Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "You're a guest here, Frank. Act like it," ordered Sam.

  "Yes, sir," said Frank, sounding as surly as he looked.

  Not quite knowing what to do, I decided to take charge. "Everyone, please sit. I'll help Vi get the food on the table. I have to go to choir practice tonight, so I kind of need to hurry."

  "You sing in a choir?" asked Frank.

  "Yes, indeed. I'm an alto. Your uncle has a beautiful bass voice."

  Looking at Sam with perplexity, Frank said, "I didn't know you could sing."

  "Not many people do. Sit here." Sam pointed to a chair next to his. Frank sat.

  So I carried various viands to the table, and finally Aunt Vi joined us. I introduced her more formally to Frank Pagano, and she nodded, pleased to have a guest at her table. Vi loved to feed people. Frank nodded and looked at her as if expecting another hand to shake. Vi, however, carried a bowl of stew and had no hands to spare.

  After all the food had been set on the table, I said, "Pa will say grace," mainly so Frank would know he should bow his head. He appeared a trifle confused for a second, but when he saw Sam's hand reaching for his head, he got the point and bowed said appendage. If a head can be called an appendage.

  As soon as Pa said, "Amen," Frank crossed himself and seemed surprised no one else at the table did the same. He eyed his uncle in some befuddlement.

  "Not only is the whole world not Italian," Sam said sarcastically, "but it's not all Roman Catholic."

  Frank said, "Oh." He seemed a trifle shocked. Sam was right: the kid really needed to widen his experiences and his circle of friends.

  The stew was marvelous, as usual, as were Vi's light-as-air biscuits. I ate like a pig. Frank didn't. He carefully examined his first spoonful of stew and then tentatively brought it to his mouth. After chewing for a second or two, his expression lightened, and he ate the rest of his dinner without further doubts.

  Deciding to begin a neutral conversation—I didn't want the whole family to know Sam disliked his nephew—I said, "Gladys Fellowes is holding a Halloween house-warming party, Sam. Want to go with me?"

  "Who?"

  "Gladys! I told you she invited me to her home the other day."

  "Oh, yeah. I remember. When is the party?"

  Reasonable question, but I didn't know the answer yet. "Not sure. Harold's going to plan the shindig. He and I are meeting on Saturday to arrange the details. I'll take him up to Gladys's house then."

  Sam squinted across the table at me. "This doesn't have anything to do with what happened at the library yesterday, does it?"

  I gave him my most innocent, wide-eyed stare. "I doubt it, although I'm sure all the suspects will be at the party. In fact, the party will give you a chance to look over the choices and take your pick."

  "That's not how it works," growled Sam. "But I'll go with you if I can. I don't dare let you go by yourself."

  "How come?" asked Frank. Except for that one initial "Oh," those were the first words he'd spoken since he'd sat at the table.

  "I'll tell you later," said Sam. "This is delicious as usual, Vi."

  "Thank you, Sam."

  "Oh! And I almost forgot to tell you that we'll have another guest for dinner tomorrow night. Miss Petrie from the library will be joining us."

  Sam gave me another suspicious squint. "And why, pray tell, is that?"

  "I asked her to come. She telephoned me today and asked if I could help her with her makeup and wardrobe." Not precisely, but it would do. "Robert Browning has invited her to go to luncheon with him on Tuesday, and Regina is nervous. I don't think she's had much to do with men. In the romantic sense, I mean."

  Yet another squint, this one downright accusative. "You're not getting involved with the Carleton case, Daisy. That is clear to you, isn't it?"

  If I hadn't been at the dinner table, I'd have thrown my arms up in disgust. "Of course, it's clear to me. I have no intention of involving myself with the case."

  "Yet your librarian friend is taking lunch with the chief suspect, and you aim to help her do it."

  "Robert didn't kill Miss Carleton, Sam."

  "Huh."

  "Who got knocked off?" asked Frank, for the first time since he'd arrival at our house showing interest in something.

  "The word is 'killed,' Frank, and the dead woman was a librarian."

  "Yes," said I. "She used to work at the Pasadena Public Library, but at the time of her death, she worked at the California Institute of Technology."

  "Oh," said Frank. I had a feeling he'd have liked to ask more questions, but didn't dare, his uncle's cuffing hand being so close to him and all.

  The conversation became general after that. Vi was pleased she'd have another person to feed on the morrow.

  When I removed the dinner plates, Vi went to the kitchen and brought out a masterpiece of her bakery art. The pie looked absolutely marvelous, and it tasted like heaven. Vi had artistically spread the top of the peach pie with whipped cream, and sprinkled toasted almond slices on top of that. It was as close to absolute perfection as a pie could get.

  When all the plates were empty, I started cleaning everything off the table. Glancing at Frank, I decided to take a chance. "Frank, would you please help me wash and put away the dishes? I have to rush, because I need to get to choir practice."

  Giving me a look of what I judged to be total disbelief, Frank pointed at his chest and said, "Me?"

  "Oh, Daisy, the young man's a guest," said Ma. "He shouldn't have to wash up the dishes."

  "Nonsense," said Sam gruffly. "It's about time he started doing something useful with himself."

  "Well..." Ma seemed uncertain.

  "Frank, help Mrs. Majesty," commanded Sam. "Now."

  So Frank rose from the table, looking as if he'd never had to wash a dish in his life, and stared at me as if I were a monster. Too bad, you little punk, I silently told the boy.

  Sam helped clear the table.

  "You shouldn't be doing that, Sam," I told him. "Your leg isn't up to it."

  "Bother my leg," said Sam sourly. "I don't trust this kid to do anything without me overseeing him. He's not used to fending for himself or helping clean stuff."

  "Hey," said Frank.

  Eyeing Frank curiously, I asked, "Doesn't your mother have you help do chores around the house?"

  Before he could answer, Sam said, "Italian women wait on their men, even their worthless sons, like little gods. Frank's never done a worthwhile thing in his life."

  "Hey," said Frank.

  "Oh," said I.

  I got the wash tub from beneath the sink and filled it with warm water and soap. "Why don't you wash, Frank? Sam and I will dry the dishes, and I'll put them away because I know where everything goes."

  Looking at his uncle in patent disbelief, Frank said, "Uh, how do I wash them?"

  I handed him a dishrag. "With that. Then you rinse them off and put them on the clean counter in front of me." I pointed to the surface of the counter then grabbed one dish towel for Sam and another for me.

  "Be careful," warned Sam. "And work fast. I want to go to choir practice with Mrs. Majesty."

  "You do?" asked Frank incredulously.

  "You do? How wonderful! Thanks, Sam. I hope you'll enjoy it. We're working our way through October and up to All Saints' Day, Armistice Day and then Thanksgiving."

  "Great. I'm sure we'll enjoy ourselves. Hurry up, Frank," said Sam.

  Frank, after rolling up his shirtsleeves, plucked one dish at a time from the stack beside him and began scrubbing them. He did a fair job, oddly enough. Then again, his uncle was scrutinizing his every move with an eagle eye or two.

  After the last dish had been dried and put away, Frank started in on the pots and pans, although not without having been told to do so by his uncle.

  "I'll let the two of you finish up here," I said. "I need to get ready for choir practice."

  "We'll be happy to," said Sam.

  Frank grunted, not at all happy to do so if I were t
o guess.

  Nevertheless, when I returned to the kitchen from my room, which was directly off it, the pots and pans had been scrubbed until shiny, dried, and placed neatly on the top of the stove. "Thanks," I told the two males.

  "You're welcome," said Sam.

  Frank said nothing until he noticed Sam lift his hand, then he said, "You're welcome," in a hurry.

  After bidding Ma, Pa and Spike a fond farewell—Vi had already gone to her rooms upstairs—the men stopped at the coat rack and each donned his hat and coat. Then Sam, Frank and I walked out to Sam's big black Hudson.

  "What do you do at home, Frank?" I asked by way of conversation.

  "Nothin'," said Frank.

  "Do you go to school?"

  "Naw. I finished school."

  "I see. And do you work anywhere?"

  "He's supposed to work in his Uncle Salvatore's restaurant in the Bronx," said Sam, sounding severe.

  "I do work there," said Frank indignantly.

  "Not so far as I can see," muttered Sam.

  "What do you do for your uncle at his restaurant?" I asked in an attempt to forestall further unpleasantness. Sam's father owned a jewelry store in New York City somewhere. I glanced lovingly at the engagement he'd designed for Sam and me. Not that I could see much in the dark. An Italian restaurant sounded more like an Italian family's milieu to me than a jewelry store, but I'm sure that's only cultural conditioning and from reading articles in the newspapers and periodicals.

  "Waited tables," said Frank, still surly unless I missed my guess.

  "Oh!" I said, having just had an idea. I doubted even then that it was a brilliant one, but time would tell. "Perhaps you can help serve at the party your uncle and I will be attending. It will be a combination Halloween and house-warming party being hosted by a couple of my friends."

  "Uh..." said Frank.

  "He'd be happy to do that," said Sam.

  I heard Frank heave an unhappy sigh. Too bad. If the boy was in trouble at home and had been involved in unsavory practices, a little education in how to behave like a proper citizen wouldn't hurt him any.

  Since the First Methodist-Episcopal Church we attended was on the corner of Colorado and Marengo, we arrived at our destination before I could question Frank more. Pity, that, but I'd probably see him later. Unless Sam managed to ship him back to New York City any time soon.

  Chapter 12

  The first person I saw after I'd entered the choir room and gestured for Sam and Frank to sit in the front row of the sanctuary was my friend, Lucille Spinks Zollinger, a young woman approximately my age who had married an older gentleman some months earlier. Lucy and I were assigned to sing duets together quite often by our choir director, Mr. Floy Hostetter. He said he liked the way our voices blended. Lucy, needless to say, was a soprano to my alto. She was also a very nice person. I'd helped her with the gowns for her wedding, and I don't think she's ever stopped thanking me. Heck, I loved to sew, so making dresses for her bridesmaids and altering her mother's old wedding gown to fit Lucy had only been fun for me.

  "Daisy, who is that with your fiancée?" Lucy asked me avidly, squinting into the sanctuary. She was supposed to wear eyeglasses, but often didn't, probably because she thought they failed to flatter her. As she was kind of long, skinny and rabbity, I didn't think it mattered. I'm not being mean; she could look nice, but Lucy would never be a beauty. Nor would I be, for that matter. "He looks like a younger version of Detective Rotondo." She giggled. Lucy giggled frequently, probably because she was so happy to be married. Young men were thin on the ground in those days, so many of them having been lost in the Great War and the 'flu pandemic.

  "That's his nephew, Francis Pagano."

  "Another Italian?" Lucy asked.

  "That's a silly question, Lucy Zollinger," I teased her. "Of course, he's an Italian!"

  "Oh, of course. That was a silly question. But, oh, Daisy, did you hear about the murder of that poor young woman in the library?"

  "Indeed. Not only have I heard about it, but Detective Rotondo and I were there when it happened."

  "Good heavens! Do you mean to say a murder took place right in front of the eyes of Detective Rotondo and you?"

  "Not really. The detective and I were speaking to Miss Petrie, a librarian friend of mine, when the murder occurred. Sam wasn't there in his official capacity."

  "Still. That was bold, killing a woman in front of a policeman," said Lucy, as if she disapproved of people being murdered in the near presence of a police officer. I did, too, but I objected to murder whenever and wherever it happened.

  "It didn't happen in front of us. We were speaking to Miss Petrie. The woman was murdered in the biography section, and we couldn't see her from where we sat."

  "Oh," said Lucy, as if she'd have to ponder that truth in order to evaluate my culpability in the murder and, of course, that of Sam.

  "She was stabbed, Lucy. Nobody heard a single thing until another woman came across the body and screamed."

  "Oh." Lucy shuddered delicately. "How awful."

  "Yes," I said. "It was." I probably would have shuddered, too, but we were interrupted at that point.

  "Mrs. Majesty and Mrs. Zollinger, will you please come here for a moment?"

  Lucy and I both jumped a trifle. Mr. Hostetter didn't approve of his choir members chatting together, although choir practice hadn't started yet so if he aimed to berate us, I thought he was being premature.

  But that's not what he wanted. He wanted us to sing another duet. Lucy and I glanced at each other and both smiled broadly. "We'd love to," said I. Lucy nodded enthusiastically.

  "Wonderful. The nephew of the Reverend Mr. Smith just graduated from the United States Naval Academy, and I'd like you two to sing 'Eternal Father, Strong to Save,' on November second. He and his mother and father—his father is Mr. Smith's brother—will be visiting that week. The music's not in our hymnal, so I had the church secretary run off a few mimeographed copies. Be careful, ladies, because the blue ink smears easily."

  Lucy and I took our mimeographed music sheets, and I pondered the wonders of modern technology for a second. Then I thought of something pertinent.

  "What about 'For All the Saints?'" I asked. "That's what we usually sing in celebration of All Saints' Day that Sunday."

  "'For All the Saints' will be our anthem that day. 'Eternal Father' will be a special song in honor of the young Mr. Smith's graduation."

  "That sounds nice," I said. "Very nice."

  "I thought so, too," said Mr. Hostetter, smiling smugly. "I'm sure you two already know the hymn, although we don't sing it often, but you can sing a verse or two with Mrs. Fleming after choir practice is over, if you don't mind giving us about ten minutes extra tonight."

  "Fine with me," I said.

  Lucy agreed. "Albert won't mind waiting for a little while when he comes to pick me up."

  "Excellent." Mr. Hostetter turned from us, clapped his hands to bring the choir to attention and said, "Let us begin, ladies and gentlemen."

  So we each took our seats. Even though Lucy sang soprano and I sang alto, we sat together since we so often sang duets. It was kind of hard to refrain from chatting, but we both did our best.

  "As you know, this coming Sunday, our anthem will be 'Spirit of God, Descend upon Our Hearts.' We probably should go over that first, and then we can practice next Sunday's anthem. Mrs. Majesty and Mrs. Zollinger will be singing a duet on November second, and they'll go over that with Mrs. Fleming after we finish practice tonight. Some of Mr. Smith's family from out of state will be visiting that day, and the two ladies will sing 'Eternal Father, Strong to Save,' in honor of the younger Mr. Smith's graduation from the naval academy."

  "What about 'For All the Saints?'" asked Mr. George Finster, one of our better basses.

  "We'll sing that as our anthem. The navy hymn is in honor of Mr. Smith's graduation."

  "Oh. That's nice," said Mr. Finster, satisfied.

  I glanced out into the sanctuar
y to see Frank and Sam sitting there, Sam, arms crossed over his chest, subtly smiling; Frank slouching, frowning, oily, and looking as if he felt uncomfortable. I guess he was accustomed to attending his Catholic Church at home and didn't understand us Methodists. Too bad. As for Sam, he wasn't much of a church-goer as a rule, but he'd been attending Methodist services with us since even before he and I announced our engagement. His late wife, Margaret, had defied Italian tradition and attended the West Side Congregational-Unitarian Church on Orange Grove. Sam had attended with her, but I knew—because he'd told me often enough—that he didn't really give a rap about religion. I probably should have found that shocking, but I figured he'd seen enough in his lifetime to decide for himself what he wanted to believe.

  "Then we'll practice next Sunday's anthem, which will be"—Mr. Hostetter fumbled through a bunch of papers on his music stand—"Ah, yes. Here it is. 'Forth in Thy Name, O Lord,' by Charles Wesley."

  A smattering of applause came from the choir. We all enjoyed the hymns written by Mr. Wesley, the founder (with his brother John, who I believe began the movement) of Methodism. I glanced again into the sanctuary and saw we'd managed to scandalize Frank. Interesting. He attempted to appear as if nothing in the world could touch him, but evidently he wasn't as worldly as he wanted people to think he was. Heh, heh, heh.

  We did a good job of 'Spirit of God,' and we did an even better job of 'Forth in Thy Name.' Our choir was large and we sounded excellent, at least from where I sat.

  "Very good. Let me read the hymn numbers for the upcoming Sunday's service. You may write them down or put bookmarks in your hymnals."

  So he read off the hymn numbers, and I put little ribbons at the sites. I had lots and lots of ribbons, as you can well imagine. Actually, some of them weren't really ribbons, but fabric bookmarks I'd made out of scraps. I'd given Lucy a bunch of them, too, and she also marked her hymnal with them. Every now and then, when I thought about how relatively useless I was on this planet, I recalled some of my good deeds—there had been a few—and managed to pick myself up from the depths.

  By that time, the clock on the church wall was inching toward eight thirty-five. Choir practice began at seven sharp, and generally lasted until eight-thirty or thereabouts. Mr. Hostetter ran a tight ship. I noticed Lucy's husband, Albert Zollinger, walk into the church. He and Lucy exchanged fond smiles. Mr. Z sat down next to Sam, who introduced him—almost silently, by the way, because he knew of old that Mr. Hostetter didn't brook any nonsense or extraneous noise at his rehearsals—to his nephew. Mr. Zollinger politely held out a hand for Frank to shake. I guess Frank had become inured to this mode of greeting, because he didn't even stare at Mr. Z's hand before shaking it.