by Alice Duncan
"Sit down, you two," said Sam, sounding as happy as I'd heard him sound since Frank had come to town. "I didn't expect to see you today, Daisy."
The four of us all sat. "Aren't you coming for dinner tonight?" I asked.
"If I can. I'll give you a call."
"Thanks. Miss Petrie and I are going to do some shopping. She's going to be attending the Halloween party with Mr. Browning."
"Ah," said Sam. "I see."
I could tell he still considered Robert Browning a viable suspect even after Robert's admittedly late disclosure, the silly man.
"It's nice to see you two," said Regina in her soft, nearly inaudible voice.
Sam raised his hand to summon one of the Chinese waiters, who promptly came to the table with a menu for Regina and one for me. "Go ahead and order, you two. We just ordered a minute ago, and our food hasn't arrived yet, so maybe we'll all be able to dine together."
"Great. I already know what I want," I said, smiling at the waiter. "A number three, please."
"That sounds good to me, too," said Regina, who also smiled at the waiter.
He bowed, took our menus, and departed to convey our orders to the kitchen.
Fortunately, our food all arrived at the same time, so nobody had to wait on anyone else's order. I love Chinese food. Also, if you ordered one of their pre-planned menus, you got a whole lot of different stuff. I particularly loved the Chinese spareribs.
We talked about not much of anything as we dined. Frank didn't say a word, but he minded his manners beautifully. He almost spoke up when the food arrived, but a look from his uncle shut his mouth before anything emerged therefrom.
For the rest of the afternoon after that, Regina and I made the rounds of stores from Nash's Dry Goods and Mercantile, to Maxime's Fabrics, to Norma Golding's Beauty Parlor and on and on and on.
At one point, we came across the Salvation Army band playing "Onward Christian Soldiers" on a corner. In those days, you couldn't stroll down Colorado without meeting the band. Regina seemed slightly alarmed when I headed straight at the Army, but I just tugged her along with me. When we got to the band, Johnny Buckingham, who played the trumpet, stopped playing and greeted me. I introduced him to Regina, who shook his hand tentatively.
"Where's Flossie?" I asked Johnny.
"Home with Billy," said he. Made sense to me. Billy, named for my late husband, was Flossie and Johnny's baby boy.
Regina and I each contributed something to the tambourine held out to us by a uniformed maiden of the Army, I waved good-bye to Johnny, and as he resumed playing we walked down the street.
"I didn't know you were so close to the folks at the Salvation Army," said Regina. "Not that there's anything wrong with the Salvation Army, of course, but... I'm just a little surprised, is all."
"I've known Johnny for years. He and my late husband were great friends. I met his wife, Flossie, a couple of years ago, and we became dear friends, too."
I didn't bother to relate Flossie's entire story to Regina. She might have been shocked, although she continued to surprise me. However, if I'd told her Flossie and I had met in a speakeasy that was almost instantly raided, she might have looked upon the both of us askance. The fact that I'd only gone there to conduct a séance was, while true, still stupid of me, a fact of which Sam Rotondo never fails to remind me. The fact that Flossie had at the time been a gangster's moll was nobody's business. Anyway, she'd reformed, unlike some former Salvation Army members I'd known. Stacy Kincaid naturally leaps to my mind. I didn't like her doing that and wish she'd keep out of my life entirely, but oh well...
"Oh," said Regina. "How nice."
I guess. Anyhow, we had a good time at Hertel's Department Store, where Regina was persuaded to purchase a very pretty day dress and some fashionable shoes. Both items were on sale, which appealed to my skinflint soul; I don't think Regina cared much.
All in all, we had a good time. I have to admit, however, that by the time we emerged from Norma Golding's Beauty Parlor, I was about to drop dead of fatigue. But boy, did Regina Petrie look like a new woman!
She kept patting her hair, which had been cut and marcelled into a stylish not-quite-bob. "I can't believe it," she whispered time and time again. "I can't believe it."
"You look wonderful," I told her, wishing I were home napping with Spike.
"I'll never be able to thank you enough for this, Daisy."
"I didn't do a thing. You did all the shopping. And I'm so glad you got your hair cut. You look stunning." Perhaps that was a slight exaggeration, but really, she did look like a whole other person. A stylish, very attractive other person. I was proud of myself, even though she'd paid all the money and had all the work done. Still, she'd never have had it done if it weren't for me. Probably.
"I'm so grateful to you, Daisy. I truly am."
We went through that many times: her thanking me, me telling her not to, and her thanking me some more. I was tired.
We'd stuffed all the packages into the Chevrolet, to which we now returned. I drove Regina home, helped her carry all the parcels to her darling little bungalow and took myself and my tired body to our house. I don't think I'd ever been so glad to be home before. Spike was pleased, too. As was Pa.
"Sam called," he said as I stooped to greet my darling hound. "He said he and Frank can come to dinner tonight."
"Oh, good." I stood, creaking a little. "What time is it, anyway?"
Pa took a step back into the kitchen and looked at the clock. "Three-fifteen."
"Is that all? I feel as if I've been on my feet for a hundred years."
"Rough day?" Pa looked concerned.
"Not really. Just tiring. I had to see Mrs. Pinkerton this morning, but the rest of the day I spent with Regina Petrie, getting her all spiffed up. If things go the way I hope they will, she and Robert Browning will be a couple soon."
"If he's not arrested for murder," said Pa dampeningly.
"He won't be. He didn't do it."
"If you say so, sweetie."
"Say, Pa, is it all right with you if I lie down for a little while? Regina and I tromped all over Pasadena this afternoon in order to get her prettied up."
"You needn't ask my permission, Daisy," said Pa, laughing. "You deserve to rest as much as anyone else does. Especially after having done such a good deed."
"Thanks, Pa."
So Spike and I both went to my bedroom, where I slipped out of my comfy dress, my uncomfy bust-flattener, and flopped onto the bed. Spike jumped up and snuggled beside me. We had a nice nap.
When Spike and I awoke, Vi was in the kitchen preparing something that smelled delicious, as was her wont. She greeted me cheerfully, as I did her.
Sam and Frank arrived on the dot of six p.m., and Frank hardly moved during the entire meal. Sam didn't make him wash dishes with me, for which I was glad. The two of them didn't stay long after they ate, because Sam said he had to return to the office to complete some paperwork. I wanted to ask him how the case was progressing, but knew better. He was such a grumbler about what he calls my interference with his cases.
The rest of the week passed peacefully enough. Naturally, I had to visit Mrs. Pinkerton every day. Also naturally, Rolly and the tarot cards told her nothing they hadn't told her thousands of times before. Nevertheless, Mrs. P seemed to be more and more reliant on me. I didn't understand then, never have understood, and doubt I ever will understand why she put such faith in a fake spiritualist, but I made a whole lot of money that week, so I'm not complaining.
Harold, Gladys and I consulted several times, and I delivered Dr. Fellowes's toga in plenty of time for him to try it on. When I asked her, Gladys said it needed no alterations. It's kind of hard to make a too-small toga. The only thing I'd wondered about was the length, and since Gladys had told me her husband's height—five feet, ten inches—I'd even made it the correct length.
Gladys's globe costume took a little persuasion on the parts of Harold and me in order for her to accept and agree to
wear it.
"I can't wear that!" Gladys cried in horror as she gazed upon the full globe-ish-ness of her Halloween costume. "It's... It's round!"
"So are you," I pointed out.
"Well, but not that round. Will I be able to sit down in it?"
"Yes. I made sure of that. See? The globe part ends right below your waist, and if you wear a comfortable skirt under it, you'll be able to sit very well."
"But don't lean back too hard against a chair," Harold warned, "or you'll flatten it."
"Good Lord," said Gladys.
"It's only for one evening," I reminded her. "And it's for a good cause. I expect Sam to nab the murderer of Miss Carleton and Mr. Jeffreys on Saturday night."
She looked uncertainly at me. "You really think so?"
"I really think so," I said, sounding more confident than I felt. I sure hoped so, anyway.
"Well..."
"Oh, by the way, Robert Browning told me the name of Miss Carleton's infant's father." I turned to Harold. "Go into the kitchen or something, Harold. This isn't for popular consumption."
"Oh, for God's sake," said he, but he vamoosed, bless his heart.
For some reason, Gladys clutched at her heart. "Who was it?" she whispered as if she wasn't sure she wanted to know. I thought that was odd.
"Dr. Malton."
Gladys practically collapsed on to the ottoman at the foot of a burgundy chair in her living room. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she whispered.
I thought that was odd, too. "Why are you glad? I think Dr. Malton is a beast and a reprobate and a miserable human being."
"Oh, yes. Yes, he is. Oh, but Daisy! I so feared it might be Homer. That was why I wanted you to investigate Miss Carleton's murder. I was so afraid he might have killed her if she tried to get him to divorce me and marry her."
"Homer!" I all but shouted. "Why did you fear that? He's madly in love with you, for Pete's sake."
To my horror, tears dripped from Gladys's eyes. "Oh, but I'm so fat and ugly these days, Daisy. You don't know what it's like, being pregnant."
Outspoken young woman. She didn't even use a euphemism for the word "pregnant."
"You weren't pregnant when Miss Carleton got with child." I, on the other hand, used euphemisms all the time and figured now should be no different.
"I can't explain it," said Gladys, seeming to catch her breath. She wiped her eyes. "But I was so afraid."
"I don't know why," I said frankly. "He seems totally smitten with you."
"Maybe. But there was that actress."
"True, but that was a momentary... I don't know what to call it. Lapse, I guess. He got over it as soon as he realized what a stupid, ego-mad woman she was."
Gladys pulled a hankie out of her pocket and wiped away the last of her tears. "You're right, of course," she said, standing once more and sounding like the Gladys I'd become more or less accustomed to. I don't think I'd ever be able to relate profoundly to Gladys Fellowes. I mean... Algebra? No, no, no.
"Oh, Daisy," said she. "You've made me a very happy woman. Perhaps being pregnant does something to a woman's... I don't know. Hormones? Don't we have hormones or something?"
"I... guess so. You should know, being more apt to... um, know what goes on in a human body than I."
"I think it's hormones. That's why I've been so crazy since Mary's death. I liked her so well, and if Homer had been intimate with her... Well, I guess I don't have to worry about that. Thank you so much, Daisy."
"You're welcome," I said, thinking she was nuts.
But no. I could understand her trepidation. Sort of. Dr. Homer Fellowes had been infatuated with Lola de la Monica until her true nature was revealed unto him. And the rest of us. She was a ghastly woman. Still is, probably. But once Dr. Fellowes had fixed his attention on Gladys, he didn't look at anyone else. If there was a match made in heaven, theirs was it, by golly.
So after the costume problem was solved to almost everyone's satisfaction, and Gladys's fears had been allayed—I swear to goodness, I still couldn't quite imagine her calling me in to find a murderer because she thought her husband might have done it—there remained only choir practice to get through, which I did on Thursday evening. Sam and Frank didn't attend that evening, and I was sorry for it. Not because I missed Frank, but because I missed Sam. It occurred to me to ask him if he'd like to join the choir at our church once we were married.
He probably wouldn't. Still, you never knew.
And then came Saturday.
Chapter 32
Sam and Frank came to our bungalow early on that Saturday evening, although we didn't plan to dine there. Harold had assured me there'd be enough food at the Felloweses' home to feed several armies. They came early so that I could assist Sam with his toga. Not that he needed a lot of assistance. For the record, I'd already donned my Gypsy fortune-teller costume. Frank looked at me as if he thought I'd lost my mind to wear such a thing. I ignored him. Anyway, I assisted Sam with his costume.
"It's a toga, for God's sake. How much fitting does it need?" he asked, sounding cranky. Then again, he nearly always sounded cranky in those days. He had a lot to put up with, what with his sore leg and his despicable nephew.
"Don't be a spoilsport, Sam Rotondo. I want to see how wonderful you look with that red sash over your shoulder and that laurel wreath on your head."
"Lord."
"He gets a red sash?" said Frank, sounding as if he wanted a red sash of his own.
"Yes. He's supposed to be a Roman senator."
"Oh," said Frank, gazing down at his black pants and white coat with disdain. He clearly didn't like having to be a waiter on this occasion. Too bad for him. If he were a decent person and didn't pilfer silver crosses and Buddha statues, I might have made him a costume, too, but he didn't deserve such consideration. Anyway, he was only going to be there to serve food, so he didn't need a costume.
"And don't you dare steal anything from the Felloweses' place!" I told him sternly.
"Hey," he said.
Sam cuffed him for the heck of it, eliciting another "Hey."
"Oh, be quiet," I told him.
He didn't say another word.
Sam and I retired to the sewing room, where Sam donned his toga and plopped the laurel wreath on his head. He looked perfectly splendid both of them. I told him so. He said, "Huh." Typical.
However, when we exited the sewing room, my family agreed with me.
"Did you make that costume, Daisy?" asked Ma. Why, I don't know. Who else would have made it?
"Yes, I did," I told her modestly.
"It's quite nice," said she. "You look good in it, Sam."
Faint praise. On the other hand, it had come from my mother, who wasn't effusive at the most exciting of times.
"You look wonderful, Sam!" said Vi, eyeing him up and down.
"Yes, you do. You look very senatorial," said Pa, chuckling.
Spike liked the costume, too. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.
"Thanks," said Sam as if it cost him to thank anyone for saying he looked good as a Roman senator. He was such a moaner!
We made our way to his Hudson and climbed in. Sam made Frank carry my bag of tricks—that is to say my Ouija board, tarot cards and crystal ball—with the strict admonition that he was not to drop the bag or he would forfeit his life. Frank succeeded in doing that, even if he was useless in all other ways.
I'd arranged with Gladys and Harold to arrive at the Felloweses' home early because I wanted to eat something and organize my fortune-telling table. Or booth. Or tent. Or whatever Harold had arranged for me. Turned out to be a table in a corner, which was fine by me, because I'd be able to see the party-goers from a table much better than if I'd been stuck in a tent or a booth.
Harold himself looked quite charming in a costume I'd last seen worn by men in Turkey. He wore black trousers, a white shirt with big sleeves, a big red belt around his rather rotund tummy, a colorful vest and black boots. On his head he wore an embroidered tarbush with a
black tassel.
"Love your outfit, Harold."
"Thank you. I borrowed it from the set of the next Sheik flicker."
"I thought sheiks wore turbans."
"Have you ever tried to wind a turban so it won't unwind when you don't want it to?"
"No."
"Try it, and you'll discover why I chose the tarbush."
"Well, you look quite fetching," I told him.
"Thanks. I like Sam's toga." He smiled at Sam, who actually smiled back at him. Sam did look awfully good in his toga.
Gladys joined us. She hadn't donned her globe costume yet.
"Can you help me get into the thing?" she asked me. She noticed Sam's toga and frowned slightly. "I like Detective Rotondo's toga better than Homer's."
"The detective is a Roman senator. Dr. Fellowes is a Greek philosopher," I said, creating that excuse on the spot.
Gladys said, "Oh."
"Let's go get you dressed," I said.
"Thanks. Come on to my bedroom. Homer is in the kitchen, I think, but he'll join us soon. He and I will have to greet our guests. Harold told me that's proper etiquette for things like this."
She didn't sound as if she wholly approved of "things like this". Poor Gladys.
But boy, she sure looked swell in her globe costume! I was so pleased. "Gladys, you are totally charming! And what a perfect costume for a geological project leader's spouse."
Eyeing herself in the cheval-glass mirror in her bedroom, she turned and surveyed her costume all the way around. "You know, I think you're right."
"I know I'm right." Something occurred to me then. I tell you, you never know when brilliant ideas will strike a person, do you? "Say, Gladys, do you want to keep that costume after tonight?"
Still frowning at her image in the mirror, she said, "I can't imagine why I'd want to keep it. Anyway, you bought the fabric and sewed the thing. You should take it back. That way it won't clutter up my closet."
"Wonderful. I just thought of a great way to use those maps."