by Alice Duncan
“Just what I said. He was here last night, and he isn’t here this morning.”
“But where’d he go?” I’d have bet, if anyone cared, that the villain had taken off with the bearer bonds.
“If I knew where he’d gone, he wouldn’t have disappeared, would he?”
I could tell Harold was getting exasperated, but I didn’t know what to do about his present problem. “But . . . but, Harold, people don’t just disappear.”
“My old man did. What’s more, he’s evidently taken a lot of assets from the bank with him.”
Aha! I’d been right.
“But it’s worse than that, Daisy.”
“What could be worse than that?” Sweet Lord in heaven, he hadn’t kidnapped Edie, had he? I couldn’t ask.
“Quincy Applewood has disappeared, too.”
I thought my ears had deceived me. “Um, I beg your pardon?”
“Quincy Applewood. You know, the lad who parked cars for me last night. He’s gone, too.”
“He’s gone where?”
“How the hell should I know?” Harold’s voice had risen. I pictured him mopping his damp brow with a fine embroidered handkerchief.
“I’m sorry, Harold. But . . . Quincy? I can’t feature Quincy just disappearing. What about Edie?”
“That’s another thing. I presume it was Miss Marsh whom my father had been bothering.” He must have heard me suck in air, because he went on, “I don’t want to go into it right now, Daisy, but Father and Quincy had a huge fight last night. They’re both gone this morning, and everyone seems to think Quincy had something to do with Father’s disappearance.”
“Good heavens.” I could scarcely take it in. Since I was feeling faintish, I grabbed one of the chairs shoved in at the kitchen table and hauled it over to sit in. Then I sat.
“You might say that,” Harold said dryly.
“But, Harold, I can’t imagine Quincy doing anything to your father.”
“Truth to tell, I can’t, either, but Stacy’s hysterical and keeps screeching that he murdered Father and buried the body in the foothills.”
“She what?”
“You heard me.”
I’d heard him, all right. What’s more, I believed him. If there were any justice in the world, and we all know there isn’t, Stacy Kincaid would have been drowned at birth, before she’d had a chance to grow up and spread. “Good Lord.”
“Yeah. And then there’s your friend Detective Rotondo—”
“He’s not my friend!”
“Whoever he is, he’s here and he’s got ideas of his own that sound mighty similar to Stacy’s. Mother’s hysterical, Stacy’s throwing fits and tantrums and being a general nuisance, poor Del is out of his mind with worry about the bank, Father Frederick is wringing his hands, and poor Algie Pinkerton is in the drawing room crying with Mother. I need you, Daisy! You’re the only sane person I know!”
That was a nice thing to say. I glanced down at my pretty-but-almost-worn-out pink-checked house dress, covered at the moment with a white apron. I had a scarf tied around my hair to keep the dust out, and was wearing low-heeled tie-up work shoes with black stockings. I looked exactly like a hotel maid, in actual fact. I could just see myself dashing into the Kincaid mansion looking like this. Featherstone would probably bar the door against me.
“Give me half an hour, Harold. I need to tidy up.”
He agreed to it, urged me to greater speed, and we disconnected the wire.
Oh, boy, wasn’t Billy going to love this? With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, I hung up my apron, put the feather duster back on the hook after shaking it out over the rose bushes (I had planned to water them to get the dust off but would have to postpone that chore), and went into the bedroom.
Billy had been reading the newspaper, but he’d also been watching the bedroom door and saw me come in. The paper crinkled to his lap. “What’s up, Daisy?” There was an edge to his voice already.
I could see no way to avoid the truth, so I went over and kissed him. “That was Harold Kincaid. There’s trouble at the mansion.” Hoping to ease Billy’s mind, I gave a huge tragic gesture that was so big and so dramatic, I’d hoped he’d think it was funny.
He didn’t. “Yeah? What kind of trouble?”
Sensing that he wasn’t going to be mollified no matter what I did—sometimes he got that way; you know, he took exception to everything because he was already in a bad mood and wasn’t going to let anybody or anything cheer him up—I unbuttoned my dress and hung it up. “His father’s disappeared.”
“What?”
Glancing at my husband from over my shoulder, I realized that my explanation had been so abrupt and outrageous that it had knocked his bad mood for a loop. I decided to keep this approach in mind for future use. “Harold said his old man’s done a bunk. Poor Mrs. Kincaid is fit to be tied, of course.” I opted not to mention the Quincy angle. That was too—too—I don’t know. Outrageous, I guess.
“How can anybody just up and disappear?”
I’d have shrugged, except that I’d already slipped my light-blue seersucker summer dress over my head and my shoulders were occupied in getting it on. “I don’t know, but I aim to find out. Harold asked me to go over there because his mother claims she needs me.” That wasn’t too much of a lie.
“And I don’t?”
Here we went again. I turned, trying to keep my voice at a placating tone. “Billy, I love you more than anything or anybody else in the entire universe. You know that. I’ve loved you all my life. But I’m wildly curious about what’s going on at the Kincaids’. Besides, Mrs. Kincaid’s my best customer. She’s always been very generous to me, and I’d like to be there for her when she’s in trouble.”
He grunted and went back to his newspaper. I decided it wouldn’t get any better than that, so I finished dressing, fixed my hair as well as it could be fixed, considering it had been smashed under a scarf since I woke up. It was lucky that all proper ladies wore hats in those days, since hats covered a multitude of sins. I selected a perky straw number with blue flowers on it.
Then, of course, I had to start the darned Model T. Pudge was in school. Billy couldn’t crank from his wheelchair. Well, he could, but I wouldn’t let him because it was too dangerous. Too many people had broken their arms cranking automobile engines, and Billy’s lung power was unpredictable. If it gave out when he was cranking, there was no telling what disaster might ensue. It was my great good luck to spot Pa walking down the street, sans Brownie, and whistling. God bless my parents. They were so wonderful.
“Pa!”
He waved. “How’s my girl?”
“Fine, but I need you to crank for me!”
He did it. He was such a good sport, especially when I told him about Mr. Kincaid’s disappearance. Now Pa, unlike Billy, could appreciate a good piece of gossip when it presented itself. I promised I’d fill him in on all the dirt as soon as I could.
It wasn’t much longer than half an hour later that I drove through the Kincaids’ gigantic black iron gates, waved a hello at Jackson, and guided the Model T to the garage/stables in the back.
James, Quincy’s fellow stable boy, ran out to greet me. He opened the door and didn’t even wait for me to get out of the machine before he said, “God, Daisy, you won’t believe what’s going on here today!”
“Yes, I would. Harold called me and asked me to get here as soon as I could. What’s this about Quincy?”
Shaking his head and looking more worried than I’d ever seen him, James said, “Search me. He’s gone. And so’s the old man.” James lowered his voice. “I hear they had a hell of a spat last night. Edie said you could hear them yelling all over the house. I know the old man fired Quincy, too. Edie told me first thing this morning.” He wiped his forehead with a bandanna. “Brother, is she upset.”
“I can imagine.” This sounded even worse than I’d expected it to. “I’ll see what I can find out, James.”
He saluted. “Thanks, Dais
y.”
I entered the house through the back door because I wanted to see if Aunt Vi knew any more than James did. She didn’t. She was in an even worse state than she’d been in when Stacy’d been arrested, however.
“Oh, Daisy!” Floury hands and all, she dashed over and hugged me hard. “It’s just awful!”
It was going to be awful trying to get the flour off my blue summer frock. I couldn’t be angry with Aunt Vi, though. Heck, she was responsible for my current pretty good income, in an odd way.
Gently attempting to disengage her hands before they’d done too much damage, I said soothingly, “I’ll do what I can, Aunt Vi. I’d better get in there now.”
She took the hint about letting go of me, although not about ceasing to touch me. Patting me on the back, spreading flour dust everywhere, she whispered brokenly, “You’re a good girl, Daisy. You mean so much to Mrs. Kincaid. I’d say good riddance to that louse of a husband of hers, except that she’s so upset about it.” She sniffled hugely. “And Quincy! Oh, Daisy, I can’t imagine that he had anything to do with Mr. Kincaid’s disappearance.”
“Neither can I, Vi. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I managed to escape not too much later, but had to duck into the servants’ bathroom to repair the flour damage to my person. My face didn’t actually look all that bad, since the flour made me appear even more ghostly than usual, and that was a good thing. My poor dress was another matter, although I eventually decided it would have to do. It was about a shade lighter than it had been before Aunt Vi’s attack, but the flour had pretty much sunk in and I didn’t think it would shed on the furniture.
As soon as I opened the bathroom door, Edie jumped me.
“Oh, Daisy!”
At least Edie wasn’t covered in flour. She’d been crying, though. Still was, for that matter, and I envisioned my shoulders turning stiff with glue made from salt tears and bread flour. I hugged her. “It’ll all work out, Edie. I’m sure Quincy didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Of course he didn’t!”
She sounded angry that I’d even mentioned it, evidently taking my reassurance as an indication that I thought Quincy was a killer, which it wasn’t. Heck, I was only trying to make her feel better. “I know, I know. Here, Edie, try to calm down. Harold asked me to come over. I guess I’d better get to where he and Mrs. Kincaid are.”
Gripping my hands so hard I feared my bones were going to break, Edie gasped out, “Come to see me later, Daisy. You have to tell me what the police are saying about all this. And what they’re going to do.”
“Sure. I’ll be happy to, Edie.” Thank God, she let my hands go.
“I’ll be making beds upstairs for the next hour or so. After that, I’ll probably be working downstairs.”
She wiped her eyes, spun around, and charged up the back staircase, presumably to make beds and dust furniture. I was beginning to think everyone in the Kincaid house that morning had gone crazy.
The commotion hit me before I was halfway down the hall to the drawing room.
“He’s dead! I know it! He killed him! I know it!” Stacy’s voice had squealed this incomprehensible sentence (I mean, what “he” was she talking about?), and it sounded as if she was enjoying herself.
“Shut up!” Harold’s voice. He clearly wasn’t enjoying anything at all about this latest wrinkle in the fabric of family life. He also sounded powerless, as if he didn’t anticipate anything he did or said to have an effect on his pill of a sister.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Mrs. Kincaid’s voice. She was obviously on Harold’s side, although she’d never scold her daughter, which was a dirty shame in the opinion of my humble self.
“Please, Miss Kincaid. Try to keep your voice down.” Father Frederick to Stacy, sounding exasperated.
“How can you even ask me that? He’s dead, I tell you!” Stacy. Screeching at full volume.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” I think that was Algie Pinkerton, but I wasn’t certain.
“Can we all calm down for a minute? I have to conduct an investigation.” And that, I’m sure I need not say, was Detective Samuel Rotondo. His voice was deep and icy and reminded me of granite and steel and other hard, impervious things, coated with a layer of frost.
Pausing before the door, I braced myself. While I really wanted to hear the dope from the horse’s mouth, as it were, I hated scenes and wasn’t looking forward to witnessing Mrs. Kincaid’s honest grief or Stacy Kincaid’s dishonest hysterics.
Bracing didn’t work, so I decided what the heck and pushed the door open. Everyone inside the room froze, then turned to see who’d interrupted the fun. The reactions were interesting.
Mrs. Kincaid gasped and bounded to her feet, clasping her hands to her bosom, and looking at me as if I were part of the second coming.
Harold’s chin dropped to his chest and I thought I heard him whisper, “Thank God.”
Mr. Farrington gaped as if he’d never seen me before. He looked almost as good gaping as he did when he wasn’t.
Father Frederick smiled. I think he crossed himself, but I don’t really remember.
Algie Pinkerton blinked at the door. Tears rushed down his cheeks and dripped from his chin.
Stacy Kincaid looked as if she was offended about being interrupted during one of her more stimulating performances.
Detective Samuel Rotondo turned, saw me standing there, and barked, “Mrs. Majesty. Do you live here?”
That broke the ice for me, darn the man. I stepped into the room and would have slammed the door behind me except that I didn’t want to upset Mrs. Kincaid any more than she was already upset. “I was asked to come.”
He grunted and turned back to Harold, whom he’d presumably been harassing. As I walked toward the sofa, I recalled the last time I’d been here. It hadn’t been very many days ago, and I vividly remembered the tarot cards predicting chaos in Mrs. Kincaid’s life. Almost made me believe in the cards.
At the moment, however, I only wanted to be of some comfort to her, so I ignored Rotondo’s black look and sarcastic comment and took Mrs. Kincaid’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kincaid. Please let me help in any way if I can.”
She threw her arms around me and cried on my shoulder. Again, I featured my dress turning into paste, but didn’t let her go. Poor woman needed some kind of comfort, and obviously her daughter wasn’t going to be of any assistance in that quarter. In fact, Stacy had resumed pitching her fit as soon as I’d entered the room. I’d have liked to slap her across the face but didn’t dare. Besides, my hands were occupied in patting Stacy’s mother on the back.
“It will all be all right, Mrs. Kincaid. I’m sure it will.”
“Oh, Daisy! The cards told me this would happen!”
My thought precisely, although I didn’t say so. “They predicted peace in the future, though. Try to focus on that.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, give it up, Daisy!”
This precious tidbit came from Stacy, naturally. I glanced over to find her with her hands planted on her hips, as mad as a wet hen, probably because I’d interrupted her act.
“You give it up, Stacy,” said her not-so-fond brother. To no avail.
She turned on her heel—her high heel, supported by a strap around her ankle, which also sported a gold chain—and screamed at him, “How can you say that? Our father has been murdered! You cruel, unfeeling brute!”
Stacy’s ill-advised shriek caused Mrs. Kincaid to sob, “No! No! Stacy, don’t say it!”
“It’s true!” wailed the girl, working herself up into another frenzied exhibition. “Our father is gone, and Quincy Applewood murdered him!”
“I don’t think so,” I slipped in between cries of woe from various parties. I don’t think anybody heard me but Stacy.
She turned on me like a whirlwind, and I couldn’t get out of her way because Mrs. Kincaid was too heavy. Not that I’d have pushed Mrs. Kincaid away or used her body as a shield or anything, but I felt extremely vulnerable just then.
<
br /> “What do you know about it?” Stacy squawked. “You’re nothing but a two-bit shyster!”
I noticed that Detective Rotondo had shut his eyes and appeared pained. Fat lot of good that did.
God bless Harold, who’d apparently taken all he aimed to take from his darling sister that morning. “Don’t you ever talk to Daisy like that!” He delivered a resounding slap across Stacy’s face along with his message, and I was deeply touched. Not to mention gladdened beyond all mercy. All right, I know it wasn’t very Christian of me, but how much abuse is one smallish, youngish spiritualist expected to take, anyway?
Clapping a hand over her stinging cheek, Stacy gaped with bulging eyes at her brother, clearly not having anticipated anyone ever going this far in an effort to subdue her. Too bad, if you ask me. If she’d been thwarted more when she was young, she probably wouldn’t be such a pain in the neck now.
She cried, “Oh!” and turned and raced out the door.
Harold sighed and faced Rotondo. “Sorry, Detective. Do you need her here? I can get her back if you need her.”
Rotondo shook his head. “No. We’re probably better off without her. She’s a trifle . . . disruptive.”
“You’re a true master of diplomacy,” muttered Harold. He came over to me, who was still being almost smothered by his mother. Disengaging her clinging arms with remarkable gentleness—more gentleness, I’m sure, than a so-called “real” man would use—he said in a soothing voice, “Here, Mother. You’re drowning Daisy in tears. Come over to the sofa and sit down. Daisy will sit beside you.”
I nodded when he glanced at me. What a great guy he was. “Absolutely,” I said to Mrs. Kincaid. “I’m here for as long as you need me.” I was sure glad Billy wasn’t there to hear that one.
“Oh, Daisy, you’re such a comfort to me!” Mrs. Kincaid fairly collapsed on the sofa. I patted her left hand which is the one that had been gripping my right hand painfully. I didn’t complain.
I resented it when I looked up and saw Detective Rotondo eyeing the ceiling in obvious exasperation.
Harold expelled a huge, relieved sigh. “All right. Now that Stacy’s not here to throw tantrums and interfere with everything, let’s get this show on the road. Detective, you were asking about Father?”