by Alice Duncan
"Ladies," Mr. Hostetter said to Lucy and me, "I know we're a little late this evening, but I hope you can stay a few minutes longer so you can go over the navy hymn with Mrs. Fleming. Perhaps next week, the two of you can arrive a bit early so we won't have to keep you late."
"Just let me tell my fiancé and his nephew," I said.
Lucy said, "And I'll tell Albert. He won't mind at all."
To judge by their mutual smiles, I gathered Lucy was right about her beloved. Sam, too, was perfectly happy to sit still a little longer. Frank, however, appeared slightly aggrieved.
"What? But we've already been her more than an hour," he whined.
"Be still, you," said Sam. And he gave Frank another little whack on the side of his head.
Frank said, "Hey," but settled back into the pew, scowling and re-crossing his arms over his chest. Sam, too, crossed his arms over his chest, but he smiled almost charmingly at me—well, charmingly for Sam, I mean. I swear, I think he was enjoying battering his vagrant nephew. Offhand, I couldn't think of a more perfect target. Frank had already struck me as a fairly pitiful specimen of humanhood. Maybe Sam and I could fix that.
Or maybe we couldn't. Only time would tell.
Mrs. Fleming, the lovely woman who played both the piano and the organ for our church and also played for other occasions as they arose, smiled at Lucy and me as we joined her at the organ.
"I believe I'll play the piano for your duet, girls. It's quieter than the organ, and your voices will blend perfectly with it."
"Sounds great to me," I said.
Lucy nodded.
So we each retrieved our mimeographed pages and stood as tall and straight as possible. Lucy was a good deal taller than I, but I did my best. Mrs. Fleming, still at the organ, played a thrilling introduction to the beautiful old hymn, and Lucy and I started singing. I already knew the alto part, since we'd sung it at appropriate days during the year. You know, Decoration Day, Armistice Day and so forth. Sopranos always got the melody, so Lucy didn't need any practice at all. Next life, if there is one, I want to come back as a soprano because they have it so much easier than we altos. Anyway, we sang the first two verses.
When Mrs. Fleming lifted her fingers from the organ, she practically glowed at the two of us. "You two sound grand together. And you truly do justice to that beautiful hymn."
"Thank you," Lucy and I said, still in a duet.
And darned if Sam and Mr. Zollinger didn't applaud from the front row of the sanctuary. When I turned to grin at Sam, I saw his nephew staring at him, aghast. I guess those Roman Catholics never had fun in church or something because, for a little punk, Frank seemed to be easily taken aback about the carryings-on in our Methodist Church.
Lucy and I retired to the choir room to put away our hymnals and folders and grab our outer wraps. I plopped my hat on my head and took off for the sanctuary. Lucy ran ahead of me, straight into her husband's waiting arms. My goodness. Even I was slightly surprised at the overt affection the two demonstrated in public. Well, in a nearly empty church on a Thursday evening, anyhow.
I didn't run into Sam's arms, but I smiled warmly at him, and he did the same to me. I turned to Frank.
"Did you enjoy the music, Frank?"
"Uh... Yeah, sure."
"Do you have a choir at the church you attend in New York City?"
"Uh... Yeah, I guess so."
"You guess so? Don't you know?"
"Well, yeah. There's a choir. I don't know nobody in it, though."
"Anybody," said Sam, looking disgusted.
"No one in your family sings?"
"Not at church," said Frank.
"Oh, well, perhaps you can join us for church on Sunday with your uncle, and you can hear the entire service. It's quite nice, and the music is pretty."
"Uh..."
"He will," said Sam in a firm voice I knew well.
"But... But Uncle Sammy, we're not supposed to go to other churches."
"Don't be stupid, Frank."
"But..."
"Don't 'but' me, Francis Pagano."
"But I don't understand." Frank glanced around as if he were perplexed. Then he pointed to the cross on the wall behind the chancel. "I walked all over the place, trying to find a toilet, and I didn't see a single one of the crosses we use at home. That ain't the kind of cross we have."
"Isn't, you dolt," said Sam. "That’s a cross, not a crucifix."
"That's the whole point, Frank," said I, pleased to be giving Sam's idiot nephew a lesson in Methodism. Sort of. "We display an empty cross in our churches, because Christ rose from the grave on the third day. We don't celebrate the suffering He went through, but the miracle of His resurrection." I was rather proud of that simple tutorial.
"Uh... I still don't get it," said Frank. "But we're still not supposed to go to non-Catholic churches."
"Nuts," said Sam "Anyway, from what Renata told me, you haven't graced the local church with your presence for months and months."
"Oh, is Renata your sister, Sam? It's a beautiful name."
"Yeah. Her name is Renata. She's pretty unhappy with young Francis here, too." He frowned menacingly at his nephew.
"Aw, Uncle Sammy."
"Don't Uncle Sammy me, you thug. I'm Detective Rotondo to you, young man, or you may call me 'sir.' You'll have to earn your way back into my good graces if you want to address me as anything else, and don't forget it again."
"Yes, sir," said Frank. Sullenly, I'm sure I need not say. Well, I just did, but... Oh, never mind.
Sam and Frank drove me home. Although I invited them to come into the house for a cup of cocoa or something—the evening was quite chilly—Sam declined civilly. Frank appeared relieved.
By the way, when I mentioned Frank's born-to-be curly hair, I didn't say that Sam, too, had curly hair, but he didn't ever try to oil it into submission. He had it cut relatively short at all times and perhaps used a little hair oil, but not enough to stain his hat or look odd. Sam was, in truth, quite a handsome man. Large. Very large. Rather like a marble sculpture, in fact, but he still looked good, especially when he smiled, which wasn't often. I suspected his smiles would be even less frequent as long as Frank Pagano remained in Pasadena.
Poor Sam.
Chapter 13
Spike and I slept well Thursday night and when we woke up, Vi still stood in the kitchen at the stove. The time was approximately seven a.m. Ma and Vi got up earlier than I because they both had to go to work. Mind you, I worked too, but I didn't generally plan any Ouija-board sessions until mid-morning at the earliest.
"Good morning, Daisy," said my sweet aunt, flipping something over in a skillet.
"Good morning, Aunt Vi. I'm surprised you're not already on your way to work."
"I'm hoping you can take your mother and me to our workplaces today, dear. It's pouring rain outside."
"It is?" I raced to the window of my bedroom, drew back the curtains, and discovered my aunt was correct. We didn't get a whole lot of rain in Pasadena, but when it rained, it often rained hard.
"Oh, my! Look at that! I'll be happy to take you and Ma to work, Vi."
"Good morning, Daisy," said my mother, coming into the kitchen. She sat at the kitchen table. "Did I hear you say you'll drive us to work?"
"Absolutely. Happy to. You don't need to walk to the bus stop in this nasty weather."
"We need the rain," observed my practical mother.
"Yes, we do," said I.
"Morning, sweetheart," said Pa, joining us in the kitchen.
"Everyone sit down. Breakfast is ready," said Vi "Daisy, will you get plates and so forth? You'll need knives and forks today."
"Yum," said I, having no idea what Vi aimed to feed us but certain it would be delicious.
I suited my actions to my words and had the table set in a trice. Whatever a trice is.
Vi brought a huge platter laden with pancakes and bacon to the table. Vi made the world's best pancakes. Of course, she made the world's best
everything.
"Mercy sakes, Vi, this looks so good!" I said, standing again to get the maple syrup our thoughtful relations in Massachusetts sent us for Christmas. I shook it as I headed for the table. "Good thing Christmas is creeping up on us. We're almost out of syrup."
"We can always get more at Jorgensen's," said Vi. Jorgensen's was where all the rich people in Pasadena bought their groceries. I take that back. Jorgensen's was the place all the rich folks in Pasadena sent their servants to purchase food for the rich families. The store carried a lot of foodstuffs most of us couldn't get elsewhere or grow.
We had a vegetable garden in the back yard, of course, and Ma, Vi and I preserved tons of vegetables and seasonal fruits in the fall. Which this was. Which meant we'd soon have to harvest our crops and get 'em into jars and so forth. I didn't enjoy even that much cooking, but I did my best to assist Vi. So did Ma. After all, we ate the fruits of the garden, so to speak, even if neither Ma nor I knew what to do with the individual ingredients growing there.
"I guess, but it's not quite the same as getting it from Massachusetts," I said. "It's sort of nice to get it from near the source. If you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean, sweetheart," said Pa with a chuckle. "I feel the same way."
Ma shrugged. "Maple syrup is maple syrup." Have I mentioned Ma didn't own a sense of adventure or humor? She wasn't awfully sentimental, either. But I loved her, as I loved all my family members. And she was practical under all circumstances, a trait that came in handy since I sometimes—only rarely, mind you—jumped to conclusions and was fairly quick to take umbrage.
"I'll just say a quick grace, and then we can dig in," said Pa. "Looks as if you, Spike and I won't be taking any w-a-l-k-s this morning."
"Poor Spike." I glanced down at my loyal hound, staring at me with pitiful eyes. If you only looked at Spike's eyes, you'd believe him to be starving to death. If you looked at the rest of him, you'd know his eyes fibbed.
So Pa said grace, and we ate our superb breakfast. We always had a bowl of oranges on the table because we had two orange trees in our yard. This time of year, the navel oranges were going great guns. During the springtime, the Valencia tree bore fruit. We had oranges all year long, in other words, and I was grateful for it, being extremely fond of oranges.
"I'll have to telephone Gladys Fellowes this morning and make arrangements for Harold and me to visit her home tomorrow," said I after eating a couple of bites of my marvelous pancakes. "Harold is going to plan her Halloween party for her."
"That's nice of him," said Ma.
"Harold's a very nice man," I told the table in general.
"He is indeed. I'm quite fond of Harold," said Vi, who knew him well.
And the stupid telephone rang. As I rose to answer it, I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was only seven-twenty, for Pete's sake! It couldn't be Mrs. Pinkerton, who didn't rise until almost ten o'clock most mornings, according to her maid, my old school chum Edie Applewood.
After snatching the receiver from the cradle, I had to restrain myself from growling my usual greeting. "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"Frank took a silver candlestick either from your house or your church last night. I'll bring it by this evening, if you still want me to come to dinner."
"He did? I didn't know we had any silver candlesticks."
"He might have snitched it from the church."
"Good Lord, you were right about him."
"I know that." Sam sounded grumpy, as usual. "I told you. He's a thug and a thief."
"Oh, dear. Yes, please come to dinner tonight, Sam. And bring Frank. I don't know what to do about him."
"I suggest pressing charges, although the fool will only get a slap on the wrist."
"I don't think we'll do that. Just bring it back. Once we figure out where he got it, we can lecture him."
"I've already lectured him. He said he only took it so he could sell it and get train fare back to New York."
"Has the child ever considered working for the money he wants to spend?"
"I asked him the same thing. He only said, 'Gee, Uncle Sammy, I'm sorry.' So I smacked him." I perceived a note of delight in Sam's voice.
"Do you think corporal punishment works, Sam? Really?"
"Can't hurt, and it makes me feel better," said Sam, and he hung up.
So much for that.
"Sam?" said Pa, looking at me as I returned to the table.
"Yes. Evidently his nephew pilfered a silver candlestick from someplace last night. Do we own any silver candlesticks?"
"I don't think so. Good heavens, that boy is a thief?" Ma looked alarmed.
"Evidently," I said. "Sam warned me about him, but he seems to be a slippery little devil."
"Poor Sam," said Ma. "He didn't seem too fond of the boy. Why did he invite him to visit?"
"He didn't. Frank ran away from home and came to Pasadena. Not a very clever idea on his part if he aims to continue his criminous career, since Sam is a police detective and takes his job seriously."
"Well, I doubt he's truly a criminal," said Ma, not sounding sure of herself.
I shrugged. "Don't know. The signs pretty much point that way. I mean, he ended up with a silver candlestick that doesn't belong to him."
"He probably snatched it from the church last night during choir practice," said Pa, as practical as Ma, although he did possess a sense of humor.
"Sam will cure him," said Vi as if she believed her words.
"He's attempting to do that," I told her. "Frank might prove to be a tough customer, though. I guess he's been running with a bunch of hoodlums in New York City."
"Oh, dear," said Ma. "I've read about the awful gangs they have back there."
"Yes. So have I," I said.
We finished breakfast in silence. Then I cleared off the table and stacked the dishes on the counter next to the sink. "I'll wash these after I take you two to work."
"I'll take care of the washing-up," said Pa. "You go ahead and get dressed."
"Thanks, Pa." I kissed him on the head as I went back to my room, Spike following disconsolately, having been given only a small bite of bacon for his acting skills that morning. Poor Spike. He was so abused.
Because I didn't plan on doing much in the way of running around that day, I didn't bother gussying myself up, but wore a simple day dress with my sturdy walking shoes and stockings. I'd had my hair shingled and bobbed a couple of years prior, and a brush through my thick red tresses set them to rights. Then I grabbed my hat and coat and the keys and went out to the Chevrolet to warm it up while Ma and Vi got their hats, coats, umbrellas and handbags.
The Hotel Marengo was across the street from our church, on the northwest corner of Marengo Avenue and Colorado Street, so I dropped Ma off first, getting as close to the back entrance as I could with the car. Ma, sitting on the back passenger seat, opened the door, unfurled her umbrella and carefully stepped out of the car. The wind had picked up, and she had to brace herself as she walked to the back door.
"Wow, looks as if we're in for some wild weather," I said to Vi.
"Rain and Santa Ana winds together maybe?"
"Maybe."
Southern California's Santa Ana winds were notorious, at least for those of us who lived in Southern California. They could blow like the dickens and knock down trees, telephone poles, wires and pretty much anything else in their way when they chose to blow. They were one of the extremely few disadvantages to living in our fair city. The other one was perhaps a bit more unpleasant: earthquakes. Frankly, I'll take an earthquake over a tornado or a hurricane any day. Earthquakes could be dangerous, but they didn't pick up houses and toss them around like toys, as did tornadoes. And, while the Santa Ana winds could be bad, they didn't come with huge waves and disastrous floods, as did hurricanes.
Anyway, earthquakes were few and far between, so they weren't much of a problem. When they hit, you'd be scared for a second or two and then pick up, say, the oatmeal bo
x that had fallen off the kitchen counter unless Spike got to it first, which he did once. Blew up like a balloon, too. I was actually a trifle frightened for fear the oatmeal would expand until his little belly exploded. Fortunately for all of us, that didn't happen. He did have a few digestive problems for a day or two, but he was so well-trained that he announced his intentions in time for us to open the door so he could accomplish his task outside.
That's probably more than you wanted to know. I'm sorry.
After Ma made it safely to the insides of the Hotel Marengo, I drove Vi to Orange Grove, waved at Jackson, who guarded the gate, and aimed the Chevrolet to the service entrance of the Pinkerton mansion. My surprise was great when Harold Kincaid, in the flesh, opened the back door and gestured for me to follow my aunt into the house. Since I hadn't packed my own umbrella, I scurried to the passenger's side of the car and squeezed myself under Aunt Vi's umbrella.
"Good morning, Harold. You're up early," I said once Vi and I were in the house and standing on the service porch. Vi shook out her umbrella and left it, open, on the service porch floor to dry out. My hair had become soaked during my short run around the automobile, and my shoes squished. "If I'd known you'd be here, I'd have brought my own umbrella and been prepared to get out of the car."
"Sorry about that. But you know I have to go attorney-shopping with Mother today. I need to know what time you and I will be meeting your friend tomorrow. I have to inspect her home and get an idea how to plan this precious party of yours."
"It's not mine. It's hers," I said, sounding nearly as cranky as Harold, who was not generally unpleasant. "I expect you're not looking forward to today's activities," I ventured, willing to forgive him his churlishness if his sister's crimes were at its roots.