Spirits Onstage (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 8)

by Alice Duncan

  "It's good to see you, Mrs. Bissel," I said sincerely, shaking her hand. We both wore gloves. Mine were black. Hers were eggplant-colored.

  "And good evening, Detective Ro-ro—" Mrs. Bissel's face flamed to a color that clashed with her gown.

  "Rotondo," I supplied. "I'm amazed Sam decided to join us." I probably should have left that last part out.

  To my surprise, Sam executed a small, sharp bow and said, "How do you do, Mrs. Bissel?"

  "I'm fine, thank you." She held out her hand and Sam shook it just as a gentleman would have done.

  "But you need to meet some other people. I'm sure the two of you can talk later, Daisy." And Harold hauled Sam and me away from Mrs. Bissel and toward a woman whom I didn't know.

  "Oh, Harold," whispered the woman, a tall, skinny lady in a straight up-and-down red dress. She had a cigarette holder in her right hand and looked languid—if you know what I mean. She had flaxen-blond hair that I would have bet came straight out of a bottle. She seemed to have stationed herself in a pose meant to reflect boredom.

  The image of boredom was something the too-rich strove to project in those days after the war, when nothing seemed to matter and the world appeared headed straight to heck. Harold's horrible sister, Stacy, used to try to look languid and bored, but lately she'd taken up a tambourine and joined the Salvation Army. I don't expect this phase of hers to last. She'll be back to drinking and smoking and getting picked up in raids on speakeasies any old day now.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Lippincott. Please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Majesty and Mr. Rotondo."

  "Oh!" Mrs. Lippincott actually stood up straight. "Are you the spiritualist-medium, Mrs. Majesty? Madeline"—Madeline is Mrs. Kincaid's first name—"has told me so much about you!" She held out her hand, and I shook it. Then she offered it to Sam, who also shook it. "And you are? I didn't catch your name, I fear."

  "Detective Sam Rotondo," said Sam stolidly, not avoiding the issue of belonging to so ignoble a profession as that of policeman. "Pasadena Police Department."

  Mrs. Lippincott's eyes widened. "Oh, my. We'd better be on our good behavior this evening, isn't that so, Harold?" She giggled, which sounded incongruous coming from so languorous and sophisticated a specimen.

  "You betcha," said Harold, who was undaunted by much of anything, bless him. "Sam's a tough customer."

  "Ahhhh," said she, drawing out the one word into three syllables. I wanted to snatch Sam away from her before she dug her claws into him. She looked as if she'd be pleased to devour him—or do other unmentionable things to him.

  Fortunately, Harold was on the job. He said, "Aha! Here are some other folks you know. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings."

  Oh, dear. I did indeed know Mrs. Hastings. I'd never actually met Mr. Hastings, although he'd banned me from his law offices a year or so prior, when I was in pursuit of a murderer. Not that I pursue murderers on a regular basis, you understand. It just worked out that way.

  "Mrs. Majesty! How lovely to see you this evening." Laura Hastings, whose only son had died several months before this—which was why I'd been in Mr. Hastings' law offices—was delighted to see me. I could tell.

  "It's wonderful to see you, too," I said, trying to ignore her husband's scowl.

  "And here's Detective Sam Rotondo," said Harold, not mincing words this time.

  I saw Mr. Hastings' lips writhe a little before he unbent. As well he should have. If not for Sam and me, he'd have been fleeced of a good deal of money, and his son's murderer would never have been apprehended.

  "How do you do, Mrs. Majesty. Detective Rotondo." His voice softened when he spoke Sam's name. "I appreciate the good work you people did in breaking up that land swindle."

  "You're welcome," said Sam. Stolidly, I'm sure I needn't add. He shook hands with both of the Hastings.

  "And let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Miller—Malcolm and Veronica, that is to say. Mal, come over here and meet the spiritualist and her detective friend. The two of them haunt the streets of Pasadena, seeking out villains to prosecute. Or persecute."

  I whacked Harold on the arm. "We do not!"

  With a laugh, Harold said, "That's true. They don't have to go to so much trouble. Villains are just attracted to Daisy. Kind of like steel shavings to a magnet."

  I held out my hand to Mrs. Miller and said, "Don't believe a word Harold tells you. He's fibbing."

  "I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Miller in a rumbly voice, shaking my hand after his wife had let it go. He then shook Sam's hand. "I admire the work you do, Detective Rotondo. I've seen you in the paper a time or two. You've solved some mighty complicated crimes."

  "Thanks," muttered Sam.

  "Oh, and there are Connie and Max Van der Linden!" Harold cried with glee, yanking me away from the Millers. Mrs. Miller smiled and waved us off. I guess she understood Harold's personality.

  He hauled me over to a younger couple. I resisted slightly, but only because the couple's last name sounded German to me, and I'd held a grudge against Germans ever since they all but murdered my Billy. Irrational, I know. But I'm just a lowly human, and humans are irrational creatures.

  Harold, who knew me well, leaned close and whispered in my ear, "It's a Dutch name, so you're free to like them if you want to."

  I poked him in the ribs, but didn't respond. Sam, the rat, smiled slightly. I saw him. Well, I guess it was better than his usual scowl.

  Harold said effusively, "Connie and Max, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Majesty and Detective Sam Rotondo. Daisy's the one I told you about, Connie."

  The Van der Lindens were an attractive couple. He was tall and lean, and she was a little taller than I am—I'm five feet, four inches—and also lean. They both look fresh-faced and as if they didn't strive to achieve boredom. I instantly liked them for it—and the fact they weren't German—and smiled.

  "How do you do?" I asked them both together.

  "I'm so very happy to meet you, Mrs. Majesty. Harold has told us all about you. I understand you sing!" Mrs. Van der Linden grabbed my hand and pumped it as if she expected water to gush from my mouth.

  Her words startled me. "Sing? Me?" Harold often told people I was a spiritualist-medium, but a singer? I glanced at Harold, puzzled, but he only grinned more broadly.

  "She has a good voice," said Sam. That startled me, too. Sam wasn't given to complimenting people, especially me.

  "Sing? Well... I sing in the choir at First Methodist-Episcopal Church, but I'm only an alto."

  "Hmm," said Connie Van der Linden, tapping her chin with a lovely manicured finger, "Can you manage mezzo?"

  "Mezzo? Isn't that a soprano?" I felt like an idiot. "Um, I sing alto. I've never even tried to sing soprano."

  "Mezzo's lower than a coloratura," said Harold.

  Whatever that meant.

  "What about contralto? I'm sure you can, if you sing alto in your church choir," said Mr. Van der Linden. He, too, appeared rather avid.

  What was going on here? And what in the world was a contralto? I vaguely remembered reading about a contralto in a Sherlock Holmes story, but darned if I could remember which one.

  "I... I don't know. What's a contralto?" Then I felt stupid.

  But the Van der Lindens only laughed. The mister said, "I'm sorry. You must think we've gone 'round the bend. But you see, we're interested in putting together a little musical operetta company. We're thinking of staging light operas like The Merry Widow and perhaps some of Gilbert and Sullivan's works."

  "And a contralto is, basically, an alto," said Mrs. Van der Linden. "Non-opera people have just chopped the C-O-N-T-R off the word contralto. We're hoping to stage some operettas soon."

  "What fun," I said, still confused. Did they want the lowly me to sing in their operettas? Actually... that did sound like fun. "I loved The Merry Widow, when I saw it at the Shakespeare Club last year."

  "Daisy is a wonderful seamstress, too," said Harold, sounding coy.

  Was he volunteering me for somethin
g? I slipped him a glance. He looked innocent. I considered this a very bad sign.

  "Oh, how marvelous!" cried Ms. Van der Linden, clasping her hands to her more or less nonexistent bosom.

  "But—"

  Didn't work. Harold interrupted me. "I'm a fabulous baritone," said he with his customary modesty (I'm joking).

  "Yes, you are," said Mrs. Van der Linden, giggling. On her a giggle sounded just about right.

  "Do you sing, Inspector?" Mr. V asked Sam.

  "Detective," said Sam. "Not really."

  "I beg your pardon. Detective. You have a deep voice. I'd bet, if I were a betting man, that you'd sing bass."

  "Maybe," said Sam, as voluble as ever.

  "Let's discuss this more after dinner," Harold suggested. "I want to introduce Daisy and Sam to a couple of other people."

  He tugged on my arm and whispered, "Connie is fabulously wealthy, but she's sweet anyway."

  "How nice for her," I said, wondering what Connie Van der Linden's wealth had to do with anything. I lurched after Harold, bringing Sam along with me. "Harold Kincaid, is this why your mother has been in such a lather this past week? Does she want to get me to sing in some stupid operetta?"

  "That would be telling," said Harold with a laugh.

  I wasn't sure I approved of this nonsense, and I was positive Sam didn't. His glower could have wilted roses.

  "Del! Here are Daisy and Sam!" Harold chirped as we approached his better half.

  Del's smile could have made a woman who didn't know his deepest secret melt into a puddle of slush. As tall and lanky as my late Billy, Del was the opposite of the shortish, plumpish Harold. But the two men loved each other, and in my book, love trumps looks any old day.

  I gave Del one of my best smiles and held out my hand. "It's so good to see you again, Del. Harold has been hinting at dire doings involving singing. Do you know anything about this?"

  He chuckled as he shook my hand and then Sam's, who deigned to give Del's hand a short little shake. He didn't like Del for the same reason he didn't like Harold. Silly man.

  "Don't look to me for enlightenment. I can't carry a tune in a basket," said Del. "But I think Harold, the Van der Lindens, and Mrs. Pinkerton have been up to something. I suspect you'll learn all about it before long."

  "Oh, look over there," said Harold nodding to his left. "There's someone you probably know, Detective."

  I heard Sam mutter something under his breath, but darned if I know what it was.

  "Chief Kelley," Harold said, yanking me over to a portly gent who looked out of place. A stout woman stood next to him. She appeared slightly overdressed and nervous. Chief?

  A glance at Sam told me all I needed to know.

  "Chief Kelley," Harold said again once we stood before the couple. "Please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Majesty, who has received two... whatever you call thems from your department for helping the city's police officers solve crimes."

  Wishing I could disappear, I pasted on a gentle smile—I excel at gentle smiles because they go well with my line of work—held out a hand and said, "How do you do?"

  "Uh. Oh, yes. Mrs. Majesty. Good to meet you. Again." He nodded at Sam. "Detective Rotondo."

  "Chief," said Sam. His hand lifted slightly as if he were going to salute, but he remembered he was in dinner garb and not his uniform, and he didn't.

  "Please," said the chief stiffly, "allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Kelley." He tipped his head toward the ill-at-ease woman at his side.

  I did another hand extension and another howdy-do. Only in my wafting spiritualist's way.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Majesty. I've heard about you," said she in a slightly nasal voice.

  Oh, dear. I only smiled at her. I feared she'd heard about me, all right, and probably not in very flattering terms. Some people—Sam among them—thought I poked into too many corners I should stay away from. Nuts to them. I got things done.

  "Daisy!"

  I recognized that shriek, felt a second of reprieve from the hands of the law, and braced myself.

  Sure enough, I turned around just in time to have Mrs. Pinkerton fling her arms around me. We'd probably both have hit the floor if we hadn't bumped into Sam, who was more or less an immovable object. He put his hands on my shoulder to steady Mrs. P and me.

  "I'm so thrilled you could come this evening, Daisy! And you, too, Detective Rotondo. Thank you for coming!"

  She usually called Sam Mr. Rotund. She must have been practicing his name.

  "Thank you for inviting us, Mrs. Pinkerton," I said politely, trying to wrest myself from her embrace. "How's Jackson doing? I understand he's out of the hospital now."

  "Yes, he is. He's recuperating quite well. His mother..."

  Here Mrs. Pinkerton paused, as if she weren't quite sure what to say about Jackson's mother. I understood. Mrs. Jackson was a voodoo mambo from New Orleans, and she was not your typical Pasadena matron. And that was even besides her not being white and rich. If you understand what I mean.

  "I've met Mrs. Jackson. She's an unusual woman."

  "She certainly is," said Mrs. P. "But she brought us some marvelous pastries."

  "Ah, yes. Her famous beignets. She gave Aunt Vi the recipe, if you want her to make some for you."

  Mrs. Pinkerton smiled enormously. "Oh, how wonderful! I must admit to having been slightly... startled by Mrs. Jackson's appearance."

  "Understandable," said I, meaning it. Mrs. Jackson wore the brightest colors I've ever seen on a person, and always had her hair covered by a vivid turban. She also made little voodoo dolls, which she called jujus. I still wore the one she made me when I could. That evening, it wouldn't have gone well with my lovely gown so I'd left it at home.

  As things turned out, I probably should have worn it anyway.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Featherstone appeared in the drawing-room doorway and announced, "Dinner is served," my head was spinning, and I couldn't remember anyone's name. I was sorry Mrs. Pinkerton was such a stickler about table etiquette, because I knew I wouldn't be sitting beside Sam, but probably stuck next to some stranger. I hoped it wouldn't be Mr. Hastings, who didn't like me much.

  I was in luck. Harold sat to my right and Mr. Van der Linden to my left. Poor Sam was seated between Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Lippincott, who fairly drooled over him. I disapproved, but I tried not to show it. Anyhow, Sam was as stoic and impervious as ever, so her wiles seemed for naught.

  "Before the first course is served," announced Mrs. Pinkerton, rising from her chair at the head of the table—Mr. Pinkerton sat at the huge table's foot. "I want everyone to know that this dinner party is primarily in celebration of the excellent job Detective Rotondo and Mrs. Majesty did of foiling the dastardly villains who harassed my household during the past month or so. Thank you both."

  She sent first me and then Sam a brilliant smile and lifted her water goblet. I suspect that if the chief of police and his wife weren't present that evening, she'd have had Featherstone dust off a couple of bottles of wine from the cellar and used that for her toast. But Mrs. P wouldn't flout Prohibition in front of the law. Maybe she would in front of Sam, but not Sam's boss.

  I felt heat rush up my back and neck and invade my cheeks. The trouble with being a redhead is that we tend to blush at the slightest provocation. When everyone else at the table rose and lifted their glasses to Sam and me, I wanted to crawl under the table and hide. However, having been consorting with rich people since my tenth year, when Aunt Vi brought home Mrs. P's aged Ouija board, I knew how to act my part. I sat serenely, hoping the candlelight would hide my blushes, and smiled in my most demure fashion. When I looked in Sam's direction, I saw him shut his eyes in pain for a moment before he, too, nobly rose to the occasion and pasted on a phony smile. His boss, who sat near Mrs. Pinkerton, frowned. Then his dinner partner, whose name I didn't recall, elbowed him—I saw him jerk, so I know that's what happened—and he lifted his own glass and rose, rather belatedly, to toast Sam and me
.

  Thank God that didn't last long. After a dithery little speech and after one and all had drunk from their water goblets, Mrs. P let everyone sit down, and the meal commenced. I noticed Mrs. Bissel had lent her houseboy and Mrs. Hastings had lent her maid, so we were served by a young Japanese man named Keiji and a young Chinese woman named Li.

  The meal began with stuffed mushrooms. Boy, were they good! I don't generally like mushrooms because they taste like dirt to me, but these were wonderful. Vi served them with the already-mentioned celery, but the celery sticks were stuffed with creamed cheese and, I think, chopped pecans. Yummy. Then came a squash soup, which I know sounds strange, but it was very good. After that came some kind of delicate white fish served alongside a salad I think Aunt Vi calls a Caesar salad, although I'm not sure what Caesar had to do with it. Went really well with the fish. After that the main course, roasted lamb done to perfection along with roasted potatoes and gravy, about stuffed me to the gills. Small wonder Mrs. Pinkerton was hefty, if she ate like this every day. I mean, Aunt Vi cooked for my family, but we generally had a meat course and a couple of vegetables. Soup and salad and some dinner rolls would be a meal for us. Oh, well, it was sure good.

  I almost forgot to mention the dessert, which was some kind of lemon pound cake with a lemony sauce. I was really too full to eat most of it, but I did my best. Delicious!

  And then, after the last bite had been swallowed and folks were beginning to moan slightly from over-stuffedness, Mrs. P rose to lead the ladies out of the room. This act was a relic of the past, when the ladies would leave the gents to their port and cigars. This evening, I imagine the port would be replaced by tea or lemonade or some other non-alcoholic beverage. They'd probably smoke cigars, though.

  Because I knew the first floor of the house by heart, having been practicing my trade there for lo, those many years, I made my way down the hallway to the kitchen. I didn't want to annoy my aunt, but I did want to let her know how much Mrs. P's guests had enjoyed her fabulous dinner. I gave the swing door a tentative push and saw dishes piled up everywhere and my aunt more or less collapsed at the kitchen table, as many minions washed up. She held a glass of iced water in her hand and took a swig before turning to frown at the door. When she saw me, she smiled.