Spirits Revived (Daisy Gumm Majesty)
Page 21
“Do you think we could meet tomorrow?” she went on. “I’d really like some reassurance. Maybe in Central Park at lunchtime? Would that be hard for you to do? I can bring an extra sandwich for you, so you won’t have to miss luncheon.”
“Don’t worry about the extra sandwich, Belinda. I can always find lunch.” Besides, I was spoiled from Aunt Vi’s cooking, and I doubted Belinda’s mother or aunt could equal Vi’s sandwiches. “But I’ll be happy to meet you in the park. About noon? Ten past? Or do you take your luncheon break later in the day?”
“I generally take lunch from twelve thirty to one thirty. Central Park is near where I work, so I can easily walk there in five minutes.”
“So, let’s plan on meeting at twelve thirty-five or so.”
“Oh, thank you, Daisy. I honestly don’t know why I feel so uneasy, but I do. I need this job, so . . . well, I appreciate your willingness to meet with me.”
“I understand, Belinda.” And, if what I suspected was true, I didn’t blame her. I sure wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Mr. Eustace Kincaid. And if Mr. Millette and Mr. Grover were part of his set, I’d try to steer as clear of them as possible, too. Which, unless she wanted to quit her job, which she didn’t, Belinda couldn’t do.
The rest of Sunday passed restfully. Spike and I napped after Ma and I cleaned up the noon dinner dishes. Pa told me he and Sam had made plans to play gin rummy that evening, so I wasn’t surprised when Sam showed up about four o’clock. In fact, I took the opportunity to tell him about Belinda’s call.
“What do you think she should do, Sam?” I asked as Sam went to the closet under the stairway and retrieved the folding card table.
“Go to work and behave as if she didn’t see or hear anything,” he said, as if Brenda pretending she hadn’t heard Mr. Millette and a stranger arguing in the law office on Saturday would be as easy as pie.
“That would be easier to do if Mr. Grover hadn’t seen her there,” I said, rather miffed that he sounded so blasé about the matter. “Belinda isn’t as good as pretending as I am, anyway, so she’s nervous.”
Sam didn’t speak as he set up the table and Pa got a couple of chairs. Then he dusted off his hands, turned, and glared down at me. “What do you want me to do about it? She didn’t see who the man with Millette was, and she didn’t hear what they were arguing about. Do you expect me to storm the law office and arrest Millette and Grover because your friend is nervous?”
“Darn you, Sam. Of course I don’t want you to do that. But you might post a person to watch out for her or something.”
As usual at one of my pertinent suggestions, Sam rolled his eyes. I wanted to kick him, but since I was an adult woman, I didn’t.
“We don’t have an infinite number of patrol officers on the force, Daisy. Unless someone’s threatened her life, I can’t post a guard on her.”
“Pooh.” I stood there, steaming, for a second or two, and then said, “Well, I’m going to meet her in Central Park tomorrow around twelve thirty, so maybe she’ll have more information to impart after that meeting.”
Shaking his head, Sam said, “I’ll never understand how you get yourself mixed up in things like this, Daisy. I suggest you telephone your friend and cancel your meeting. What do you expect to accomplish by it, anyway?”
Furious, I said, “I don’t know! But Belinda heard the name ‘Kincaid’ being bandied about yesterday, and that’s got to mean something, doesn’t it? I should think you’d want to meet her in the park!”
“Good Lord.”
“Don’t you ‘good Lord’ me, Sam Rotondo. If you don’t care who killed Eddie Hastings, I do. And so does Belinda!”
“For God’s sake, I care. Believe me, there’s a serious investigation into the matter being carried on by the police right this minute. We know what we’re doing. You don’t. Stay out of it, Daisy. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Oh, pooh. Meeting with Belinda in the park to give her some moral support isn’t going to put either one of us in danger. The poor thing’s worried, for heaven’s sake. What she heard in the office yesterday rattled her nerves.”
“All right,” Sam said with a heavy sigh. “Give your friend moral support. But don’t you go anywhere near that law office.”
“I’ve already told you I won’t,” I barked at him. Then I turned away and went to the sofa, where I picked up The Adventures of Sally, by Mr. P. G. Wodehouse. I loved his books because they were very funny and took me away from everything.
Sam and Pa were still playing their stupid rummy game when I took Spike and went to bed. Darn Sam Rotondo, anyway! He drove me nuts. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a long drive.
The following day, after Pa and I took Spike for a nice long walk around the neighborhood, I dressed in a fashionable outfit in order to see Mrs. Pinkerton. Never let it be said that Daisy Gumm Majesty ever looked anything but spiffy while plying her trade, even if it was a spurious one.
I selected from my vast wardrobe a two-piece dress of what the fashion mavens called “Pamico cloth” I’d bought dirt-cheap at Maxime’s Fabrics. The skirt was a solid blue, but the top was white, embroidered with blue and pink flowers—by my own talented fingers with embroidery thread bought for a song at Nelson’s Five and Dime—above the dropped waist. It had a cunning vest made of the same solid blue material, but with big white pockets with more embroidered blue and pink on them.
I considered not wearing a hat, but hadn’t been able to get to the library to look through the Vogue magazines yet, so I wore the hat I’d crafted myself out of the same blue Pamico, with an embroidered brim. It was a little loose on me, so I stuck two hat pins in it. Even they were beautiful, having been bought by me at Nash’s Department Store when they were getting rid of old inventory. I figured hatpins never go out of style, and these had little fake pearls on their ends and went beautifully with my outfit.
Because I aimed to visit Central Park after I saw Mrs. Pinkerton, I decided to wear my black shoes with lower heels than I’d have worn in the evening, and I took my black handbag with me. It was the same bag I’d used for the past several days, so I only put in a fresh handkerchief, dusted it off a bit, and set out for Mrs. Pinkerton’s house. I wasn’t looking forward to the visit, but I made sure I had my Ouija board and my tarot cards, just in case Mrs. P didn’t care for the advice Rolly aimed to give her and wanted a tarot reading. Which would echo Rolly’s advice, whether she liked it or not.
When I arrived at the Pinkerton palace, Featherstone opened the door for me, looking like a stuffed penguin as usual. I adored Featherstone. If ever I decided to hire a butler—not that I ever would—I’d want one precisely like Featherstone.
“Good morning, Featherstone.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Lead me on, please, Featherstone.” Not that he needed to, but we’ve been over that.
“Please follow me,” said he, sticking to the script.
So I followed him to the drawing room, where Mrs. Pinkerton, pink and plump and in a dither as usual, awaited Rolly and me. She hurled herself out of the chair she’d been whimpering in.
“Oh, Daisy! I’m so glad to see you! I’m just terrified that Eustace will come after me!”
Before I could think better of it I asked, “Why would he do that?”
“Why? Why? Because . . . Well, I don’t know. But why else would he come back to Pasadena?”
I thought I knew a partial answer to that question, but I wasn’t going to tell her I thought her husband and Mr. Millette, and perhaps Mr. Grover, were involved in importing illegal drugs, probably from China, where Mr. Millette had contacts. “I’m sure I couldn’t say,” I told her mildly, in full spiritualist purr. “But I think you needn’t worry. If he were in Pasadena to see you, why would he have been arguing in an alleyway with another man?”
My question perplexed her, I reckon, because she said, “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.”
No surprise there. I doubt the woman ever thought at all. I’m sor
ry. Perhaps I’m being too hard on her. It wasn’t her fault she’d been born rich and had never had to do a day’s work or think a single thought in her life.
I smiled sweetly. “Would you like to begin with the Ouija board? Remember,” I said, knowing it would do no good, but with faint hope, “Rolly can’t tell you about Mr. Kincaid’s movements or anything like that.”
She heaved a sigh almost as big as her bosom. “I know. I do so wish he could.”
“So does he,” I said, lying through my teeth.
Fortunately, Mrs. P wasn’t in too much of a fuss, so I didn’t have to remain at her place for more than an hour and a half or so. I toddled to the kitchen to see Vi before I left the house, and, bless her, Vi gave me lunch. I’m glad I’d told Belinda not to bring me a sandwich.
Then I headed to Central Park.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
I parked on Del Mar Street, which abutted the park, a beautiful stretch of green speckled with trees and benches right smack in the middle of town. Hence the name Central Park, I imagine. The park sat near the railroad station, and I could hear trains tooting from time to time. Naturally the trains’ toots brought back memories of last summer’s jaunt to Egypt and Turkey with Harold. With any luck at all, I’d never have to leave home again. Not that I didn’t appreciate Harold’s thoughtfulness, but . . . well, that trip had been quite stressful. And that’s putting it mildly.
Belinda hurried up to me after I’d been waiting for her for about five minutes. I didn’t mind the wait, being of good cheer and full of good food. I smiled at her, glad to see she appeared every bit the professional secretary that day as she had when I’d visited the law offices of Hastings and Millette. She didn’t smile back; that worried me a bit.
“Are you all right, Belinda?”
“I guess so. But I’m so nervous at work, I can hardly stand it. Mr. Grover has been looking at me strangely all morning long.”
“What do you mean by ‘strangely’?” I asked, my brow furrowed. I bethought me of the bland Mr. Grover, and thought it would take some doing to detect any kind of expression at all on his face.
Belinda passed a hand across her face, and I could see how agitated she was. I put one of my own hands on her shoulder. “Come over here to a park bench, and let’s sit down.” I guided her to the nearest bench, which, fortunately, sat under a spreading oak tree. I saw no other people near us, so that was a good thing. “Did you bring your lunch with you?”
“Lunch?” Belinda glanced around, as if she might find her luncheon box in the park somewhere. “Oh. No, I guess I forgot it.”
That made me sorry I hadn’t brought some of Vi’s delicious luncheon fixings for Belinda to nibble on. “That’s not good. You need to eat.”
“Oh, I’m too nervous to eat!” she cried.
“Belinda, I’m really sorry you’re so worried, but please, tell me why. What’s going on that has you in such a state? Has Mr. Grover or Mr. Millette spoken with you about what you heard on Saturday?”
“No, no. They haven’t said a word to me. Well, Mr. Millette never speaks to me. I’m too low on the totem pole for him to notice.”
“You said Mr. Grover has been looking at you strangely. Can you explain that to me?”
Again, Belinda brushed her forehead with her gloved hand. She dressed impeccably, bless her. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he’s not. All I know is that when I heard the name ‘Kincaid’ being shouted in Mr. Millette’s office, I instantly thought of Eddie’s death.”
That one stumped me. “Why?”
“Again, I don’t know. But Mr. Kincaid was a thief. If he and Mr. Millette knew—know—each other, maybe they’re in on something together. If Eddie found out about it . . . well, maybe he said something and they did him in.”
Dramatic. But not impossible, unless you were Sam Rotondo. “Hmm. Interesting possibility. Um . . . do you know how Eddie Hastings died, by the way?”
She glanced at me sharply. “Why, no. No one’s ever told me. Do you know?”
I nodded. “He died from an overdose of heroin.”
Her eyes narrowed, making her look like a very pretty bulldog. “What’s heroin? I thought a heroine was a lady hero.”
My kind of girl, Belinda. “That’s what I thought, too. But heroin, without the e on the end, is a kind of drug.”
“A drug! Eddie Hastings never took drugs in his life! Are you sure? What kind of drug is it, anyhow?”
“Yes, I’m sure, because Dr. Benjamin read the coroner’s report and told me. Heroin is derived from opium, like morphine, but heroin is coming into greater use these days, and the bootleggers are now selling it as well, along with their illegal liquor.”
“Eddie Hastings never drank. He hated people who defied the law. And I know he didn’t take drugs. We used to talk about all the scofflaws who thought it was jolly fun to break the law and go to speakeasies and make bathtub gin and take cocaine and things like that. He was a law-abiding man, and to think anyone ever thought he actually killed himself with an illegal drug just . . . well, it makes me sick to think about.” She took a hankie out of her handbag and wiped tears from her eyes.
“I agree.” Something occurred to me just then—kind of a bolt from the blue, if you know what I mean—and I asked, “Say, Belinda, you said Eddie and his father were on bad terms.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Were they always at each other’s throats, or was this a recent thing?”
She took a moment to ponder my question. “Come to think of it, it was recent. I’d say it started about a month or so before Eddie died. They got along all right until then, although I don’t think Eddie liked his father much. Nobody does.” She shrugged. “But they never fought until that time.”
“You know what I think happened?”
“What?”
I deliberated for a minute, trying to sort out my scrambled thoughts. As I pondered, I glanced around the park, not wanting anyone to overhear our conversation. When I’d settled matters to my own liking, I began slowly. “I think perhaps Mr. Millette and Mr. Kincaid were in cahoots.”
“Cahoots? What kind of cahoots. Cahoots in what endeavor?” Belinda gazed at me dubiously.
“Hear me out. Mrs. Hastings told me that Mr. Millette and Mr. Hastings were in business together in Hong Kong. There’s a huge market for heroin, and a lot of it comes from China. What if those two men were in the drug-smuggling business together?”
“Drug smuggling? Good Lord!”
I held up a hand when she seemed about to protest. “Mrs. Hastings found a note in her home. It was from Mr. Kincaid, and it seemed to have been written from prison. The note said he wanted out of San Quentin, and he aimed to tell on whoever the note was written to if whoever it was didn’t aid him in escaping.”
“My goodness. Do you really think that’s possible? How can anyone help anyone else escape from prison?”
“I have no idea. But somehow or other Mr. Kincaid did escape from prison, and Mrs. Pinkerton, who used to be married to him, swears she saw him on the street arguing with another middle-aged man only a couple of days ago. I’ll bet you anything that other man was Mr. Millette. And then you heard him and Mr. Millette arguing in the law office.”
“But I don’t know if the other man was Mr. Kincaid.”
“Bet it was. You know Mr. Millette, and Mrs. Pinkerton knows Mr. Kincaid. Put the two men together with that note, and I’m sure they’re connected.”
“Unfortunately for you, you’re absolutely correct,” came a deep voice from behind the tree under which we were sitting. Belinda and I both swiveled and glanced wildly around.
A man dressed like a bum came out from behind the tree. In one of his hands he carried a jacket, which was odd for a warm June day. When I peered more closely, I saw the barrel of a gun pointing directly at me. My gaze skittered to the man’s face, and my heart plummeted into my low-heeled but fashionable shoes.
Why is it always me in the wa
y of danger? Never mind.
“Wh-who are you?” stammered Belinda.
But I knew who it was. “That, Belinda, is Mr. Eustace Kincaid, escaped felon and, I suspect, drug smuggler in league with Mr. Millette.”
“And Grover,” said Mr. Kincaid with a sneer. I’d always loathed that man, and my hate was growing by leaps and bounds. “Never forget our dear friend, Mr. Grover.” He growled a little louder, “Get out here, Grover. I can’t handle the both of them by myself.”
“Handle us? What do you mean, handle us?” I demanded, fear growing inside me like a demented mushroom.
“Where’s Mr. Grover?” asked Belinda. “He can’t be a criminal! He’s too . . . bland.”
Oh, Lord, I wished she hadn’t said that, especially when Mr. Grover minced out from behind the tree, holding a jacket in his hands and frowning at Belinda. Naturally, his jacket hid another gun. I noticed his hand shaking, though, so I knew he didn’t want to be doing what he was doing.
“Come along, ladies. It’s time for you to get back to work, Miss Young. And you, Mrs. Majesty, will have to come along with us until we figure out what to do with the two of you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “But Mr. Hastings called the police and said he didn’t want me anywhere near that building again,” I said, sounding whiny.
Belinda grabbed my arm. “Oh, Daisy, please don’t desert me now,” and I was heartily ashamed of myself.
“I won’t,” I said. “Of course I won’t.”
“Damned right, you won’t,” snarled Mr. Kincaid. “Get moving. Now. Toward that Packard on Del Mar.”
He poked the gun in my stomach, and I started moving. Belinda walked beside me, stiff as a hat stand. I’m sure she was frightened as I. “What are you going to do with us?” I demanded.
“I don’t know yet. We’ll have to chat with Millette about that. Don’t worry, though. If we have to get rid of you, it won’t hurt a bit.”
“It won’t hurt? What do you mean?” Then the truth dawned on me. “You mean you’ll just kill us with heroin as you did Eddie Hastings.”