by Alice Duncan
“True, true,” I said, deciding I’d better get back to the drawing room with my Tarot cards. I suspected it would be Featherstone who brought Mrs. Kincaid’s fancy Ouija board to the drawing room, and I wanted to see him do it. There was something about Featherstone together with an Ouija board that tickled my sense of the ridiculous.
I didn’t get home that night until way past dark. I actually dined (the Kincaids dined; we Gumms and Majestys only ate) with Mrs. Kincaid, Harold, Father Frederick, and Algie (nobody knew where Stacy was, thank God) at the Kincaid’s massive dining room table. What’s more, I got to eat Aunt Vi’s food, so I didn’t miss out on anything.
The meal started out with a salad made with mixed greens and with a dressing that was so good I wanted to lick the bowl when the greens were gone. That course was followed by a poached fish of some sort served on a bed of spinach and with a sauce so savory, I decided that as long as I could eat Aunt Vi’s cooking, I wouldn’t miss not doing with Billy what Edie and Quincy had been up to. Not much, anyway.
I thought that was it—salad, fish, and spinach would be a full meal for us Gumms and Majestys. It wasn’t it, however. Next to be brought in by Featherstone, who held the platter as if he neither knew nor cared what it contained, was a chicken pie. I was familiar with Aunt Vi’s chicken pie, and wished I hadn’t eaten so much fish. But what’s a person to do in a situation like that? I ate my chicken pie with relish. That is to say, not with relish, but with pleasure. Oh, you know what I mean.
Dessert was a blackberry tart smothered in sweetened whipped cream. I understood now why Mrs. Kincaid and Harold were both on the plump side. If I ate like that every day of my life, I’d look like an elephant in no time at all.
Chapter Eighteen
It turned out that even judges have their principles (or maybe they were prejudices). Not a single one of the judges or lawyers or bankers that had been chummy with Mr. Kincaid before he stole the bearer bonds wanted anything to do with him after he was charged with several felonies.
He was not tried by a jury of his peers, either, since rich men always managed to get out of serving on jury duty. It was regular people like the Gumms and Majestys who served on his jury. Irate that a rich man like Kincaid had tried to swindle them out of their own paltry savings, they convicted him of everything. Plus, the judge (who, I later learned from Harold, belonged to one of Mr. Kincaid’s clubs) sentenced him to ten years in the prison in Los Angeles.
So, there you go. Sometimes justice prevails. Sometimes it doesn’t. Depends on how much money you have at the time you need a judge’s influence. Fortunately for Mrs. Kincaid and the rest of us who loathed or had been oppressed by Mr. Kincaid, Mr. Kincaid had no money at the time of his trial.
Mrs. Kincaid filed for divorce, and proved Algie’s prophecy by being the center of social attention in Pasadena for months after the news of Mr. Kincaid’s theft and bolt to the ocean spread. She was the Queen of Pasadena until the next scandal broke and some other society woman took over the position. She enjoyed herself during her reign, too. I can’t even remember the number of séances I held at her house during the ensuing six months, or the number of new clients I garnered from doing so.
I was glad for her and even a little bit proud. After all, I’d had a hand in helping her through her many travails, one of whom still lived in her house. Mrs. Kincaid never spoke to me about Stacy, but I heard lots of gossip when I conducted séances at other rich women’s homes. It seemed to me that Stacy would never grow up, and I was glad I didn’t have to run around in her circles.
As for Edie and Quincy, three months after Quincy resumed working as a stable hand at the Kincaid mansion, the two of them got married. What’s more, Mrs. Kincaid insisted they do so in her garden, which still looked gorgeous even though September had crept in and fall was approaching fast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many spectacular carnations and chrysanthemums.
Father Frederick performed the ceremony. Mrs. Kincaid cried. So did Algie Pinkerton, who sat next to her (I saw them holding hands at one point). So did I. How embarrassing. But my darling Billy understood. He even surreptitiously handed me his big white handkerchief at one point when my tiny lacy one was saturated.
I saw Stacy Kincaid sitting on a garden bench, a scowl on her face and her arms crossed over her chest, and I wondered how in the world anyone had got her to attend the wedding. Had it been Harold? Or had Mrs. Kincaid finally acquired some backbone? I didn’t like Stacy enough to find out for sure, but I was intrigued to see her there. She was even clad in a demure frock, and wasn’t trying to shock the world by smoking cigarettes during the ceremony.
Billy got to meet Harold and Del Farrington at the wedding, and he was as polite to the two men as he would have been if he’d been introduced to a couple of “normal” men. I was proud of him.
Harold and I had become true chums by that time. We spent gobs of time together, and he gave me a tour of the Sam Goldwyn Studio, which was fascinating. I even got to see Douglas Fairbanks from a distance. I’d have fainted dead away on the spot, had I been a woman with a weaker nature. I’d asked Billy to come with me, but he said he didn’t want to, and that he considered men who acted in the pictures sissies. There you go. There’s no reasoning with even the best of men about some things.
Sam Rotondo had already surprised and disappointed me by keeping in touch with Billy after the Kincaid case was concluded. Of course, his friendship was good for Billy. And Pa liked him, too. Aunt Vi and Ma thought I was prejudiced against him for no good reason. Ha! They’d never been regarded as a murder suspect as I’d been. Let me tell you, such an experience gives a person a poor impression of one’s accuser.
The dratted detective gave me the shock of my life when he showed up at Quincy and Edie’s wedding. Had they actually invited him? When I asked, Edie said, “Of course.” I’ll never understand some things as long as I live.
Edie had asked me to be her matron of honor, by the way, but I declined the offer with genuine thanks. I told her the truth: I didn’t want to leave Billy alone in a herd of strangers. To tell the truth, I was also certain I’d cry, and I didn’t want to be the only weepy member of the wedding party. Edie understood.
It was a beautiful wedding. Mrs. Kincaid had one of her underlings build an arch, under which Father Frederick stood. The arch had been slathered with fall flowers. Edie wore an ivory satin gown (I would have been a little put out if she’d worn white, given what I’d glimpsed by accident that one time). It had a dropped waist and lots of beads and was perfectly gorgeous, especially since she’d had her hair bobbed, and she wore a short veil that went so well with the dress, I almost wished I could get married again and borrow Edie’s ensemble.
The reception was held in Mrs. Kincaid’s drawing room with Aunt Vi catering along with the help of several girls hired for the day. All of this, I’m sure I need not say, was paid for by Mrs. Kincaid. What a swell lady she was. The food was as delicious as ever.
After we’d all eaten as much as we could hold, a band started playing and people began dancing. Although I used to love to dance, I didn’t dance at the reception because of Billy’s problems. I’m sure he wouldn’t have enjoyed seeing me having a gay old time dancing with other men.
Ma and Pa and I were chatting with Edie’s mother (who’d also been crying throughout the ceremony) when I realized Billy wasn’t with us. Somewhat alarmed (every now and then, when were at parties, Billy got spells during which he’d become depressed and wheel himself off somewhere to hide) I turned to survey the room.
“What is it, Daisy?”
“Billy’s taken himself off somewhere.”
Ma knew what that meant. She took my arm. “Try not to worry, Daisy. I’m sure he’s only gone to talk to someone he knows.”
That was the problem: he didn’t know any of these people. Since the war, his mobility had been so limited that the friends he’d had in high school, and who were still alive after the war, were out of touch with him, except
for an occasional letter or drop in. He hated it when old friends popped by, because he didn’t like people feeling sorry for him.
Because I didn’t want to upset Ma, I said, “That’s probably it.” I didn’t believe it. I feared Billy had become discouraged by watching all the fully functioning people in the room and decided to wheel himself home. My heart thumped like a bass drum as I searched the crowd for him.
I was wrong. Ma was right.
There he was, across the room, and darned if he wasn’t laughing it up with Detective Sam Rotondo. Billy had seldom looked happier. “Oh,” I said to Ma. “There he is.” I jerked my head in the general direction of Billy and Sam.
“Ah,” said Ma. “I see.” She smiled one of her warm, unimaginative smiles. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s real nice.”
“He’s a good man, Sam is,” opined my father as if he were Saint Peter at the Holy Gate passing judgment on a newly departed human.
“Right,” I said, even as my insides were churning unpleasantly.
But I suppose I was glad Billy and Sam were friends. God knows, Billy needed friends.
After watching the two men chatter like a couple of male magpies for several minute, my brain in a whirl, I decided their friendship was fitting. They both drove me absolutely crazy. They might as well do it together. But suddenly I had an idea. If I could get Billy to persuade Sam Rotondo that I wasn’t an evil person . . . well, it was worth a try.
And I’ll try anything once.