Spirits Revived (Daisy Gumm Majesty)

by Alice Duncan

  Pa laughed.

  I didn’t. I did, however, sigh rather heavily as I stooped to pet my darling doggie. I’d been hoping for a little nap after that spectacular meal at the Castleton. But no. Not for Daisy Gumm Majesty. I had to deal with crazed middle-aged rich women who wanted me to solve all their problems for them. “Thanks, Harold. Hey, Pa.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Pa said, kissing my forehead in welcome. “But you know Mrs. P.” He glanced guiltily at Harold. “Sorry, Harold.”

  Lifting his arms, palms out, Harold said, “Don’t apologize to me. I don’t know how Daisy stands dealing with Mother the way she does.”

  “It’s not easy.” But I walked to the ’phone hanging on the kitchen wall, lifted the dangling receiver, and purred, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pinkerton.”

  “Daisy!” she shrieked. “I think the villain was Eustace!”

  I stared at the receiver for a moment, then glanced at my father and Harold, who were both grinning at me like a couple of idiots.

  “Um . . . which villain? I mean, what do you think Eustace—I mean, Mr. Kincaid—did?”

  “Why, he murdered poor Laura’s son!”

  My mouth fell open in shock for a second. I cast another wild glance Pa-ward, swallowed, and said calmly, “And why do you think Mr. Kincaid killed Mr. Hastings, Mrs. Pinkerton?”

  “Well, it stands to reason! He escaped from prison, and poor Laura’s son died a horrible death! It had to be Eustace, don’t you see?”

  I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Ah . . . Mrs. Pinkerton, poor Mr. Hastings died in March. Your husband escaped from prison last week, didn’t he? I doubt he had a thing to do with Mr. Hastings’ untimely demise.”

  Silence greeted my practical statement. In the background, I heard Pa and Harold stifling laughter. I glared at the both of them.

  After a moment, Mrs. Pinkerton said, “Well, who did it then? Laura told me herself that her son didn’t kill himself.”

  “We don’t know the answer to that yet, Mrs. Pinkerton, but we’re working on the matter.”

  “We? We who? I mean, is that awful detective helping you?”

  Bridling, I said more sharply than usual, “Detective Rotondo isn’t an awful man, Mrs. Pinkerton. He does a hard job very well, he’s helped you more than once, and yes, he’s looking into Mr. Hastings’ death.”

  “Oh. Well. I . . . well, I don’t mean to say he’s awful, but he’s quite gruff.”

  “Perhaps he seems gruff, but he has a difficult job to do. I expect many policemen become a little tired of fighting crime all the time.”

  Even I rolled my eyes at that one. Harold and Pa were nearly convulsing with muffled hysterics by then.

  “Oh, Daisy, I’m sorry. But I’m so very rattled, you see.”

  I saw, all right. I didn’t say so.

  “Could you please come over with your Ouija board? This afternoon? I’d be ever so grateful if you would. Just a short session, dear. Will you please? Please?”

  Shutting my eyes, I said, “Of course, I can do that, Mrs. Pinkerton. It will take me a few minutes to change my clothes.” Darned if I’d waste my gorgeous fake Chanel outfit on Mrs. Pinkerton.

  “Oh, thank you so much, Daisy! I’m so very upset and worried, don’t you know.”

  I knew. “Recall what the cards told you, Mrs. Pinkerton. In essence, they told you not to borrow trouble, remember?”

  “That’s easy for Rolly to say, Daisy, but I find it difficult to do.”

  Perhaps a guy who’d been dead for a thousand years and no longer had to deal with the problems of the living might spout platitudes with some facility. However, I was Rolly, I had only been alive on this green earth for twenty-two years, and I didn’t find dealing with Mrs. Pinkerton so blasted easy. But I merely said, “I understand. I’ll be at your house in about a half hour. Try to calm down in the meantime.” As if she’d ever do that.

  “Oh, thank you!” And she hung up the receiver on her end of the wire.

  Out of curiosity, I listened to the empty line and heard a couple of other clicks as party-line neighbors hung up their own receivers. I should charge them an entertainment tax or something.

  I turned and stared sternly at my father and Harold, who’d stopped trying to be quiet. They both whooped with hilarity.

  “It’s not funny,” I said.

  “Is too,” Harold gasped.

  “He’s right, Daisy. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I don’t either,” said Mrs. Pinkerton’s loyal son. “My mother is the biggest pain in the neck around, barring my idiot sister.”

  “Touching family feelings,” I muttered, peeved.

  “Just telling the truth, sweetie. Say, would you like me to drive you to Mother’s? I don’t have anything else to do today.”

  “Thanks, Harold, but I think I’ll take the Chevrolet. By the time I ply the Ouija board and calm your mother, it’ll probably be time for Vi to get off work, and I can drive her home.”

  “Good idea,” said Pa.

  “Very well, but I think I’ll pop by the old family manse just to see what’s going on there. You never know. Mother might actually have heard something pertinent to Eddie’s death, although I doubt it.”

  “She told me your father did it.”

  Harold and Pa roared with mirth at that one. I hoped they’d both get a cramp.

  After the two of them had quieted down some, I said, “You can follow me. Or I can follow you.”

  Harold had to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes. “Or I can just leave now and you can join me at Mother’s house.”

  “Good idea.”

  Harold shook hands with my father—the two of them were still smirking like idiots—and I went to the bedroom to change clothes and grab my spiritualist’s tools. Spike helped.

  By the time I arrived at Mrs. Pinkerton’s gigantic home on Orange Grove Boulevard—or “Millionaire’s Row” as some wag at a newspaper once called it—Harold’s Stutz Bearcat sat in the curving drive, and Harold himself opened the door before I could ring the doorbell. I wondered what Featherstone, Mrs. Pinkerton’s butler, thought of this breach of protocol.

  “You taking over from Featherstone?” I asked Harold as I stepped into the entryway.

  “Poor Featherstone didn’t want to let me open the door, but I think he’ll recover.”

  “You really shouldn’t upset his schedule, you know, Harold. He takes his job very seriously.”

  “Don’t I know it. Kind of like an automaton.”

  “Don’t be mean. I’ve always been impressed with Feather-stone, and I’m quite fond of him, too. And if you’re going to take his place, at least try to do it correctly. Now you’re supposed to say, ‘Please follow me,’ and lead me to the drawing room.”

  Harold complied with his usual good humor. He bowed formally and said, “Please follow me, madam.”

  “You can leave off the ‘madam’ next time.”

  “Nuts. Better than being a madame.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A madame is the proprietress of a whorehouse, Daisy, you charming innocent.”

  “Good Lord! I didn’t know that.”

  But we couldn’t continue our fascinating conversation because we’d reached the drawing room, which would have been a living room to us plebeians. I whispered, “Is she in a total fit, or just in a nervous dither today?”

  Harold paused before opening the door to the drawing room. “I’d say she’s in a partial fit. But I have faith in your ability to calm the wild beast, my dear.”

  “Thanks.”

  Harold opened the door and I glided into the room in full spiritualist mode. I’d changed into a lightweight gray day dress, suitable to the weather and my profession.

  Mrs. Pinkerton, who had been drooping on the sofa, leaped to her feet. She didn’t charge at me today, but only clasped her hands to her largish bosom and said, “Oh, Daisy, I’m so very glad you could help me!”

  “I’m happy to help, Mrs. P
inkerton,” I lied. Harold elbowed me in the ribs for it, but I pretended not to notice.

  “I’m going to the kitchen to see if I can nab a cookie or two,” Harold told us.

  “After lobster Newburg, salad, and chocolate soufflé?” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to. Blurting was totally unspiritualistic behavior, but I couldn’t help it. I was still so stuffed, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to eat dinner that night.

  “Harold told me the two of you had taken luncheon together today,” said Mrs. P, beaming at her son and then at me. “I think it’s wonderful that you two are such good friends.”

  “Indeed,” I said, grabbing my lost dignity and wrapping it around me like a cloak.

  “Oh, Daisy and I are best buddies,” said Harold with a farewell wave as he headed out of the room. I expected him to turn right and go directly to the kitchen, where Aunt Vi would certainly pamper him to the nth degree.

  After the door closed behind him, Mrs. Pinkerton led me to the sofa. I sat in a medallion-backed chair across from the coffee table and she plopped down where she’d been drooping before, only her droop was gone. In a lowered voice, she said, “Are you sure Eustace didn’t have anything to do with that poor boy’s death, Daisy? I’d never forgive myself if he were in any way responsible.”

  “I don’t see how he could have been responsible, Mrs.

  Pinkerton. He was in prison when the young man died. Anyhow, even if he did it—and he couldn’t have—that wouldn’t be your fault.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so,” she said, her brow furrowing. “But it’s just like something he might do.”

  Desperately attempting to keep from curling my lip, I said sweetly, “Kill someone? Your husband never killed anyone before he stole those bonds, did he?”

  Eustace Kincaid had been convicted of stealing thousands of dollars’ worth of bearer bonds, nearly causing his bank to collapse, which was why he’d been sent to San Quentin. I’d never liked the man, but I’d never considered him a deadly force before. A sneaky, mean-spirited, cruel, thieving force, but not lethal.

  “Not that I know of.” Mrs. P sniffed meaningfully. “But I wouldn’t put anything past that man.”

  That man. The one she’d married. But never mind. “You need not worry about him having had anything to do with Mr. Hastings’ death,” I said soothingly. “But let me get out the board, and we can start our session.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Daisy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  I didn’t either.

  As much as Mrs. Pinkerton tried, she couldn’t get the Ouija board to tell her where her ex-husband was, if he aimed to come to Pasadena, or what his future plans were. Nor could she get it to tell her if her daughter would continue going to the Salvation Army or get into trouble again.

  Although I’d told her as much at least ten thousand times before, I once more said, “Remember, Mrs. Pinkerton, the board and Rolly can only answer questions about you, not about others. In order for you to learn about the intentions of others, you’d have to ask them.”

  “Or have them use the board with you,” she said, as if upon an inspiration.

  There was absolutely no possibility of an iota of the tiniest hint of a chance that I’d ever use the Ouija board with Stacy Kincaid or her ghastly father. I know my nose wrinkled, because I couldn’t help myself. Fortunately, Mrs. Pinkerton was staring at the board at the time and didn’t see. I did, however, say—and firmly, too—“A person needs to believe in order to garner assistance from the spirits, Mrs. Pinkerton. I doubt Stacy or Mr. Kincaid would qualify.”

  She heaved a gigantic sigh. “Oh, that’s so true, Daisy. And it’s so unfortunate. I know Stacy would benefit from your helpful guidance.”

  In a pig’s eye.

  I didn’t speak.

  “But I doubt there’s anything anyone can do to redeem Eustace. I don’t know why I ever married him.”

  I didn’t, either. Heck, she was the one who’d brought money into the marriage. He’d just spent it. He was supposed to be president of a bank, but he’d done his best to ruin it. Del Farrington, Harold’s partner, had been the one to salvage the bank from total wreckage. Again, I said nothing.

  Mrs. Pinkerton took her fingers from the planchette, sat back, and gazed mournfully at me. “Oh, dear, Daisy, I just don’t know what to do.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Mrs. Pinkerton. Not about Mr. Kincaid or Stacy. All you can do is pray they both find the light one day.” Such folderol tripped off my tongue like a prima ballerina at that point in my career.

  “You’re so right, my dear. Oh, but I wish Stacy would meet a nice man and settle down. I don’t suppose she will at that Salvation Army place. The people there are so . . . so . . . well, common.”

  And worth sixteen or seventeen of Stacy Kincaid. Each. “I’m sure Captain and Mrs. Buckingham will help Stacy find her pathway.” Provided she didn’t slide off it and into a bottle of booze.

  “I suppose so. I only wish she could meet people in her own station in life.”

  “The last time Stacy consorted with people in her own station in life, she had to spend three months in jail,” I reminded Stacy’s fond mother.

  “Oh, Daisy! But they aren’t all like that. Why, just look at poor Eddie Hastings. He was a fine, upright man.”

  And, therefore, totally anathema to Stacy Kincaid. Not that he’d have been interested in her even if he hadn’t died.

  “One can always hope and pray,” I said sweetly. “But I need to get home now, Mrs. Pinkerton. It’s just about time for my aunt to be finished with preparations for your evening meal, so I’ll visit her in the kitchen and drive her home.”

  With another huge sigh, Mrs. Pinkerton allowed me to leave her presence. “Thank you for coming, dear. I only wish I could do as Rolly advises and relax.”

  “You might practice meditation,” I said, thinking of the Chinese décor in the Hastings’ home and the curry we’d had for dinner the night before. Didn’t East Indians and Hindoos meditate? I think I’d read about the practice in the National Geographic.

  “Meditate? Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  Phooey. I didn’t want to get caught up in more conversation with Mrs. P. “It’s an Eastern practice, Mrs. Pinkerton. You sit calmly and try to rid your mind of all thought. I believe that in order to do so effectively, you hum something—a single syllable—over and over so that your thoughts can’t come back to bother you.”

  Or maybe I was full of baloney. All I knew was that I wanted to get out of there, fetch Vi, and go home.

  “Goodness. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Visit Grenville’s Books on Colorado Street. I’m sure Mr. Grenville can point you in the direction of Eastern meditation techniques.” Besides, George Grenville was a friend of mine, and I’d done a huge service for his wife once. I liked sending business his way.

  “What a good idea. I do believe I’ll send Featherstone to the store for me.”

  Lord, she couldn’t even fetch her own books. I lammed it out of the drawing room and almost ran to Aunt Vi’s lair, craving normal company.

  I found it. Aunt Vi and Harold were having a jolly time in the kitchen, and Vi had plied Harold not merely with cookies, but with a piece of what looked like a heavenly pie. I’d have had hunger pangs if my stomach weren’t already so full of lobster and chocolate.

  “Aunt Vi, you’re not good for Harold’s diet,” I said as severely as I could.

  “What diet?” asked Harold around a piece of pie.

  “Piffle,” said Aunt Vi.

  Both valid comments. Vi packed up her belongings, and we drove home together.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  * * *

  On Friday morning, just as Pa and I finished eating breakfast, I received a telephone call from Mrs. Stephen Hastings. I was surprised, although not terribly. After all, she probably wanted to find out if I’d learned anything about her son’s death. I hadn’t, and I didn’t relish telling her so.

&n
bsp; “If you have nothing else to do this morning, Mrs. Majesty, would you mind dropping by for a few minutes? I found something that might be of interest to your investigation.”

  My investigation? Huh. “Of interest? To whom? Is it about your son’s death?”

  “I’m not sure. I just don’t know. But I thought you might be able to look at it and decide what to do.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying.

  I felt very sorry for her. “Don’t you think it might be better to call the police department? I know Detective Rotondo is now investigating your son’s case.”

  “Is he? I’m glad to know it.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you.” Guilt swamped me. Sometimes I thought “guilt” might as well be my middle name.

  “Oh, no. I understand that you’ve been working very diligently to honor my request. My . . . Stephen told me you’d dropped by the law firm on Monday.”

  Uh-oh. “He . . . um, didn’t appreciate my visit.”

  “Yes, he told me. He was quite angry.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to create a muddle and hope he didn’t blame you for my clumsiness. But I knew Belinda Young from school and didn’t think it would hurt anything if I paid her a visit.”

  “You didn’t create a muddle, Mrs. Majesty. I don’t know why Stephen was so upset. He disagrees with me about Eddie’s death and thinks I’m silly to believe it was anything but suicide, but he had no reason to be such a bear about your visit. He was furious when I told him I’d asked you to look into the matter. He hopes to avoid a scandal, you see.”

  “A scandal?” The word puzzled me; not an uncommon occurrence.

  “Yes. He thinks suicide is bad enough, but murder would put a blot on the family name.”

  A blot? Oh, dear. “Well, I hope he didn’t take his ill temper out on you. I was the one who irritated him.”

  “No, no. Stephen never touches me.”

  She sounded almost sad about that, which I considered odd. Unless . . . did she mean the man really and truly never touched her? At all? Not even for a kiss or anything? If I possessed a brassier nature, I’d have asked, but I didn’t. I was sure curious, though.