by Alice Duncan
Squinting at me, Sam said, “Bowman?”
“Yes. Mister Judah Bowman.”
“Ah, shee-oot,” he said, sounding remarkably like Lou Prophet, only less rusty. “Is he Judah Bowman, the private detective?”
“One and the same.”
“Aw, shee-oot.”
Told you Sam didn’t like PIs.
“Well, if he’s her… That is, whatever he is to her, I suppose we’ll have to invite him, too. And all the neighbors for…how far? I mean, should we invite the entire block, or just the people who live around here?”
“Vi, Ma and I can come up with a list of people to invite. Are you sure you want to spend all that money to have the Castleton cater the party?”
Sam gave me one of those looks, and I threw up my hands. That is to say, I lifted my arms in an I-give-up gesture. Every time I read in a book that someone threw up his or her hands, my imagination provides ugly images including both vomiting and hurling body parts around. As my mother had no imagination at all, I think I inherited mine from my father.
“What about folks from your church?” asked Sam.
“What a lovely thought!” said Vi, giving Sam an almost worshipful smile.
“It is, Sam. Thank you. Inviting folks from the church would be kind. And, of course, Missus Pinkerton, Missus Bissel, Missus Chandler, Marianne and George Grenville, Missus Hastings and Flossie and Johnny, too.
Flossie and Johnny Buckingham were two of my most special friends. Johnny ran the local Salvation Army Church, and Flossie worked at his side, helping folks who were down on their luck. I’d introduced them, and I sometimes congratulated myself for doing so. At other times, I remember I’d been trying to get rid of Flossie at the time—she’d wanted to make herself over in my image, for sweet glory’s sake—and had sort of thrown her at Johnny. However they’d got together, they were now happily married and had an adorable little boy named after my own darling Billy.
They also credited me with being the person who’d brought them together and thanked me for doing so all the time. I aimed never to tell them the precise truth. Yes, I’d introduced them, but my intentions hadn’t been entirely altruistic when I’d done it.
“Oh, yes! We need to invite Doctor and Missus Benjamin and Harold and Del, too.” I smiled as I thought about the kindhearted Dr. Benjamin and my best friend, Harold. He was such a great fellow. “And Dr. Fred Greenlaw and his sister Hazel.”
Sam grunted. Although I don’t think he disliked Harold as much as he had when they’d first met, Sam still didn’t approve of him. Or of Dr. Greenlaw. That’s because both men are fellows who prefer other men to women as objects of their affection. Personally, I don’t care whom anybody loves, and believe no one should be ostracized because of his or her preferences. Besides, Harold had told me more than once his condition had nothing to do with personal preference.
“Why in the world would anybody want to be like me?” he’d demanded one day when we were together. “For God’s sake, it’s still illegal to be me in most states and countries.”
“Good Lord,” I said, my voice small.
“I could be jailed if anybody turned me in. So could Del! So could Fred! Cripes, I think they put people like us to death in the Soviet Union!”
Merciful heavens. I’d had no idea. “I’m sorry, Harold.”
“Well, you should be! I had absolutely no choice in the matter. I was born this way. If I could go back and dictate how I should be, I wouldn’t be the way I am.” He squinted at me. “Did that make any sense?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling kind of sad, “it did.”
And thus I saw then, and I see now, no reason to doubt him. Put to death? Good Lord. I’d bet anything, if I did such stupid stuff as bet on things, Jesus Christ wouldn’t punish a person for the way he—or, I guess, she—was born.
Even though Vi didn’t have to prepare all the food for the massive party, she, Ma and I worked our respective tails off getting Sam’s house ready for the shindig. Sam hired a couple of cleaning ladies to come in and help make sure everything was ship-shape. Mr. Lou Prophet sanded the banister to the second story and varnished it a beautiful cedar-wood color that matched the floors in the house, all of which were made of cedar. Sam had hired someone to sand and varnish the floors since Mr. Prophet couldn’t bend or kneel well, thanks to the absence of one of his legs. His peg didn’t bend at all, of course.
I absolutely loved that house and could hardly wait to get married and move in to it.
After discussing the matter amongst ourselves, we decided to hold our party on a Saturday. Most folks went to church on Sunday, except for the few Jews we knew, and they worshiped on Friday night and Saturday. I don’t think they’re supposed to work on Saturday, either, but nobody would be working that Saturday except the catering staff of the Hotel Castleton. And, of course, Ma, Vi, Sam, Pa and me.
“And you won’t have to do a thing, Mister Prophet,” I told him, smiling up a storm. “But it will give you a chance to meet all the people in the neighborhood and for them to meet you!”
Several of our neighbors had already mentioned Mr. Prophet to members of my family, most of them not in a cheery manner, probably because he looked out of place in so civilized a city as Pasadena. Still and all, nobody had anything against him. Well, except for the one time he’d shot a man in our back yard—but that was only because the man he shot had first shot at me. Mrs. Longnecker, who lived down the street, had been peeved then. But she was an old grouch anyway, so she doesn’t count.
My life isn’t usually as exciting as the above paragraph sounds. Things just happen every once in a while.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll stick through the whole party, Miss Daisy,” said Prophet. “But I’ll make an appearance and say howdy to folks. Don’t want ‘em to think I’m a total hairy dick.”
I felt my eyes go wide, and I tilted my head back a bit. “I beg your pardon? You don’t want them to think you’re a what?”
“Um… I mean… I mean a heretic. I do apologize, Miss Daisy.”
“You don’t want people thinking you’re a heretic?” I’m pretty sure I goggled at him.
“Well, yeah. You know. Heretic. Not a religious-like heretic, but…well, a loner-like fellow, if you know what I mean.”
“I guess I know what you mean now,” I said a trifle frostily, unsure whether I should include “hairy dick” in my dictionary of old-west sayings. It sounded rather vulgar.
As Mr. Prophet and I carried on this conversation, Sam stood at the back of what was going to be our front parlor, his arms crossed over his chest, grinning up a storm. In fact, he chuckled once or twice.
“But I’ll do my best not to embarrass you or Sam, Miss Daisy. Cross my heart,” said Prophet.
“If you can find it,” muttered Sam, still grinning.
After shooting a “behave yourself” glare at Sam and a “You’d better” one at Mr. Prophet, I said, “Thank you.”
Sam laughed out loud. I’m pretty sure I heard Mr. Prophet giggle like a girl as he left the house to go back to his cottage.
I swear. Men.
Three
We set the date for our party on Saturday, April fourth.
Lots of things happened between the time we planned the party and the party itself. For one thing, Sam’s sister, Renata Pagano, visited Pasadena. Not for fun. Her son, Frank Pagano, had tried to murder me in January. Threw a big knife at me and, if I hadn’t turned my head at a crucial moment, I’d have been a dead duck. Or a dead Daisy.
When asked why he wanted to kill me, he’d claimed it was because he and his family didn’t approve of me. Me! Daisy Gumm Majesty, who’d never done any harm to anyone, at least not on purpose. The reasons he cited were two-fold: I was neither Italian, nor was I a Roman Catholic. When questioned fully, however, Frank admitted someone had hired him to do the evil deed. He still occupied a cell in the city jail, but his trial was coming right up. Renata aimed to visit Pasadena for the trial and to try to figure out wh
y her son had turned out so badly. According to Sam, Frank was the only bad apple in the family. I had no reason to doubt him.
It came as a blow, however, to learn Renata Pagano disapproved of me, too.
“Told you she would,” said Sam as we sat on the porch of my parents’ home one evening after dining on one of Vi’s magnificent meals.
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t think… Well, I can’t imagine not approving of someone because of his—or her, of course—nationality or religion.”
With a shrug, Sam said, “You don’t know many Italians.”
“No, I don’t. In fact, I believe you’re the only thus far. Except for your rotten nephew.” Frank Pagano had not only tried to kill me, but when he’d visited Pasadena several months earlier, he’d stolen a darling painted statue of Buddha I’d bought in Chinatown in Los Angeles. Worse, he’d pilfered one of my church’s silver candlesticks! The young man was a total failure at being a productive member of society. I didn’t tell his mother that, because it was clear she wanted no input from me.
“It makes me sad that your family doesn’t like me, Sam, just because I’m neither Italian nor Catholic.”
Another shrug, “It’s just one of those things. People seem to stick with their own kind. It’s not just Italians and Catholics. For instance, lots of people hate Jews just because they’re Jews. Look at Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. Even Shakespeare hated Jews, I suppose.”
“I don’t.”
Sam gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You’re an open-minded human being, love.”
“Piffle.”
“And a lot of folks don’t like men like Harold, either.”
“But that’s totally unwarranted prejudice! Harold and I have discussed this countless times.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He said the Soviet Union actually executes homosexuals. I guess somebody would have to turn him in or something, but that’s horrible.”
“True, but the Soviets aren’t alone in their distaste. Remember Oscar Wilde?”
Sighing, I said, “Yes. I remember his story. So unfair.”
“Then there was Henry the Eighth’s dissolution of the monasteries.”
“But…but that was because he wanted to marry Ann Boleyn, wasn’t it?”
With a shrug, Sam said, “Caused a huge upheaval in the church, whatever his reasons were.”
“Yes, I know, but…”
“And don’t forget the Crusades in the Middle Ages. Those gallant lads wanted to wipe out all the Muslims they could find. In turn, of course, the Muslims wanted to kill all the Christians.”
“But…”
“And remember when Mary was Queen of England?”
“Of course, I don’t!”
“Well, she burned Protestants right and left. Just because they protested the greediness of the Roman Catholic Church.”
I stared at Sam, something having hit me right between the eyes, in a manner of speaking. “Is the word protest where we get the word Protestant?”
After glancing at me for a moment or two, Sam said, “Yes.”
Shoot. I was usually the one who knew etymology. I hadn’t pegged Sam for possessing such knowledge. Another huge sigh escaped my lips.
“And don’t forget the Turks killed a million or so Armenians during the Great War because Armenians are culturally Christian and the Turks feared they’d join forces with Britain and the USA against Germany and Turkey.”
“Culturally Christian? What does that mean?”
“It means that if you’re an Armenian, your family and friends are Christians. Unlike, say, the Turks, who are Muslims.”
“Oh. That’s…awful.”
“I think so, too, but I’m not Turkish. In New York City, most rich folks hate Italians and the Irish.”
“Why?”
“Italians and Irish are considered poor and dirty, not to mention…ta-da!…Roman Catholic.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Or something like that. As far as I’m concerned, religion has caused and continues to cause more trouble in the world than pretty much anything else.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You would and did about a month ago, if you’ll recall,” said Sam, thereby making me remember an unhappy episode in my life. Not that the episode in question was far from my thoughts in the first place.
“Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Huh.”
“There were! Several people were trying to kill me at the time, if you’ll recall.”
“How could I ever forget? And now even Christianity has its various sects and cults.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d call them cults. Precisely.”
“What about those fellows in the Appalachians who handle snakes? Are they like the run-of-the mill Methodist-Episcopals who attend your church?”
“Ew. I read about them. No, they aren’t like us. And we aren’t like them. I don’t know what to call them, actually.”
“You don’t have to call them anything,” said Sam, “but you can’t deny the truth, unless you want to fib to yourself.”
“How depressing.”
“Just the way things are.”
“Which doesn’t make it any less depressing.”
Sam shrugged and said, “Huh.” “Huh” was his favorite word, by the way.
“But getting back to you and your own family, you’d started attending services at the Unitarian Church with your wife even before you and I met. She was an Italian Catholic, too, wasn’t she? To begin with? Margaret, I mean?”
With a sideways squint at me, Sam said, “I’ve only had one wife so far, Daisy. And yes, she was both Italian and Catholic. Neither of us cared much for the Catholic Church, although I don’t have anything more against it than I do any other church, so Margaret found West Side Church for us.” With another squint and a slight frown, he added, “The truth is, I prefer the Congregational/Unitarian Church to the Methodist-Episcopal Church, but I’ll join the Methodists if it’ll make you happy.”
“Thank you, Sam.” I squeezed his arm and asked primly, “Will you also join the choir?” Sam possessed a wonderful bass voice. So, in fact, did Lou Prophet, although his vocal chords were not as pristine as they’d once been and his voice sounded a little scratchy. I believe this had to do with his love of “quirlies.” “Quirley” would definitely have its place in my dictionary. A quirley was a cigarette. It was also a coffin nail.
Told you Mister Prophet was quaint.
“We’ll have see about Lou and your choir,” said Sam. I heard the grin in his voice. “Don’t press your luck.”
“Um…” I began, not sure how Sam would react to the question I aimed to ask him next. “Would you like me to get in touch with Harold to work with the Castleton in catering our party?”
“Sure,” he said to my astonishment. “In fact, I was going to ask you to ask him. He knows a hell of a lot more about parties than I do.”
“Yes, he does.” I decided to leave the matter there.
“Pretty night,” said Sam, looking skyward.
“How can you tell?”
I felt his shoulders shake as he snickered. “I know there are stars up there. Just because Marengo’s planted on both sides with pepper trees and we can’t see the sky doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The weather’s pleasant.”
“It is,” I agreed upon a satisfied sigh. Life was good. For the most part. “I’ve finally started making Regina Petrie’s wedding gown. She’s going to be a beautiful bride.”
Regina Petrie was not merely going to be a beautiful bride, but she also worked at the Pasadena Public Library and was my favorite librarian on the face of the earth, which was saying something, since I equate librarians with goddesses. An unfortunate act had been committed in the biography section of the Pasadena Public Library, which I loved almost as much as I loved Sam, during which another librarian had been foully done to death. Also unfortunately, my friend Robert Browning ha
d—foolishly, I admit—picked up the murder weapon and had thereby become one of Sam’s primary suspects. Which was silly on Sam’s part, but he didn’t know Robert as well as I did. Anyway, things turned out quite well as a result of the incident—barring the murder of Miss Carleton, the murdered librarian—because by the time the real culprit had been caught, Robert and Regina were engaged to be married.
Whew! That seems like a long explanation, but it wasn’t meant to be. Just thought you might want to know why I told Regina I’d make her wedding gown and the dresses for her bridesmaids. I did mention I’m a crackerjack seamstress, didn’t I? Well, I am. I have so few true talents and/or virtues, I don’t mind touting my ability as a seamstress.
Anyhow, thanks to various people wanting to do me in during the first part of the year, I’d feared I wouldn’t be able to finish Regina’s wedding togs in time for the ceremony. I’d been proved wrong and remained happy about it.
“You’ll be a beautiful bride, too,” said Sam, who wasn’t generally mushy.
“Thank you, Sam. And you’ll look like an Italian duke.”
Sam chuffed out an annoyed breath. “I wish to God Harold hadn’t coined that phrase. You’ve been telling me I look like an Italian duke ever since, and I’ll wager neither you nor Harold has ever seen an Italian duke in your lives.”
“You’re right. The only Italian duke we’ve ever seen is you.”
“Cripes.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I remembered something interesting. “Oh, Sam, guess what?”
“What?”
“Missus Mainwaring telephoned me today and asked if I’d be free to bring my Ouija board over to her house tomorrow. She wants to consult with Rolly.”
“Have I ever mentioned I think Rolly is a stupid name for a spirit control, even one that doesn’t exist.”
Ah, yes, there we were. Sam was back to his old self. I didn’t mind. This was the self I’d fallen in love with, after all.