by Alice Duncan
In the end, I selected a costume that went well with my mission and the weather, which was warm. A pale coral-colored cotton-voile dress with an unfitted bodice decorated with darker peach embroidery on the loose sleeves would suit the purpose admirably. A belt buckled below the waist, and I topped it off with my all-purpose summer straw hat with a peach rose set thereon. I had a number of fabric flowers in various colors, all of which enhanced that same straw hat from time to time. With the outfit, I wore bone-colored shoes with a Louis heel and carried my bone-colored handbag. Of course, I also aimed to carry my Ouija board in its lovely velvet carrying bag (made by me, naturally), but I don’t think it marred the perfection of my outfit much. I also stuffed my tarot cards into my handbag.
When I exited the bedroom after powdering my nose and making sure my visage was pale, interesting, and spiritualistic, Pa said, “You look grand, Daisy. Doing a reading for someone?”
“Mrs. Hastings,” said I with some trepidation. After all, Pa didn’t believe Eddie Hastings had invaded my last séance.
“Ah. To talk about her dead boy?”
That didn’t sound quite right, but I supposed it was. “Yes,” I said upon a sigh. “But don’t worry. I haven’t gone totally ’round the bend. I only want to find out about him and his friends and so forth.”
“And then you aim to do some snooping around, right?”
“I . . . Well, yes.”
Shaking his head, Pa said, “Be careful, Daisy. If the boy was murdered, you don’t want his murderer to claim a second victim, do you?”
It took a second for Pa’s words to sink in. When they did, my shock was unfeigned. Pointing to my chest, I asked in a squeaky voice, “You mean me?”
“No one else is looking at the death as anything but natural or suicide, right?”
“Oh, Lord. No. I mean, yes, you’re right. Pa, I promise you that if I discover anything at all that seems fishy, I’ll tell Sam about it. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow night.” Which reminded me that I’d best tell Aunt Vi about having invited Sam so she could be prepared. Shoot. Sometimes I didn’t know why I did the things I did.
“If you don’t, I will,” he said with a wry bite to his voice. “I don’t want to lose my daughter after just losing my son-in-law.”
I gave him a quick hug. “I know you loved Billy like a son, Pa. That’s one of the reasons I love you so much.”
“Then be careful on this investigation of yours.”
“I don’t know yet if there will be an investigation.”
“Maybe not, but I know you, Daisy.”
Upon that not especially happy note, I patted Spike, gave him the command to sit and stay, and went out the side door to the Chevrolet parked conveniently next to the porch. Pa’s words thrummed in my head as I drove toward the San Rafael district of Pasadena. In order to do so, I drove across the Colorado Street Bridge and past Busch Gardens into the exclusive district where stood very few homes. The homes that did exist in the area were exquisite, though. The Hastings’ mansion sat behind a jungle of shrubbery on South Arroyo Boulevard. Naturally, it also had a gate around it, and a guard at the gatehouse.
I was great pals with Jackson, Mrs. Pinkerton’s gate guard, but I didn’t know the little Chinese guy who stuck his head out of the gatehouse at Mrs. Hastings’ place.
“Name?” he asked crisply.
“Desdemona Majesty,” I said. Sometimes I bantered with the household staff in the great homes I visited, but this fellow didn’t appear very friendly. Anyhow, I didn’t want any hint of frivolity to mar my spiritualistic bearing.
Friendly or not, he must have pushed a button, because the enormous black iron gate parted before my humble Chevrolet, and I drove onto the grounds, although I wasn’t sure what to do once I was there. For only a second I considered asking the guard, but then I decided to continue on the paved roadway before me.
I swear to heaven, I must have driven miles before I caught sight of the gigantic palace wherein resided the Hastings family. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how profitable a profession lawyering could be.
As Mrs. Hastings had given me no instructions on how to approach her residence, I stopped the machine near the first door I spotted and got out. Then, after looking left and right and up and down, I decided the door must be one of the home’s major entrances, since it had big double doors and could only be reached by climbing several concrete steps, which were guarded on both sides by Chinese dragons. Hmm. The Hastings had a Chinese guard at the gate and Chinese dragons on pedestals at the door. Did this indicate a business link with China? No use speculating at that point.
Therefore, I lifted the door knocker—which was attached to a formidable-looking brass Chinese dragon—and clunked it twice.
My heart fox-trotted madly for a minute. Don’t know why it did that. I visited wealthy clients who lived in grand houses all the time. I guess the isolation of the Hastings’ place, the strange occurrence at the séance, and Pa’s dire warning had affected me badly.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. A uniformed maid—Chinese, by the looks of her—answered the door shortly after my knock had thudded. A pretty little thing, she eyed me out of inscrutable black eyes—I possessed inscrutable blue eyes—and said, “Mrs. Majesty?”
“Yes.”
“Please come this way.”
And she turned abruptly and walked across a vast marble entryway and into a hall leading directly from it. Still nervous, I glanced around and discovered lots more Chinese art everywhere. A pair of benches carved out of some very dark wood, which I should probably know the name of, sat beneath a simply smashing Chinese silk painting.
Here I probably should make a confession. Although I know nothing about art, I had learned by that point in my life that I preferred Chinese art to Japanese art. I had a hunch this preference came from my own natural muddledness of mind. The Japanese art I’d seen was pristine, tranquil, serene, and rather stark. Chinese art, on the other hand, while still definitely Asian, was jolly and fussy and busy. Clearly, tranquillity wasn’t one of my better friends at the time.
At any rate, I was terribly impressed and not a little pleased as I followed the maid down the hallway. Chinese artwork decorated the walls and the floors, and everywhere I looked my eyes were treated to more than Oriental splendor, as Rudyard Kipling might have said.
And yes, I’ve read three Fu Manchu books by Mr. Sax Rohmer. Nuts. I still loved Chinese art.
“Please enter here, Mrs. Majesty. Mrs. Hastings is waiting for you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at the girl, not expecting a response, but she smiled shyly back at me, and I felt good for having been polite.
“Oh, Mrs. Majesty!” came Mrs. Hastings’ voice from a corner of the room. When I glanced over at it, I saw the lady herself, rising from a padded Chinese-style window seat. She placed a bookmark in her book, put it on the window seat, and hurried toward me. I wafted over to meet her, smiling my serene spiritualist’s smile. I might not have felt serene, but I could fake it as well as anyone. And my waft was perfection itself.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hastings. I hope I’ll be able to help you.” As long as her son didn’t butt into any more of my séances.
“I do so hope you can, Mrs. Majesty.” She took my hand in both of hers.
I always wore gloves when I did any gardening and slathered my hands with cream, so said hands remained soft and smooth. Nobody would believe in a spiritualist with callused hands or a ruddy complexion. My splatter of freckles, which I assiduously covered with pale face powder, was difficult enough to deal with.
“You have a lovely home, Mrs. Hastings. The art alone is awe-inspiring.”
She glanced around vaguely. More Chinese art was displayed on these walls, and the furniture had a Chinese air about it. So to speak. “Mr. Hastings has collected Chinese art for decades now. He and Mr. Millette worked in Hong Kong for quite a few years. They were in partnership there.”
“Oh, my. I didn’t know
that. It must have been fascinating.”
“It was profitable, at any rate. I’m not sure I completely trusted some of the people with whom he worked, but . . . well, you needn’t hear about that.”
Aha! Perhaps there was a Chinese connection to her son’s death. A couple of scary scenes from a Fu Manchu book toddled into my brain and danced there for a second or two.
“Actually,” I said as she herded me toward a sofa with a low, carved scrollwork table in front of it—was that teak wood? I couldn’t remember—“perhaps we might look into a Chinese connection to your son’s death, if you think that’s feasible.”
She stopped walking and said, “Chinese connection? Oh, my dear, I don’t think so. Stephen—my husband, I mean—has no connections with the Orient these days. He’s stuck fast in his Pasadena office, and Eddie never had anything to do with China at all.”
Hmm. Well, it was worth a question. “I see. That will probably make things easier, if he was murdered. I mean, we wouldn’t want to have to go to China or anything, would we?” Good Lord, I was babbling. Mind you, I was babbling in my low, silky spiritualist’s voice, but I was still babbling. I told myself to cease instantly.
“Yes, I can see how that might be difficult,” Mrs. Hastings said. She didn’t sound sarcastic or anything, either, so I guess she didn’t think I’d just made a fool of myself. Thank God for small favors.
We arrived at the luxurious sofa where she sat, and as I took a seat on the chair opposite the sofa, I commented on the table. “That’s a beautiful table. Do you know what kind of wood the Chinese use to make such wonderful furniture?”
“Not really,” said she, dashing any hope of enhancing my knowledge of the world. “I do know that some of the furniture Stephen bought is cherry wood and some of it is teak wood.” She rubbed a hand on the table, which was so perfectly dusted, it gleamed in polished perfection and her hand made a print. “This piece is lacquered. I believe a lot of Chinese furniture is lacquered.”
Aha. So I wasn’t to be totally bereft of new knowledge. “I see. Yes, I can see that the lacquer makes it shine. I love the scrolled shape of it.”
“I believe that’s a Ming Dynasty piece. We probably shouldn’t use it for every day, but what’s the point of having pretty furniture if you can’t use it?”
Good question, and one I didn’t even attempt to answer. Rather, I said, “Would you like to proceed with the Ouija board, or would you be willing to answer a few questions first? In order to get the police interested in your son’s death, we’ll have to give them a good reason to investigate it. They won’t pay attention to any news collected from séances or Ouija boards.” I gazed at her with the most sorrowful expression I could summon, which was pretty darned sorrowful. I’d had tons of practice.
“Yes,” she said upon a heartfelt sigh. “I know you’re right.” She stared at me earnestly. “But that was Eddie on Saturday night! It was, Mrs. Majesty!”
“I know it was,” I said, suppressing my shudder with some difficulty. “But the police won’t believe us. Would you mind if I took some notes of people and places your son might have dealt with?” I’d pondered long and hard whether to take notes, something I deemed far from spiritualistic behavior. But, blast it, I wanted to learn the truth.
“Notes?”
“I know that sounds quite pedestrian, but it might help me in securing the attention of the police.”
“Oh, yes. I see. That makes sense.” She gazed with longing at the fabric carrying bag in which my Ouija board lay, and I knew she wanted to get to the good stuff. “I don’t see why not. Ask any questions you like, although I think we’d get more information from Eddie.” Her sentence ended on a high note, as if it were really a question.
“We’ll definitely do some work with the Ouija board and see if Rolly can communicate with your son, but I need to know the names of his friends and so forth, too. To give to the police.” I stressed the police connection, because even if, God forbid, Eddie Hastings had really and truly launched himself into a Ouija-board session, nobody would believe us if we told them so.
“Of course.”
“Perhaps we should start with his place of business. Did he work in his father’s legal firm?”
“Yes. After he graduated from Stanford, he got his law degree and began in Stephen’s firm. He started at the bottom of the ladder,” she said, as if to let me know Eddie was no laggard. “But he progressed rapidly because of his talent, not because he was Stephen’s son.”
Hmm. Maybe. But I said nothing to cast doubt on her son’s abilities. Poising my pencil over the pad I’d taken from my handbag, I asked, “And the name of the firm?”
“Its full name is Hastings, Millette, and Hastings. Eddie had just been made a partner.” She sniffled, and I noticed she had a wadded-up hankie in her hand. She used it to wipe her eyes. Poor woman.
I wrote down the name and murmured, “I see. And how long had he worked there?”
“Oh, ever since he graduated from law school.” Before I could ask her how long that was, she said, “Since he was twenty-two, so it was five years.”
“Thank you. And you say he got along well there?”
“Oh, yes! Everyone loved Eddie.”
Trust a mother. I said, “Did he have a secretary? Were there other secretaries in the firm? Perhaps you remember some names?”
“Oh, dear.” She hesitated and got a faraway look in her eyes before she blinked and said, “Eddie shared a secretary with Mr. Grover, another youngish man. Her name is . . . oh, let me see . . . Belinda! Yes, her name is Belinda. I’m not sure of her last name. Something simple.”
I thought about an old classmate of mine, Belinda Young, and decided to offer that as a last name. “Young?”
Her eyes going wide as dinner plates, Mrs. Hastings cried, “How did you know? Oh, but Griselda and Madeline both told me you’re the best spiritualist in California.”
That was nice. I didn’t let on that I already knew Belinda Young had taken a secretarial course at Pasadena City College. Let her think the spirits had told me Belinda’s last name.
“Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Pinkerton are both very kind. Do you know the names of other people in the firm? Other secretaries? And does the Hastings firm employ runners?” I’d heard of runners, who literally ran or bicycled all over town, carrying legal papers from one law firm to another, or from a law firm to the courthouse.
“Oh, dear. I wish I’d paid more attention. I don’t find legal work terribly interesting, to tell you the truth, and I fear my mind was on other matters when the men talked about the office. I know Stephen’s secretary is Elizabeth Mattingly. She’s been with the firm for years, and I think . . . no. I can’t recall the name of Mr. Millette’s secretary. I’m sorry, dear. Is it important?”
“At this point, I don’t know what might be important, Mrs. Hastings.”
“Of course. Now I wish I hadn’t daydreamed through all those boring dinner-table conversations.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to fill in the blanks. Perhaps I can visit the firm and chat with Miss Young. What type of legal work does Mr. Hastings’ firm do? Are they criminal attorneys or do they practice civil law?”
“Oh, they never touch criminal cases! Criminal law is so tawdry.”
Hmm. Tawdry, criminal law might be, but I’d wager it was more interesting than civil law. I doubt that I’d have paid any attention either if, say, Pa and Billy had chatted about a broken contract or a disputed boundary at the dinner table.
“I see. And do you know the names of your son’s friends, or the people he saw most often in or out of the office?”
“Let me see . . . of course, he saw the people at the law firm most often. He had a lot of friends, too, though. Harold Kincaid was one. And a nice fellow named Lester Knowles—his last name is spelled K-N-O-W-L-E-S. Mr. Knowles used to come to dinner here sometimes. I don’t know why, but Mr. Hastings didn’t care for Mr. Knowles much.”
Bet I knew why Eddie Hastings’ f
ather didn’t care for Lester Knowles, if Mr. Knowles was of Eddie’s and Harold’s stamp. But I didn’t want to crush Eddie’s mother, so I didn’t say anything. Let the woman live with her illusions. She’d loved her son, and that was the important thing.
“I see. Anyone else? The more names you can give me, the better my chances of discovering the truth. What about clubs and so forth. Did your son belong to any clubs?”
“Oh. The Pasadena Athletic Club. Eddie loved to play tennis and swim. And he’d go to the theater quite often. He and Mr. Knowles would often see a play of an evening. Mr. Hastings and I were quite anxious that Eddie marry and have children, but the only woman he saw on a regular basis was Mr. Knowles’ sister, Adele. They often made a threesome. I think Eddie was shy about courting her, and that’s why they included Mr. Knowles in their party.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” said I, trying not to grind my teeth. “So he belonged to the Pasadena Athletic Club. Anything else you can think of?”
“Oh, dear. Let me see. We’ve attended All Saints Episcopal Church ever since it opened in ’fourteen.”
“All Saints? The one on North Euclid Avenue?”
“Yes, exactly, although the congregation is growing so large, we’re probably going to build a new church building soon.”
“I see. Perhaps I might have a chat with the rector there.”
“That might be worthwhile,” she said doubtfully. “His name is Reverend Leslie Learned.”
Mr. Learned. The name alone almost intimidated a person.
After I’d pumped Mrs. Hastings for all I was worth, I tucked my pencil and tablet into my handbag and withdrew the Ouija board. My heart started pounding like crazy. For the first time in my career as a spiritualist medium, which had taken up more than half my life, I was scared witless by the tools of my trade.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
* * *
Thank God nobody but Rolly appeared as Mrs. Hastings and I plied the planchette, and Rolly only did so because I made him. He couldn’t tell us much about Eddie Hastings’ demise, however.