by Alice Duncan
“Really?” That word was spoken by me because Angie’s statement both intrigued and slightly shocked me, although it shouldn’t have. Angie had, I believed, been pretty honest with me about her scarlet past.
With another sigh (there were a whole lot of sighs going around that day), Angie lifted her head from her hands, peered at me and said, “Yes. I’m afraid so.”
Because I wanted to be in on all of Angie’s dirty secrets, I said in a chipper tone, “How about I take notes? I have—” Nertz. “Um, I don’t have my handbag with me. I usually carry a little notebook and a pencil in my bag.”
“Angie has paper and pencils,” said Li, marching purposefully across the room, perhaps to fetch paper and a pencil.
Looking at me somberly, Angie said, “I don’t know, Daisy. Once you know the…well, the particulars of my life, you’ll probably hate me.”
I shook my head. “Not a whole lot surprises me anymore, Angie. I have friends who…well, who’s backgrounds probably wouldn’t welcome scrutiny, and a few more who overcame really, really, really horrible things.” I wasn’t going to blab about any of those people to Angie, but I knew them, some quite well. The most important thing my job as a spiritualist-medium had taught me was discretion. I held other people’s secrets close to my heart and never told them to anyone. And that, by golly, was pretty amazing, considering the way I blurted out stuff. But at least my blurts weren’t about other people’s secrets. That sounds odd. Aw, what the heck.
“Are you sure?” She sounded doubtful.
“Oh, yes.”
She stared at me for a second or two, then said, “Very well then. Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“You’re more than welcome. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you or Li. I like you.”
“Thank you. I hope you’ll still like me when you know more about me.”
I only shrugged. Then I remembered something. “Oh! Missus Jackson told me that man who burst in here and made all those awful men drop their guns was your gardener, Mister Wu. Is that so?”
With a nod, Angie said, “Yes, it is. Wu was trained to be a fighter in China. He’s kept in practice.”
“Missus Jackson said his… What would you call it? His fighting technique? Well, anyway, she said it was called something like gwung fooey.”
With a laugh, Angie said, “Yes, it’s something like that. I can’t pronounce it, either, but Wu practices the skill—or art. I’m not sure what to call it—religiously. And thank God for it. He’s come in handy more than once before today.”
“Did he come with you from Tombstone?”
“Yes. He, Li, Hattie, and Cyrus Potts and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson—they’re caretakers at my house in Orange Acres—all fled Tombstone with me.”
“I see.” Fled, had they? Interesting word to use in this context.
Li returned with some writing paper and a couple of pencils and said, “Why don’t we go to your office, Angie? It’ll be easier for Daisy to take notes at the desk than if she has to use her lap.”
So go to the office we did. Hattie brought some tea and pound cake—this time it was flavored with oranges and contained, I think, poppy seeds—on a tray and set it down on a table near two chairs. Angie and Li took the chairs. I sat behind Angie’s lovely mahogany roll-top desk, pencil poised, several sheets of paper awaiting my script.
Li poured tea for the three of us and handed us each a plate with a piece of orange pound cake and a fork. That pound cake was scrumptious, and I aimed to tell Aunt Vi about it. I took bites in between writing down the names and circumstances related to me by Angie and, sometimes, Li.
After forty-five minutes or so, I’d filled two and a half sheets of paper with handwriting that had begun to deteriorate from overuse, and it didn’t look as if the two women were through yet. Good Lord in heaven! I hadn’t realized one fairly normal-sized female person could accumulate so many enemies in a single lifetime. Then again, Angie had told me before she’d not been precisely a “good” girl in her former life, so I’d expected to hear about some sordidness. “Some” wasn’t a large-enough word for this list. I tried not to let on.
Nevertheless, as Angie and Li compared mental notes and tossed out the occasional name and circumstance that might land the person on my list, I wrote stolidly. Didn’t say a single word. And this was only partially because I was stunned. Finally a longer-than-usual spate of silence ensued. I glanced up to see Angie and Li staring at each other, brows furrowed, clearly thinking hard.
Although I didn’t want to break whatever spell they seemed to be under, my fingers were beginning to cramp, so I ventured, “Anyone else?”
Lifting a finger to her lips and tapping same, Angie squinted at Li some more. Finally she said, “Li? Can you think of anyone else?”
“No. Adolph Grant would be the most worrisome but, according to Sally when I sneaked her out of Tombstone, he was shot down a year or so ago.”
Ew.
“Thank God for small favors,” said Angie.
In an attempt to hide my shock at her callous words—or maybe they weren’t callous. I didn’t know Mr. Grant. Perhaps he deserved them—I peered at the papers upon which I’d been writing, picked them up, and settled them into a tidy stack. “Um, if you can’t think of any more names or anything, perhaps I should take these lists home, make a copy for you, and then give this to Sam. Is that all right with you?” I wanted to go home to my father and my loyal dog! I felt guilty for deserting them and staying away so long, not that the staying-away part was entirely my fault.
“Perfectly fine,” said Angie. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“Happy to be of service,” I said. I think I even meant it, in spite of my state of thunder-struckedness. I don’t think that’s a word.
“And you don’t hate me?” Angie’s voice was small, and she sounded as if she’d truly miss my friendship if I were to withdraw it.
I laughed. What’s more, the laugh was sincere. “No, I don’t hate you. I’ve heard…well, maybe not worse stories than yours…” My voice tapered off as I thought about what I’d just said. By golly, it wasn’t true. “Actually, I’ve heard much worse stories than yours. Unfortunately.”
“You’re exaggerating, aren’t you?” said Li, giving me a look of disapproval.
“No, I’m not. I know people who have been sold as slaves to men who wanted to use them for immoral purposes, I’ve known women who have been almost beaten to death by their lovers or husbands, I’ve met boys who were kidnapped from their families in far-off places, and I’ve… Well, I’ve heard and seen a whole lot. If you don’t believe me, you really should talk to Flossie Buckingham. I’ve mentioned her to you before.”
“Yes,” said Angie weakly. “Yes, you have. We met at your lovely party.”
“And Harold. Harold Kincaid is probably my best friend.”
“Good God,” said Li. “You know about all that horrible stuff, and you were born and reared here? In Pasadena?”
“Oh, yes. And don’t forget drug smuggling, incest, abortion, and murder. I’ve encountered those things a time or two, as well.”
“Goodness,” said Angie.”
“Goodness,” I said in a firm voice, “had absolutely nothing to do with most of those cases.”
“But you won’t let on whose stories they were?” asked Li, still appearing skeptical, which irked me at first. Then it didn’t. After all, Li hadn’t known me for very long.
“Never. I will never tell another person’s secret. You can take my word to the bank.”
“Thank you, Daisy.” Angie had what looked like honest-to-goodness tears in her eyes when she walked to me and took my hand. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.” Then, because I don’t quite trust coincidences, even those invented by Mr. Charles Dickens, whose books I loved in spite of the handy twists of fate he came up with, I asked, “You have no idea how all these people managed to find you? All of a sudden, I mean? This is the third of three incid
ents—frightening incidents—in two days. Three people from your past finding you in two days doesn’t seem right to me.”
“It doesn’t seem right to me, either,” said Li in a dry voice.
Angie sat and stared at me thoughtfully. “You’re right. All these things seem a little too chancy, don’t they? I mean, they’re too coincidental to have happened by accident.”
Li lifted an eyebrow over one of her beautiful almond-shaped eyes.
“My thought, too. I…” My voice trailed off as I tried to think how to phrase what I wanted to say next. Drat. There was no tactful way to do it, so I just said, “Do you think you might have a traitor in your midst? Could someone you trust be unworthy of your trust? Have you hired anyone new lately? Do you think someone you believe in might have turned on you?”
Angie’s eyes opened as wide as pie plates. She and Li exchanged a couple of glances, then she shook her head emphatically. “No. Absolutely not. All the people who work for and with me are loyal to the bone.”
“I believe you. That is, I believe you believe what you just said, but I don’t know most of the people around you. You might want to take a… I don’t know what you’d call it. A surreptitious survey of your staff, just to check and make sure?” My nose wrinkled when I heard my question, although I don’t why. I meant it.
“Oh, no. That’s not possible!” Angie cried, horrified.
“What about one of the girls you’re trying to help? Might any of them betray your trust?”
“Absolutely not!” It looked to me as if the mere thought offended Angie. Whoops.
Then Li said thoughtfully, “I’m not so sure, Angie.”
I’d already noticed Li possessed a practical streak. Well, so did Angie. However, I think Angie had planned her life so carefully, fought for it so hard and built it so much to her taste and at such a huge cost, she might be prejudiced or, perhaps, unmindful of what might be a cuckoo in her beautiful, impeccably planned and implemented nest.
“Li!” said Angie, peering at her in outrage. “It’s not possible. You know it isn’t!”
With a shrug, Li picked up the teacups and saucers and placed them on the tray along with what was left of the pound cake and our dirty dishes. “Wouldn’t hurt to look a little closer,” she said as she slipped out the door. “I’m not as trusting as you are.”
“Trusting! I’m not trusting!”
“Yes,” said Li. “You are.”
“No!”
Li’s “huh” floated into the room as she walked back to the kitchen.
Staring at the door Li had just exited, her face a mask of incredulity, Angie said. “No. Such a thing is impossible.”
“Well,” said I, standing and tucking the papers under my arm, “I know you don’t want to believe anyone you know and love might betray your presence to people who want to harm you, but it wouldn’t hurt to do as Li suggested.”
“No,” Angie whispered again.
“I think you should.”
“No. I…I can’t.”
With a shrug, I said, “I hope you’re right.” I smiled at her and toddled off home. It only then occurred to me to wonder why Pa hadn’t come in search of me.
“It’s because Sam told me what was going on down there,” said Pa when I asked him. “Good gravy, Daisy, you do get yourself into the strangest situations.”
I noticed he appeared pale and drawn. He’d had a bad heart attack a few years earlier, and we all worried about his health. I hated to add any stress to his life, although I seemed to do it quite often in spite of my best efforts. “Are you all right, Pa? You look—”
“I know what I look like,” he said with resignation. “Sam was so worried after he told me what was going on at Missus Mainwaring’s house, he called Doc Benjamin.” He patted his shirt pocket. “But I’m a good boy and carry my nitroglycerine tablets with me all the time.”
“Good. You took a couple?”
“Yes, I did. And Doc should be here any minute. Sam told him to come, even after he saw me take the tablets.”
“Good for Sam. Nothing had better happen to you, Pa. I need you to walk me down the aisle!” I didn’t mean to be flippant. In truth, he looked awful, and his appearance frightened me.
However, because Pa hated to be fussed over and I’d made a promise to Angie, I went to my bedroom with Spike, got my notebook and pencil from my handbag, and sat at my dressing table in order to copy the list I’d made at Angie’s to give to Sam.
I did take time off from my list-copying to walk Dr. Benjamin out to his automobile.
“Pa looks terrible, Doc. Is he all right?”
Dr. Benjamin looked down at me, his brow furrowed. “Of course, he’s not all right, Daisy. He has a touchy heart. He’s been good about walking, he tries not to eat too much, and he’s stopped smoking those smelly cigars he used to love. All of those things help, but…” His voice petered out.
“But his heart is going to give out one of these days?” I asked, trying not to cry. Blubbering isn’t a nice thing to do at your doctor, especially if your doctor is Dr. Benjamin, who is one of the best people on earth.
“I expect so,” Doc said after hesitating a few more seconds. “But Daisy, we all have to die of something. Nobody gets out of this alive. Your father isn’t getting any younger, and his heart isn’t in tip-top shape.”
“I don’t want my father to die.”
“I know you don’t.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed it. A mere month ago, such a hug would have made me scream in agony. “I don’t want him to die, either. Nobody does. And there’s no reason to think he’ll go any time soon. Keep an eye on him, and make sure he never runs out of those nitroglycerine tablets. I’ve talked to Peggy about his condition, too, so you can all monitor his health.”
“And what does she think about Pa’s health.”
“About the same as you do,” admitted Dr. Benjamin. “But the two of you and Vi can keep an eye on him and make sure he takes care of himself.”
“I guess.”
“Cheer up, Daisy!” Dr. Benjamin said, a little too heartily in my opinion. “Your father is in great shape.”
“For the shape he’s in,” I muttered.
With a laugh, Doc said, “None of us can ask more than that of life.”
“I guess,” I said again. Personally, I wanted to grab life around its scrawny neck and shake it until it promised me it would let my father live for another fifty or sixty years.
After I watched his black, doctorly auto make a U-turn on Marengo, probably to head up to his office on Waverly Place in Altadena, I walked back to the house feeling pretty darned lousy.
Twenty
Before I’d finished copying my list, I fielded a call from Mrs. Pinkerton, in a tizzy as usual, and made an appointment to meet with her the next day. I didn’t want to meet with her. Ever. But I had to earn a living, so I’d keep the appointment. Therefore, I noted it on my mental calendar and went back to copying the list. My whole hand ached by the time I was through. Don’t think I’d ever written so much since I’d done a research paper on sleeping sickness in Africa during my senior year in high school. Having sleeping sickness is probably more awful than having a tricky heart, but acknowledging the truth didn’t make my mood any brighter.
In case anyone cares, and I can’t imagine why anyone would, my paper—which was well-researched and received a superior grade—was rather slim on details. Something akin to sleeping sickness had been recognized for centuries, but it wasn’t until 1917, the year I graduated, that it was isolated and given a name by some Austrian guy. The fact that the man was Austrian didn’t bother me when I was in high school. I attended high school before my husband had been murdered by Germans in the war. For many years after Billy came home from that conflict, I lumped Austrians with Germans on my people-to-hate list. It took a long time and some serious blows to my bias before I was forced to admit not all Germanic people were villains.
Harold Kincaid brought Vi home arou
nd four o’clock in the afternoon, so at least I got to chat with him for a while. I’d been feeling glum until he showed up, but after we talked for a while, I cheered up a lot.
“That’s idiotic, Daisy,” Harold said when I told him about my planned visit with his mother on the morrow. “She’s already got three appointments scheduled for tomorrow, including lunch with Algie at the Valley Hunt Club, a Shakespeare Club meeting, and a board meeting for the Pasadena Women’s Hospital. And Mister Pearlman—you remember him, don’t you? One of Stacy’s lawyers?”
“I thought he wasn’t going to represent Stacy because he doesn’t practice criminal law.”
“He doesn’t, and you’re right. However, Mother insists on talking to him about Stacy anyway. Since she’s so rich, he obeys her every command.”
“Good Lord.”
“Something like that. Anyway, he’s coming at ten-thirty tomorrow morning to talk to her, and the rest of her day is filled up with other appointments and meetings.”
I squinted up at Harold, befuddled. “Really? How come she doesn’t seem to know about any of those things?”
“God, I don’t know! Listen, I’ll remind her of tomorrow’s social calendar and tell her you’ll see her on Thursday. What time’s good for you?”
“I guess ten o’clock. Ten was the time we set for tomorrow’s meeting.”
“Excellent. I’ll drive by her place and tell her so. I swear, the woman gets more scatterbrained every damned day.”
“Says her dutiful son.”
“Hell,” Harold growled. “I’m about ready to resign from that position. Ever since Stacy got herself locked up, Mother’s been more difficult, annoying and blithery than ever. And she was bad enough to begin with.”
“Harold!”
“It’s true.”
“Well, maybe. Maybe you should hire a social secretary for her or something. I’ve heard of social secretaries.”
“She needs a keeper, is what she needs.”
“Harold, you’re awful!” I laughed, though. Couldn’t help it. “Anyhow, you have to admit having a daughter like Stacy would be hard on any woman.”