by Alice Duncan
"Mrs. Hanratty! You make a wonderful horse," I said, instantly forgetting trees swaying in my crystal ball, and trying not to laugh. If anyone in the world could carry off a horse costume, it was Mrs. Hanratty.
"Thank you, dear. Monty says it looks just like me." She laughed her huge honking laugh, and both Harold and I joined her. She might look and sound like a horse, even when she wasn't in costume, but she was a dear woman who performed a worthwhile service with her dog obedience-training courses.
"Mrs. Hanratty, you're a joy to know," said Harold, rising from his chair and kissing the woman on both cheeks. "Tell Daisy what you want to know, and she'll give you a forest setting."
"I beg your pardon?" said Mrs. Hanratty, baffled.
"Pay no attention to Harold, Mrs. Hanratty. He's only being silly."
"Am not."
Before I could respond in kind, Harold gave us both a finger wave and vanished through the tent flap.
"I love that boy," said Mrs. Hanratty.
"Me, too. He's one of my best friends," I concurred. Then I gave myself a mental shake and commanded myself to stop thinking about trees. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Hanratty? Want your cards read? Want to ask Rolly a question?"
"Actually, I want to know who killed that ghastly man, Grover Underhill. Is there any way you can use your skills to let us know?"
I blinked at her a couple of times. "Um... Not really, I fear. Rolly can answer specific questions about the person who's asking the question, and the cards can tell the person for whom the cards are being read something about his or her life. The crystal ball also only answers personal questions." Most of the time. I didn't say so.
"Damn," said Mrs. Hanratty. "I was hoping you could tell me who killed the son of a bitch so I could offer whoever it is asylum from the law and a lot of money. Whoever did it is a hero."
I blinked, not accustomed to such language from any of my rich clients. On the other hand, Mrs. Hanratty was a very special woman. "Oh, my. You didn't like him either?"
"Nobody liked him," said Mrs. H forcefully. "He was a brute, and he was unkind to his daughters' animals."
"Really? I didn't know that." Well, I did, but only second-hand.
"He killed their pet rabbit!" announced Mrs. Hanratty in a ringing voice. If the band weren't so loud, everyone in the ballroom could probably have heard her.
"He killed it?" I repeated, horrified.
"He did. And he made them take their sweet doggie to the Humane Society. After he kicked it downstairs."
"Good heavens!"
"You might say so. The Humane Society called me, because the poor animal—it was a Yorkshire terrier pup—had a broken leg. So I paid for its veterinary expenses, and the poor thing was eventually adopted by a nice family. But Grover Underhill was a wretched man, and whoever killed him deserves a medal!"
Well, there you go. I'd spoken to I couldn't even remember how many people that evening, and not a single one of them had a good word to say about the late Mr. Underhill.
By the end of the evening, I was kind of glad someone had bumped him off, just as Mrs. Hanratty was.
Chapter 14
I didn't get home until nearly two a.m. on Sunday morning, which was extremely late for me, who generally trundled off to bed with my dog and a book around nine or ten. My coming home late, however, didn't negate the fact that I had to get up at seven-thirty in order to attend church with my family. If I didn't sing in the choir, I might have begged off, but there you go.
My family, unlike me, was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed that second Sunday in February. Well, Spike's tail isn't bushy, but he was as happy as ever. My eyes felt as though the lids were hanging at half-mast and someone had glued them together after throwing sand in them. I wanted to growl at my wonderful relations, unlike Spike, who only growled at stray cats and strangers. I tried to appear cheerful even as I gazed with longing at the butcher's knife with which Vi was cutting a cold baked ham.
"So tell us all about the party last night, Daisy," said Ma happily. "Who was there, and what did they dress as?"
"Oh, that's right," chirped Pa. "It was a costume party, wasn't it?"
"Mrs. Pinkerton was a gray cat," said Vi from the stove. "Harold made her costume."
A silence ensued, during which I decided I didn't really want to murder my family, in spite of not having had enough sleep. I could nap that afternoon, I told myself.
"You've about covered it," I said, hoping they wouldn't press me for details. Silly me. So I went into details. I didn't neglect to tell them about Harold being a hippo and Mrs. Hanratty a horse.
"Oh, my," said Ma. "You know, I'm not sure a horse was the best choice for her."
I squinted at my mother.
"Because she already looks like a horse?" asked Pa, who then laughed, jarring my sleepy brain into almost-overt rebellion.
"Joe!" said my mother, reproach in her voice. "I didn't say that."
"But you meant it," said my father, still chuckling.
I told myself I loved my family and didn't want to harm any member of it, especially not Pa, who was a practically perfect person.
"Here you go," said Aunt Vi. She set a platter of fried ham and scrambled eggs on the table, and I included her in my "especially not" category.
"Thanks, Vi," I said.
"But do tell us more about who attended the party, Daisy," said Ma.
So I did, in between bites of scrambled eggs, ham, and toast. Vi had even squeezed a bunch of oranges, so we had fresh orange juice to swill along with our coffee. I truly had a marvelous family. If I could survive the morning, I'd love them even more.
After I'd had a healthy glug of coffee, which didn't seem to be waking me up as well as it should have, I finished regaling my kin with a list of the party's attendees. I didn't notice the silence that had gathered about me until my mother broke into it.
"The Underhills attended a costume party? Less than a week after Mr. Underhill died at church last Sunday?" She was shocked. I could tell.
"Yes. I was surprised," I said. "At least Mrs. Underhill and her two daughters were there. I don't know if the son attended. If he did, he didn't visit my tent. The two girls were milkmaids, and the mother was Alice in Wonderland."
"Mercy sakes," said Aunt Vi, who'd finally sat at the table and begun eating her own breakfast. "I have to admit I'm surprised the Underhill family attended the party, although after learning more about the man, I'm not surprised his family isn't heartbroken that he's gone."
"Vi!" Ma exclaimed. "What an awful thing to say!"
"Well," said I, "from what I heard last night, I'd say she's right. Not a single person there had a good word to say about him, including his wife and his daughters. And you should have heard Mrs. Hanratty. Evidently, Mr. Underhill was not merely a philanderer, but he also kicked dogs and killed bunnies." I ate some ham and eggs as my family goggled at me.
"Good heavens," whispered Ma. "I had no idea."
"Me, neither," I admitted. "It was an interesting party, all things considered. The costumes were fun, and the band was good. Mr. Jackson's son played in it."
"That doesn't surprise me." Vi nodded. "I understand he even plays at the Coconut Grove at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. He must be a very good musician."
"He is," I assented, recalling when Jackson had told me his son, while allowed to play for the white folks who visited the Coconut Grove, was made to enter the grand hotel through the kitchen doors. There is no justice in this old world. Probably never will be.
"So who else was there, and what did they dress as?" asked Pa.
"I think I've mentioned just about—" And then the vision of pine and fir trees swaying in my crystal ball assaulted my memory. I couldn't admit to having seen trees in my crystal ball, so I said, "Oh, I guess I forgot Mrs. Wright. She came as Mary, and her little lamb was her white standard poodle, Carlotta, who's taller than any lamb I've ever seen."
"When have you ever seen a lamb?" Asked Vi.
It would have been a valid question had I not attended the Los Angeles County Fair at the fairgrounds built for it in the city of Pomona not long since. I freely admit to being a city girl and not knowing much about farm animals. "Last September," I told her. "At the fair."
"Oh, that's right. I enjoyed the fair," said Vi with a smile.
Sam had driven us all to the fair in his big Hudson. It was a long drive from Pasadena to Pomona, but the day had been of great interest to me, mainly because I got to see all the animals I never got to see on a daily basis. I mean, you could drive out to El Monte, which I'd once done not on purpose, and see dairy cows, but where else did you get to see goats and sheep and pigs and stuff like that? Very well, some folks in the rural parts of Altadena had chickens and horses and so forth, but Pasadena was a sophisticated city, where wildlife was confined to the occasional dog or cat.
"Anyhow, she was Mary, and her poodle was her little lamb. She must have taken the dog to one of Mrs. Hanratty's classes, because it was quite obedient."
"How nice," said Ma, who approved of obedience, both in dogs and in people.
"Does anyone know if Sam's going to meet us at church?" I asked, thinking I had some interesting tidbits of information for him, even discounting the trees I'd seen in the crystal ball.
"If anyone should know about Sam, it's you," said my mother with a twinkle in her eyes.
My own eyes still felt as if someone had tried to paste the lids together, so her merriment went unappreciated by me.
"Well, I don't," I said, sounding crabby to my own ears. Oh, dear. I really had to perk up.
"We'll soon see," said Vi. "We'd better dress for church."
That meant I had to tidy up the dining room table and wash the dishes. Feeling in as foul a mood as I could remember being in since the last time Sam and I had quarreled, I said, "Right," and stood, prepared to do my duty.
"I'll help," said Pa.
That was nice.
"I'll dry," said Ma.
That was nice, too. Neither one of my wonderful parents affected my mood one iota, but I'm sure that was my fault and due mainly to my state of exhaustion.
Nevertheless, my mother, father, and I finished our tasks in no time at all, and I retired to my room where my bed beckoned. I tried to ignore it. Spike helped, mainly by keeping me company and being a cheerful and steadfast companion. Too bad people weren't more like dogs.
That February morning the weather was already getting warm, Februarys always being iffy in the weather department. Sometimes February days could be cold. Sometimes, as that day, they were warm. Therefore, I selected a mid-calf-length, cream-colored linen dress with a straight bodice and brown accents. Even though the weather was toasty, it was still technically winter, so I couldn't wear my comfy straw hat, but I dug around in my various hat boxes until I uncovered a cream-and-brown cloche hat that went well with my dress. Brown shoes and handbag completed my ensemble, and I was almost satisfied when I observed myself in the cheval mirror. My eyes appeared tired and baggy, so I dabbed some rice powder on the bags and decided to heck with it. Good enough was good enough. Besides, I didn't have to look at myself.
With a sigh, I led Spike from the bedroom where, lo and behold, Sam had joined the family. Spike hadn't even announced his arrival. I glowered down at my formerly faultless dog and decided I might forgive him, as my bedroom door had been closed when the intruder entered the house.
"'Lo, Sam," I said. "I need to talk to you."
"Good morning to you, Daisy. It's lovely to see you, too."
I couldn't light into him then and there, because my family stood about smiling at us. I'd give it to him later, though, for sure.
"Right," I said. "Will you please drive us to church? I'm too tired to walk."
"Happy to," said Sam, eyeing me more closely. "Late night?"
"Yes. Mrs. Pinkerton's benefit party for the Pasadena Humane Society."
"Ah. How much money did the fortune-teller make?" He headed for the front door, and my family and I obediently trailed behind him, including Spike. Spike was disappointed when I made him stay in the house when the rest of us trooped outside.
When Sam and I had first met, he'd accused me of being a fortune-teller. Fortune-telling was against the law in Pasadena, but the law didn't affect me, since I was not a fortune-teller. It took me a long time—years, actually—to convince Sam of that pertinent fact. The idiot couldn't perceive a difference between a tawdry fortune-teller and a profoundly solemn, if fake, spiritualist-medium. Sometimes I thought he still failed to appreciate the difference. That morning, for instance.
"My spiritualist's tent made a fortune, thank you very much."
"Good for you and the Pasadena Humane Society," he said, grinning like a fiend and opening the back door of his Hudson. I made a move to get into the back seat, but my parents and Vi beat me to it. Crumb.
So I opened the front door myself and slithered into the Hudson before Sam could pretend to be a gentleman. Showed him.
I know. How childish, huh?
Sam thought so, too. He was still grinning when he got behind the wheel. "I'm sure you feel better now," he said.
I huffed. "No. I don't feel better. I didn't get to bed until after two this morning, and I'm tired and grumpy."
"I'd never have noticed."
Except for a couple of chuckles from the back seat, nothing else was heard until we reached the church, which was right up the street from our house. Because I was still feeling childish, I opened my own door, hollered, "See you after church," and took off toward the door of the choir room. There I donned my choir robe, grabbed my music, and sat on a bench until I had to stand up and process into the choir stall, still grouchy. I hoped nobody would die that day during the church service, because I'd probably have a spasm.
Fortunately for me—and for everyone else in the congregation, given my mood—the service passed peacefully. Our anthem that day, "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling," was an oldie by Charles Wesley, although I think he borrowed some of the words from a play by John Dryden and Henry Purcell—don't ask me how I know that. I must have read it somewhere—but it was pretty.
As we sat in our assigned seats, Lucy Spinks leaned toward me. We sat together, Lucy and I, because we so often sang duets. I wanted to elbow her in the ribs, but restrained myself. I lifted an eyebrow in inquiry.
She whispered, "I hope nobody dies in church today."
Echoing my own precise thoughts, by golly.
"Me, too," I whispered back.
Mr. Hostetter glowered at the two of us, and we straightened in our seats and proceeded to act like little angels. Well, Lucy was taller than I, but considerably more angelic overall. I felt downright devilish that day.
After Pastor Smith had made all appropriate announcements and mentioned folks for whom prayers would be appreciated, Mr. Hostetter had the choir rise and sing our introit, the first verse and chorus of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," in honor of Abraham Lincoln's upcoming birthday. Well, it would have been his birthday if he weren't dead. Oh, never mind. You know what I mean. It was a rousing tune, and actually perked me up for a second or two, so I'm glad Mr. Hostetter had picked it. Next week, in honor of George Washington's birthday, we aimed to sing the first verse of "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." I don't know how appropriate it was, but who cares? It was written by the original Lutheran (Martin), but I guess we share music from church to church.
The church service proceeded nicely, with no one falling ill or dying, which was a considerable improvement over last week's service. When it was over, I had a headache, probably from lack of sleep, but I still needed to talk to Sam Rotondo about what I'd learned the prior night about a variety of subjects, the main one being the poisoning of Mr. Grover Underhill. I hadn't quite figured out how to tell him about the trees I saw in my crystal ball when Mrs. Wright asked me to find her missing butler, Evans, but I'd think of something.
I joined the family in Fellowship Hall after I'd hung up my choir robe, m
ore carefully than I'd done the week prior. It wasn't too wrinkled, so I decided not to take it home with me that day. If I decided it needed to be ironed, I'd take it home after choir practice on Thursday evening.
"Pretty anthem today," Sam greeted me.
I blinked at him, not accustomed to receiving kind words from this source. And he was technically my fiancé, too. Oh, well. "Thank you. Pretty soon, we'll get into the Lenten season, and all our anthems will be dull and gloomy until Easter."
"Oh," said Sam, blinking at me in his turn.
"Oh, don't mind me," I said, waiving away a proffered cookie. "I didn't get any sleep last night, and I'm tired and have a headache. But I still need to talk to you. I learned quite a bit about Mr. Grover Underhill at the charity event last night."
"Great."
"Don't you dare be grumpy with me, Sam Rotondo. I also know where you might be able to look for the missing butler, Evans."
"You learned all this last night?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to just go home, Daisy? You don't look well," said Ma, eyeing me with worry.
"Yes, I'd love to go home. Thanks, Ma. I'm all right. Just really weary."
"You were up late last night," said my mother, practical at all times. "After dinner, you should probably take a nap."
That was the best idea I'd heard in a year or more. I told Ma so, and we all went home in Sam's Hudson.
Chapter 15
Sam wasn't as delighted to hear the dirt about Mr. Underhill as I thought he should be. And he was totally unimpressed when I told him I thought Evans was lost in the woods up near Mount Lowe.
"How do you figure that?"
Since I couldn't very well tell him I'd seen swaying trees in my crystal ball, I said, "That's where Mrs. Wright told me he liked to hike. Maybe he fell and broke a leg or an arm or got lost or was eaten by a bear or something."
"All pleasant scenarios," said Sam, as sarcastic as ever.