by Alice Duncan
"Thanks, Harold." Harold's opinion mattered to me more than most people's since he earned his considerable living as a costumier at a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles. Not that he needed the job; he had a tidy fortune all his own thanks to his family. But he adored his work, so he did it and earned mega-bucks.
He grabbed my hand. "Come over here and look at your tent! I did a simply smashing job of it. Del's setting up the insides right this minute."
"How nice." I tripped along after Harold, pleased to be there at that evening and for the sake of the Pasadena Humane Society. "Will Stacy be here?" I asked, fearing Harold's answer. If there was one person liable to clog up the works, it was Harold's irritating sister, Stacy Kincaid.
"Nope. You're safe. Actually, we all are," said Harold, whose opinion of his sister echoed my own.
"Oh, I'm so glad!"
"We all are. Well, except Mother, but she would be if she didn't have a blind spot where Stacy is concerned."
Yet another opinion shared by the both of us.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I spotted my tent. "Oh, Harold," I breathed. "It's a masterpiece!"
"Isn't it, though? I thought so, too." Modesty wasn't one of Harold's more prominent virtues.
Oh, but the tent was spectacular. Like my skirt, Harold had sewn different colors of cloth—in the tent's case, canvas—together, and he'd painted all sorts of animals, most of which wouldn't have been caught dead in the Pasadena Humane Society, on it. There were lions, tigers, antelopes, zebras, elephants, giraffes, okapis, gnus, water buffalos, crocodiles (or alligators; I couldn't tell which), and any number of other exotic species painted on the canvas sides.
Above the tent flap, Harold had painted a circle with all the symbols of the Zodiac emblazoned thereon, and underneath the Zodiac he'd painted the palm of a hand with some kind of mystical symbol thereon.
"What's that symbol mean?" I asked him, pointing at something that looked a little bit like one of Vi's cinnamon buns, but with more curls. I know pointing isn't polite. I was with Harold, so it didn't matter.
"Oh, my dear!" cried Harold. "You don't know how much research I put into that stupid symbol. It's an ancient Armenian Arevakhach."
"An ancient Armenian what?"
"Arevakhach," said Harold with satisfaction clear to hear in his voice.
"What's that?"
"An ancient symbol of eternity and light."
"Armenian, you say?"
"Absolutely. Took me forever to find it, too. I knew sort of what I wanted, but only the ancient Armenians had it."
"How in the name of gracious did you discover it?" I asked, honestly curious. Did Harold, too, spend a bunch of his time in libraries?
"Los Angeles Public Library," said he, answering my unasked question. "They have books on mystical symbols and stuff there."
"I haven't noticed any in the Pasadena Public Library, but maybe I haven't looked on the right shelf."
"Be serious, Daisy," said Harold, giving me an arch look.
After taking a second to think about it, I said, "Yeah. You're probably right. Pasadena would never stand for arcane symbols in its library."
"You've got it in one, my dear. Arcane symbols for my favorite spiritualist-medium are something else entirely. I'd go to any lengths to glorify you." He yanked on my hand again. "But come inside. I want you to see what I've done with your working space. He pulled back the tent flap, and I entered."
The inside was just as elaborate as the outside, but more intensely mysterious. I stopped stock-still. "Oh, Harold, it's perfect!"
"Darned right it is," said he, pleased by my reaction.
"Thank you, Harold! Thank you, Del!"
"Honored to be of service," said Del, bowing in a gentlemanlike manner. He was always a gentleman.
Harold and Del had hung the entire tent with dark red silk (real silk, according to Harold), and had placed a round table and three chairs in the tent's center, only toward the back. The chair in which I was to sit had its back to the rear of the tent, and looked kind of like a throne. Mind you, it was only an elaborate chair with an elegantly carved back that he'd snatched from another room in his mother's mansion, but it looked quite regal. He'd also thought to provide me with two plush pillows covered in deep crimson silk so my poor back wouldn't have to rest against the carved wood. Well, and also because the chair was deep, and my feet wouldn't touch the floor without some help from the pillows at my back. I guess he'd added the third chair in case someone came in with a friend.
"Luxurious," said I, grinning.
"Nothing but the best for you, my dear," said Harold, bowing deeply and gesturing me to my throne. "You'll notice that I set a small stand next to your chair, so that you can put the tools of your trade on it and select whichever one you want to use when you want to use it. Oh, and there's also the money bowl there."
"You've thought of everything, Harold. Thank you so much."
"You're more than welcome. My mother calls upon you to do the damnedest things. I figured you might as well do them in comfort."
"Thanks, Harold."
"There," said Del, climbing down from a short stepladder. "That's the last of the bows."
It was only then I realized that each of the silk dangling things was tied to the top of the tent with a dark red bow.
"Gorgeous. Thanks, Del."
"Any time," said he. I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it.
"Daisy!" came a piercing shriek from the tent's entrance.
Mrs. Pinkerton had found me. I turned and smiled spiritualistically at her. "Good evening, Mrs. Pinkerton. Harold and Del did a marvelous job with the tent, didn't they?"
"Oh, my gracious, yes!" said she, rushing up to me at full tilt. Fortunately for me, Harold stood at my back and steadied both Mrs. P and me when she hit. "It's so wonderful of you to do this, Daisy. And it's for such a good cause."
"It sure is," I agreed. "The Pasadena Humane Society does good work for the poor dogs and cats of the community." That sounded stupid. So be it. Mrs. Pinkerton wasn't the brightest candle in the box, so I doubted she'd notice. Harold, on the other hand, rolled his gaze to the top of the tent in a gesture of irony. Mrs. P didn't notice, and I didn't mention it. Del merely stood there and grinned.
"I'm so, so very glad you agreed to come this evening. Your costume is simply smashing."
"Thank you. So is yours."
In actual fact, Mrs. P had costumed herself as a massive gray kitten. I think she was supposed to be a little baby kitten, but she was a large woman. I presume Edie Applewood, my high-school chum and Mrs. Pinkerton's lady's maid, had drawn the whiskers on her cheeks. Her gray flannel costume came complete with gray flannel arms with paws attached to her hands by elastic bands.
"Did Harold make your costume?" I asked, admiring the tail Mrs. Pinkerton held in one of her paws and switched kittenishly. "It's darling."
"Thank you. Yes, he did." She beamed at her son, who beamed back at her. "But come to the dining room, Daisy, and get a little snack before the rest of the guests arrive. I don't want you to be hungry as you work."
"Thank you. I'll be glad to have something to eat."
"I'll join you," said Harold. And he did.
Del said, "I'll just recheck all the hanging pictures to make sure they're secure." Del didn't like to eat as much as Harold and I did.
"Thank you, Del!" said Mrs. Pinkerton, charging across the ballroom, making a sharp left turn, and bounding into the dining room. "Just take whatever you need, my dears. Make sure it will tide you over until midnight, when supper will be served. Then everyone can go home."
Mrs. Pinkerton's idea of a snack consisted of a selection of little sandwiches ranging in filling from Aunt Vi's ham and cheese, chicken, tuna-fish, or salmon; various olives and pickles; Aunt Vi's potato salad, Aunt Vi's Caesar salad, Aunt Vi's Waldorf salad, Aunt Vi's Jell-O salad, Aunt Vi's cheese straws, Aunt Vi's stuffed mushrooms; all sorts of things to spread on all sorts of crackers and breads; and about a billion
different kinds of hors 'd'oeuvres—including shrimp with cocktail sauce! By golly, I do believe Aunt Vi had used the White House Cook Book I'd brought home to her in order to create this particular masterpiece. Aunt Vi's cocktail sauce was better than that served at the Hotel Castleton.
Harold agreed with me when I said so.
By the time I got back to my spiritualist's tent, I was stuffed to the gills and wanted to take a nap. However, guests had begun to arrive, so I had to remain alert.
Remaining alert was not, I discovered, a difficult state to achieve and maintain.
Chapter 12
For one thing, Harold followed me back to the tent, and we chatted amiably for quite a while before anyone else came in desiring my spiritualistic skills.
"So," said Harold, patting his tummy, which was rather large, "I understand somebody did in that awful man, Grover Underhill."
I'd been taking my tarot cards out of their cardboard box, but my head snapped up at Harold's comment. "You knew him?"
"Knew him and loathed him. Thought you knew that from Emmaline's luncheon. Everyone hated him. Does anyone know what happened to him?"
"Well, I don't know for certain, but Dr. Benjamin thinks he was killed with cyanide."
"Aha. A woman's weapon, poison."
I frowned. "Why just a woman? If you're going to kill someone in church, poison's a heck of a lot quieter than a gunshot. Anyhow, tell the Indians in the Amazon or wherever they live who use curare to kill their prey how much a woman's weapon poison is."
"Don't get miffed. I suppose you're right. Hmm. Underhill was such a devil, though. I should have thought someone could have figured out a more gruesome end for him."
"Was he really that awful? I didn't know him, although I didn't much like him when I ran into him in church and stuff like that. Well, church is the only time I ever saw him, actually. But he always wore a frown, and he treated his wife and daughters like dirt."
"He treated his son like dirt, too, and Barrett was doing everything he could do to save the Underhill Chemical Company from financial ruin. I hope to God Barrett didn't kill him. Might just kill Glenda, and she's a good kid. Not that, if he did kill his old man, he doesn't deserve a medal rather than jail time."
"Really?" Harold had me interested. "Underhill's company was in bad shape?"
"Yep. Barrett and I went to school together, you know. We're friends." He must have seen my lifted eyebrows, because he said, "Not those kinds of friends. Friends-friends. Like you and me. Barrett's engaged to Glenda Darby, for the Lord's sake, and it's not just for show. They actually love each other." Harold frowned. "I suppose the wedding will have to be postponed because that bastard got his just desserts."
"Harold!"
"It's true. Although why anyone would want to respect his memory is beyond me. Anyhow, according to Barrett, Underhill was running the business into the ground. He made poor business decisions and refused to listen to anyone who told him so. In fact, he used to berate Barrett on a regular basis, and all Barrett did was try to steer his father away from making disastrous investments."
"Oh. Interesting. I used to feel sorry for Mr. Underhill's family, although maybe I shouldn't."
"Definitely not. They're better off with him dead. Well, except for having to postpone Barrett and Glenda's wedding."
"That's not a nice thing to say, Harold Kincaid."
He squinted at me. "Since when have you known me to say nice things about ghastly people?"
"Never." I chuckled.
"Darned right. Hmm. How could you kill a man in church and not raise a ruckus, I wonder, unless you used poison?"
After giving the question a moment's thought, I said, "I don't suppose you could kill anyone in church without raising a ruckus. I mean, people notice when other people fall over and die in front of them. Two months in a row, somebody's died in church, and both deaths created a ruckus."
"I suppose so. But think of the possibilities. How about loosening the screws in a light fixture and having a ceiling light fall down and crush someone's skull."
I wrinkled my nose. "Ew. That would be bloody. And noisy."
"Yes, I imagine it would be. Or perhaps some woman he wronged—his wife, for instance—might stick one of those long hat pins in his ear and into his brain."
"Or stick it in the back of his neck and penetrate his spinal column. I read that in a mystery novel once. Someone could do that in a pew during prayers, and nobody'd even notice."
"That's good. Or, if you wanted to poison the buzzard and didn't want his death to be clean, you could use... What's that stuff called? Oh, yes. Strychnine. Doesn't that cause convulsions and spasms and so forth? That would be good, and it would entertain the congregation for longer than it took Underhill to die, from what I've heard."
"Well, he did have a convulsion or two before he died," I pointed out.
"Good," said Harold.
"A poisoned dart!" I said, my mind wandering back to South American Indians.
"Excellent. Good use of curare, or whatever that poison was you said. Or some other quick-acting poison."
"Ground glass?" I suggested, beginning to giggle.
"Good one! Or maybe someone could pour gasoline over him and light a match."
"But we don't want to burn down the whole church," I said, trying to stifle my guffaw.
Harold didn't bother stifling his. "I've got it! Wait until he steps outside and gun him down with a Tommy gun!"
"But you might hit other people."
"Make sure he's with a bunch of other miserable creatures just like him, and it won't matter."
"Vitriol!" I cried, recalling a Sherlock Holmes story.
"Wonderful!" said Harold, laughing louder.
"Harold!" trilled a large gray cat from the entrance of the tent. "I can hear you all the way to the door to the ballroom. Get out of this tent, and let Daisy get herself together. Guests are beginning to arrive." Mrs. Pinkerton smote her son lightly with her kitty-cat tail.
Wiping away tears of mirth, Harold said, "Sorry, Mother. Daisy and I were just trying to figure out the best way to murder someone."
"Harold Kincaid, sometimes I wonder about you," said his fond mother, smiling broadly and making her painted-on whiskers twitch.
"Sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. Harold and I got carried away there for a minute," I said, wiping tears of my own, being extremely careful not to mess up Flossie Buckingham's hard work on my face.
"Don't be silly, child. I know you two are great friends. But people are arriving, so I expect you'll be getting folks in your tent soon. Don't forget. A dollar for any kind of reading you do, and it all goes to the Pasadena Humane Society."
"Right," I said, sobering as quickly as I could. Once Harold and I got going, sometimes we were hard to stop.
"See you," said Harold. "Got to get into my own costume."
"What are you going to be?" I asked him.
"A hippopotamus. I wanted to wear a comfortable costume that wouldn't squish me."
He was, of course, referring to his rotundity, which seemed to be growing. I expect he also wanted another use for however much gray flannel he'd purchased to make his mother's cat costume. I wondered what Del would be. I'd suggest a giraffe if anyone were to ask me, because Del was so tall and lean, but no one asked me.
Shortly after Harold and Mrs. Pinkerton left my tent, I heard the band strike up a jolly tune, "I Wish I Could Shimmy like My Sister Jane," to which I had the music in the piano bench at home. I wasn't sure what a shimmy was, but I imagined it would shock the parents of the children who did it. Oh, well. Children were shocking their parents all day, every day, in those risqué times, and we all survived. Or most of us did, anyway.
The band was good. After "I Wish I Could Shimmy," they rolled on in to "You Can Have Him, I Don't Want Him," another catchy tune.
After that I kind of lost track, because people started lining up outside my tent. So I put on my spiritualist's persona and went to work with vigor. I saw fortunes in the
crystal ball for people who wanted money, and love in the tarot cards for people who were looking for same, and answers to puzzling questions via the Ouija board for those who asked them. The dollar bills began to spill over the top of the glass bowl Harold had provided for them, and I wished he'd come back and relieve me of them. Besides, I wanted to see him as a hippo.
Before I got that pleasure, however, I had to continue performing. Among the first folks to avail themselves of my skills were the two Underhill girls, Miranda and Millicent, both of whom were dressed as milkmaids. Well, I don't suppose people had to dress as animals. They both looked nervous as a couple of frightened cats, so I smiled to let them know I was on their side, whatever side that was.
"Good evening," I said, purring. Someone had to keep the cat theme going.
"Um..." said one of them.
"Uh..." said the other.
"Are you Miranda and Millicent Underhill?" I asked kindly.
"Y-yes," said one of them. She pointed to her chest. "I'm Millicent."
"And I'm Miranda," said the other one.
Couldn't prove it by me. They looked very much alike. Therefore, after offering my condolences on the loss of their father, to which they didn't respond, I asked, "Are you twins?"
"Yes," said Millicent. I think it was Millicent.
"I'm terribly sorry about your father's death," I said again, trying my best to appear sorrowful. In truth, my curiosity was avid. I mean, it had been less than a week since the father of these girls had dropped dead of cyanide poisoning in church, for Pete's sake, yet they were both here at a party. Yes, it was for a good cause, but still...
"Thank you," said Miranda (I think). "He was... Well, we're not in deep mourning."
I could tell that from the milkmaid costumes, but I didn't say so. Rather, I asked, "May I help you? Do you have a knotty problem you need solved?"
I smiled, but the two of them clutched each other's hand and stepped back a pace, as if they'd been choreographed. What did this mean? I couldn't even hazard a guess.
The two girls exchanged a worried glance and then walked haltingly up to my table. They shuffled in front of me for a second or two before I said, "Please, why don't each of you take a seat and tell me what's troubling you? I might be able to help you." I might not, too, but I didn't point that out. They sat, though, which was the important part, because they couldn't escape as easily as if they'd continued to stand.