Mrs. Wilson and Pudge had clumped together around my bed. Ma and Aunt Vi were crying into their hankies. Mrs. Wilson had Pudge's hand in hers, and it looked to me as though they were squeezing each other hard.

  I'm pretty sure I blinked at the assembly. "Wh-what happened?" I asked. Not original, but I really wanted to know.

  "You were hit by a car," said Pa, his voice shaking slightly.

  "I was?"

  "Yes," said Ma. She sniffled and added, "Sam insisted on carrying you home."

  "With your leg?" I said with a gasp, my left arm having just given a particularly sharp twinge just then.

  "No," said Sam, his voice hard. "In my arms."

  I'd lifted my head slightly to ask my
stupid question, but let it fall again, exhausted and exasperated. Besides, lifting my heat hurt. "You know what I meant."

  "Yeah. I know." Sam brought a chair from the kitchen into my bedroom—which was right off the kitchen and, therefore, easy to fetch—and fell onto it with something of a plunk.

  "Oh, Daisy, we were so frightened," whispered Ma. Pa put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. "You were bleeding everywhere!" She turned and wept onto Pa's shoulder.

  "There was blood all over the place," Pudge contributed. He sounded a little more excited than worried. What the heck. He was a boy, so I didn't fault him.

  "I-I still don't understand precisely what happened," I said. Looking to Dr. Benjamin, who was probably the most coherent member of the group gathered in my bedroom, I asked, "Do you know, Doc?"

  "Just what your father told me. A car hit you and slammed you into a nearby tree. Sam carried you home, and Vi telephoned my house. I rushed over."

  "I'm sorry," said I, grieved to have been the one to spoil his holiday.

  "I'm not. I'm glad I was at home," said he in his brisk way. "Norma and I were getting ready to listen to the football game. Well, I was, anyway." He grinned, and I got the impression Mrs. Benjamin—Norma—wasn't as fond of football as was the doctor.

  "I hurt all over," I said then, taking a mental scan of my body's aches and pains. "Is anything broken?"

  "Your left arm," said Dr. Benjamin. "I set it for you and brought a sling. I'll have to make a cast for it, but I can do that tomorrow. You're lucky it was a simple break."

  Lucky, was I? Somehow, I couldn't find it within myself to be grateful. "But I need both of my arms!" I cried, appalled.

  "Daisy, you need to heal," said Sam. "It'll take time. That's what you're always telling me about my leg." As I've already mentioned, Sam had been shot in his left thigh by an evil woman some months prior to this current event. He wasn't a patient… patient, so I was irked he was giving me the same advice I was always giving him.

  "But… but what about my job? Have you ever tried to manipulate the Ouija board while your arm is in a sling? Or shuffle a deck of tarot cards? Or lift a crystal ball?"

 

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