by Alice Duncan
"What does that have to do with the Jackson case?" asked Vi. And reasonably, too, I must admit.
"I'm not altogether sure, but a fellow who was involved in both the Klan and the financial scheme was murdered last night." Oh, piddle. I hadn't meant to bring Petrie into the conversation.
Vi's eyes went round as billiard balls. Not that I've ever seen a billiard ball in person, but I've seen pictures. "For heaven's sake! You'd better just stay away from this case until Sam solves it, Daisy. You're liable to find yourself in hot water if you don't watch out. You do tend to get involved in things better left alone, you know."
Darn it! Here was my wonderful aunt virtually parroting the words Sam had flung at me over Chinese noodles. It wasn't fair!
"Sam himself has asked me to go with him to question people involved in the Jackson case, Vi," I pointed out rather hotly.
"Yes, yes, I know." She dumped her punched-down dough onto a floured board and divided the dough into little balls. Guess she was preparing dinner rolls.
"Anyhow," I said, getting to the purpose of my second visit to the Pinkerton place that day. "I invited Sam to dinner tonight. I hope that's all right with you. We're going to compare notes after dinner and see where they lead us. If they lead us anywhere. Sam is going to visit Jackson in the hospital."
"He doesn't think Jackson had anything to do with that man's death, does he?"
I lied. "Oh, no. He just needs to talk to Jackson again. One of Jackson's friends was going to take photographs of where Jackson was shot. You never know. The photos might provide a clue."
"If you say so," said my aunt, making neat little knots of the dough balls she'd created and putting them on a baking sheet. Then she covered the knots with a damp towel. I hoped we'd get some of those little knots for our own dinner, but I didn't say so, not wanting to prolong my visit in case Vi had anything else of an equivocal nature to ask of or impart unto me.
Chapter 20
By the time I got home, the only other being in the house was Spike, who greeted me with his usual exuberant ecstasy. I greeted him the same way, and then took us both to my bedroom, where I plopped The Girl on the Boat on the bedside table, slipped out of my dress and lay down to take a nap. It had been an eventful day, and I was beat.
What woke me up was the heavenly aroma of baking bread. Have I mentioned that the room Billy and I used to share, and that I kept after his death, is right off the kitchen? Well, it is. I got up, rubbed my eyes, threw on a faded blue day dress and stumbled into the kitchen.
"It smells so good in here!" I told my adorable aunt just as she withdrew the dinner rolls from the oven.
"They are good."
"What do you call them?" I asked, peering at the perfectly browned knots. Vi must have brushed them with egg before baking them, because they glistened gorgeously. I wouldn't have known to do that, but once, when Vi had tried teaching me to cook (the lessons didn't take), she suggested brushing bread or dinner rolls with beaten eggs or egg whites in order to create that glisten. I hadn't been able to successfully separate an egg white from an egg yolk, so Vi hasn't bothered with me since.
With a shrug, she said, "I just call them dinner rolls. I thought they'd be pretty tied into knots—you know, for a change from plain old dinner rolls."
"There's nothing plain about your dinner rolls, Vi." In fact, I wanted one. Badly. However, I knew my aunt. Also, when I glanced at the kitchen clock, I saw it was five o'clock, and Aunt Vi would probably smack my hand if I grabbed for one. We Gumms and Majestys dined at six p.m. every day.
"Thank you, Daisy. You still can't have one." She laughed.
"I know. I wasn't going to snatch one. I want one, though."
"Well, we'll eat at six, and you can have one or two then."
"What are you fixing for dinner?"
"Plain old beef stew. Easy as pie. Easier than pie, actually."
I vividly recalled my mother and me puzzling over a recipe for raisin pie one day a couple of years earlier. Neither of us could figure out what a capital T meant. We finally decided upon tablespoon, and the pie came out all right, so I think we'd guessed correctly. "Pretty much anything is easier than pie," I told her, meaning it.
"For you. I love to cook. You have your own gifts, sweetheart."
That was nice of her. "Thanks, Vi."
Spike had reluctantly left the warmth of my bed and strolled into the kitchen, too. Vi actually tossed him a piece of extraneous something-or-other, and I felt she was treating my dog better than she treated me, but I didn't say so. "I'll set the table."
"Thank you, Daisy."
So I set the table, making sure I put both bowls and bread plates at each setting. Then I fetched The Girl on the Boat and retired to the living room, where I plopped myself on the sofa, Spike at my side, and read until about five forty-five, giving greetings to Pa and Ma when they both came home. Then I thought perhaps I'd better spiff myself up some, so I retired to my bedroom and selected a plain but pretty brown-checked dress from my closet. The dress had a slightly scooped neck and I'd decorated the neckline, loose sleeves, pocket and skirt with rows of rickrack. The belt was wide and tied just below my waist.
Eyeing myself critically in the cheval glass mirror, I decided I'd do. The dress wasn't so fancy that it would make anyone think I'd dressed up especially for Sam, but I looked quite respectable. Glancing down at Spike and worrying I'd spiffed up a trifle too much, I said, "What do you think, Spike?"
His tail swept back and forth across the floor, and I took that as a sign of approval, so I left off tidying myself and went back to the kitchen. There I donned an apron and helped Vi dish up the various courses. There weren't many of them, beef stew being a relatively self-contained meal unto itself.
"Boy, this smells spectacular, Vi. It's not the usual beef stew you make, is it?"
"If you won't tell Sam, I'll let you in on my secret ingredient," she said with a sly grin.
"I won't tell. Promise."
"I fixed the same thing for the Pinkertons today, only they call it beef bourguignon."
I eyed the stew, looking for anything new and exciting. Pearl onions, potatoes, carrots, chunks of beef. Nope. Couldn't find a single unusual ingredient. Oh, wait. There were some mushrooms. I wasn't necessarily a fan of mushrooms, but I figured they'd soak up the flavor of the delicious sauce and wouldn't taste like dirt, as they usually did. To me. Other people liked them.
"What does bourguignon mean?"
"It means I put some Burgundy wine into the regular sauce."
My mouth dropped open. "Vi! Where in the world did you get Burgundy wine? We're supposed to be in the throes of Prohibition!"
"Indeed, we are, but Mr. Pinkerton has himself quite a wine cellar." She slid me another sly glance. "I'm sure he bought it all before the law was passed."
"I'm sure," said I, as sly as she.
Here, once again, is proof that rich people are different from the rest of us. If anyone in my family had a wine cellar, we'd all be locked in the clink. Oh, well. I made a good living off the Mrs. Pinkertons of the world. Besides, the stew smelled really good, so I wasn't about to complain.
As I was setting dishes on the table, Spike set up an uproariously gleeful barking frenzy at the front door. Sam. I said, "I'll get the door."
So I did, and Sam walked in, looking like a big, tired policeman in his overcoat, hat and big policemanly shoes. Without my prompting, he hung his hat and coat on the hall rack and headed for the food and Pa, who had just entered the dining room with Ma on his arm. Ma, too, had put on a nice day dress, I suppose for Sam's benefit. Generally speaking, we Gumms and Majestys didn't "dress" for dinner. We just wore whatever clothes we had on when Vi called us to the table.
Sort of like my own beloved hound dog, only much larger and less beloved, Sam lifted his face and sniffed the fragrant air. "Oh, my, is that beef bourguignon I smell? I haven't had that since I last ate at Delmonico's, and that was years ago. It smells wonderful."
"But it'
s made with wine," I said. Then I could have slapped my own face for giving away Vi's secret. Not that it seemed to be much of a secret if Sam knew instantly what it was.
He shrugged. "So what? Your aunt made it, so I know it's good. And I'm not on duty."
"How'd it go at the hospital?"
I knew I shouldn't have asked when I saw the expression on his face. "Let's talk about it later. Is that all right with you?"
"Sure, Sam." Guess I couldn't fault him for wanting to eat a good meal before he started talking murder and mayhem again.
So we gathered around the table, Sam and I on opposite sides. A lovely bouquet of orchid sprays sat in the middle of the table, so Sam and I couldn't see each other very well. That was all right by me.
Vi passed the bowl of stew to her right, so Sam got first crack at it. I noticed, through the branches, that he filled his bowl to the brim before he passed the bowl to Ma. She did nearly the same thing before she passed it to Pa, who then passed it to me. I didn't take much, since there wasn't a whole lot left, and I wanted Vi to get some.
When I passed the bowl back to her, she eyed it and then frowned at me. "There's a gallon more of this stuff in the kitchen, Daisy. Take more if you want it." She shoved the bowl back at me, so I filled my bowl almost to the brim. Then Vi took the bowl back to the kitchen, refilled it, and began passing the rolls and butter.
"This is delicious, Vi," said Ma after tentatively taking a bite of carrot she'd carefully picked from her bowl. It's fun watching my mother eat new stuff, because she's so unadventurous when it comes to foodstuffs.
"It's marvelous," said Sam, sounding almost worshipful. "I haven't eaten anything like this since I moved away from New York City. You can't get the variety of food here that you can get back East."
"That's true," said Pa. "When I visited New York City with Ernie"—Ernie, Aunt Vi's late husband, was Pa's older brother—"we ate all kinds of food. Chinese, East Indian, German—You all right, Daisy?"
At the word German, I'd almost raised a protest, but I'd cut it off. I'd learned not to loathe all Germans, but I still struggled with the concept of eating anything a German might eat. Except a good sausage every now and then. "I'm fine, Pa. Carry on."
"Well, they had all kinds of food there, was all I was trying to say." He looked up the table at Sam. "Guess you can miss food, too, can't you?"
"You bet," said Sam.
"We're lucky," I said, trying to redeem myself. "Our relations in Massachusetts send us real maple syrup every year, and Vi makes Boston baked beans and brown bread from time to time."
"And you've broadened all our horizons with that Turkish cooking book," said Vi with a smile for me.
"Guess so," I said, pleased. The food in Turkey had been very good. Even though I'd been too sick to eat it most of the time I was there.
Good food, and chatter about more food, carried us through the meal. Vi brought in tapioca pudding for dessert, and we all liked that, too. Then the men went to the living room to talk and/or play gin rummy—although Sam had looked worn to a frazzle when he came in—so Ma and I washed the dishes, and I put them all away.
When I entered the living room, Vi, Pa and Sam were chatting about, of all things, the Longneckers. I eyed them with interest and, perhaps, a soupcon of skepticism mixed in.
Pa glanced up at me with his innocent blue eyes—eyes I'd inherited—and said, "I was just telling Vi and Sam about talking to Mrs. Longnecker today, Daisy?"
"Oh?"
"Yep. I asked if she could recommend a good cleaning lady to come every couple of weeks or so to help out here."
"What? We don't need a cleaning lady! I keep house very well when I'm home, and I don't work so often that the house suffers!" I was, as you can probably tell, indignant.
"Calm down, sweetie," said Vi. "Your father was being sly."
I plunked myself on the piano bench. "Sly?"
"You wanted to know about the woman Mrs. Longnecker has come in to clean on Thursdays, don't you?"
"Oh." Now I felt silly. "Yes, I did want to know about her. Actually, I already knew about her, but thanks for your ruse, Pa. What did Mrs. Longnecker say? I'm sure she's going to tell all the neighbors that Daisy Majesty refuses to help her mother and aunt with the housework, so poor Mr. Gumm has to hire a cleaning lady. The woman is a poisonous gossip."
"Daisy," said Ma in the voice she uses when I'm being bad.
I huffed. "It's true, Ma. You know it as well as I do."
"Sorry I smirched your reputation, but I did get the name of the woman. You're right. It's Georgia Akers. Mrs. Longnecker said she does fairly well, for one of those people."
I felt heat rise up my neck and invade my cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from rage. "And precisely whom does she consider those people?"
"Negroes, of course," said Sam, as if this were a matter-of-fact observation and I shouldn't take it amiss.
"I hate that woman."
"Daisy," said Ma again.
"Nuts. She's mean as a snake—actually, Pudge Wilson told me snakes aren't mean. They just have a bad reputation because people think they're slimy, but they aren't—but that's not the point. She's awful!"
"Daisy," said Ma yet again, but without much conviction.
"No, Peggy. Daisy's right. I don't like her much myself, but at least I spared you the trouble of being nice to her," said Pa with a grin.
Sam grinned, too. He would.
But they were both right. Deflating, I said, "Thanks, Pa. I appreciate it. I'll try to look out for Mrs. Akers on Thursday and say hello to her. I don't want her to think the entire neighborhood is full of people like Mrs. Longnecker."
"Actually," said Sam, "it probably is. It's a sad fact of life that people don't look at people who are different from themselves as being as good as they are."
"I know it," I said, defeated.
"But I need to talk to you about the Jacksons," said Sam. Then he glanced at the rest of my family. "Do you mind if Daisy and I consult on the porch? Not that it's anything secret, but..."
"Of course," said Ma, entirely too quickly. She thought we were going to canoodle. I knew it. "In fact, I'm going to our room. Why don't you chat here?"
"I'm going to bed. You can chat to your hearts' content," said Vi.
"Me, too," said Pa. "I'm going to read for a while."
I watched my family depart the room with something akin to amusement, although not a whole lot of it.
Sam said, after they'd all departed, "Guess we don't have to chat on the porch."
"No. Might as well just tell me how it went right here."
"Not well," said he.
"You mean your interview with the Jacksons didn't go well?"
"Exactly. They resented me questioning them about Petrie."
I shrugged. "Well, you expected that, didn't you?"
"Yeah, but I didn't expect quite so much hostility from the door guards."
"Oh, dear. They didn't threaten you or anything, did they?"
"No, but they hated my guts by the time I finally got out of there."
"I'm sorry." I heaved a sigh. "But you did expect that reaction," I reminded him.
"Yes, I did." He heaved a sigh, too. "However, I also got some photographs. Mr. Armistead showed up to see Jackson, and he'd brought the photos with him and gave them to me. Saved him a trip to the police station. He seems like a nice boy, and he wasn't as hostile as the rest of the bunch."
"I'm sure he is a nice boy. He was doing you a favor, and I'm sure he hopes his photographs can help you solve at least part of the crime."
"He's an excellent photographer." Sam walked to the coat tree and withdrew an envelope from his overcoat pocket. He opened it as he walked back to the sofa, where I joined him. I didn't sit close to him, but left a big gap so we could look at the photographs together. I didn't want to hear snickers from my family if any of them should peek in while Sam and I were alone.
After he'd shaken a pile of photographs from the envelope, Sam laid th
em on the sofa cushion facing me. I peered down at them, fascinated. I didn't know Marshall Armistead, but he was definitely a good photographer. He'd taken photos from every angle imaginable, and even some I wasn't sure why he'd taken at all. I pointed to a blotch on what looked like a sidewalk. "Is that blood?" I think my nose wrinkled.
"Yes. Here's another picture from another angle. After I looked at all the photos, I think I can picture what happened and why the shooter ran off."
"He probably didn't want to be murdered by a crowd of bystanders," I said, stating what I considered the obvious.
"Maybe, but he had a gun, don't forget. But look here. The shooter evidently came up to Jackson from between these two buildings." He pointed.
I squinted. "How do you figure that?" Not that I doubted him; I just wondered, was all.
It took him a while, but after putting the photographs in a certain order, Sam showed them to me one at a time, explaining the sequence of events as he perceived them—and, apparently, as Jackson confirmed them—so that I, too, got the picture. I think.
"May I pick them up?" I asked Sam, not wanting to get a tongue-lashing for not asking first.
He shrugged. "Don't know why not." He handed me the bundle of pictures.
I set them on my lap and lifted each one individually. The place where Mr. Jackson had been shot was quite close to John Muir Technical High School, whose mascot was a terrier for some reason. Not that the location of the high school matters; I just mention it in passing. A sign on a building caught my eye, and I squinted harder.
"What?" said Sam. "Do you see something I missed?"
He didn't sound grumpy, only interested. I lifted the photograph nearer to the table lamp and leaned over to peer at it even more closely. "I don't know. Do you see the sign on this building? I think it says C.S. Smith, Dry Process Cleaning." I pointed at the signage painted on the side of the building, not quite sure if I was reading it correctly.
Sam rose from his end of the sofa, snatched the photo from my hand and held it close to the same light I'd used. To my astonishment, he withdrew a pair of eyeglasses from his coat pocket and perched them on his nose. I'd never seen Sam in specs before.