by Alice Duncan
Oh, well. I couldn't do much from Katisha's official stool, but, nose in the air as befitted Katisha, I watched. In fact, I watched Max tenderly escort Connie out the door on stage-left, and wished I knew what was wrong with her. Why wouldn't she see a doctor? Just because her husband didn't approve of doctors? Piffle.
I also watched as Lawrence seemed to have to wrench himself away from Gloria in order to participate in the next scene, in which the Lord High Executioner describes how he dispatched Nanki-Poo with his snickersnee. I don't know if you're familiar with the plot, but the Lord High Executioner bribes the Poo-Bah (Floy Hostetter) to provide an affidavit attesting to his execution of Nanki-Poo. In order to do so, he has to bribe all the people in all the jobs the Poo-Bah holds, even though they're the same person.
Gee, that sounds complicated. It works in the operetta, though.
Right before Harold was set to begin his recitation of Nanki-Poo's execution, Mr. Hostetter brought the action to a stop with another clap of his hands, and a loud, "All right, people. Let's go over a few blocking errors." He turned to Sam. "You have a wonderful voice, Detective. With a little more animation, you'd make a delightful Mikado."
Sam muttered something that sounded to me like, "Not in this lifetime," but I'm not sure about that.
Mr. Hostetter proceeded to tell us what we'd done wrong in the scene, and various townspeople scurried around to place themselves where the director wanted them to be. As he was in the middle of things, Max Van der Linden came on-stage and whispered something to Harold. He appeared worried, and he hurried off again.
Because I didn't have anything particular to do at the moment, I scuttled over to Harold and asked what Max had said to him.
"He's taking Connie home. She doesn't feel well."
"No, she doesn't." After thinking about Connie's symptoms for a moment, I decided not to ask Harold if he thought she could be suffering from some kind of poisoning, but I did resolve to visit the Pasadena Public Library on Monday, to look up the effects of various poisons. I know, I know. I have a suspicious mind.
But I might just be right.
Rehearsal came to a close shortly after that. It was a little past noon, and we were all tired and hungry. Sam handed his libretto to Mr. Hostetter, who didn't want to take it, but Sam insisted. "I'm not doing this again," he declared.
Mr. Hostetter sighed, and Sam stomped up to Harold and me. "Get your coat, and let's get out of here," he growled at me.
"You were wonderful as the Mikado," said Harold, ignoring Sam's foul mood.
"You really were," I said, doing likewise.
"Huh."
"Why don't we all go out to luncheon?" Harold asked us brightly. "My treat. We can go to the Tea Cup Inn. That's close to your house, isn't it, Daisy?"
"Yes. That would be nice, Harold."
"I don't think it's a good idea," said Sam, grumpy as all get-out.
"Well, then, I can take Daisy in my machine, and you can go home, Detective Rotondo," said Harold with a wicked smile.
We ended up going to the Tea Cup Inn, which sat on North Marengo Avenue, near Washington Boulevard. I knew the two ladies who owned the place, Mrs. McKenna and Mrs. Fincher, and they served soups and sandwiches and pies and things like that. Nothing fancy, but all of it tasty. It was a genteel sort of place, most often frequented by women, and Sam looked big and bulky and out of place. He knew it too, and frowned heavily as Mrs. McKenna led us to a table.
"This isn't the kind of place I'm used to," he said as he sat on the delicate little chair Mrs. McKenna had indicated he should take.
"Mine either," said Harold. "But I figured Daisy would like it."
"I do like it." In fact, I vividly recalled the day I'd taken Flossie Buckingham, then Flossie Mossar and in thrall to a brute of a gangster named Jinx, to lunch there. Poor Flossie had just had the stuffing beaten out of her by Jinx, and she didn't think it was her kind of place, either. But I made it my job to make her feel at home there. Thinking about poor Flossie, who was now happily married and a mother, to boot, made me sigh.
"What's the matter now?" said Sam, frowning at me as usual.
"Nothing. I was just thinking about Flossie Buckingham."
Both Harold and Sam tilted their heads and squinted at me. I said, "It's nothing. We just had lunch here once, Flossie and me."
Sam said, "Huh."
Harold said, "Oh."
Mrs. McKenna had delivered flowery menus to us as we sat at our table, so we concentrated on the foodstuffs available. Sam turned his menu over as if hoping there would be more selections on the other side.
"The food's good," I told him. "You can order soup and a sandwich and even a salad if you want. And they make good pies."
"Huh."
With a huge grin, Harold said, "I'm going to have the potato soup, ham on rye, and a piece of huckleberry pie."
"Sounds good to me," said Sam, slapping his menu on the table.
"Me, too," said I, only I laid my menu gently beside my plate.
He didn't want to, but at the end of our meal, Sam said, "That was tasty."
"I agree," said I. "And if you're good, you can probably wrangle another good meal out of Aunt Vi for supper tonight."
"Lucky you," said Harold.
"Huh," said Sam.
Chapter 17
Sam couldn't stay for dinner that night because he was called to the police station to investigate some kind of emergency. He wouldn't say what it was, which was typical. Nuts to him.
The next day at church, I was amazed that the chancel again looked precisely like a chancel. The day before, a bunch of fake Japanese singers had taken it over and the chairs had all been shoved hither and thither. Now they resided in their accustomed neat little rows, and a sense of security enveloped me. Don't ask me why. I guess it was comforting to be doing something normal instead of pretending to be something I'm not. Of course, pretending to be something I'm not is how I earn my living, but never mind. I'm only confusing myself here.
Lucille Spinks was excited as we donned our choir robes. "Isn't the operetta fun, Daisy? Albert is going to attend the rehearsal on Tuesday evening."
Albert Zollinger, Lucy's intended, was a member of our church. Which made me think of something. "Why didn't Mr. Zollinger try out for a part in the operetta?"
Giggling like a girl half her age—she was a year or two older than I—she said, "He can't sing. Can't hold a note to save himself."
"Oh." I thought about Albert Zollinger's inability to sing as I hooked up my robe. "That's kind of too bad, isn't it? I mean, you love to sing so much, and music is such a big part of your life."
With a toss of her shingled head, Lucy said, "I don't mind. He's such a wonderful man. And we both enjoy music, so it will still be a part of my life. Anyhow, I don't consider his inability to hold a note a serious flaw."
"I don't suppose it is." Plus, even though he was a widower and a good deal older than Lucy, he was alive. The Great War had wiped out more than my darling Billy, and marriageable young men were thin on the ground in those days. I understand the problem was worse in Europe. Can you imagine losing half of your country's young men to that ghastly war? Belgium, France, and England did. And maybe Russia, too, although the atmosphere surrounding Russia was so murky in those days, nobody who didn't live there knew what went on.
Probably Germany had lost a lot of boys to war, too, but since Kaiser Bill, in his grab to rule the world, had started the whole thing, I wasn't always eager to feel sorry for Germans. Which I know is unfair of me. Just because their former leader was a power-hungry fiend didn't mean the rest of the people in Germany were.
Although German scientists had created poisoned gas and submarines and German leaders had allowed submarines to torpedo ships without warning. Like, for example, Lusitania. Hmm. Maybe something in the German air turned people into bestial beings.
"You're doing a wonderful job playing Katisha," said Lucy, drawing my mind out of the muddy, bloody trenches of the lat
e war. "I didn't think you could act so mean and nasty."
With a genuine smile, I said, "I didn't, either. But it's fun. I've never been able to act like such a witch before."
Lucy peered at me oddly. "You mean, you want to be unpleasant?"
As I made sure my hooks were hooked, I said, "Well... Yes. I mean, I don't want to be unpleasant to people I like or anything. But I have to be nice for my job all the time, when sometimes I'd like to conk the people I work for over the head. Do you know what I mean?"
After thinking about it for a second or two, Lucy said, "Um... No. I don't."
Heaving a sigh, I picked up my hymnal and my little black book containing the music for that day's anthem, and said, "Do you have a job, Lucy?"
"No. I live with Mother and Father. I thought you knew that."
"I guess I forgot. But let me tell you, when you work for a living and have to be nice to the people who pay you, even when they're pills, it gets downright tiresome."
"Oh. Do you have many... What do you call them? Clients? Like that?"
"Fortunately, no, I don't." I marched over to line up behind the tenors so that we could process into the church in an orderly line. Lucy, being a soprano, got to lead the way. I swear, not only do sopranos always get the melody, but they always get to sit up front, too. Mind you, because I was kind of short, I sat in the front row as well, but if I'd been taller, I'd have been relegated to a back row.
At that very moment, Mrs. Fleming began playing the prelude, Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," on the organ, and Lucy had to hurry to the front of the line so we could enter the church.
And, as I stood next to my fellow altos in the front row—I was separated from the sopranos by one other alto—the first person I saw in the congregation, seated next to Ma, Pa, and Aunt Vi, was Sam Rotondo. Joy, my foot. Sorry, Beethoven.
But we sang out little hearts out, and our anthem went well. Before I could join my family in Fellowship Hall for tea and cookies, I had to hoof it back into the choir room and remove my robe. Lucy stood beside me, doing the same thing, and it occurred to me I might actually do a little sleuthing.
"How do you like being one of the three little maids from school, Lucy?" I asked as I unhooked my robe.
"It's fun," she said. Then her brow wrinkled. "Although..." Her voice petered out. Perhaps that was because she was in the process of pulling her robe over her head, but I thought not. Well, I thought maybe not.
"Although what?" I grabbed a coat hanger and carefully hung up my robe. I tried to be precise when I stored my robe, because the silly things wrinkled easily.
Lucy did likewise. Her robe was a good deal longer than mine, since Lucy was a good deal taller than I. "Well, poor Connie Van der Linden seems so unwell. I wonder if she's seriously ill. I'm a little worried about her. She's such a nice person, I'd hate for anything bad to happen to her."
"Yes. I wondered the same thing. What about Gloria Lippincott? Is she easy to work with?"
Lucy sniffed, which answered that question, although she went on to elaborate. "I know it's not nice of me to say this," said she, "especially in church. But I really don't like that woman."
"How come? I mean, I don't like her, either, but why don't you?"
"She's coy and sneaky. She makes cutting remarks about those of us who don't have her singing experience. To be fair, she does have a beautiful voice, but I don't think that's any excuse to be nasty to the rest of us. And she goes after every man she sees. Why, she was all cuddled up with James Warden at rehearsal yesterday."
"She was?" Boy, I hadn't seen any cuddling going on between Mr. Warden and Gloria. Shoot, she did get around, didn't she? Mr. Warden was another married man, and his wife's name was Faith, which evidently wasn't applicable when it came to their marriage.
Another sniff. "They don't know I saw them. But I had to go back to the choir room to get my fan"—fans played a major role in The Mikado—"and... Well, let's just say if I saw Albert being that cozy with another woman, I'd be extremely annoyed."
"Goodness. I had no idea."
"And while I was picking up my fan, Mr. Allen came in, Mrs. Lippincott looked up from Mr. Warden's embrace, and... Oh, Daisy, they winked at each other."
What? "I don't... Oh. Do you mean Mrs. Lippincott and Mr. Allen winked at each other? While she was cuddling with Mr. Warden?" What the heck, I thought she was having an affair with Lawrence Allen. Was she having affairs with both men?
"Yes. None of them pay any attention to each other onstage. Maybe I was mistaken, but they appeared a little too cozy for my taste, what with her being a recent widow and him being married to dear Faith and all. And I'll never understand that wink Mrs. Lippincott and Mr. Allen gave each other."
"I see."
I didn't see a darned thing. Did this observation of Lucy's mean anything? Had Mr. Warden and Gloria really been cuddling during rehearsal the day before? Or had they merely been conferring about some aspect of the operetta? Or perhaps he was helping her get an eyelash out of her eye. And what did that wink between Gloria and Lawrence Allen mean? I sniffed. Some men thought it was funny when other men had their way with females other than their wives. But I'd never pegged Lawrence Allen as one of those brutes, even if he did seem to have an unhealthy interest in Gloria Lippincott. Blast! Wish I'd observed the scene myself.
But my contemplation came to an abrupt end when I left the sanctity (so to speak) of the choir room and joined my family and Sam in Fellowship Hall. We didn't generally stay long to socialize with friends after church, mainly because Aunt Vi always had something spectacularly delicious cooking at home, just waiting for us to gobble it down. No number of cookies can compete with one of Vi's meals.
"You sounded good up there," said Sam, eyeing my hair. I patted it, wishing I'd taken time to comb it in the choir room.
"Thanks."
"That's one of my favorite hymns," said Ma, smiling at me.
"Mine, too," I said. "Next week we'll be singing 'For All the Saints,' because it'll be November fourth."
"You always sing 'For All the Saints' on November fourth?" asked Sam.
Feeling superior, I said, "November first is All Saints' Day. In our church, we honor all of the members of our congregation who passed away during the year prior to the current year's All Saints' Day."
"Oh. That makes sense." He gave me a grave look (so to speak). "Last year's All Saints' Day must have been rough on you."
Even thinking about that day, the first All Saints' Day since my Billy passed, made my eyes tear up. "It was." I choked a little, and was surprised when Sam put one of his arms around my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Didn't mean to bring up a sad memory."
His arm felt warm and comforting. "That's all right. Nothing anyone can do about it now." I had to lift a gloved hand to wipe away a tear, and I felt kind of silly.
"Best not to dwell on past tragedies," said my mother briskly. Always practical, my mother. "We should get home so Vi can put our dinner on the table. Do join us, Sam."
"Thank you." He gazed down at me, and I could tell he felt bad for having brought up a sad subject. "That all right with you, Daisy?"
"Of course, it is," I told him, wiping away another tear. "Glad to have you."
"Really?"
"Really." I thought about what Lucy had revealed about Mr. Warden and Gloria, perked up some, and added, "Besides, I have something to talk to you about."
"Uh-oh." He removed his arm from my shoulder, leaving a cold patch across my back. "I don't like the sound of that."
"Nonsense. I just want to tell you something Lucy Spinks noticed at rehearsal yesterday."
I could almost hear the man roll his eyes. I'll admit here and now that Sam has some good qualities, but he could still drive me crazy faster than anyone else I knew.
In spite of Sam, Spike was overjoyed to have his family and his good friend home from church. Vi's roasted pork, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans (that I'd helped my aunt and mother preserve when our
bean crop was at its peak), and flaky dinner rolls were all delicious. So was the devil's food cake she'd baked for dessert. I tell you, it was a wonder we weren't a family of dumplings with Aunt Vi doing the cooking for us.
After we were all stuffed to the gills and sitting back in our chairs contemplating rising from the table, which didn't sound like a good idea, Sam said, "That was the best meal I've had since... Well, since the last time I ate here, Mrs. Gumm." The smile he gave Aunt Vi was almost as delightful as the meal he'd just consumed.
"Go along with you, Sam Rotondo," said my aunt, making Sam the recipient of one of Vi's mysterious sayings. She was always saying that to me, too.
"He's right, Vi. I don't know how we'd eat if you didn't live with us," said Pa.
"Fiddlesticks," said my aunt. "You did fine before my Paul died and I moved in with you."
Pa and I both looked at my mother, whose cheeks had taken on a pinkish hue. But the truth was that, while I adore my mother, I sort of inherited her cooking skills, which was unfortunate, since she had none. Neither Pa nor I said so.
"You know that's not true, Vi. I'm a terrible cook," said Ma, sparing Pa and me from telling the truth. "I'm surprised George, Daphne and Daisy survived to grow up, and that Joe didn't get sick when I was cooking for the family."
"You're not that bad, Ma," I said, sticking up for my mother, who deserved being stuck up for, even though I was lying through my teeth. My satisfied teeth.
"Oh, I am, too. You know that as well as I do, Daisy Gumm Majesty."
"Well..." I didn't want to lie anymore.
"But that doesn't matter," said Pa. "We just partook of a delicious meal, and now I want to go to the living room and relax."
That meant it was time for me to clean off the table and wash the dishes. Never mind that I wanted to vegetate in that chair until some of my recent meal sank in and I could comfortably move again. With a heavy sigh, I rose to my feet.
"I'll help," said Sam.
"You will not!" said my mother.