by Alice Duncan
“You want me to ask a lady to come to your house—is that your parents’ house or Sam’s house, by the way?—on Saturday?”
“Yes. Please ask her if she can come over about eleven. That will give us plenty of time. Oh, and I meant at my parents’ house. Then she can take luncheon with us, too, if she wants to.” I pulled up to the curb in front of the library steps. Peering at the two short sets of steps he would need to negotiate and then at Mr. Prophet, a smidgen of compunction smote me. “Can you make it up the stairs carrying those books, or would you like me to take the books in for you?”
“Hell, no! I can walk up a few damned steps, for cripe’s sake!”
“There’s no need to swear,” I told him in a voice sounding excruciatingly priggish to my ears. “If you don’t need help, all you need do is say so without embellishment.”
“Cripes. I don’t need help.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
“Yeah.” He struggled from the motorcar, opened the back door of same and hauled out the to-be-returned books.
“And if Miss Petrie has any books saved for me, please check them out!” I called after him.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said.
I watched as he began walking up the first short set of stairs and decided he probably wouldn’t overbalance himself. After he got up those few steps, he’d have to walk a few paces before tackling the second set of steps, so he’d probably be able to recover from the first set by the time he reached the second one.
Then I worried about the wisdom of allowing Mr. Lou Prophet to enter the Pasadena Public Library at all. By himself, I mean. He was now a known associate of Sam’s and mine, after all. If he created a spectacle of himself, the entire city might turn against the both of us. Sam, even though he didn’t technically need his job, might be annoyed if he were dismissed because of something Mr. Prophet did in the library. And what would people think of me if a friend of mine managed to create havoc in the library?
But no. Prophet wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything of a troublesome nature in a library, of all places. Could he? Oh, dear. I sure hoped he couldn’t.
I waited, though, until he’d finished climbing the very last step and hobbled on to the library’s front door before I sighed heavily, pulled away from the curb and made my way to Mrs. Pinkerton’s house.
As ever, my session with Mrs. Pinkerton left me a wreck and her feeling a whole lot better than when I’d arrived. Maybe I really should retire from spiritualist-mediuming after Sam and I married.
But no. Except for mopping, dusting, and sewing, I was a total failure when it came to the domestic arts. If I kept working, I could hire someone to come in and clean for us and do the gardening and, of course, we could always dine on Aunt Vi’s cooking. On the other hand, I could probably do those things anyway, because Sam had a lot of money.
But I’d feel like a slothful layabout if he had to pay someone else to come to our home and do housekeeping chores I should be doing.
Bother. Even when things are going well, life can be complicated, can’t it?
I hadn’t come to any conclusion about the future of my spiritualist business by the time I left Mrs. Pinkerton’s mansion and drove back to the Pasadena Public Library. There I found Mr. Lou Prophet sitting on the wall surrounding the library, reading one book and with several more books stacked on the wall beside him.
For the record, if he’d been so inclined, he could have walked across the park-like lawn and taken a seat in the pretty white gazebo beside the library pond. However, perhaps walking on soft grass might be a difficult thing to do for a man with a peg-leg. I decided not to ask, since I didn’t want to appear insensitive.
Anyhow, he got up from his seat and didn’t speak as he opened the back door to the Chevrolet and deposited the books on the seat. When he climbed into the front seat, he said, “Your friend was there, she gave me lots of books for you, and she said she’d be happy…No. She said she’d be delighted to come to your ma and pa’s house on Saturday at eleven.”
“Thank you very much, Mister Prophet. And what’s the title of the book you were so engrossed in you when I pulled up to the curb?”
“This?” He held up a book. “The Call of the Wild, by a fella named Jack London. I used to like to travel to far-off places. These days, can’t do much except read about ‘em. Got this one, too.” He reached into the back seat, grabbed a book and held up a copy of Ben Hur, a Tale of the Christ, by General Lew Wallace. “Should be a good yarn. I was in the territory when he was governor there.”
“He who?”
“General Wallace.”
“General Lew Wallace was the governor of a territory?” I asked, faintly incredulous, but also fascinated.
“Yes, he was.”
“Which territory?”
“New Mexico. It’s a state now, like everything else that used t’be wild.” He heaved a big sigh. “Civilization’s got a big damned footprint, and it’s wipin’ out all my old stompin’ grounds.”
I thought about chastising him for swearing, but decided not to waste my breath. Maybe General Wallace’s story, Ben Hur, might go some way toward civilizing Mr. Lou Prophet.
And if that wasn’t a silly, useless notion, I didn’t know what was.
Twelve
That evening, both Sam and Mr. Prophet came over for dinner. We had a little of the delicious fruit salad still remaining from Saturday’s party, but we’d cleaned up most of the rest of the left-over foodstuffs. Therefore, Vi prepared fried chicken and used the last of the deviled eggs in a delicious potato salad. I tell you, the woman was a culinary wonder.
Mind you, I’m a wonder, too, but that’s mainly because I wonder how people do the things they do that I can’t do. Like, for instance, cook. Haven’t come up with a satisfactory answer yet.
After we were seated at the table and Pa had said our usual short grace, Sam said, “Tomorrow’s the day you two are going to Missus Mainwaring’s orange grove, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I said as Mr. Prophet chewed on some chicken. “I’ll be glad to see it. I understand the orchard is huge, and the home she had built there is another mansion-type place. That’s where she houses the women she attempts to reform.”
“Women to reform?” asked Ma. Drat. I hadn’t told her about Mrs. Mainwaring’s good works or former profession. I decided she didn’t need to know about the latter.
“She tries to help women who have hit hard times learn…um…legitimate skills, so they’ll be able to support themselves.”
“Does she know woman who don’t possess legitimate skills?” Ma again.
Dumb Daisy. “Well, I don’t know about that, but she does try to help as many poor women as she can. Not every female in the world comes from a great family like mine.”
“I see,” said Ma, who clearly didn’t.
“From everything I’ve heard and read, I’m fortunate to have you and Pa and Aunt Vi and all of our kin as…well, kin. If you know what I mean. You know Flossie Buckingham. Remember when she was involved with those horrid gangsters?”
“Ah,” said Ma, an expression of comprehension crossing her face. “Yes. Now that you mention it, I do recall her less-than-savory past.” She smiled at me. “You did a good service for her, Daisy.”
“It was nothing, really,” I muttered. A little louder, I added, “Mrs. Mainwaring is trying to help women who are kind of like Flossie.”
“That’s kind of her,” said Ma.
Phew! Got out of that one by the skin of my teeth.
With a squint, Sam said, “You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Mr. Prophet said, “Huh. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Don’t be so skeptical. You’re judging her before you even know what she does there,” I told him.
Naturally this brought a “Daisy” from my mother. Then and there I decided to ask Sam if he wouldn’t rather just elope and get our marriage over with so I didn’t have to en
dure my mother’s constant censure. He probably wouldn’t agree, since he seemed anxious to please my folks. While I was glad about that, I still wouldn’t mind being able to speak my mind without my mother’s constant, “Daisys,” if you know what I mean.
His parents most likely wouldn’t care one way or another if we had a grand wedding or got hitched in a judge’s office, since they disapproved of me to begin with. It still bothered me that people so close to the man I loved and aimed to marry didn’t want me as a daughter-in-law. I’d never been disapproved-of before for no good reason, and I felt sad about it. I mean, Sam’s family was important to him, and I was sorry he would be letting them down. Because of me, of all innocuous people. Life contains many mysteries, I guess, and this was a whopper for me.
As I washed and put away the dinner dishes, Ma and Aunt Vi picked over the books Mr. Prophet had brought home from the library. Among the haul were With Lawrence in Arabia, by Mr. Lowell Thomas (I figured this as being one of Mr. Prophet’s picks); Whose Body, by Miss Dorothy L. Sayers (from Regina, I was certain); Dark Frigate, by Mr. Charles Boardman Hawes (could be from either Regina or Prophet); Antic Hay, by Mr. Aldous Huxley (I suspected Regina’s selection of this one); The Rustlers of Pecos County, by Mr. Zane Grey (I knew this to have been suggested by Regina, because I’d heard Mr. Prophet say many unkind words about what he called “so-called westerns”); Uncanny Stories, by Mrs. May Sinclair; and The Rover, by Mr. Joseph Conrad (again, a toss-up between Regina and Prophet, although I suspected Regina). Anyway, there were quite a number of books to choose from, and I hoped like heck Ma and Vi would leave either Whose Body or Uncanny Stories for me.
No such luck. However, after I kissed Sam good-night on the lips and pecked Mr. Prophet’s cheek, I picked up Antic Hay, and took it and Spike to bed with me. I didn’t read for long, the day having worn me out some. I think Spike and I were both sawing logs within five minutes of me pulling the quilt up over us.
The next morning, I arose around seven-ish, as it was my usual hour for getting up, and found not merely Pa, but both Sam and Mr. Prophet in the kitchen when Spike and I emerged from my bedroom. I hadn’t expected to see the two men, but I’d brushed out my hair and put on a bathrobe and slippers, so I didn’t look too horrible. Anyhow, the men were so busy greeting the wagging Spike, they didn’t pay any attention to me. I used the time they spent on Spike to scurry to the bathroom, wash my face, tidy my hair a little better, and straighten my robe. My robe and nightgown, by the way, had been crafted by me out of a light flannel material that suited the weather. They were also darned pretty, the nightie being a green-patterned number, and the robe a matching solid green. When I walked back to the kitchen, I felt better about confronting all the men in my life. And, of course, my mother and aunt.
“Morning, everyone,” said I.
“Good morning, sweetie,” said Pa.
“Mornin’,” said Prophet.
“Love that green robe, Daisy,” said Ma.
“Thanks, Ma. I used the same pattern as the one I made for you.”
“Missus Pinkerton said you helped her a good deal yesterday, Daisy,” said Vi.
I suppressed an eye-roll.
“You’re beautiful, as always,” said Sam, rising and coming over to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks, Sam. You’re so good to me.”
“I know it,” said he, thereby nullifying his earlier comment.
Men.
“What time are we supposed to leave here to see that orange grove?” asked Mr. Prophet. He sounded a trifle tetchy, and I didn’t know why, unless he expected Angie to ambush him and shoot him dead when we visited Orange Acres.
Ignoring his mood, I said, “Angie said she’d come up here around ten, and we’ll take two automobiles out to Orange Acres.”
I noticed everyone was eating or had eaten scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, so I went to the warming oven and discovered plenty of the same waiting for me. Gee, I didn’t think seven o’clock was a frivolous hour, but it seemed as if everyone else preferred rising earlier than I. I tried not to feel guilty, which never works, but I tried anyway.
“Who all is going?” asked Mr. Prophet. This time he sounded suspicious.
“Just Angie, you, Pa and me, I guess.”
“Think I’ll bow out of this excursion,” said Pa. “If you don’t mind.”
I shot him a quick look and thought he appeared a trifle paler than usual. I decided not to ask him about his health, because he wouldn’t appreciate the question in front of so many other people. Therefore, I added, “Not at all. That’s okay, Pa. Maybe another time.”
“Maybe,” he said with a smile.
“Anyway, that makes Angie, Mr. Prophet and me. Maybe Hattie and Mister Bowman.”
“Huh,” said Sam. “Who’s Hattie?”
“Angie’s maid, I think. She answers the door and brings trays of food when Angie asks her to.”
“Huh,” said Sam. “And you don’t know if Bowman is going?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
“Want to come with us?” I asked, trying to sound sweet. Maybe private detectives weren’t favorites of policemen, but so far Mr. Bowman had been polite to all of us, including Sam, and I didn’t think he deserved any of Sam’s huhs.
“No thanks. I have plenty of work to do without deliberately seeking more,” said Sam.
I turned from the warming oven and planted my fists on my hips. “And just what does that mean, Sam Rotondo? Deliberately seeking more? What do you expect we’ll be doing there? Stealing oranges?”
Before she could give me one of her “Daisys,” I scowled at my mother. She only shrugged and tied a scarf over her head.
“No. I just have a funny feeling about Missus Mainwaring and her orange grove. And her friends,” said Sam. “And then adding you to the mix…I don’t know. Sounds more than a little bit toxic to me.”
“You’re probably afraid Mister Bowman will sweet-talk me,” said I, and turned back to fill my breakfast plate with marvelous food.
“No, I’m not,” said Sam, surprising me. I thought he’d said what he’d said merely to be annoying. “I don’t know why, but I have a strange sense of foreboding this morning.”
Evidently I was incorrect about him only wanting to annoy me. “Hmm,” I said as I walked with my plate to the table, set it down and sat myself on a kitchen chair. “I don’t know why, either, but if Mister Prophet and I see anything fishy going on, we’ll tell you about it.” I glanced at Mr. Prophet, who was grouchily chewing toast spread with butter and some of Aunt Vi’s raspberry preserves. “Won’t we, Mister Prophet?”
Looking up from his plate, still chewing, Mr. Prophet said, “Eh?”
“I told Sam we’d report to him if we discovered any fishy goings-on at Missus Mainwaring’s Orange Acres.”
Returning his attention to his breakfast, Prophet said, “Huh.”
“I’m not really worried,” said Sam. He got up from his chair, deposited his dirty dishes in the sink, and returned to give me a kiss on the top of my head. “Just stay out of trouble if you can, all right?”
“What do you mean, if I can?” I demanded.
“I just know you, is all.”
“Sam!” I said. “You sound as though you think I’m always getting into trouble!”
“If the shoe fits…” said my beloved as he walked to the front door.
I’d have heaved a shoe at him, if I’d had an extra one handy. And if my mother weren’t looking. However, all I said was “Phooey,” and dug in.
I washed the breakfast dishes, dried them and put them away as my father and Mr. Prophet sat in the living room yakking. Then I went to my bedroom with Spike to decide on the day’s wardrobe. According to the Pasadena Star News, not always the most reliable weather source on the planet, the April day was destined to be a warm one. That was all right by me, because I had another new frock I wanted to wear.
As I withdrew the rust-colored, flat-silk crepe confec
tion from my closet, I told Spike, “When I get home this afternoon, I’ll clean out my closet. Then tomorrow I’ll take everything I glean to Flossie at the Salvation Army.” I peeked over my shoulder to see if Spike approved of my intentions and discovered him sitting on my bed yawning. Hmm. Guess Spike knew more about the fulfillment of my good intentions in general than I’d hoped he did.
“I will,” I insisted.
Spike lifted an eyebrow—and don’t tell me dogs don’t have eyebrows, either. Those amber dots above Spike’s eyes were his version of brows.
“Honest.”
Spike curled up into a cinnamon-roll shape and dozed off. Oh, well. At least he hadn’t growled. Or laughed. I laid my outfit over the rocker and paid a visit to the bathroom, where I again washed my face, then brushed my teeth, dotted my underarms with lavender water, combed my hair into submission—much more easily accomplished now that I’d had the auburn-red mass bobbed—and dabbed on a little bit of pearl powder so my cheeks wouldn’t be shiny. I didn’t aim to make myself up like a china doll in imitation of the spectacularly gorgeous Angie Mainwaring, but I did want to look good. And there’s nothing wrong with that.
Bother. I do believe this lady doth protest too much.
Whatever was going on inside me, I took it all back to the bedroom with me and donned my rust-colored skirt, which was almost the same color as my hair. I tucked a white button-up blouse with a round collar into the skirt, and then shrugged on the light-weight jacket made from the same fabric I’d used for the skirt. The ensemble went smashingly with my hair and the emerald engagement ring Sam’s father had fashioned for me—against his will, according to Sam, and only done because Sam had given his folks an ultimatum: them or me. I felt bad about that and hoped, if Sam and I ever managed to get married, we’d go back east for our honeymoon and meet his folks. Surely they wouldn’t hate me if they got to know me. Would they?