by Alice Duncan
“If he don’t,” I had Rolly say in the voice of Doom, “you probably won’t get another chance. Your child is playing with fire as a moth is drawn to a candle flame, and she won’t be the first bright young thing to burn up as a result of her own stupidity.”
Very well. That was it. I couldn’t do this any longer, at least not that day. Poor Mrs. Pinkerton was in as feeble a state as I’d ever seen her, and I’d been the one to put her in it. Worse, I was glad of it. Perhaps because I was wallowing in grief, I wanted everyone else in the world to suffer. I don’t know, really.
“But my time here is through for today,” Rolly said hastily, before I could blurt out any more hurtful words. “Take heart, m’dear. You talk to your Algie and form a plan to deal with your daughter. You needn’t let her rule the roast any longer. This is your home, and you should be comfortable in it. You shouldn’t have to worry about a spoilt child.”
Shut up, Daisy! I commanded myself.
“Thank you for helping us today, Rolly,” I said, vowing that he’d say not another word.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pinkerton. “I . . . you’ve been honest with me, Rolly, and I appreciate it. Although . . . oh, it’s so hard!”
Rolly struggled to emerge once more, but I wouldn’t let him. Mrs. Pinkerton had never had to work a day in her life, and this post-war world we lived in was nothing like the easy-going days of yesteryear. Well, they’d been easy-going for the likes of her. We Gumms and Majestys had still had to work like the dickens for our livings. Not that I was bitter or anything.
Um . . . I think I just lied about that part. But never mind. I’d known for a long, long time that the world wasn’t fair, and that there were the haves and the have-nots populating it. The fact that I fell into the latter category wasn’t Mrs. Pinkerton’s fault, even if she was a silly woman.
“I’m afraid Rolly has gone back to the Other Side,” I said softly, hoping to make up for some of Rolly’s earlier harshness. “I hope he hasn’t upset you.”
She heaved perhaps the largest sigh I’d ever heard and said, “Well . . . yes, he did upset me. But I suppose it’s no more than I deserved to hear. He told me the truth.”
As sympathetically as I could, because I felt guilty, I said, “I’m afraid he did, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it.” Bad Daisy. “But I think he had a good idea. I’m sure your husband will help you come up with a plan for dealing with Stacy. It can’t be easy for him to have her upsetting you all the time. He loves you, after all.”
And then, as stupid as it sounds, I almost started crying myself.
However, my words seemed to buck Mrs. Pinkerton up slightly. She squared her shoulders. “Yes. Yes, Algie does love me. And I love him. And he shouldn’t have to suffer from Stacy’s behavior.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said bracingly.
And then I got out of there as fast as I could. Because I still felt rotten about having upset Mrs. Pinkerton so badly, I made a detour to the kitchen to have a chat with Aunt Vi and see if there wasn’t some tea and maybe some cookies there that might make the lady of the house feel better.
When I pushed the swinging door open Vi had her hands in a bowl of dough, punching it down with a vigor that signified to me she was taking her frustrations out on it. She turned when the door opened and frowned at me.
Pressing a hand to my heart, I said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset her so badly.”
Vi’s expression changed to one of bewilderment. “What are you going on about, Daisy? Upset whom?”
I sank down into a kitchen chair. “Oh, dear. Missus Pinkerton called me because Stacy—”
“That horrible, awful brat!” cried Vi. “I thought maybe she’d changed her wicked ways for good, but now she’s gone and got herself arrested again, and poor Missus Pinkerton is beside herself! To think that good boys like your Billy and my Paul—” But her voice caught on a tear and she couldn’t go on.
“Oh, Vi.” I leapt from my chair, rushed over to her and threw my arms around her, flour be darned. It had never occurred to me that she might resent Stacy’s behavior for the same reason I did: Stacy was alive, and Vi’s son and my husband were dead. Irrational, I suppose, but who ever said human beings were rational?
Vi pulled herself together after about thirty seconds of that. “Oh, dear. I don’t want to get flour all over your pretty dress, Daisy.”
“Don’t worry about my dress, Vi. I don’t care about the dress. I feel the same way about Stacy that you do.”
Vi wiped her eyes on her apron, smearing flour across her face. Poor thing. She worked so hard. Not only did she cook for the Pinkertons and the wretched Stacy, but she also cooked at our house. That was fortunate for us, because neither Ma nor I were very good cooks. Oh, very well; the truth is that I am probably the worst cook in the entire world.
Then I confessed to my aunt, “I’m afraid Rolly told Missus Pinkerton some stuff she didn’t want to hear today when he visited from the netherworld.”
“Pshaw,” said my aunt, who knew as well as I did that Rolly was a figment of my imagination. She didn’t mind that, since he earned the family a good deal of money. “Well, I guess it’s time somebody told her the truth about that child of hers.”
With a heavy sigh, I said, “I hope I wasn’t too hard on her. But Stacy shouldn’t be allowed to get away with all the stuff she gets away with. And if Missus Pinkerton keeps paying her bail and stuff like that, she’ll never learn.”
“Missus P is a gentlewoman, Daisy. I don’t think they see these things as clearly as us commoners.”
With a grin, I said, “Good way to put it. Anyhow, she was pretty upset, and I thought maybe some tea and cookies might cheer her up some. I’ll be happy to take a tray in to her.”
“Never you mind about that,” said Vi, eyeing me critically. “You’re the one who needs the cookies. I swear, Daisy Majesty, you’re fading away.”
I was? I glanced down at my now-floury dress in astonishment. “I am?”
“Well, I don’t know how much weight you’ve lost since your poor Billy died, but you’re beginning to look downright scrawny.”
“I am?” Boy, that would be a change! Although I faithfully followed the fashions—nobody wants to hire a dowdy spiritualist—I’d always despaired of my curves, which simply couldn’t be hidden, even though I wore the requisite bust-flattener.
“But never mind about that. Here. Take this to Missus P. Tell her to buck up and stick to her guns.”
Vi handed me a tray, which she must have had ready before I entered the kitchen because I sure hadn’t seen her boiling any water or anything, and I took it. “Thanks, Vi.”
“Those are Swedish cream cookies. They’re full of butter, sugar and cream. Eat a few. They’ll put some meat on your bones.”
“Thanks, Vi. I sure will.”
As I carried the tray back to the drawing room, I eyed it. The Swedish cream cookies were quite pretty and flaky-looking, but the notion of eating one made me feel squeamish. Gee, maybe Vi and the fit of my dress were both right about me losing weight. If they were, it was the only good thing to have come about after Billy’s short life ended.
Mrs. Pinkerton was grateful for the tray. She brightened when I entered the room, although she still wore a haggard, careworn expression on her face, and her eyes remained swollen and red-rimmed. I hated Stacy Kincaid in that moment. Not that I didn’t generally hate her, but to put a woman like Mrs. Pinkerton, who was kindhearted and nice even if she was a bit dim, through such troubles, went beyond what any child should inflict upon a parent.
Unclenching my teeth and swallowing the bitter words dancing on my tongue, I smiled at the forlorn mother suffering on her wildly expensive sofa. I guess it was true that money couldn’t buy happiness—although I’d just as soon be unhappy in, say, France or somewhere, than in our little bungalow on Marengo. But that’s neither here nor there.
“After what Rolly put you through, I thought you might need a bracer,” I said softl
y, effortlessly assuming my sympathetic spiritualist persona in spite of my animosity toward this poor woman’s daughter.
“You’re always so thoughtful, Daisy.”
Tell my mother that, thought I.
“I’m afraid Rolly was a bit . . . ah . . .” For some reason, I ran out of soothing words.
“He told me the truth,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, surprising me.
I set the tray down as silently as a trained servant would have done. “I suppose so, but he was a bit rough about it.”
With a wan smile, Mrs. Pinkerton said, “Well, don’t forget he’s used to being a soldier in Scotland during the Dark Ages. I don’t suppose he ever learned how to convey unpleasant news gently.”
Maybe he hadn’t, but I sure had. If I were rude to an adult whilst growing up, my fanny would know about it for days afterwards. Neither Ma nor Pa stinted on the discipline, although they loved us all—which, come to think of it, might be the reason they were strict. Anyhow, did the Dark Ages include the eleventh century?
What a nonsensical thing to think about right then. I was really off my game. I decided to ignore her comment, even though I suppose it might have been pertinent. “Here, Missus Pinkerton. I understand hot, sweet tea helps people when they’re feeling down in the dumps. And these cookies Aunt Vi made look delicious.”
“Your aunt is the best cook I’ve ever met, Daisy. I’m so fortunate to have met both of you.”
Now I really felt guilty.
I was so relieved when I finally got out of that mansion, I had to lay my head on the steering wheel of the Chevrolet in order to get my wits together before I could drive home.
Chapter Six
I’d taken a cup of tea with Mrs. Pinkerton, although I couldn’t handle a cookie, sure that if I ate one of the incredibly rich confections, I’d disgrace myself and throw it up again. What was the matter with me? I’d never in my life had this reaction to food.
Spike’s ecstasy upon my return home nearly made me collapse at the front door and burst into tears, exactly as I’d done after Billy’s funeral. Boy, there was truly something wrong with me. Not only had I begun to reject food, but I cried at the drop of a hat. When I glanced up from greeting Spike, I saw my father gazing at me with a worried frown on his face. I gave him my best approximation of a smile.
“Hey, Pa. Everything’s fine. Well, everything’s not fine, but I think Missus Pinkerton has managed to gather the courage to leave her daughter in the clink for once.”
The briefest of hesitations preceded Pa’s, “How’d you make her do that? I didn’t think she’d ever stand up to that kid of hers.”
To Spike’s dismay, I stood and brushed off my dress, noticing that flour still clung to it, which might have been the main reason for Spike’s disappointment. He loved food the way I used to.
“I didn’t do it. Harold, Sam and Rolly did. They all told her the truth. Stacy will never learn to behave if Missus Pinkerton keeps bailing her out when she gets herself into trouble.”
“Good for Rolly!” Pa’s voice was a little heartier than the occasion called for. “And Sam and Harold, of course.”
I recognized an attempt to perk me up when I heard one. Good old Pa. He was the dearest man. “Of course.”
“Sam’s coming to dinner tonight, by the way,” Pa said, peering at me from the corner of his eye as if he expected me to object.
I didn’t. “That’s nice.” Glancing down at my dress, I said, “I’d better get this thing off. It got all floury when I went to the Pinkertons’ kitchen to fetch some tea for Missus Pinkerton.”
Pa squinted at my dress. “How’d that happen? You don’t generally get close enough to flour to get dirty.”
I almost chuckled. “You’re right about that. But . . .” Oh, dear. I didn’t want to tell Aunt Vi’s tale for her. But what the heck; I didn’t think she’d mind, and I was pretty sure Pa’d wouldn’t let on that I’d ratted her out. “When I got to the kitchen, Vi was punching dough as if it were Stacy Kincaid’s face. When I asked her what was wrong, she . . . well, she kind of broke down.”
“Vi broke down?” asked Pa with incredulity.
“Yeah. She said she didn’t know why people like her Paul and my Billy had to die when vicious idiots like Stacy Kincaid still lived. I got a little flour on my dress when I hugged her.”
Pa shook his head sadly. “I understand why she feels that way. And you, too. Your mother and I have wondered the same thing more than once.”
I heaved a huge sigh. “I guess we’ll never know the answer to that one.”
And I departed to my room, which used to be Billy’s and mine as I’ve mentioned several times before, to change clothes. Luckily for me, Spike followed me. I don’t know if he was after more flour or more hugs, but I was glad for his company.
Sam arrived for dinner at six that evening, bearing with him a bouquet of flowers. I blinked at him as he stood in the door waiting for me to move so he could enter the house. He’d never brought flowers before that I could remember.
“Wow,” I said stupidly. “Flowers.”
He let out an exasperated grunt and thrust the bouquet at me. “I figured you could use them after having to deal with the Pinkerton woman this morning.”
Flabbergasted, I managed to mutter, “It wasn’t all that bad.”
“I don’t believe it. She was hysterical when I got there, and she was hysterical when I left. And she hasn’t sent anyone down to the P.D. to bail her blasted daughter out, either. I figured, since she didn’t seem to be listening to her son or me, it was you who convinced her to let Stacy stew in her own juices for once.” Then he said irritably, “Can I come in, or do you want us to stand at the front door all evening?”
Good old Sam. Every time I thought he might actually possess a softer side, he set me straight with a vengeance. I stepped back. “Sure. Come on in. I’ll . . . find a vase for these. Thank you very much. We’ll all enjoy them.”
“You’re welcome.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a grouchier acceptance of thanks.
Ma and I had already set the table—neither of us could cook, but we did our best to make Vi’s life as easy as we could—so I rummaged around in the china cabinet for a vase to put the flowers in. Or in which to put the flowers. I know that latter sentence is correct, but it sounds funny. Anyhow, the flowers were very pretty. There were some yellow roses and some white daisies and some blue something-or-others, and they helped to perk me up slightly. Because I couldn’t think of a better place to put the vase once it was filled, I set it in the middle of the dining room table and stood back to observe the effect. Ma caught me in the act.
“What are you— Oh! What pretty flowers. Where’d they come from?”
“Sam brought them.”
“How very kind of him. And they look perfect with the tableware, don’t they?”
They did. We Gumms didn’t have fancy china, but we did have a matched set of dinnerware, augmented with mismatched serving pieces. The tablecloth was white, the plates were white with a little blue floral pattern around the edges, and most of our serving pieces were either white or blue. The flowers looked great.
Sam had studiously avoided me after we met at the door, but when Vi called him and Pa in after Ma and I set dinner on the table—roast pork, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts, generally one of my favorite meals—Ma said, “Thank you so much for the flowers, Sam. They’re beautiful.”
Looking embarrassed, Sam said, “You’re welcome. Daisy had a tough job to do this morning and . . . I figured she could use a pick-me-up.”
Ma turned to me, her eyes wide. “Oh, dear. What happened, Daisy? I didn’t know.”
“It was Missus Pinkerton,” I said, not really wanting to go into details, mainly because I feared Ma would scold me for being so rough on Mrs. P.
“Good heavens, I thought all was well with her now that she’s married that nice man and her daughter has changed her ways.”
Sam huffed. “That’s the problem. Her da
ughter has slipped from the straight and narrow. Got herself arrested in a raid on a speakeasy, punched one copper, kicked two others, and got locked up.”
Ma’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Vi, who sat at the head of the table because she was in charge of the food, huffed. “That daughter of hers ought to be horsewhipped. But Daisy took care of her.” The look she gave me appeared suspiciously like a smile of victory.
Goodness. I hadn’t expected such a commendation, even though I’d already known Vi appreciated my work that day.
“You did?” Ma sat, too, and picked up her napkin, gazing at me the while. “How’d you do that? I thought the woman was impenetrable.”
Sam stifled a guffaw. “Good way to put it.”
I sat, too, next to Sam. Ma sat across the table from us, and Pa sat at the foot of the table. I know the arrangements aren’t what the etiquette books demand, but they worked for us. “I . . . well, I’m afraid Rolly was pretty hard on her, actually.”
“Nuts. She needed to hear the truth.”
My eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like Sam Rotondo to leap to my defense. Heck, he was generally trying to get me to give up my evil ways—evil meaning my spiritualist line of work. However, I knew better than to question his motives at the table. I’d argued with Sam once or twice in the past, and it always worked out poorly for me because Ma blamed me for being rude to a guest. Huh. By that time, Sam darned near lived at our house. But that’s neither here nor there.
“I suppose she did, but you and Harold had already told her the truth.”
“People like her don’t take sensible advice from legitimate sources. They prefer phony ones like the kind you dish out.”
Good old Sam. He never let a compliment linger in the atmosphere. As soon as he delivered one, he followed it up with a body blow.
“Thanks a lot, Sam,” I muttered.
“Well, whatever you did, Daisy, it really opened Missus Pinkerton’s eyes,” Vi said, carving pork and, I think, attempting to steer the conversation away from conflict. “I left the house at three-thirty, and she and Mr. Pinkerton were having a pow-wow in the drawing room about Stacy. I heard him tell her she ought to do exactly what Rolly told her to do.”