by Alice Duncan
“I don’t think so,” Harold said doubtfully.
Only because I liked Mrs. Kincaid, I said, “I’m sure she hasn’t, Mrs. Kincaid. I’m sure she was just upset by—by—” I waved my hand in a vague gesture. Because she was a brat, was why she was upset. Which, naturally, I couldn’t say. Nor had Stacy been drinking tea and eating shortbread with my own beloved aunt Violet, which might have sweetened her disposition a good deal had she done so earlier in her misbegotten life, not that she deserved any of Aunt Vi’s shortbread.
Since nobody else made a move to do so, Detective Rotondo knelt beside the fallen girl and tried to get his arms around her in a way that wouldn’t shock the onlookers. Stacy’s mother might have been dismayed had one of her daughter’s breasts been touched, even inadvertently, by a policeman. I’m sure Stacy wouldn’t have minded one little bit.
Rotondo finally got her on her feet, which wobbled suspiciously-I study things like that as a profession, and I can tell a fake performance when I see one—and dumped her ungently on a sofa at the far side of the room. I suspected he wanted her as far away from the important questionings as possible.
“Do you think she needs anything?” he asked as if he didn’t care much.
Mrs. Kincaid pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, I just don’t know what to do. What does one do in emergencies? Administer tea? Brandy?” She realized what she’d said, and her face turned purple. “No! No! I didn’t mean brandy!”
“Naw,” I said. “She’ll be fine in a minute.” Again, I thought about Vi’s shortbread and decided not to waste any of it on Stacy. If Stacy ever left the room again, I might get some for everybody else, though. Even Rotondo probably deserved a bite of something good to eat every now and then.
“Don’t worry about her, Mother,” Harold said in a voice harder than his usual dulcet tones. “You know she only does these things to get attention.”
“Oh, Harold!” Mrs. Kincaid started to cry, and I though God save me from wealth, if this is what it does to people. I didn’t mean it, of course.
“I’ll take care of her, Madeline,” Father Frederick offered, which I thought was awfully nice of him considering the obstacle facing him. Heck, I wouldn’t want to tackle Stacy, even if I were God Almighty Himself. Also, I doubted very much that Stacy Kincaid ever went to church of a Sunday. Probably not even on Easter or Christmas, which just went to demonstrate how good a man Father Frederick was.
“Thank you.” It was the first time I’d heard Rotondo sound honestly grateful to anyone for anything.
Father Frederick went to the couch, sat on the edge as far away from the girl’s body as he could get, took one of Stacy’s hands and began chafing it and speaking softly to her. Praying, maybe. I hoped so. The girl needed as many prayers as she could get, and as good a Christian girl as I tried to be, I couldn’t force myself to pray for that demon-spawn-child of Satan.
“I appreciate you coming downstairs again, Mrs. Kincaid,” Rotondo said, again surprising me by using good manners.
“I felt I should,” she said, her voice hushed and shaky. “After all, it appears that my husband has perpetrated a dreadful crime.” She began crying softly. “And what if it turns out that poor Mr. Applewood killed him? Oh, poor, poor Eustace! I don’t know what my friends will think! But what if he isn’t dead, and has to go to prison? Can you imagine me, Madeline Kincaid, with a jailbird for a husband? Think of the horror! Think of the scandal! Oh, my goodness! Whatever will we do? My God, we might have to move back to New York and live in all that horrid snow!”
Algie Pinkerton, who hadn’t said much so far, having been weeping almost ever since I showed up as far as I knew, patted her shoulder consolingly. “It will be all right, Madeline. Don’t forget that a little crime and scandal, and especially an interesting murder, will only add cachet to your reputation. People will be falling all over themselves to ask you to attend their soirees and parties and theater outings. Don’t you ever read Mrs. Christie’s novels, darling?”
I had occasionally been inclined to think it was a shame that Mrs. Kincaid hadn’t married Algie Pinkerton instead of Mr. Kincaid, but I wasn’t so sure any longer. Although I believe everyone’s entitled to one or two faux pax in their lives, I thought that one had come mighty close to insanity. Then again, come to think of it, I’d committed more than one or two verbal mistakes and that was only today, so I forgave Algie. Besides, he was probably right.
“Algie! How can you say such things?”
Algie shrugged as if he couldn’t think of a good answer.
“And to think that Mr. Kincaid stole those bonds from the bank!” Mrs. Kincaid went on, sounding as if she were working up to another hearty hysterical fit. “People might condone murder, Algie, but nobody condones theft, and I’ll be married to a convict!”
Now that, to my mind, was a curious way to look at things, but, as I’ve mentioned several times already, I’m not rich and, therefore, have a different outlook on life, I’m sure. By my way of thinking, murder’s a good deal more heinous than theft, but I guess it depends. On what, I don’t know.
I did say, meaning it sincerely, “It’s a good thing the theft was discovered on a Saturday, though, don’t you think? I mean, whatever would people have thought if the newspapers leaked the news that the auditors had discovered the theft of the bonds? It would have been a terrible shock, and they’d probably blame the whole family for the actions of the one.” I shook my head. “Imagine all those poor people in Pasadena who’ll have lost their savings. With today to work on the problem, maybe this will give your bank people some extra time to get things under control before Monday. Maybe the bonds will be rediscovered before the bank is forced to close.”
That, it became instantly clear to me, wasn’t the right thing to say, either, because Mrs. Kincaid’s eyes went as round as chocolate cupcakes, Harold sucked in enough air to float a balloon, and Del Farrington slammed a hand over his heart and uttered a syllable I don’t think I heard correctly. At least I hope I didn’t, because it would astonish me if Del knew words like that.
Unfortunately, Stacy recovered in time to hear what I said. “What kind of comfort is that for my poor mother, you idiot fool? If that’s not the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is!”
Strange as it sounds, it was Algie Pinkerton who came to my rescue. Algie had never before seemed to me like the rescuing type. “No,” he said in a peculiar voice and in direct contradiction to Stacy’s insulting comment. I’d never heard him contradict anybody, and it made me happy that it had been Stacy who’d been his first. “It’s not stupid at all. In fact, I believe Mrs. Majesty has perhaps hit on a miracle cure for the bank’s ills, if not those of Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid.”
Del gasped and opened his baby blues as wide as a robin’s eggs. Shoot, the man was gorgeous. “What—what do you mean, Mr. Pinkerton?”
Algie blushed. “Ahem. I’m sure nobody knows this, but I’m quite a hand with investments.” He bowed his head as if he’d just admitted to committing a salacious and distressing crime. “It would be my pleasure—” He directed a lover-like glance at Mrs. Kincaid. Aha! I knew he cared for her! “—to assist a friend in distress. Especially such distress as this. And such a friend.”
It sounded to me as if poor Algie was getting his thoughts muddled up, but apparently Mrs. Kincaid didn’t think so. She clasped her hands to her bosom for no more than a second before she threw her arms around Algie’s neck and sobbed onto his shoulder.
Stacy, who’d managed to sit up under her own steam since nobody was inclined to help her, said, “Oh, God,” in a disgusted-sounding voice. Harold shot her such an evil look, it would have killed a lesser woman than his sister. Unfortunately, it didn’t kill Stacy. It did, however, shut her up.
“Mind you,” Algie continued, sounding unsure of himself, “we only have Sunday to work with, since the bank is closed this afternoon, but I’m sure we can come up with something.”
Del seemed to be c
ollecting his wits, which was a good thing since a banker without wits wasn’t much good to anyone, and I’d begun to believe his were permanently scattered. “Do you really think we can do something to rescue the bank, Mr. Pinkerton? At least temporarily? Something we can build upon so that the bank won’t have to close? I can’t stand the thought of all those poor people losing their money and investments. Some of them have so little, you know, and their entire life’s savings are in the bank. Mr. Pinkerton, if you can do something, you’ll be a true life-saver!”
“Please,” said Algie, blushing, “call me Algie.”
If anyone called me Algie, I’d smack him. On the other hand, Algernon was worse, I suppose. This was getting interesting, especially since Mrs. Kincaid was seriously impeding Algie’s intent as it revolved about saving the bank, because she clung to him like a limpet. I decided I might be of help there, so I walked to the sofa, gave Algie an I’ll-rescue-you look, and he smiled and nodded at me.
“Here, dear, please allow Daisy to help you compose yourself. I believe Del and I ought to start working on bank business at once.”
“Of course,” Del said in a contemplative tone, as if he’d just had a comforting thought, “If Mr. Kincaid has been killed, it would be considered perfectly decent and proper to close the bank on Monday, as a show of respect. Perhaps even extend the closure to Tuesday. That would give us even more time”
It was probably a good idea, actually, but Del’s timing could have been better. As soon as Algie rose from the sofa, Mrs. Kincaid let out a screech that would have shattered glass if it had been the thin kind used in our house on Marengo. Working as fast as I could, I sat next to her and threw my arms around her, relinquishing my ear drums to what could conceivably be considered a good cause.
Stacy heaved herself up from the other sofa and marched out of the room, a circumstance that caused a more or less universal sigh of relief. The only one who didn’t sigh with relief was Mrs. Kincaid, who was still sobbing frantically. On my blue-floured dress that I’m sure would never recover from this day’s work.
Which reminded me of the shortbread again. Oh, Lord, could I ever use a cup of tea and some shortbread. With as much alacrity as possible, I soothed Mrs. Kincaid’s nerves without hurting her feelings (I hope), and said, “I think we could all use some refreshments. Would you mind if I went to the kitchen and asked Aunt Vi to fix a tray?”
“Oh, Daisy!” Mrs. Kincaid cried, her hands clasped to her bosom in a gesture I was beginning to recognize as one she used whenever she was particularly touched by something. I’ll bet she never had cause to use it on her daughter. “You’re such an angel.”
I’m sure the jury would be out on that one for a long time, but I didn’t say so. Let the lady have her fancies; she deserved them. Because I didn’t trust him not to thwart my angelic purpose, I glanced at Rotondo, who nodded his approval. It wasn’t even a crabby nod, and I took heart. I imagined he could use a cup of tea, too.
I rushed to the kitchen. Edie had left Aunt Vi to resume her house-maidly duties by then, for which I was glad since I didn’t want to go into details at the moment. All I wanted was tea and shortbread.
Fortunately for all of us, Aunt Vi had made plenty. “I knew I’d need lots of it,” she told me. “You know there’s nothing as heartwarming as Scotch shortbread and tea when a person’s down in the mouth, Daisy, and if there’s any woman who needs help at the moment, it’s that poor dear Mrs. Kincaid.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Thanks, Vi. You’re the real angel in this family.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Daisy,” she said severely. But she blushed, and I knew she appreciated the complement that had been delivered to me, but should have been directed at Vi.
Since the tray holding the cups and tea was heavy, I carried that one. Aunt Vi arranged a brilliantly beautiful arrangement of shortbread cookies on another tray that she’d covered with a pretty doily, and carried that one to the drawing room. Someone—I suspect Harold, since he was the only person in the room with a functioning brain at the moment—had anticipated the need for an open door. I marched in with the tea tray, and Vi followed with the tray of shortbread. I could have sworn I heard drools commencing throughout the room.
Crying as usual, Mrs. Kincaid said, “Oh, Vi, thank you so much! You and your niece are the kindest women in the whole world!”
Rotondo cast a glance at a ceiling fixture, but I didn’t resent it. Too much.
Harold said, “You got that one right, Ma.” He mitigated the use of the word “Ma” and his use of poor grammar by kissing her on the cheek. Then he turned and kissed Vi, which I considered extraordinarily diplomatic of him, and he rose another couple of notches in my book. Harold was a peach of a guy, and that was that.
Vi smacked Harold lightly on the arm, which to me spoke of many such instances in Harold’s life. Bless my aunt Violet’s big heart. She and my mother and father were three of God’s greatest gifts to the world. It made me glad to know that people like Harold Kincaid, a rich and important man, knew it, too.
“I’ll serve the tea and cookies,” I said, taking over the duty since Mrs. Kincaid wasn’t in any condition to serve as hostess. Harold helped. I can’t even begin to tell you how soothing Aunt Vi’s shortbread and tea can be.
Even Rotondo’s usually grumpy face relaxed into something that looked vaguely human. “These are delicious, Mrs. Majesty. Please thank your aunt for me.”
By that time, Aunt Vi had left the room, of course, so I said, “Sure will. She’ll be pleased that you enjoyed them.”
“They’re marvelous,” Harold exclaimed. He looked as if he were experiencing a holy vision. “I must have the recipe! Will she divulge it, do you think? Or is she one of those people who keep these secrets to themselves?”
I eyed him curiously. “Do people really do that?” I’d never heard of anything as stupid as not sharing a good recipe, but what did I know? Maybe rich people did lots of unusual things the rest of us would never even think of.
“They certainly do.” This came from Del, who exchanged a speaking glance with Harold, from which I gathered they’d been caught in a recipe-secret-keeping plot before. Shoot, life could be really interesting when you hung around with all sorts of different kinds of people.
“I think I’ll leave you people to yourselves for a while,” Detective Rotondo said after consuming about three dozen shortbread cookies (okay, I’m exaggerating a little bit). “But I’m certain I’ll have to return tomorrow as soon as I gather information that might have come in at the station. And please don’t hesitate to telephone me at the station should anything of significance happen here.”
“Of course.” Harold stood and shook the man’s hand, which I thought was quite egalitarian of him.
“Yes. Of course,” said his mother more vaguely.
Del and Algie nodded. They were already spreading books and ledgers out on a big desk sitting under a window next to Stacy’s fainting couch.
“See ya,” said I to the detective, who gave me one of his better frowns in return. He didn’t bother with a verbal good-bye, which was fine with me.
As Del and Algie consumed tea and shortbread, they pored over the bank’s books Del had brought to the Kincaid mansion that afternoon, after it had been made clear that Kincaid had absconded. I have to admit to a certain degree of interest in the intensity they devoted to the books.
People’s choices in matters of careers fascinate me. I knew my dad had been a great chauffeur and had taken delight in driving moving-picture people all over the place. He could keep a body entertained for hours with some of his stories—and I imagine I’ve never even heard some of the better ones.
I knew, too, that Billy had been all set to go into motor mechanics before he went to war and got himself mutilated. He’d always loved automobiles. And I knew my mother was a crackerjack bookkeeper because she enjoyed working with numbers. It went without saying (any more often than I already have) that Aunt Vi was a superb cook. And, not to so
und vain or anything, I even knew I was a darned good spiritualist.
But the notion of two wealthy men sitting down together and trying to figure out how to save a bank so that a bunch of people poorer than they wouldn’t go broke meant something special to me. I don’t know why, unless it’s because I tend to think of people who make money as being uncaring about the rest of us. And this is in spite of all the evidence to the contrary that I’ve gleaned from many different sources, including Harold and his mother.
By the time I knew I had to be going home or Billy would be in a perfect tantrum—not that his tantrums came anywhere close to those thrown by Stacy Kincaid, and he had a better reason for throwing them—I could see Del and Algie smiling. I took the smiles as a good omen and stood up. Mrs. Kincaid had asked to have her Ouija board brought into the drawing room, so we’d been asking Rolly a bunch of questions about the future of Mrs. Kincaid’s life and when or if it would ever brighten again.
Naturally, Rolly told her that her life would be full of joy and wonder after a period of chaos (chaos is always a good word to use, because it can mean almost anything). I’ve always been grateful to Rolly for showing up in my life, even if I’d made him up in the first place. You never know about such things. Maybe I didn’t make him up. Maybe he made himself up.
There I go: thinking again. I really ought to stop it, because thinking only confuses me.
“I really need to get back to my family, Mrs. Kincaid,” I told her sympathetically. “I’ll come back tomorrow if you need me.” I gave her one of my more gracious smiles, tinted with sweetness and light, in order to soften the blow she might feel at my deserting her. But hecky-darn, I had a family, too. Fortunately, I was so full of shortbread, I wasn’t starving or anything, but I was worried about my husband.
Mrs. Kincaid squeezed my hands so tightly, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold on to the Model T’s steering wheel. Thank heavens James was still there in the stables to crank for me. “Oh, Daisy,” sobbed Mrs. Kincaid, “I can’t thank you enough for coming over to help me today. I don’t believe I could have survived the day without you.”