by Alice Duncan
"Will you know more tomorrow, Sam? I mean, will you have a report to read or something?"
He shrugged as he took another biscuit from the basket. "I don't know. Depends on what the autopsy report shows. If they do an autopsy."
Ew. Dinner-table talk didn't generally include autopsies. But as long as Sam had brought up the subject and Ma hadn't objected... "If Dr. Benjamin thinks she was poisoned, surely they'll do an autopsy on her, don't you think?"
"Probably," admitted Sam. "That doesn't mean I'll get to read it. Or want to read it, for that matter."
"But Sam!" I cried. "The woman dropped dead in our church! We all want to know what happened to her."
"I know. I know. But the Pasadena Police Department can't afford to take everyone's nosiness into consideration when they're dealing with a case. You should understand that by this time, if anyone should."
Pa snickered.
Ma nodded.
Vi smiled.
I considered heaving a biscuit at Sam, but restrained myself. Which was a good thing. My mother would probably have hauled me onto her lap and spanked me if I did anything that childish.
While I was trying to think of a suitable retort that would let Sam know what I thought of his attitude without incurring my mother's wrath, the telephone rang. We all sat at attention and stared at each other as we listened. It was our ring.
Since basically every telephone call we received in our family was for me, I got up from the table, said, "Excuse me, please," and went to the kitchen, where our phone hung on the wall. As I walked, I contemplated what this telephone call might mean.
Had Stacy Kincaid strayed from the narrow pathway allotted her by the Salvation Army, which she'd joined after a distinguished and disgusting career as a hellion? If she had, Mrs. Pinkerton might be telephoning me in a State. Could Harold Kincaid be calling to ask me out to luncheon? That was a pleasant thought. Could Mrs. Bissel have another ghost, or spirit, in her basement that required exorcising? I'd exorcised one ghost for her; I expect I could do it again if necessary, although the last one had been relatively easy to deal with, mainly because it wasn't a supernatural being but a runaway girl.
I'd just decided my money would have to be on Mrs. Pinkerton and was praying madly that she wasn't in hysterics—I'd had enough hysterics for one day—when I reached the telephone. I lifted the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece, giving my regular line in my purring spiritualist's voice: "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"Oh, Daisy! I'm so glad you're home!"
Mrs. Pinkerton. But she didn't sound distressed. I gave a silent sigh of relief. "How do you do, Mrs. Pinkerton?" I asked, still in my best low, purring spiritualist's voice.
"I'm fine, thank you."
Boy, that didn't happen often.
"Did you enjoy your stay in Santa Barbara?" I asked her. The Pinkertons had spent the Christmas season in Santa Barbara, California, a pretty town on the coast some miles north of Pasadena. I'd never been there, but I knew it was a gorgeous place—and expensive—because otherwise the Pinkertons wouldn't have gone there. Plus, I'd seen pictures.
"Oh, my, yes. Santa Barbara is so lovely, and the Miramar By the Sea is such a special place."
I just bet it was. Bet it cost an arm and a leg, too, although money didn't matter to the Pinkertons of this mean old world.
"I'm so glad you had a good time," I said, sparing Mrs. P my opinion of expensive resorts I couldn't afford to visit.
"Oh, yes, it was beautiful. The ocean is... so vast, don't you know."
"Indeed, yes. It must have been quite pleasant to stay there." And look at the ocean. Well, and they probably did other things, too, but I didn't know what.
She sighed into the phone. "Oh, it was. But I'm calling to see if you'd be interested in handling the fortune-teller's tent at a charity party I'm going to be giving early next month. You know you're always the first one I think of when it comes to all things spiritual." She honored me with one of her tittering laughs.
"I'd be happy to do that, Mrs. Pinkerton. What's the cause?"
"The Pasadena Humane Society," said she.
"Oh, that's an excellent cause! I'll be even happier to do it than I was before." I didn't generally joke around with my clients, but some imp of humor must have invaded my voice box at that moment.
Fortunately for me, Mrs. Pinkerton only laughed. "Oh, yes. I know how much you love that dachshund of yours. Mrs. Bissel will be there, and Pansy Hanratty, too. They're both big supporters of the Humane Society."
They were both big, at any rate. But I adored both women. Mrs. Bissel was probably my second-best client, and much easier for me to deal with than Mrs. Pinkerton, mainly because she never had hysterics. Well, and she'd also given me Spike. Mrs. Hanratty was not only the mother of the current, number-one, top screen idol, Monty Mountjoy, but she also had taught Spike's obedience training course.
"When do you plan to have the party, Mrs. Pinkerton?"
"I looked at my calendar, and I think most of my friends will be back in town by the second week in February. How about Saturday, February ninth? Will that fit in with your schedule?"
Of course it would. My schedule didn't have so many events on it that I even had to check. Nevertheless, in an effort to make Mrs. Pinkerton think I was busier than I was so she'd appreciate me more, I said, "Let me check my appointment book, and I'll be right back with you." I allowed the receiver to dangle for a moment, making sure it didn't hit the wall and cause permanent damage to Mrs. Pinkerton's eardrums. When I picked it up again, I said, "That date will be perfect, Mrs. Pinkerton. When would you like me to appear, and will you be providing the tent?"
"Oh, wonderful! You should probably arrive about seven-thirty so you can get yourself set up. The other guests will be invited to arrive at eight. And yes, Harold is making the tent. You know Harold." She spoke of her son fondly, as was only his due.
And I certainly did know Harold. He was, in fact, one of my very best friends. "That's wonderful. I'm sure he'll make a most... colorful tent." If I knew Harold, he'd dig up every arcane symbol from every occult group or religion he could think of and plaster them all over the fortune-teller's tent for his mother's party. Very artistic, Harold. He worked as a costumier at a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles.
I wanted to ask her if her no-good, evil daughter would honor us with her presence, but I didn't. Sufficient unto the day, and all that. Besides, if Stacy had back-slid, Mrs. Kincaid would be wailing at me. Nevertheless, I hoped Stacy would stay away from the party.
"That sounds good. I'll be looking forward to it."
"Um... Daisy?"
Oh, dear. What did she want now? Bet I knew. "Would you like me to wear a Gypsy costume? Or perhaps one in keeping with the party's theme? Probably a Gypsy would be better, since Gypsies are associated with spiritualism. I'll be happy to do that." I did it every time any of my clients hosted a charity ball or party, in fact.
"As long as you don't think wearing a costume beneath your dignity, dear. Everyone knows you're the best spiritualist-medium in Pasadena, so I don't think appearing as a Gypsy would damage your reputation any."
"No, I don't think it would. I've done such things before, if you'll recall."
"Yes, I know. But I always... I don't know. Hesitate. Do you know what I mean? Because you're so important to me, and you help so many people with your gifts, it seems... Oh, how to express it? Unseemly, somehow, to ask you to dress up in a silly costume."
"I'll make sure my costume isn't silly," I assured her.
"That's why I hope you'll be a Gypsy and not some kind of animal."
"No animals. I promise. A Gypsy will do quite well, I think."
"Good. I knew you'd be able to think of just the thing to wear to such a party. The guests, you see, will be arriving in various animal costumes."
Good Lord. In that case, I knew my dignity wouldn't be assailed. I'd be telling fortunes for dogs and cats and horses and pigs, for Pete's sake. It wa
s the guests whose dignity I'd worry about, if I were Mrs. P.
Thank everything on earth and in heaven, I'm not.
We ended our telephone call cordially, and I sauntered back to the dining-room table, took my seat, and told everyone about Mrs. Pinkerton's planned charity party.
"She's holding it to raise funds for the Pasadena Humane Society," I told my family and Sam. "Which I think is a noble goal, although her guests will be dressed in animal costumes, which will probably look silly. On some of them, anyway."
"Animal costumes!" Ma cried. "Whatever for?"
"Good question," muttered Sam.
"I suspect because the party is being held as a benefit for the Pasadena Humane Society, and the Humane Society cares for dogs and cats that need help. I read in the Star News a couple of weeks ago that they've even taken in desert tortoises and a goat once and a couple of sheep and a parrot." I eyed Sam speculatively. "If Mrs. P invites you, you ought to come in an ape costume."
"Thanks," grumbled Sam.
"Maybe someone will show up in a skunk costume," said Pa.
"Joe!" said my mother, giving him the evil eye instead of giving it to me for once.
"It'll be interesting to see the costumes, at all odds. I'm looking forward to it."
"And you'll do what? Read tarot cards?" asked Vi. "Mrs. Pinkerton admires you so much, I'm surprised she asked you to work at such a... I don't know. It just sounds undignified to me."
"Well, at least I won't be the only one who looks undignified. Heck, I get to dress up as a human being anyway. I always dress as a Gypsy for these sorts of things. Mrs. P isn't the only one who asks me to perform at charity events."
"Why don't you have to dress as a hippo or an elephant or something?" asked Sam.
"Because I will be manning—or womanning, I suppose—the fortune-telling tent." I shot him a good glare. "And don't you dare tell me fortune-telling is illegal, Sam Rotondo. This is for a good cause, and I won't be making money telling fortunes."
"But you'll be making money," he said.
I squinted at him from across the table. "Mrs. Pinkerton will be paying me to play a role, Sam Rotondo. I've never told fortunes!"
He had the gall to laugh at me!
"I just love to wind you up and watch you tear into me," he said.
Everyone laughed. Except me. Blasted man. And he wanted me to marry him? Well, we'd just see about that.
Chapter 4
Mrs. Franbold's funeral was scheduled for Friday at ten a.m. at Morningside Cemetery. Pastor Smith told us choir members that Mrs. Franbold's family didn't want a big, fancy funeral service at the church, but rather a more sedate service at the cemetery itself. We choir members practiced the hymn, "Abide with Me," to sing at the gravesite. Nice hymn, if kind of boring. Don't tell anyone I said that, please.
The timing was all right by me, although it meant neither Ma nor Aunt Vi could attend, since they both had to work during the day. I drove Pa in our Chevrolet, and wasn't surprised to see Sam's big, black Hudson parked near the gravesite. When he saw me parking the auto, he walked over to open my door for me. He let Pa fend for himself.
"You here in an official capacity?" I asked, hoping to get the scoop about whether or not Mrs. Franbold had been poisoned.
"Sort of," he said.
"Very informative," I muttered as I straightened my skirt and prepared to walk to the gravesite, which was conspicuous because a blue tent had been erected over it, although I didn't know long it would last, as a fierce wind howled that cold January day.
"Don't pick on Sam," my father said with a chuckle. "He was there when the poor woman died, don't forget."
"Yes, and it wasn't pleasant," said Sam.
I peered up at him, squinting because the sun shone brightly that day in spite of the frigid wind. "I thought you were used to dead people by this time."
"I'm not accustomed to people dropping dead at my feet," he said, sounding grumpy.
"She didn't drop dead at your feet. She dropped dead at Mr. Underhill's feet, and he didn't even have the grace to catch her, but let her fall, plunk, right onto the floor. You had to walk clear across the sanctuary to get to her body."
"Yeah, well, Doc Benjamin and I are about the only two in that congregation who know what to do when a person collapses like that."
"Hmm. I guess so. So that's why you're here, right? To scope out the crowd and decided who did her in?"
"Good God," muttered Sam.
"But..."
"Leave Sam alone, Daisy," said Pa. "He has his job to do, just as you have yours."
"Aha! So you are here in an official capacity!"
"Partially." Sam took my gloved hand, put it on his bent elbow, and he and Pa and I walked to the flapping blue tent. "We still don't know what caused the poor woman's death."
"Oh." Don't ask me why, but I was disappointed. I mean, I truly didn't want to think that anyone would murder poor old Mrs. Franbold, but a natural death was so boring compared to murder.
"Disappointed, aren't you?" said Sam. He knew me so well.
"Of course not," I lied. Then I changed the subject. "There are lots of people here," I said, gazing at a crowd that was larger than I'd anticipated, the weather being what it was. "Are all these folks related to Mrs. Franbold?"
Sam nodded at a cluster of three people, two women and a man, all of whom appeared upset and miserable. "Those are her children. The kids on the folding chairs are her grandchildren." I was surprised to see a row of gloomy-looking young adult men and women, one of whom dangled a baby on her lap. Mrs. Franbold must have been older than I'd thought.
"Oh, my. I didn't even know she had children and grandchildren. I'm sorry for them."
"Yeah. They were caught by surprise by their mother's sudden death."
"So you do think she was poisoned?"
Sam hesitated for so long, I was sure he wouldn't answer my question, but he surprised me. "Not sure. An autopsy was performed, and there were indefinite signs of some kind of alien substance in her stomach, but doctors don't have test results back." He shrugged. "We may never know for sure, although Doc Benjamin suspects that if anything deadly was used on purpose, it was probably cyanide."
"Cyanide! But she must have been poisoned if there was cyanine in her system."
"Not necessarily," said Sam. "Lots of things, including apple seeds and apricot pits, contain various poisons."
"Piffle. She wouldn't have been munching on apricot pits," I said, feeling my brow crease. Instantly I smoothed it out. Nobody wanted to hire a wrinkly spiritualist.
"No, but it's also contained in almonds and other things. If she inhaled it—and don't ask me how she could have done it, because I don't know—it might have killed her almost instantly. But we just don't know at this point."
"Don't people who are poisoned by cyanide have a pinkish cast to their skin?" I asked.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Not always."
"Hmm. Too bad." It was then I spotted Betsy Powell, clad all in black, sobbing into a black handkerchief. Mr. Gerald Kingston held her arm, trying against major odds to bring her comfort. Big help she was going to be during the hymn, not that she had to sing. That was the choir's job. "Has anyone figured out why Miss Powell was so upset by Mrs. Franbold's death and the prospect of her having been poisoned?"
"No," Sam snapped.
I sighed.
Pa chuckled.
But by that time we were at the gravesite. Pastor Smith nodded graciously at us, and, because I'm not merely a good spiritualist-medium, but am also a friendly person, I walked to Mrs. Franbold's children, who gazed at my approach with varying degrees of unhappiness.
"Good morning," said I, which it clearly wasn't for this group. But tradition holds with such inane comments. "I'm Mrs. Majesty, and I knew your mother from church. I'm so very sorry for your loss." I held out a hand, not aiming for any one of Mrs. Franbold's children specifically. A tall, gaunt woman in what looked like an expensive fur coat, took my proffered hand.
"How kind of you to come, Mrs. Majesty. Mother spoke of you often. I'm Vivian Daltry. My mother, my children, and I saw you in the recent production of The Mikado at the church. I must say you made an excellent Katisha."
Well, glory be! I had no idea Mrs. Franbold had brought her daughter and grandchildren to see The Mikado. I think I was flattered. "Thank you. It was an... interesting experience, singing in an operetta."
"I'd have been scared to death," said Mrs. Daltry.
"I was, at first. I'd never sung solo before, but it was fun after a while," I told her.
"Yes, I heard there were some... problems unrelated to the production that had to be solved."
"Indeed." And that was putting it mildly. "But I wanted you to know how much I liked Mrs. Franbold, and I'm awfully sorry she was taken from you so suddenly." I figured that might give them the opportunity to tell me if she'd been sick.
No such luck.
"Thank you," said Mrs. Daltry, letting go of my hand and bringing a white hankie to her eyes. "It was a terrible shock. I don't think she ever suffered a sick day in her life. And then, poof! She was gone, just like that." After sniffling and wiping her eyes, she said, "Please let me introduce you to my sister, Katherine—Katherine Peterson—and my brother, Charles Franbold."
"How do you do?" said Charles, taking my hand briefly and shaking it.
Katherine shook my hand, too, but she seemed too upset to speak. Her nose was red and her eyes continued to leak. As soon as she released my hand, she wiped both nose and eyes with a damp hankie.
Very well, it seemed to me that if someone had indeed done in Mrs. Franbold on purpose, her children didn't appear to be, on the surface anyway, the likely culprits. I'd take my oath all three were genuinely grieved.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets against the cold, Charles said, "I guess it wasn't exactly unexpected, although she never showed any signs of illness or weakness. She was eighty-seven years old, after all." He gestured to his two sisters. "Heck, we're all in our fifties, and my daughter has a daughter of her own." He gestured to the seated bunch of young adults. I noticed a man standing behind the woman with the baby. He seemed to be staring at the little girl with doting eyes. I got all misty for a moment.