Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "Soon."

  "I hope so."

  "Cripes."

  And Sam got in his Hudson, drove into our driveway, backed out again, and headed north on Marengo. I figured he'd turn left on Colorado, then hang a right on Fair Oaks and drive to the police station.

  Poor Sam.

  Chapter 26

  On Monday, I paid another visit to Mrs. Pinkerton. She was as upset as usual, and, also as usual, Rolly and the tarot cards told her life was going to be more than a trifle rocky for a while. Why sugar-coat the truth? She didn't like it, but she had a rotten daughter, Stacy had done a really bad thing this time, and Mrs. P would just have to suffer the consequences. I only hoped Stacy would suffer more than her mother, although I doubted she would. Stacy didn't suffer suffering well. If you know what I mean.

  After paying Vi a short visit in the kitchen, I went down to Colorado and parked in front of the Rexall Drug Store. After browsing at their cosmetics counter for a bit, I bought some mascara for Regina Petrie. I thought about getting her an eyelash curler, but didn't. Small steps, I reminded myself. She'd probably get scared at the notion of mascara.

  And then—I loved this part of my day most of all—I drove to the library. I adored the library. It's my favorite place on earth except home. And I'd get to come back again at four that afternoon to talk with Robert Browning. The day was shaping up well.

  I'd brought some books back and laid them on the returns table, and then looked around for Regina. She wasn't at her desk, so I presumed she was helping a library patron find something. Not awfully sure why I did it, I walked to the biography section and gazed at the aisle where Miss Carleton's bleeding body had lain. The floor was clean. I guess the custodian had scrubbed the floor hard, probably with bleach, to get all that blood out. There was no more string up to keep patrons from searching the stacks, either.

  Just for the heck of it, I walked down that aisle, peering at biographies on the shelves, thinking a clue might exist there somewhere.

  I was wrong. Or, if I was right, I sure didn't spot a clue.

  Therefore, I meandered to the fiction stacks and glanced around for something interesting. I noticed what seemed to me to be an odd title: Abol Tabol: The Nonsense World of Sukumar Ray, and picked it up. Leafing through it, I saw it was composed of short stories and poetry. I wasn't a big fan of poetry, but I did enjoy nonsense occasionally, so I decided to try it. The fellow who wrote it was, evidently, an Indian. Not one of ours, but one of India's. After moseying around some more, I spotted Jacob's Room, by a woman named Virginia Woolf. I'd read something about her, but never having read anything by her, I figured I might give it a try. It didn't sound awfully interesting, but one never knew.

  After browsing some more, I left the stacks and glanced at Regina's desk. There she was! I decided to heck with fiction and aimed myself at her. She looked up and smiled a broad smile.

  "Daisy! It's so good to see you."

  "It's good to see you, too. I have something for you, although, from the looks of you, you don't appear to need much help."

  She'd curled her hair somehow, and it fell in flattering waves around her face. Eyeing her critically, I decided she still needed to get her hair cut, but the waves were a marked improvement over that danged knot she generally wore.

  "Here," I said, handing over the mascara.

  "Thank you! You're so kind to a poor old spinster-lady."

  "Fiddle-faddle. A little mascara never hurt anyone."

  Regina opened the little box containing the mascara, and stared at it. Then she looked up at me. "What do I do with it?" she asked, as if she should have known and was embarrassed. Nerts to that.

  "You see, that black strip is the mascara itself. That little brush is what you put it on with. You wet the brush, rub it on the black strip, and then apply the brush to your eyelashes. That's what I did the other day, remember?"

  "Vaguely. It doesn't sound difficult," Regina said doubtfully.

  "It isn't. Just be careful at first until you get used to applying it, because sometimes, the brush will touch your nose or forehead or something, and then you'll have to wash off the blot."

  "But it's not dangerous?"

  "Not at all. It will make your eyes stand out under your eyeglasses."

  Regina sighed. "My stupid eyeglasses."

  "Fiddlesticks. Lots of folks wear cheaters, and they look just fine."

  "If you say so." She leaned over and picked something up. Her handbag. "I'll just put the mascara in here, and tonight I'll practice a bit."

  "Good idea. Um... Say, Regina, I was prowling the stacks and found these two books." I showed her my bounty. "But you're better at picking out stuff my family likes to read than I am. Can you suggest something?"

  "I can do better than suggest something," she said, sounding almost gleeful. "I held these especially for you."

  She plopped Wanderer of the Wasteland, by Mr. Zane Grey; The Eight Strokes of the Clock, by someone named Maurice Le Blanc; Mr. Waddington of Wyck, by someone named May Sinclair; and The Abbey Court Mystery, by someone named Annie Haynes. I stared at them.

  "Golly, except for Mr. Zane Grey, I've never heard of these other authors. Are they mysteries?"

  "They are. Well, most of them are," she said, grinning almost smugly. "Mr. Le Blanc is a Frenchman, and his detective is named Arsene Lupin. Miss Sinclair's book is quite entertaining, and Miss Haynes' book is very good. It's definitely a mystery."

  "Thank you! I brought back some of the books I checked out last Friday. I especially loved the Tish Carberry stories by Mrs. Rinehart. I just love her books. Well, except for the one about the war."

  "I understand. That's why I'm not recommending A Son at the Front, by Mrs. Edith Wharton. It's an excellent book, but not for you."

  I shuddered. "Thank you." The mere thought of that horrible war made my stomach cramp and my flesh creep.

  "However, I've saved the very best until last."

  And she leaned over, picked up another tome, and set it on the table in front of her.

  "Oh! How wonderful!" And darned if my eyes didn't tear up.

  "Daisy! Whatever is the matter? I wouldn't have—"

  I picked up The Discovery of the Tomb of Tutankhamen by Mr. Howard Carter and hugged it to my chest. "No, no. I wondered when this book would cross the ocean and get to us in the USA." I sniffled and had to dig in my handbag for a handkerchief. Wiping my eyes, I said, "It's just that Billy absolutely loved reading stuff like this." Another sniffle, and I had to blow my nose. "I just missed the discovery, you know. Mr. Kincaid and I were in Egypt only a few months before Mr. Carter found that tomb."

  "I know. I didn't mean to bring back sad memories."

  "That's all right. At least it's not a war book. And Detective Rotondo will probably want to read it, too. He reads a lot."

  Smiling sweetly at me, Regina said, "I'm glad to hear that. He didn't... Um... Sound awfully fond of the books I got for you on Friday."

  Fortunately, her words dried my tears. In fact, I chuckled a bit. "No. Sam doesn't let on what he likes to do unless he's with people he's known for years. I don't know why that is."

  Tilting her head slightly, Regina said, "I believe a lot of men are like that. They aren't as open as we women are."

  "I suppose you're right. Thank you very much for this bounty. I'll see you on Wednesday. Maybe we can take lunch together at the Rexall Drug Store or something. Not fancy, but it might be fun."

  "It might indeed. It's a good thought. Thank you, Daisy."

  "Thank you, Regina."

  So I checked out my books and headed for home. There I made myself a ham sandwich—yes, the bread was cut crooked, but Pa wasn't there to slice it for me—sat at the kitchen, and ate my sandwich and an orange. Spike sat on the floor and looked at me.

  "Aw, jeez," I said as I was about to pop the last of my sandwich into my mouth. I opened it up, tore off a tiny piece of ham, and gave it to my dog. He was grateful.

  And then, rather than in
stantly sit in the living room to read, I petted Spike and told him what a good boy he was, and I took myself off to the sewing room and began making togas. They weren't hard to make. I was more worried about the globe, although Harold would probably do what needed to be done with that. When I'd sewed up the last seam on Sam's toga, I rejected the notion of starting Dr. Fellowes's toga in favor of making the red sash Sam would wear over his shoulder. He was going to look quite dashing if I had anything to do with it.

  And then it occurred to me that many Roman gentlemen are depicted as having wreaths made of laurel leaves on their heads. Inspiration struck, I grinned to myself and, for almost the first time in my life, walked to the kitchen with intent. Not that I avoided the kitchen for eating and stuff like that, but I never went there to find an ingredient, mainly because I wouldn't have known what to do with one.

  But laurel and bay leaves were the same things, and I knew Vi used bay leaves in some of her recipes. So I rooted around in the spice cabinet and, sure enough, there was a big jar of large, dried bay leaves. I doubted Vi would mind. I'd replace them, after all. Of course, I could have driven up to the foothills and denuded a laurel tree, but the weather was cold and I didn't feel like it.

  So I took the jar of bay leaves into the sewing room, cleared off a space at the table against the wall where I did most of my cutting and so forth, and set the jar down. Then I returned to the kitchen and made some paste out of water and flour. Not even I could ruin paste. Probably.

  At any rate, I didn't ruin that paste, and I fixed a very nice-looking laurel wreath for Sam's big head. I wished I could paint it gold, but I didn't know where to get gold paint. Maybe Harold would know.

  I was disappointed when Sam called and said neither he nor Frank would be coming to dinner that night.

  "Why not?"

  "Got a murder case to work on."

  "Are you going to stick Frank in a cell again?"

  "Best place for him."

  "I'll miss you, Sam. I won't miss Frank though."

  "I wouldn't miss him either. I'd like to try, though."

  I wasn't even sure what that meant, but I kind of understood.

  "When is he going home?"

  "I don't know. Renata's trying to get the money together to buy him a train ticket. I told her to make the kid work for his own money, but she wants him home. Why, I don't know. Anyway, it's probably better this way. If he stayed here very much longer, I'd end up killing him."

  "How's the case going?"

  Silence greeted my question. Sam didn't like me prying (that's his word) into his cases. However, eventually he said, "Things don't look good for your friend Browning."

  "Why? I can't believe Robert would kill that woman or Mr. Jeffreys!"

  "According to people who know, Miss Carleton and he were closeted together all the time, and they'd both been acting funny—whatever that means—lately."

  "Robert Browning is not a cold-blooded murderer, Sam Rotondo."

  I could almost hear him shrug over the telephone wires. "Maybe he's a hot-blooded murderer. He's mixed up in this thing somehow, and until he clears up a few things, he's top of the list."

  "Nerts."

  "Can't help it," said Sam, sounding as if he wished he could.

  I decided to let the matter drop. If I probed any more, I'd probably only end up riling Sam, and he had enough on his plate already. "Well, try to find something healthy to eat somewhere, and don't forget to take your aspirin tablets if your leg hurts."

  "Yes, ma'am. Are you going to be a nagging wife?"

  "Probably."

  "Good." And he hung up.

  Oh, well. I looked at the clock on the wall. Golly, it was almost four o'clock! I had to scurry if I aimed to meet Robert Browning at the library.

  So I scurried. I hadn't changed my clothes when I came home from the morning's errands, so I just wore what I had on, a mid-calf length, sage-green tweed suit. I'd taken the jacket off when I'd come home, so I only had to don it again, grab my brown hat and gloves, slip my feet into my brown shoes with a two-eyelet tie and—thank God—one-inch heels and a relatively rounded toe. I hated having my feet squished.

  Then I hared out of the house, taking quick leave of Spike, who didn't approve of me leaving him twice in one day, and hurried the Chevrolet to the library.

  Robert awaited my arrival in the periodical room. He rose when he saw me enter the room. He looked exhausted.

  "I'm so glad you could come, Daisy. I really need to talk to someone. Now that Mr. Jeffreys has been murdered, the police are doubling up on me. I don't know what to do."

  "Let's sit down at that table over there." I pointed to an isolated table on the other side of the room. "So we can be more private."

  Running his fingers through his hair—it looked to me as if he'd already done that quite often that day—Robert said, "Good idea," and followed me to the far table.

  We sat and bent our heads so that they nearly touched. "Very well, Robert, tell me what it is you can't tell the police."

  Robert heaved a huge sigh. "But, Daisy, don't you see? I can't tell you, either! I promised." He propped his elbows on the table and cradled his face in his hands.

  I decided it was past time for Robert Browning to behave sensibly. Therefore, my voice was stern when I said, "That's stupid, Robert. Both of the women you promised are dead. And telling the truth now might save your life. Be reasonable."

  For several more moments—they felt like extremely long moments to me—Robert just sat there, his head in his hands, not speaking.

  Taking matters into my own hands, I said, "Robert Browning, according to the police, both you and Miss Carleton had been closeted together several times, and you were both acting funny lately." Deciding Sam's words had merit, I added, "Whatever funny means."

  Several more hours passed, and then Robert heaved a huge sigh, lifted his head, glanced around the periodical room to make sure no one was nearby, and said, "All right. I'll tell you. I guess you'll have to decide whether or not to tell the police."

  Hallelujah!

  Chapter 27

  After Robert had told me what he had to tell me, I could only stare at him for several seconds.

  "Good Lord," I said.

  "Yes. My sentiments precisely."

  "He actually promised he would marry her?"

  "That's what Mary said. She didn't know he was already married."

  "What a slimy character!"

  "Yes. It's difficult for me to work with him these days."

  "I understand."

  "But there's more."

  "Oh, dear. Really?"

  "Yes. Mary thought the research for our project was being altered. We were both trying to figure out how and why and who was doing it."

  That stupid project again. "Altered how?"

  "When Mary first came to me about her suspicions, I thought she was crazy. But after I went through the files, I wasn't so sure. And then someone murdered her." Robert gazed at me with tragic eyes. "Daisy, whoever did it has to be working on the project. And now Mr. Jeffreys has been murdered, too."

  "Have you tried investigating further to see if you can find any... I don't know what you'd call them... discrepancies in what you think the reports should contain versus what they do contain?"

  "Yes. And I think someone is trying very hard to create another California Gold Rush, only this one right here in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains."

  "Oh, my. Why?"

  "I have no idea. It makes no sense to me."

  Robert and I stared at each other for several seconds. I wasn't even sure how to ask what I wanted to ask or even how to phrase it. A geologist, I'm not.

  I finally made a stab at it. "Um... Who would benefit from a fake gold rush?"

  If his shoulders could shrug any higher, I imagine they would have. "Nobody, as far as I know. We scientists and the students who worked on the project would look like fools if we published a project report that turned out to be incorrect." He shook h
is head. "I just don't know. It makes no sense to me. We'd all... Well, we'd all look like raving nitwits. Or deliberate liars."

  "This sounds very strange to me, Robert, but you do need to tell Detective Rotondo everything you just told me. And I mean everything."

  "Oh, God. I feel as if I've betrayed everyone's trust."

  "Don't be ridiculous. If your information can help solve two murders, you'll be doing everybody, including the police department and the folks working on your project, a huge favor. You can't keep it to yourself any longer. Either one of those things."

  "You really think so?"

  "I know so."

  "Cripes. I feel like such a louse. It just"—Robert pressed a hand to his head—"feels like a betrayal. I promised Mary and I promised Elizabeth that I'd never divulge the secret Mary placed in Elizabeth's and my hands. I promised, Daisy."

  Practicality time. "They're both dead, Robert." I saw him wince and said, "I know. What I said sounds harsh, but two people have been viciously murdered, and you're keeping what might well be pertinent information from the police."

  "I suppose you're right."

  "I know I'm right. For Pete's sake, Robert, stop being so darned childish about this!"

  He stared at me with disappointment writ large on his features. "I don't think of it as being childish, Daisy. I think of it as being true to a promise. If that's a childish attitude, then I guess I'm childish."

  "That's all very noble, Robert, but I doubt either Elizabeth or Mary—or Regina Petrie, for that matter—would appreciate it if you were arrested for committing a murder you didn't commit."

  Robert lowered his gaze to his hands, now folded on the table in front of him. "You're right, of course." He looked at me. "And I really like Regina Petrie, Daisy. I'm so glad I met her, even if the circumstances were... unfortunate."

  "That's one way of putting it," I said drily. "But listen, Robert." I remembered the time. Well, that is to say, I remembered that it might be getting on toward the time I should be home and setting the table for dinner. "There's a telephone booth outside the library, isn't there?"