by Alice Duncan
"Thank you, Sam. You may relax now. I have your measurements."
I rose to my feet only to be warmly embraced by the man I aimed to marry. I embraced him back, and things might have become quite interesting had not most of my family been sitting in the living room.
Really, Sam and I had to figure out a way to have some privacy one of these days. After all, we'd both been married before. We knew what married folks did with each other. And I also knew ways to avoid pregnancy until we decided to have children.
Is that a shocking thing to write? Oh, who cares? My journal; my thoughts.
Therefore, we broke apart, sighed in unison, and left the sewing room. Spike and I walked Sam to his Hudson and, in spite of the wind, which howled louder than Spike when he got going, we both stood there as he drove down Marengo. One of these days...
Chapter 29
The next day, as I knew she would, Mrs. Pinkerton called me in the morning. Naturally, she was weeping and wailing. Pa and I had just finished taking Spike for his morning walk, so I decided to get the unpleasant part of my day over as quickly as possible.
Therefore, I dressed fashionably, fetched my bag of spiritualist-medium paraphernalia, bade my father and Spike a fond farewell and hied myself to Mrs. P's house. Because I'd been so busy on Monday, I'd have to do the laundry that day, a Tuesday. I don't like doing laundry, but both my aunt and my mother worked away from the house more than I did, so I did the laundry. Because the wind still roared, I aimed to hang it in the basement. Sometimes those blasted Santa Ana Winds would carry an entire line of laundry sailing off down the street. Or up the street, depending on which way they blew.
Neither Rolly nor the tarot cards had any startling revelations for Mrs. Pinkerton, but we both offered her as much comfort as we could. Rolly was such a nice guy.
Before I left the mansion, I went to the kitchen where I found my aunt elbow-deep in flour.
"Making bread?" I asked.
She turned and smiled at me. "Yes. I'm going to make bread and Parker House Rolls, and the Pinkertons and we will have them for dinner."
"I love Parker House Rolls." Something occurred to me. "Why are they called Parker House Rolls? I mean, did somebody named Parker invent them?"
Vi laughed into her bread dough. "The original recipe came from a hotel in Boston in, I think the 1870s or thereabouts. The hotel was called the Parker House."
"Oh. I guess that makes sense."
"I guess it does. They're really no different from bread or other rolls. They're just folded and then brushed with melted butter."
"Yum."
"Indeed." Vi shaped her dough into a bowl, covered it with a damp dish towel, and set the bowl aside. "But now I have to prepare everything else."
"I'd offer to help—"
"No thank you, dear. I need to get the meals prepared today."
Well, really!
Feeling hurt, although I don't know why—I knew all about the calamities I could inflict in the kitchen—I said, "Very well, then. I'll just go on home and do laundry."
"Don't sulk dear."
Vi'd washed her hands and walked over to me. She kissed me on the top of my head. "Love you, Daisy."
I gave up my sulk, which was undeserved anyway. "Love you, too, Vi." I gave her a quick hug, glanced down to see I'd got flour all over my nice black woolen coat, brushed it off and headed outside. I left by the service-porch door, which meant that by the time I got to the Chevrolet parked in front of the house, my hair had been blown to bits and I had grit in my teeth. I really hated those Santa Ana Winds.
However, that is neither here nor there. I drove home, got out of my working costume, donned a faded blue house dress and the most comfortable pair of shoes I owned and went to the service porch. I sighed heavily when I saw the basket full of laundry awaiting me.
Mind you, I shouldn't complain. A couple of years earlier I'd bought the family an electric Thor washing machine, so washing was ever so much easier than it used to be when we had to scrub the clothes on a washboard. Still, doing laundry was a tedious chore. Maybe one of these days, I could afford to hire someone to come in and do laundry for us.
Probably not.
By the time I'd rinsed the last load, fed everything through the wringer again, and hung it all in the basement to dry, I was pooped. So I went into the living room, grabbed a book, and sat on the sofa. I had to conduct a séance at Mrs. Bissel's that night, so I didn't feel guilty about resting a bit. Not too guilty, anyway.
I'd already read The Amazing Adventures of Letitia Carberry and Tish, so I started in on More Tish. These books were definitely fun, and I enjoyed them. Spike did, too, because he got to sit on my lap as I read. My eyes kept trying to shut, so I finally gave up on More Tish, and went to my bedroom to lie down.
When I woke up again, Pa was home, and he was eating a cold cabbage roll at the kitchen table.
"Hey, sleepyhead," said he.
"I'm not being lazy," I said instantly. Guess I did feel guilty. "I did laundry, and I have to conduct a séance tonight, so I rested a bit."
"I'm not accusing you of being lazy," said my father, grinning. "Want a cold cabbage roll?"
"Yes. Thanks."
So, bless Pa's heart, he got me a cold cabbage roll, put it on a plate, brought the plate to me and revisited the Frigidaire. "There are some leftover beets in here, too," said he, peering into the Frigidaire. "Want some of those?"
"Yes, please. You're too nice to me, Pa."
"Nonsense. You work hard, Daisy. All I do is loaf around."
He didn't like doing it, either, but he'd had a heart attack, and Dr. Benjamin had warned him about doing too much. I loved my father and wanted him to stick around for a good long while.
* * *
While the rest of my family ate Vi's magnificent dinner—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, English peas and Parker House rolls—I got dressed up for Mrs. Bissel's séance. I felt deprived, but I was pretty sure Mrs. Bissel's dinner would be passable. Anyhow, I could have a chicken sandwich for lunch the next day.
Wait a minute! I probably couldn't. Drat! I'd agreed to haul Regina Petrie around to the beauty salon and to some shops. Fiddlesticks. As soon as I realized what my tomorrow would bring, I felt deprived all over again. But never mind that.
As the Chevrolet chugged up Lake Avenue to Foothill Boulevard, I reflected that I didn't really want to meet poor Miss Carleton's mother. She'd almost certainly be devastated about her daughter's death and, while I often told Sam I helped bereaved people by giving them hope and comfort, I still lied for a living. My work didn't sound awfully noble when viewed from that angle. Ah, well. Too late to change my profession now.
Mrs. Bissel's house was large and grand, but it wasn't the castle some of the other rich folks in Altadena and Pasadena owned. Still, it was a nice place. I parked in the circular driveway in back of the house, since if I parked the car on the street in front of the house, I'd have to hike a mile and a half across the two rolling hills on her front lawn, and I was apt to get blown off my feet. The back yard wasn't free from perils, however. A big monkey-puzzle tree sat in the middle of the circular drive, and those stupid monkey-puzzle spikes were perilous. More than once, I'd been attacked by one and had my stockings snagged.
By being extremely careful, I arrived at the back door of Mrs. B's house with my stockings intact. Keiji Saito, Mrs. Bissel's Japanese houseboy, met me at the back door with a smile. "Did you navigate through the blowing leaves successfully?" he asked.
"Yes. It was tough, but I managed. You call those things leaves? They're more like deadly weapons if you ask me."
Keiji and I were good buddies. He'd not only taught me how to use chopsticks, but I steered people to his uncle's Pasadena restaurant as often as I could. I'd never eaten Japanese food before I'd met Keiji. I liked it. Of course, I basically liked food. When Keiji had told me about sushi and sashimi, I cringed, but he said they were both quite tasty. I told him I believed him, but I still didn't w
ant to eat any raw fish.
"Want to go to the powder room and fix your hair?" asked Keiji.
Oh, dear. I patted my hair. "I didn't escape from the wind unscathed? Is that what you're trying to tell me, Keiji?"
He laughed as he took my hat, handbag and coat from me. "You don't look too scathed, but yes. I suspect you'd like to fix your hair. You can use the back stairs and go to the bathroom at the top of them if you'd like."
"Thanks. I shall."
I knew the way, having been coming to this house for almost as long as I'd been visiting Mrs. Pinkerton's. I'd had a frightening experience regarding that particular bathroom once, but the people I'd overheard confessing to and plotting murder were safely tucked away in prison now, so I had no fear that night. I tromped up the back stairs—in other words, the servants' stairs—and entered the pretty tiled bathroom.
Oh, my. Keiji had been right. I plopped my handbag and accouterments on the vanity table, dug my comb out of my handbag, and worked on my hair. Fortunately, I have "good" hair. It was thick and sort of wavy, and it settled down with only a little tweaking. Then I went back down the servants' stairs and walked through the kitchen, breakfast room, sun porch and entered the living room.
As luck—or an ill wind, darn those stupid Santa Anas—would have it, the first person to spot me was Mrs. Pinkerton, who charged at me. Knowing her of old, I braced myself against a wall so we wouldn't both fall over when she hit.
"Oh, Daisy! Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you're here! Poor Angela is so upset! But you can help her. I know you can!"
Whoever Angela was. I patted Mrs. P on the back. "There, there," said I. "I'll do my best."
Fortunately, Mrs. Bissel had seen our collision and was smiling as she walked over to me. Both Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Pinkerton were relatively large women, and both had money to burn, so they always dressed in the height of fashion. Sometimes this was unfortunate. That night they both wore evening frocks that didn't flatter them much, being straight up-and-down styles. Neither one of the ladies were straight up-and-down. Mind you, the slim and boyish look didn't necessarily flatter me either, but I didn't have as much flesh to cover as the two matrons. My bust-flattener generally made my clothes look good on me, but I doubted so flimsy a fix would help either of these women. That night, Mrs. B was in purple and Mrs. P was in a rather shockingly pink-colored, floor-length satin gown. Not only did she bulge alarmingly in quite a few places, but the light flashing from the satin made me blink. I wasn't a big purple fan, but at least Mrs. Bissel appeared somber and dignified. Mrs. Pinkerton looked as if she were trying to recapture her girlhood. She didn't succeed.
"Come with me, dear," said Mrs. Bissel, prying Mrs. Pinkerton away from me. "I want you to meet Angela Carleton. It was her daughter, you know, who was so foully done to death last week."
"Yes. I know. Thank you, Mrs. Bissel."
She shook her head, still smiling as we walked. "Madeline can be a bit trying sometimes. I thought I'd better rescue you." Madeline was Mrs. Pinkerton.
"Thank you. I feared I'd smother if she'd held me any longer."
We both laughed.
As soon as Mrs. B led me farther into the room, I spotted that night's victim—I mean main subject. A woman clad in black and almost as pale as I sat on a sofa against the far wall. She had dark circles under her eyes, and she looked sad. Very sad. My heart hurt for her. Mrs. Bissel led me straight to her. The woman glanced up with dull eyes.
"Angela, please meet Mrs. Majesty. I sincerely hope she'll be able to give you some comfort at this terrible time. Desdemona Majesty, please allow me to introduce you to Angela Carleton."
Mrs. Carleton stood with what looked like great effort. I wished she hadn't. Being a total fraud was bad enough; making people stand to meet me didn't seem right at all.
"Mrs. Carleton," said I, "I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't even imagine how terrible it must be to lose a child."
With a quivering lip, Mrs. Carleton said, "Glad to meet you, Mrs. Majesty." She held out her hand, and I took it in both of my own.
"I knew your daughter only slightly, but she was a fine librarian and seemed a lovely person."
A couple of tears trickled down the woman's face. "Thank you. She loved her work. I only wish she'd stayed at the public library and hadn't moved to the Institute. She made more money there, but she wasn't happy."
Hmm. Interesting. "Please, Mrs. Carleton, sit down. May I sit with you for a moment?"
She sat and said, "Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Majesty."
Sitting next to her, I said, "Please just call me Daisy. Most folks do."
"Daisy," she repeated dully.
"I'll leave the two of you to get to know each other," said Mrs. Bissel, who was infinitely more insightful—I guess that's the right word—than Mrs. Pinkerton, who had started making a bee-line for Mrs. Carleton and me. Mrs. Bissel deftly swept the woman off-course and spoke softly in her ear. I suspect she was giving her a tactful lesson in good manners. In other words, she probably reminded her that Mrs. Pinkerton might have a lousy daughter, but Mrs. Carleton had no daughter at all any longer.
"Please accept my sympathy. I have no idea what you're going through, and I'm so very sorry," I said sincerely.
Wiping her eyes with a damp hankie, Mrs. Carleton said, "Thank you."
"Um... You said Miss Carleton wasn't happy at the Institute?"
"No." She shook her head. "She was at first, but... Well, she'd been... I'm not sure what you'd call it. She thought she..." Her voice trailed off.
She thought she what? Dang it! "Did she tell you why she decided to accept the job at Cal Tech?"
Deep, heartfelt sigh. "Yes, but she was wrong."
"I'm sorry." Not enlightened, but sorry. "Um... Why did she move to the Institute? Was it just for the money? Not that there's any just about money. We women who have to support ourselves or our families are at other people's mercy sometimes. Most of the time, actually."
"Yes. That's true."
A heavy silence ensued. I didn't break it, having noticed more than once that people got uncomfortable with silence and were apt to chatter if it hung around too long.
Mrs. Carleton finally broke. "She thought she was in love with one of the scientists who worked there," she said in a soft voice. "But the man was already married." Shooting me a quick glance from troubled eyes, she added, "She didn't know that at the time. He... Well, he treated her quite badly."
"Poor Miss Carleton."
"Yes. Poor Mary." She sniffled. "The man was such a cad!"
"I'm sorry."
Mrs. Carleton took my hand and peered at me closely. "If I tell you something, will you keep it to yourself?"
"Of course. My entire career depends on confidentiality. I would never tell another person's secrets." Well... Almost never.
"Mary..." She paused, swallowed, and wiped her eyes again. "Mary had a baby two years ago. She... Well, she was naïve, I suppose, but she honestly believed the man would marry her." She gave a rather inelegant snort. "He was already married."
"The cad!" I didn't have to pretend outrage. I'd been outraged ever since I'd learned about poor Mary Carleton's baby. And when I'd learned who the father of her child was, I'd wanted to stab him in the back. Not precisely kind of me, but really. Any man who would lie to a woman in order to secure her favors didn't deserve to call himself a man. I have absolutely no tolerance for some things. "Um... Did poor Miss Carleton have to give up the baby? I mean, did someone adopt the child?"
Shaking her head, Mrs. Carleton said, "No. Mary begged us to keep him. My husband didn't want to, but I insisted. The poor child can't be blamed for the folly of his parents. And Mary wasn't truly foolish. She'd been foully misled."
"I'm so glad you have something of your daughter's to remember her by." Was that a stupid thing to say? Probably. Oh, well.
"Yes. I'm glad we kept him. He's a darling little boy."
"How old is he now? Oh, you said two years."
"Yes." A big sob wrac
ked her. "And now he won't even remember his mother!"
She broke down completely after that, and I put an arm around her and squeezed. She turned in my arms and wept on my shoulder for several minutes. When I glanced around the room, I saw we were being sent lots of sympathetic glances. Well deserved, I believed, although I'm sure some of the woman would be appalled if they knew Mary Carleton had born a child out of wedlock. The world is so unfair sometimes. Anyway, I didn't mind my black gown getting its shoulder soaked. It was an old, if lovely, gown, and it had been wept upon before.
We were all called in to dinner then, so I walked with Mrs. Carleton to the table. There were more women than men at dinner, so I sat next to Mrs. Carleton. She didn't eat much. I, however, did justice to Mrs. Cummings' meal. She wasn't quite the cook our Vi was, but her roast beef and popovers were quite good, and I didn't feel quite so upset about having missed out on Vi's roast chicken and Parker House Rolls.
Chapter 30
"Ach, my love," said Rolly after dinner when we'd gathered in the darkened breakfast room of Mrs. Bissel's home, "Miss Carleton is sorry she had to leave her loved ones"—I didn't mention specific loved ones—"but she's settling in here and is at peace. She prays her mother will not grieve long, for those she left behind need her strength and love."
That wasn't fair to poor Mrs. Carleton, who should be allowed to grieve for her lost daughter as much and as long as she needed to, but such is a woman's lot, I reckon. We get to do all the work and keep the family glued together when a member thereof passes away. Which is another silly expression. Passes away? How does someone pass away?
Oh, never mind.
When the séance was over, we all gathered in the living room again, and Keiji brought in coffee and tea. I didn't take either one, because I feared I wouldn't sleep well. Mrs. Carleton came up to me as I stood near the fireplace, thinking black thoughts about deceitful men and wishing Mary Carleton hadn't met such a grisly fate.