Dark Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 7)

by Alice Duncan

  "Charlie's next-door neighbor was killed last night."

  I know my eyes bugged. Talk about shocked! "Killed? Do you mean... murdered?"

  "That's what it sounded like to me. Say, Daisy, will you call Sam for me? He should hear this from Charlie's lips. Charlie's afraid someone saw Sam at his house yesterday and that's the reason the poor man was killed."

  I thought about that for a split-second. It didn't make sense. "But, Pa, if you think this was a Klan slaying, wouldn't they have killed Charlie himself? Why'd they kill a neighbor?"

  With a shrug, Pa said, "I don't know. But if you'll remember, Sam parked his machine in front of Charlie's neighbor's house. Maybe someone saw us and thought we were visiting the neighbor."

  "But his Hudson isn't a marked police car or anything."

  Pa shrugged again. "Just call Sam, all right?"

  "Sure. Was Mr. Smith's neighbor in the Klan, too?" I got up from my place and once again headed to the telephone. I didn't know why Pa couldn't call the Pasadena Police Department for himself, but I didn't argue. Besides, I knew the number by heart. After I'd shooed all the other party-liners off the wire, including the persistent Mrs. Barrow, I dialed it.

  When an officer at the police station picked up his receiver, I said, "Detective Rotondo, please." Then it occurred to me that it was Saturday, and Sam might not be at work.

  Fortunately for me, he was. There was a pause, during which I presume my call was being transferred, and then came Sam's gruff, "Rotondo here."

  "Sam, is it possible for you to come to our house? Mr. Smith is on his way over here, and he has something important to report."

  "The—" He didn't finish his sentence, which had sounded as if it was going to be a question. "Cripes. All right." And he hung up. No manners, that man.

  Then it occurred to me that, as a member of the homicide squad, or whatever it was called, Sam probably already knew about the murder. Hmm. But he was coming to our house to talk to Charlie Smith, so I could ask him then.

  I decided I could discard the remains of my leathery egg. So I did. Then I went to my bedroom and chose a green-checked day dress. I didn't want to be in my robe and slippers when the men showed up at the house.

  Poor Spike's walk was late that day. After I'd changed clothes, I washed and dried the few breakfast dishes and put them away. By that time, a knock had sounded on the door.

  Pa and Spike opened the door to Charlie Smith. The poor man looked as if someone he loved had just died. Although I know it's irrational, I decided to blame him for his neighbor's death. After all, if he hadn't been stupid enough to join the Klan, his neighbor would probably still be alive.

  Of course, I didn't know anything at all at that point, so perhaps I was jumping the gun. An odd but apropos sentiment that morning. I did wonder under what context "jumping the gun" came from, however. Racing? But don't mind me. It was early on a Saturday morning, and my head was still a trifle fuzzy.

  "Come on in, Charlie. Sam Rotondo will be here shortly."

  Charlie entered, stopped dead in his tracks, looked at Spike with disapproval and said, "Is that a dachshund?"

  "Yes," I said, already nettled at Mr. Smith, the Klansman. Criminy, he didn't hate all black dogs, did he?

  "That's a German dog," said Smith.

  "He's a liberty hound," said I, sniffing with meaning. "Anyhow, aren't you of German extraction?"

  "My family's Swiss," he said. "But that dog is German."

  "He is not. He was born in Altadena." I really didn't like Charlie Smith. "And he behaves better than most of the people I know."

  "Come with me, Charlie," Pa said, hurriedly guiding his chum into the living room and to an overstuffed armchair.

  Charlie Smith sank into the chair as if he carried a great weight and buried his head in his hands. Huh. "God, Joe, I don't know what to do."

  "Let's wait and see what Detective Rotondo has to say about this whole thing."

  "Are they going to come after me next?" asked an anguished Charlie.

  "We don't know who they are or why your neighbor was killed," Pa reminded him. "Detective Rotondo's automobile isn't a marked police car. Perhaps your neighbor had enemies you don't know about."

  "Maybe," said Charlie, plainly not reassured.

  A knock sounded at the door, and Spike and I hurried to greet Sam, who instantly knelt to pay obeisance to my dog, as was only Spike's due. A German dog, my foot. He creaked a little when he stood again. Sam, not Spike.

  "Come into the living room, Sam. Mr. Smith and Pa are there already."

  "Right." Sam joined the two men. So did I, although I don't think my presence was appreciated by Sam or Mr. Smith. Phooey on them.

  "What is the name of the neighbor who was killed?" Sam asked Charlie.

  "Don't you know?" I asked. Not unreasonably, I do believe.

  Reasonable or not, all three men turned their heads and frowned at me. I huffed. "Oh, all right. I'll be quiet. In fact, I'll go get some coffee and some of Vi's cookies and bring them here."

  "Good," said Sam.

  Beast. I listened as hard as I could as I rummaged in the kitchen and fixed a tray. I heard a good deal, too.

  "It was Todd Merton. He was shot when he went out to get the newspaper last evening."

  "Did you see who shot him?"

  "No! I was in the house." His head hit his hands once more. I know, because I peeked. "Lord. I'd just come in from picking up my own paper."

  "You didn't see anyone or anything suspicious?" asked Sam.

  "No. I was already back in my house. I did hear a car slow down, then a shot, and then the machine squealed away. It left rubber on the street. I ran outside to see what had happened. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Todd lying there on his front lawn, bleeding into the grass."

  Mercy sakes. Glad I didn't have to see that. I brought the tray into the living room and set it on a table. I'd already poured coffee into three mugs, and the sugar bowl and creamer were on the tray along with spoons if the men wanted either of those things in their coffee.

  Pa and Sam each took a mug. Sam, I noticed, drank his coffee black. Pa used cream and sugar. Mr. Smith still had his head in his hands, so I don't even know if he'd seen the tray at that point.

  "What time was this?" Sam had put his mug down, taken his notebook out and was writing busily.

  "Around seven. Maybe six forty-five."

  It was then about eight thirty on the following morning. I was surprised the police weren't still questioning Mr. Smith at the station or his home.

  "And you didn't see the automobile you heard?"

  "No. I... well, I wasn't looking for it. I was too stunned when I saw Todd lying there."

  Lifting his head and pinning Charlie Smith with a look that had withered me once or twice—or maybe more—Sam asked, "Mr. Gumm said you think this killing might be Klan-related. Why do you think that?"

  "Because I talked to you! I never would have thought of them in connection with a killing until you visited my house. But I guess they really don't like people talking to the police about them."

  "They?" Sam said.

  "The Klan. I know in the meetings, they tell stories about how the police harass members of the group."

  "Do they ever tell stories about the people they harass?" I swear to heaven, if I could keep my mouth shut, I would. Honest.

  Again the men all shot me nasty looks. I clammed up, even though I believed then, and still believe, my question was pertinent.

  "Anyhow, I understand from the few meetings I've attended that the police don't like the Klan. Well, I guess the City of Pasadena doesn't like them, either, for that matter," said Charlie, making me wonder yet again why he'd joined the stupid organization in the first place.

  "The members of the Pasadena Police Department have never, to my knowledge, harassed any group of citizens, no matter what their affiliations," declared Sam, sounding as if he didn't appreciate being labeled a harasser of innocent people.

  "Well.
.. I don't know," said Charlie. "But all I know is, I talked to you yesterday, and Todd was shot down yesterday evening."

  "But that's just it," said Sam. "You talked to me. Your neighbor didn't."

  "You parked in front of his house."

  "In my own personal automobile. I wasn't in a police car, and Daisy and Joe were with me. That doesn't sound police-related to me. Maybe your neighbor had other enemies."

  "I can't imagine it. Everyone liked Todd."

  Sam shut his notebook. "I don't know, Mr. Smith. The connection between our conversation yesterday and your neighbor's murder last evening seems awfully tenuous. Did you tell Mr. Merton that you spoke with us? Did anyone in your family talk about our meeting?"

  "God, no!" cried Mr. Smith. "I didn't want anybody to know about it. Aw, hell, I should have come here, shouldn't I?"

  He asked the question of my father, but it was Sam who answered. "So the Klan would have killed Mr. Gumm instead of Mr. Merton?"

  Mr. Smith's eyes bulged. "No! No, I didn't mean it that way! It's just that... oh, I don't know. I talked to a policeman about the Klan, and almost instantly my neighbor is murdered. Don't you see a connection?"

  "Quite frankly, no," said Sam.

  My father said, "You told me the Klan's only purpose in life is to honor Americanism. What's American about murdering someone because he talked to the police?" Good old Pa. He could always get to the heart of any problem.

  "Well... I don't know," said Charlie, obviously in great mental distress, which was no more than he deserved.

  "I can't see a connection," said Sam. "For one thing, how'd anyone know I was with the police department?"

  Charlie shook his head. "I don't know."

  As if a lightning bolt had hit my brain, I suddenly knew precisely how someone had known Sam was a detective and had spoken to Charlie Smith. There was a spy in the police department. I didn't dare suggest such a thing to Sam, especially in front of Pa and Mr. Smith, because he'd have exploded. But you tell me: if no one who was involved in the conversation between Charles Smith and Sam Rotondo told anyone about it, who could have known about it? The only logical answer to that question, in my mind, was another member of the police department. Blast! I wish I'd taken down names when I was with all those policemen at Mrs. Pinkerton's house. Maybe one of them had a name that rhymed with feet. Or eats. Well, you know what I mean.

  Sam went on, "I think you're worried for nothing, Mr. Smith, although you might consider terminating your Klan membership."

  "But I thought you needed him to go to meetings and try to find out stuff." Me. Again.

  Sam turned a surly frown upon me. "I did, but not if it's going to cost people their lives."

  "Oh, God," muttered Charlie. Huh.

  "In any case, I'll look into the Merton matter and see what the investigators have discovered so far. If you're worried about someone coming back to murder you, perhaps you ought to go visit a relative in another town for a few days or something."

  Oh, boy, Sam was doing great. I wished I knew shorthand and could have written down this conversation to savor later.

  Charlie Smith slumped. "I'm probably worrying too much."

  Pa patted him on the back. "You might well be, Charlie. But if you really think your fellow Klan members might have killed Mr. Merton, why did you join the Klan in the first place?"

  And Pa was doing great, too.

  "Oh, the Klan's not bad. I don't know why I... Listen, just forget I said anything, all right?"

  "Sorry," said Sam. "It's too late for that. But keep your eyes open and report to Mr. Gumm if you see anything you think might be pertinent to the Merton case." Rather snidely, he added, "Since you don't want to be seen speaking to the police."

  "Yes," said Charlie. "I'll do that. I... I'd rather quit the Klan."

  "But then you wouldn't be able to help the police solve Mr. Merton's murder," I said, figuring it would be all right to speak now.

  "But Detective Rotondo doesn't think the murder's connected to the Klan," Charlie said.

  "You seem to," I said.

  "Oh, I don't know." Charlie Smith had started whining.

  "Well, if you do decide to quit, just tell them the truth. You don't want to lose your job. Several policemen working for the city have been suspended because of their Klan affiliation. So your fellow white-sheeters know what'll happen to you, as a city employee, if your membership in the Klan is discovered." And I aimed to make sure it was. I decided to tell him that. "And it will be, because, after the murder of your neighbor is solved, if you still belong to that organization, I'm going to telephone the water department and make sure they know you're a Klansman."

  "Daisy!" said Pa, appalled.

  "Daisy!" said Sam, exasperated.

  "That's blackmail!" said Charlie, furious.

  "Blackmail isn't anywhere near as bad as murder," I pointed out. "And you yourself suspect your precious Klan of murdering poor Mr. Merton. And he isn't even the one who talked to the police! You are!" Then I picked up the tray and returned it to the kitchen. I heard the front door close, and Sam and Pa entered the kitchen as I was washing up the extra mugs and spoons.

  "That went well," said Sam. He was being sarcastic.

  "He deserved it," I said, angry on behalf of Mr. Merton, whom I hadn't even known.

  "These cookies are great," said Sam. I guess he thought it would be wise to change the topic under discussion.

  I turned to see him holding one of Aunt Vi's masterpieces. "Those are called Swedish cream-filled cookies. Vi got the recipe from one of her friends back East, and she's been making them ever since she was a girl."

  "Delicious," said Sam.

  "They should be. According to Vi there's nothing in them except butter, flour, and sugar. Well, I think she adds a little vanilla extract. What's not to like?"

  Pa remained mute and looked somber. I feared his demeanor boded ill for yours truly. Oh, well.

  Sam left, and I got my sweater and Spike's leash, and Pa and I and a rapturous Spike took a walk.

  Pa was silent for the first part of our walk, which took us south along Marengo Avenue. I knew he was either annoyed or disappointed with me, but I felt defiant.

  "You weren't very polite to Mr. Smith, Daisy," he said at last.

  "Well, he's a blazing fool," said I. "Anyhow, you didn't see the three Jackson children describe how two men in white sheets and dunce caps tried to run them down on the street the other day. The Klan is an evil institution, and your buddy Charlie is either stupid, pretending to be stupid, or too naïve for his own good. Not to mention the good of any person of color living in Pasadena. Or any Catholics. Or any Indians. Or any Jews. Or, evidently, any neighbor of his."

  "Yes, yes. You've made your point. Still, Charlie's your elder, and you should show some respect."

  "Why?" I stopped walking and glared at my father, allowing Spike to sniff and piddle at will on the sidewalk. "Just because he's older than I am?"

  "Well... yes. I guess so. I don't want him to think my daughter's a hoyden."

  "Piffle. If he thinks I'm a hoyden because I don't approve of grown men bullying little children, burning crosses on people's lawns, blowing up people's mailboxes, or murdering other people, let him. I don't care, and quite frankly, my feelings are a little hurt that you do care." I didn't generally speak so frankly to my father, whom I love above all other earthly males. I still loved Billy best of all, but he wasn't around anymore.

  Pa gazed at me sadly for a moment or two, then said, "The modern world is too much for me, I reckon. I guess I agree with you about Charlie and the Klan, but I'm sure not used to children talking back to their elders."

  "I'm not a child any longer, Pa," I reminded him gently. "And Charlie Smith is too old to belong to a little boys' club, especially one that's so darned dangerous. I don't believe I was disrespectful in pointing out that salient fact to him."

  Pa only sighed. I felt kind of crummy for the rest of the day. But I didn't regret speaking my
mind to Charlie Smith. Well, not much, anyway.

  Chapter 10

  The telephone rang just as I was hanging up my sweater in the bedroom. Nuts. The 'phone was entirely too busy that morning to suit me.

  "Who can that be?" asked Pa, staring at the ringing telephone as if it were some kind of evil entity. I couldn't entirely fault him.

  "Beats me," said I, exiting the bedroom and heading for the 'phone. "I'm already booked to see Mrs. Pinkerton in forty-five minutes, darn it."

  Lifting the receiver, I said, "Gumm-Majesty residence, Mrs. Majesty speaking," same as usual.

  A hesitant female voice at the other end of the wire said, "Daisy?" in a not-quite-sure tone of voice.

  For pity's sake, I'd just told the caller who I was. Rather than snapping, as I felt like doing, I said sweetly, "Yes. This is Mrs. Majesty." For all I knew, this was a prospective client wanting to give me boocoo bucks for holding a séance, so I was polite.

  "Daisy, this is Laura Hastings."

  Good Lord! Laura Hastings was Mrs. Stephen Hastings. Or Mrs. Exalted Cyclops, if you prefer, although I don't know why you would. I still couldn't imagine Mr. Stephen Hastings, Esq., being in charge of anything so menial as a chapter of the KKK. I vowed I'd look into the matter further when I could. Admirably hiding my surprise, I said in my soothing spiritualist's voice, "Good morning, Mrs. Hastings. I hope you're feeling better these days."

  And that was a stupid thing to say. Her only son, Edward, had been murdered several months prior to that morning, and how any mother could even survive an ordeal like that, much less feel better about her life again, ever, mystified me.

  "Well, I do feel better in a way. At least now we all know Eddie didn't kill himself, and the men who did it are behind bars."

  "And they'll be staying behind bars for a long time, too," I said firmly, hoping I was correct.

  "It... it was a shock to discover Mr. Hastings' partner was involved in Eddie's demise," said Laura Hastings.

  "I'm sure it was." It had definitely shocked me. But that wasn't the point. "Did you need me to do something for you, Mrs. Hastings?" I had to get dressed and hie myself over to Mrs. Pinkerton's house, bless it, and this telephone call was eating up precious time. On a Saturday, when I was supposed to be lolling around reading or, at most, doing some gardening.