by Alice Duncan
The window curtains weren't drawn and the window was open, so I could, if I got close enough, peer into the house. Figuring my chance of silence would be better if I were unshod, I took off my shoes and set them neatly on the first porch stair. Then I crawled up the stairs. In order to do so, I had to lift my skirt above my knees and hold it at waist height, so my stockings got ripped, too. Darn those stupid Klansmen! They were no good for anything.
As carefully as possible, I rose slightly until only the upper part of my face was above the windowsill. An empty kitchen lay before me. Tidy and as neat as anything, all appliances shining fit to blind one, it was as empty as empty could be. I slumped back to the porch floor.
Very well. So nobody was in the kitchen. In my head, I plotted the outline of the Jacksons' house. Wasn't difficult to do. The house was pretty much a square. The living room was on the south side of the home, with the bedrooms on the north and the kitchen to the west and south. Hmm. What now?
I crawled to the southernmost part of the porch and peeked around the corner to see if there were any handy windows into which I could peer, unseen, at any lurking villains. There was a window, all right. It was not merely open to catch the September breezes, but it was also about as high off the ground as I was, which meant I wouldn't be able to see through it with any ease unless I found a handy brick or something to stand on.
Rescuing damsels in distress was a darned annoying business.
Nevertheless, I found a flat rock in the yard, carefully made my way to it, making sure no one was observing me from the house, and picked it up. Dang, it was heavy! But never mind. I was on a mission here.
I lugged the rock to the side window, crouching all the while so that no one looking out of the window could see me, and set the rock beneath the window. Then I carefully climbed up on the rock and inch by inch lifted my head and peered inside.
They were there! I almost fell off my rock. In truth, I kind of did, but I caught myself before I could land on the ground and make a noise. I did scrape my hand pretty badly, but that was nothing to the point.
Two men sat in two chairs in the Jacksons' front room, pointing guns at Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Armistead, who occupied two other chairs in front of the fireplace. It was fortunate for me that the two men had their backs toward me. It occurred to me that leaving their backs exposed to anyone peeking in the window was a stupid thing to do. Then I remembered they were members of the Ku Klux Klan and decided such behavior was only to be expected.
After I caught my breath and managed to still my rampaging heart a bit, I again climbed on the rock and squinted through the window. Lord, Lord, what was I supposed to do now?
Well, for one thing, I could listen, thanks to the window being open. As luck (or something) would have it, one of the men took that opportunity to threaten the two women.
"You'd better tell me where he is, lady, or you're not long for this world."
Charlie Smith! I'd recognize that voice anywhere! So he was a dirty crook! Ha. I'd thought so from the beginning. Almost. But who was the other guy?
"You can go right along and chase yourself, Mr. Smith and Mr. Petrie. I ain't tellin' where my Henry be. You done tried to run down his children, and I ain't goin' to give you another chance at 'em."
Mr. Petrie? Wasn't Petrie dead? How could that be Petrie? Unless he was yet another bad-apple Petrie from the Oklahoma branch of the family. I squinted harder. The man seated next to Charlie Smith was a fat, redheaded fellow. A fat, redheaded fellow was in charge of the phony Florida deal in which both Mr. Hastings and Mr. Pinkerton were losing faith. But I'd been told his name was Billingsgate.
Then I recalled that Mr. Billingsgate didn't exist. Was that fat, redheaded man a Petrie in disguise? For pity's sake. I was the only Majesty left alive, at least that I knew about, but the evil Petrie clan seemed to go on forever.
As stealthy as a cat creeping up on a bird, I again lifted myself and peeped through the window. Mrs. Armistead looked quite anxious, which made sense. Mrs. Jackson was fiddling with a pile of little person-shaped jujus. I wondered if I could catch her eye and, if I did, if she'd let on I was at the window.
Naw. She was smarter than that.
But what about Mrs. Armistead? Well, her son was smart as a whip, and it was she who'd brought him into the world and helped rear him. She was probably smart, too.
It then occurred to me that I should probably fetch myself a weapon. Not that any weapon I discovered in the Jacksons' back yard would provide much defense against a firearm, but it still wouldn't hurt to have something at hand. I recalled the collection of stuff on the back porch and remembered seeing a couple of porch chairs, a zinc bucket, a pot containing some kind of flowers, a baseball bat, and... my memory stretched no farther. Pooh.
Nevertheless, I silently crept back to the porch and picked up the baseball bat. Then, figuring what the heck, I took the bucket, too. If one of the men stuck his head out of the window, maybe I could shove the bucket over it.
I began to believe my senses were unraveling due to stress.
However, I once more made my way to the open living room window, stepped on my rock, and lifted myself so that I could see into the room. The men still weren't paying attention to anything that might be lurking at their backs, which might or might not be a good thing. I mean, if something gave my presence away, one of them could probably turn and fire a gun before I could duck. Maybe. Maybe not.
Since the men were both busy harassing the two women, I decided to let Mrs. Jackson know I was there. Maybe she could think of something for me to do that might prove useful. I sure wasn't coming up with anything on my own. For someone under the threat of imminent death, she was being mighty stoical. I thought she was swell.
Which didn't change anything. Therefore, I ducked under the window ledge and stuck my arm up, waving it slightly. Then I waited for what seemed like about eight hours but which was probably only a couple of seconds and again peeked through the mirror. Mrs. Jackson didn't look at me, but she did pick up one of the jujus on her lap. With great deliberation, she wrung its neck.
"You ain't gettin' Henry's address from me, Mr. Smith and Mr. Petrie. And if you kill me, you still won't know where he be. And if you shoot off a gun, it's goin' to make a mighty big noise."
"Yeah," said Mrs. Armistead, sounding truculent, for very good reason. "You'll still be as blind and stupid as you are now. And everybody will know it, 'cause they'll have heard the shootin'."
Because I figured it was safe for me to do so, I stood up on my rock and showed Mrs. Jackson the baseball bat in my hands. She carefully picked up another juju and pressed her finger against its head until its skull was crushed. I got the message, but didn't know quite how to put it into action. So, to give me time to think, I also lifted the bucket.
Darned if Mrs. Jackson didn't smile and bring her hand down over another juju, covering its head.
"What are you doing with them damned stick toys?" demanded the man whom I believed to be calling himself Billingsgate. "Put those damned things down."
"Them's jujus," said Mrs. Armistead, doing a credible imitation of appearing shocked. "They be magic."
"And they're gonna bring vengeance down upon the both of you, too." Mrs. Jackson picked up a book on the table beside her and dropped it on the floor, making a heck of a noise.
"Stop that!" cried Charlie Smith, who seemed much more rattled than his companion in villainy.
"Just tryin' to catch your attention, gentlemen," said Mrs. Jackson. And darned if she didn't wink at me!
Well, I guess I knew what she expected me to do. Ducking below the windowsill, I stepped down off my rock, held the baseball bat in both hands, ready to swing it, and set up a scream that would have done a banshee proud. I shrieked so loudly, I frightened several dogs on Mentone into barking frenzies.
"What the hell was that?" demanded Petrie/Billingsgate?
"Damned if I know?"
"You fellers curse too much," said Mrs. Jackson serene
ly. "Go look to the window if you want to see who's screamin'. It sure ain't one of us."
"It's probably somebody callin' the police," said Mrs. Armistead, pronouncing the word police.
"Shut your damned black mouth," said the fellow who wasn't Charlie Smith. "Go see what's going on out there, Smith. Whatever it is, shoot it."
"Yes, sir," said Charlie Smith, making me believe I had just seen the broad, fat back of Pasadena's exalted cyclops.
My heart hammered like a thunderstorm as I waited, bat poised, for Charlie Smith to stick his head out of the window. When he did, I brought the bat down on his skull as hard as I could. It was lucky for me that he'd stuck his hand holding the gun out before he did his head, because the gun fell from his grip and landed at my feet. It took me about a tenth of a second to scoop it up. Not that I knew what to do with a gun, but better I have it than Charlie Smith.
"What the...? Smith, what the hell's going on?"
But Charlie was unconscious and couldn't answer him.
Whoever the other man was, he said, "Dammit, if one of you black bastards did anything to Charlie, I'll kill all of you!"
"We didn't do nothin' at all," Mrs. Jackson pointed out. "We's just been sittin' here. But your friend don't look so good."
"Stay there and don't move," the man warned the two women.
And darned if he, too, didn't come over and stick his head out of the window, also leading with his gun-toting hand. So I whacked his arm with the baseball bat and, before he could figure out what was going on and as he hollered in pain, I slammed the bucked over his head. Since he was leaning out, he went into the bucket head-first. I hope his nose broke when I shoved the bucket, hard, to make sure it was stuck tight.
"Mrs. Jackson! Mrs. Armistead! Can you tie these men up?"
"Come on in, Mrs. Majesty. You done good!" said Mrs. Jackson. I could tell she was laughing. Whoo boy, if I'd been held hostage at gunpoint, I don't think I'd have been amused at the denouement of the action, but evidently she was of a more tranquil disposition than I.
So I went to the back porch, put on my shoes, walked through the back door into the kitchen and hurried to the living room.
Ew. I'd whacked Charlie Smith pretty hard. His head was streaming blood onto the Jacksons' pretty hardwood floor. Fortunately, Mrs. Jackson hauled a braided area rug away from his head so the rug wouldn't soak up any blood.
"They's rope in the kitchen. Can you get it, Vera?"
"Why don't you get it? I'll just sit on that there one that's still movin'. With me on him, he won't go nowhere."
That was the truth. Both Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Armistead were very large women.
"Good idea. Mrs. Majesty, you done real good. You done exactly what I hoped you'd do."
Although I felt extremely shaky, I said, "Happy to help."
The man who wasn't Charlie Smith was moving around, so it was a good thing Mrs. Jackson did sit on him. I thought, although my presumption wasn't confirmed until later that day, that I'd broken his arm with the baseball bat. He was sure making noises through that bucket, though. They weren't happy noises. I hoped I had broken his nose. And his arm. He was a bad man, and he deserved all the pain he got.
After both men had been trussed securely by Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Armistead, and me, I pulled the bucket off the bad man's head. He cursed so loudly and proficiently, that I put it back on. The two ladies didn't need to listen to that while they waited for me to fetch a policeman.
But I didn't have to drive to the Pasadena Police Department. As soon as I stepped out of the Jacksons' house and onto their front porch, darned if a whole squadron (or whatever you call it) of police cars, sirens screaming, didn't race up Mentone, being led by a black Hudson with no siren. Sam.
For once I was glad to see him.
Chapter 25
"Petrie's a died-in-the-wool criminal," said Sam at the dinner table that night. "We couldn't break him, although we're going to keep trying. Fortunately for us, Charlie Smith is a much weaker vessel. He told us everything." He gave me a sour look. "After he had his head bandaged and woke up from his concussion. The citizens of Pasadena are going to be paying for a hospital stay, thanks to you."
My family sat, goggle-eyed, at the table, alternately lifting bites of roast beef and vegetables to their mouths, watching Sam, and looking at me with something akin to awe. Unless it was horror.
I have a feeling it was horror. Oh, well.
"I'm glad I gave him a concussion. I wish I'd killed him." I slammed a bite of beef into my mouth and chewed savagely.
"Daisy," said Ma, although her voice was merely a faint approximation of the tone it usually achieved when she was telling me to be good.
"So was the guy who called himself Billingsgate actually another Petrie?" Pa asked.
To tell the truth I was a bit uncomfortable with my family's reaction to the events of the day. Not that I'd enjoyed said events. I'd been scared out of my wits and had ruined my best dress, not to mention an almost-new pair of stockings. But at least I hadn't been killed.
"Yes. He's one of the Tulsa Petries. I guess your librarian friend didn't know there was a whole nest of them up there who were bad eggs."
"I guess she didn't."
"I'm not sure I understand, Sam," said Ma. This was typical of her, but it was also reasonable.
Sam tried to explain. "Enoch Petrie, who was calling himself Enoch Billingsgate, was from Tulsa, Oklahoma. Evidently, Henry Jackson saw him kill another man in Tulsa, and Henry and his family fled Tulsa as a result. Well, as a result of Petrie trying to kill them all."
"Henry Jackson is Joseph Jackson's brother," I said. "Joseph is Mrs. Pinkerton's gatekeeper. I guess the Klan harassed him in order to get to Henry, whom I'm sure they aimed to murder when they found him."
"That's terrible!" said Ma. She might not have much imagination, but she was on the side of Good in the universe.
Pa shook his head. "I can't believe Charlie Smith was involved in such heinous activities."
"I think he was a weak man who got in over his head. His battered head," said Sam, eyeing me askance, but being more charitable than I was about Mr. Smith, who had finally admitted to murdering his neighbor, the fiend. Not the neighbor. Mr. Smith was the fiend.
I sniffed. Then I asked him, "Which one of them smothered Roland Petrie in the hospital?"
"Somebody was smothered?" Ma's voice was sort of squeaky.
"Yes. Roland Petrie, who was a police officer. Unfortunately, he also belonged to the Klan. He fell of a roof and broke his leg. According to Charlie Smith, Petrie was the one who smothered... Petrie." Sam frowned.
"It gets confusing," I said, attempting to mollify him slightly.
"I can't believe you faced two armed men with a baseball bat and a bucket," said Pa, gazing at me as if he'd never seen me before.
"Huh," said Sam. "I can believe anything she does."
I frowned at him. "It worked out just fine, Pa. I caught Mrs. Jackson's attention, and she showed me precisely what to do."
"She showed you how to bash in a man's head and stick another man's head in a bucket?" Sam, of course.
"Yes, she did, Sam Rotondo! She demonstrated what I should do with those little juju dolls she makes. Then she threw a book on the floor in order to signify that I should make a racket outside the window so both men would rush to the window to discover the source of the noise."
"What's a juju doll?" asked Ma, completely ignoring the marvelous unspoken communication that had taken place between Mrs. Jackson and me. Oh, well. That was Ma all over.
Using my bandaged right hand, which had been thoroughly washed, iodined (at great pain to me) and bandaged by a fellow at the police station, I fished my own personal juju from the front of my old pink day dress. I'd laid my Worth copy on the bed, hoping I'd be able to fix it, but I had grave doubts. "This is a juju. Mrs. Jackson gave it to me the first time I met her." I squinted down at my little juju. "They're supposed to be good luck."
"Unless the ju
ju mambo breaks its arm or cracks its head, in which case the person represented by the juju is supposed to have the same thing happen to him," said Sam, giving a more or less coherent explanation of how jujus work.
"Right," said I. "Only, while Mrs. Jackson broke Officer Petrie's juju's leg and he fell off a roof and broke his leg for real, I don't think she ever smothered him. I mean his juju."
"It was probably Petrie who smothered Petrie," said Sam. By that time I doubt anyone was confused as to which Petrie did what to the other Petrie.
"But I followed Mrs. Jackson's instructions, bashed Charlie Smith on the head with the baseball bat, then broke Mr. Petrie's arm with it, and then I shoved the bucket over his head." I thought I'd acted in a darned near heroic fashion.
Aunt Vi, Pa and Ma all stared at me, aghast, which irked me.
"It's not my fault. Voodoo's just a different type of spiritualism. Jackson's told me lots of stories about voodoo mambos and jujus and stuff like that."
"Good Lord," said Ma, faintly.
"Do you actually believe in voodoo magic?" asked Vi, sounding incredulous.
"Of course not! But I took Mrs. Jackson's advice when she demonstrated on the jujus in her lap, and it worked. It's not magic. It's common sense. Heck, all I had were a baseball bat and a bucket. Petrie and Smith had loaded guns. I couldn't very well barge in there, could I?"
"You could have driven to the police station instead of putting yourself in danger," said Sam, snapping a biscuit in half with his strong teeth.
"Piffle. Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Armistead were in danger. I didn't want to just leave them." Which reminded me of something. "How'd you know to come up to the Jacksons' house, by the way? You could have bowled me over with a fall leaf when I raced out on their front porch and saw that stream of police cars with their sirens wailing."