by Alice Duncan
“I imagine you have a private line.”
“Have to have one in my business.”
“I suppose that’s so. Anyhow, what did the coroner’s report say?”
“It was quite interesting. The coroner’s report is conclusive as to the cause of Mr. Hastings’ death. He died of an overdose of heroin, injected into his body.”
“Heroin? What’s heroin? I thought a heroine was a female hero.”
After a good guffaw or two, Doc Benjamin said, “Heroin, without the e on the end, is an opium derivative that can be quite effective in reducing pain. But it’s being used more and more by people who only want the feeling it gives them. Rather like alcohol, but not illegal yet. I expect the government will get around to banning it one of these days.”
“You mean it’s like morphine?” The drug that killed my husband.
“In a way. They’re both opiates. I never offered Billy heroin, because I worried about what he might do with it. Guess it didn’t matter in the end.”
“No,” I said, my heart suddenly squeezing in pain, “it didn’t.”
“I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to bring up old sorrows.”
“That’s all right. They aren’t that old. But this heroin stuff, it’s injected and not drunk, like the morphine syrup Billy used?”
“That’s correct. Well, some people probably eat it, but more often it’s injected into a vein.”
“Golly. Maybe Eddie Hastings did kill himself.”
“That’s where things get really fascinating. I took a peek at the police report—”
“How’d you get to do that?” I asked, interrupting him and becoming instantly ashamed of myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Daisy. I know you’re concerned about this matter. Actually, I am, too, now that I’ve read the police report. And I got to read it because I have friends in high places.” He chuckled. “Actually, you could read it, too, if you wanted to go to the police station and ask to see it.”
“You mean anyone can read a police report?”
“Yes. According to the police report, there was neither a syringe, nor any other traces of heroin in the lad’s apartment, so it’s curious to me why the police determined the cause of his death to be suicide. And they did write ‘suicide’ on the report.”
“Even with no evidence to support the finding?”
“Even with no evidence.”
“Hmm. Wouldn’t you think that if the poor guy injected the stuff himself, there would at least be a syringe nearby? I mean, maybe he didn’t have any more heroin . . . how do people inject heroin, by the way? I’ve heard about people smoking opium, but I’ve never heard of heroin at all before your call. I mean, do you just stick a needle in your arm or something?”
“It comes in powder form. People cut it with sugar, melt it in a spoon over a flame, fill the syringe, and plunge it into a vein.”
Ew. “Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”
“Me neither, but I understand that many young men who were wounded in the war are seeking heroin now to ease the pain from their wounds. As I said before, it’s legal, unlike alcohol. God knows what those poor boys will do after somebody passes a law making it illegal.”
“The people who started that war should have fought in it themselves,” I said bitterly and not for the first time.
“I agree with you about that, but it’ll never happen. Folks with money will never have to fight the wars politicians start.”
“That’s so unfair.”
“Yes, it is.” Doc Benjamin resumed his crisp tone, “But we can’t change anything about the war. However, it might be a good idea to discuss this matter with your detective friend.”
His words shocked me. “How did you know about—”
“Detective Rotondo?” Dr. Benjamin asked, interrupting me for a change. “Daisy, I’ve spoken to him about many topics over the years, not the least of which was your husband. Detective Rotondo considered Billy a good friend, you know.”
I swallowed a lump that had suddenly taken residence in my throat. “Yes,” I said. “I know. They were very good friends.”
“He’s consulted me on a couple of other cases, too. So you know a homicide detective. You might ask him about this matter. I believe it bears some looking in to.”
Oh, Lord. Dr. Benjamin wanted me to talk to Sam about Eddie Hastings’ death being a possible homicide. But wait. That was a good thing. Wasn’t it? I wouldn’t have to bring up Eddie’s appearance at that séance if I used Doc Benjamin as an excuse to talk about it with Sam. Never mind that he’d paid me a visit this very day specifically telling me to butt out of the matter. Now he’d have a good reason to investigate the death.
When I hung the receiver up, I turned to find Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, and Sam all staring at me. Well, so was Spike, but his tail was wagging, so he didn’t matter.
“Dinner’s ready, Daisy,” said Vi.
“Who was that, dear?” asked Ma.
“Dr. Benjamin,” I said.
“Shoot, what’s the matter?” said Pa.
“Nothing, really,” I said, “but Sam, I need to speak with you after dinner.”
I heard Sam mutter, “Aw, criminy,” before he turned to head to the dining room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
* * *
I saw Sam visibly square his shoulders, relax his features, and don a smile after he held out a chair for Ma and took his own seat at the dining table. His acting ability surprised me, because I know he wanted to wring my neck. He was a detective, after all; I’m sure he’d deduced that my conversation with Dr. Benjamin had been about Eddie Hastings.
“This smells just like my friend Kamal’s house back in New York. I loved to go to his place for lunch.”
“You had Indian friends when you were growing up in New York City?” I asked, also pretending that nothing was amiss.
“There are people from everywhere in New York,” Sam said. “Kamal and I used to play stickball together. I don’t think my parents liked me playing with a dark-skinned kid, but we did it anyway.”
“You have an advantage over me,” said my mother, her nose wrinkling slightly. “I’ve never smelled anything like this in my life.”
“Me neither,” said Pa. “But it smells good.”
“Hmm,” Ma said. Not an adventurous diner, my mother.
“If you don’t care for the curry, Peggy, I saved out some chicken and vegetables without the sauce.”
Ma shot a grateful glance at Vi. “You’re so kind to me, Vi.”
“Nonsense. I know you and food.”
“I feel like such a sissy,” Ma muttered, shamefaced.
“Nuts, Ma,” I said in my most bracing tone. “This is an experiment for all of us.” I shot a look through the roses at Sam. “Except Sam.”
“Exactly,” said Vi. And she proceeded to fill plates with rice, curried chicken, and spinach. I guess East Indians eat spinach along with their curries, although I hadn’t thought to ask Vi if Mr. Pinkerton had told her that.
As we dug into our dinner, I had to admit, if only to myself, that curries must, indeed, be an acquired taste, and that I hadn’t acquired it yet. But I ate it anyway. If Sam Rotondo had grown up eating the stuff, it couldn’t be that bad. It sure hadn’t stunted his growth, big lug that he was. Anyhow, I wanted to please my aunt. And darned if I’d let Sam know I didn’t like the stuff. Actually . . . it wasn’t so much that I didn’t like it, as that it was so odd to my untrained taste buds. And here I’d thought I’d learned to be a cosmopolitan diner after visiting England, France, Turkey, and Egypt. Shows how much I knew.
Anyhow, Vi served us a soupy rice pudding for dessert that was very good.
“Another recipe from Mr. Pinkerton,” she told us.
I thought rice for dinner and rice for dessert was a trifle too much rice for this particular middle-class American girl, but I didn’t say so. Anyhow, the rice pudding was spectacular. Tasted as though it had
coconut in it, although I didn’t remember seeing any coconut in the kitchen. Vi must have concocted it after I’d finished chopping stuff.
After dinner, as Sam and my father retired to the living room to chat, Ma and I washed up the dinner plates and pots. I was glad to see there wasn’t any of the chicken curry left over. I’d never tell Aunt Vi, but I hoped she’d forget all about curry dishes for a year or three.
“You ate all your dinner,” I commented to my mother as I wiped down the sink and she hung up her apron.
“Yes. I’m surprised, but I actually enjoyed it.”
Well, there you go. Ma was more open-minded than I in the curry department.
Then I had to tackle Sam and tell him what Dr. Benjamin had revealed to me about the coroner’s report and the heroin someone had injected into poor Eddie Hastings.
We conducted our chat on the front porch, where we sat on the steps and Spike romped in the yard.
“Heroin?” Sam sounded darned near shocked.
“Yes. Heroin. I’d never heard of it before.”
“It’s becoming more and more popular. Some of the bootlegging operations are handling drugs like heroin and cocaine as well as booze.”
“Bootleggers?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought heroin was legal.”
Sam held out his right hand and wobbled it back and forth. I’d seen that gesture before and knew thereby that heroin’s position in the United States was an equivocal one. “It’s not as if you can go into your corner pharmacy and buy it, since the politicians passed the dangerous drugs act. It’s still readily available, and you can get it at your local pharmacy if you have a prescription for it.”
“Like Billy’s morphine syrup.”
“Yeah. Like his morphine syrup. For that matter, heroin’s an opium derivative like morphine. In fact, lots of doctors prescribe heroin as a cure for morphine addiction.”
I stared at Sam’s profile. The sun was about to set on that warm June evening, and I noticed his strong chin and jaw in the half-light. I saw no trace of a smile on his mug. “Are you serious?”
“As serious as the influenza.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yes, it is.”
“They should outlaw all of them,” I said, sounding kind of savage.
“Right. That would solve the problem. Like Prohibition has made everybody quit drinking liquor.”
“You’re right,” I said upon a dispirited sigh. “But then, how’d Eddie Hastings get his hands on the stuff that killed him, and how come nobody found a syringe or anything else involving heroin near his body?”
“Good questions.” I could hear in Sam’s voice that he hated saying so.
“So are you going to look in to the matter?”
He gave me a hard stare. “Are you going to stay out of it and mind your own business?”
Oh, bother Sam Rotondo and all his kin! “I can’t stay out of it. I promised Mrs. Hastings—”
“Dammit, Daisy, if somebody killed the Hastings kid, you’re dealing with some rough customers. Do you want to be next on their list?”
My mouth opened, but the instant retort I’d been going to fling at Sam died unsaid. “Well, no.” I said, then pointed to my chest. “But why would anyone want to do anything to me? I don’t have anything to do with anything, and I’ve only been asking a few people some questions, is all.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sam dropped his face into his cupped hands for a second or two. Then he lifted it and glared at me. “You think the boy was murdered, but you don’t think whoever murdered him will mind you prying into his death? Whoever did it will be happy to have you asking questions of all his friends and coworkers and so forth? The murderer will have no problem with you badgering all his acquaintances?”
“I didn’t badger anyone!” I cried, indignant as all heck.
“I see. Mr. Hastings called the chief of police because he enjoyed you chatting with his staff. Do I have that right?”
“Nuts to him,” I muttered, feeling abused. Then something interesting, if not pertinent, occurred to me. “I wonder why Eddie Hastings wasn’t a Junior.”
“Huh?”
“Mr. Hastings thinks he’s such a big muckety-muck. I should have thought he’d have named his son after himself. But Eddie’s name was . . . well, Eddie.”
“What the devil difference does that make?” Sam asked in a voice bearing some resemblance to thunder.
I shrugged, accustomed to Sam’s temper by that time. “Nothing, probably, but I think it’s curious.”
“Lord, you drive me crazy.”
“Yes,” I said. “I already knew that.”
“Just try not to annoy Mr. Hastings again, all right?”
“I don’t plan ever to meet Mr. Hastings.”
“Thank God for small favors. And you won’t return to the Hastings law firm?”
“No. I won’t return to the Hastings firm.”
“Good.” Sam stood. “Now I’m going to go inside the house and play some gin rummy with your father, if you can stay out of trouble for the rest of the evening.”
“Don’t be nasty, Sam. Anyway, you haven’t told me if you’re going to look into Eddie Hastings’ death. Are you?”
Sam had stood up, and he now loomed over me like a monster out of one of the Grimms’ grimmer fairy tales. A large man, Sam. He didn’t scare me. Much. “Yes,” he growled. “I’m going to look into Eddie Hastings’ death. In fact, it might tie into something—”
He stopped speaking suddenly, and I jumped to my feet. “You already know something, don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Drat you, Sam Rotondo, you do too! I can tell. You almost let it slip, didn’t you?”
“Let what slip?”
“You were going to say Eddie Hastings’ death is tied into something you’re working on, weren’t you? Weren’t you!”
Spike came bounding up to us, glad to see his humans standing, because that meant we were going to enter the house, where he could find laps to sit on. Sam and I glared daggers at each other for several heartbeats.
Then Sam said, “There’s an ongoing investigation into a heroin operation in town. It’s not something I’m involved in personally, but I know about it.”
“Aha. Then perhaps Eddie Hastings discovered something and was killed in order to silence him.”
“Maybe.”
“That might explain why no syringe was found at the scene, which it would have been if he’d injected himself with the stuff.”
“Maybe. But if Eddie Hastings was silenced because he was prying, it sounds like an excellent reason for you to butt out of anything to do with him and his demise.”
He had a point. “Well . . . I’m going to talk to Harold about Eddie. Maybe he’ll know about some of his friends and so forth. Harold can be a mine of information when it comes to the doings of the upper-crust Pasadena set, which is the one in which Eddie Hastings lived, you know.”
“Harold’s all right. If—and it’s a big if—you find out anything from him, tell me. Don’t go poking around on your own or telling anyone else. Don’t even tell Harold if he says something that triggers an inspiration in your brain.” He sounded as though my brain having an inspiration was about as likely as snow in Hades.
Nevertheless, I thought about his demand. Should I endanger my person by yakking with villains I didn’t know or tell Sam about them? Not a difficult question to answer. “You bet I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything to do with criminals.”
“Ha! There’s a first!”
“Darn you, Sam. I don’t consort with criminals on purpose. It’s not my fault I find myself in . . . difficult circumstances from time to time.”
“Difficult circumstances,” Sam grumbled as he climbed the porch steps and headed to the front door.
Spike beat him to it, so Sam opened the door, Spike rushed into the living room, and Sam politely held the door open for me. I regret to say I stuck my t
ongue out at him as I brushed past him and into the house.
Naturally, I was ashamed of myself as soon as I did it, but it was too late by then, so I let Sam and Pa get out the card table. Then I headed to the kitchen, where I proceeded to place a telephone call to Harold Kincaid at the San Marino home he and Del Farrington shared.
“Daisy! What’s up?”
Harold’s jolly greeting cheered me up some. “Hey, Harold. I need to talk to you soon. Will you be in town one of these days, and maybe we can go to lunch or something?”
“Matter too delicate for the telephone wire?”
I thought of Mrs. Barrow and said, “Yes,” firmly.
“About Eddie?”
“Yes.”
“Sure. I’ll be in town tomorrow, because we just finished wrapping up a western shoot-’em-up in El Monte. Don’t have to go back to the studio until next week. How about I pick you up at half-past noon, and we can dine at the Hotel Castleton?”
He would pick the most expensive place in town. Then again, he was richer than Croesus, whoever he was. “Sure, Harold. That would be fine. But I invited you, so I’ll be paying.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear girl.” He laughed as if he meant it. “I’m going to treat you as a lady should be treated, even if you aren’t one.”
“That’s not nice!” But I giggled.
“Maybe not. And I must say, you play the lady impeccably most of the time.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. See you at twelve thirty tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Harold. You’re a pal.”
“Don’t I know it?”
I might not have been born a lady, but I sure looked like one when Harold drove his snazzy, low-slung, bright red Stutz Bearcat up in front of our house that Thursday at twelve thirty.
“You look like a million bucks,” my father said as I headed to the door.
“Thanks, Pa. Harold’s taking me to the Castleton.”
“Mercy me, you do travel in exalted company, don’t you?”
I laughed. “Sometimes.”
“Have fun.”
“Thanks, Pa.”
After greeting my father as a gentleman should, Harold escorted me to his machine. “You look smashing, as always, Daisy.”