by Alice Duncan
Still shaking and moaning, Sally didn’t respond to my question. I guess it didn’t matter, since she couldn’t get the bottle or its contents now.
Li entered the room, looking madder than a wet hen—my father comes out with this little gem from time to time. “Is Sally all right?” she asked, clearly concerned about Sally’s wellbeing, which is a lot more than was Sally. Or me, for that matter. I guess I should have written I and not me, but it sounds funny that way.
“I neither know nor care,” I told Li honestly. “She’s the rat, and she was going to drink this.”
Li took a glance at the bottle I held, turned again to Sally, then whirled around to face me again. “Where’d she get that?”
“How the devil should I know?” Really cranky by this time, I didn’t feel like being grilled by Li or anyone else. “Did you take care of Mister Prophet? That ghastly man shot him after Mister Prophet shoved me out of the way.” Which made the second time the rascally old scoundrel had saved my hide in three days. Very well. I decided to be nice to Mr. Lou Prophet from then on, no matter how much he provoked me.
“What? Lou?” Li stared at Sally, and I think she was beginning to arrange the same pieces I’d fitted together several minutes prior. Distractedly, she said, “Lou’s all right. The bullet merely grazed his left arm.”
“Huh.”
Good Lord, now I was doing it!
Turning again to me, Li said, “You think Sally was in touch with Frank Tucker all the time, don’t you? And through him, Adolph Grant. She lied to us, didn’t she?”
“Ask her,” I said peevishly. “I’m going to… No. I’d better not leave the two of you alone in the room together. Sam would kill me.”
Outraged, Li said, “Do you think I—?”
“I have no idea,” I said, interrupting her grouchily. I know, how rude, huh? However, by then, I didn’t care. “Can you get that asinine woman to shut up and go downstairs again? I’ll follow you.”
For a second or two, Li looked as if she aimed to rebel. I guess she sensed I was ready for her, because finally she let out a breath, slumped, and said, “All right. Come on, Sally. Come with me.” She reached down for Sally, who cringed away from her as if Li carried bubonic plague or some other dread malady.
“Just grab her,” I suggested. “She’s no use to anyone, and I doubt she’ll obey you or Angie. I have a feeling she’s served her purpose, and not even Adolph Grant will want her anymore.”
Oh, my goodness, I don’t think I’d ever sounded so hateful in my life. Worse, I was kind of proud of myself for it.
It took a long time to sort everything out, but eventually it transpired Sally had been the cuckoo in the nest, although she’d been coached by Frank Tucker, who had been paid by Adolph Grant. When she’d made her so-called escape from Mr. Grant’s saloon—which he’d turned into an ice-cream parlor after Prohibition was made the law of the land—Frank Tucker had followed her. She’d also lied about Mr. Grant being dead, although it still puzzles me why neither Li nor Angie had discovered the truth. They were pretty good at finding out things. Oh, well…
The ice-cream parlor had sold ice cream. It also sold illegal liquor and women. Which meant it was a real, live parlor house! In the sense that a parlor house is a house of ill repute, I mean.
Aw, fuzz. Forget I said that.
Anyhow, it was Tucker who’d found all the other men in Angie’s life and sent them to her in Pasadena. He’d even managed to find Li’s brothers in China, for heaven’s sake. At, of course, Adolph Grant’s instruction. Evidently, Mr. Grant never let go of a good grudge unless forced to do so, and he was mightily irked with Angie for leaving him. Sally, the weakest link in pretty much everybody’s life, had told the man she loved (Frank Tucker) how other girls had been smuggled from Adolph Grant’s pseudo-ice-cream parlor. Tucker had told Grant, and the evil chain reaction had begun, Sally remaining its weakest link. In the chain. Get it?
Forget I said that, too, please.
When all had been revealed at last, it turned out Mr. Grant had spent a fortune or two just to get back at Angie. I personally think people with a whole lot of money and time on their hands would be better served by doing good deeds with their assets. For example, feeding children starving to death in Russia. Bringing medical services and doctors to the Appalachians. Finding cures for various diseases like, for instance, sleeping sickness. You know, stuff like that. As ever, no one asked for my opinion about what to do with his or her excess funds, a situation that happens all the time, and one I still consider downright annoying.
Sam, Lou Prophet and I were all about to drop dead by the time everything had been explained and Angie and Lou had visited Doc Benjamin’s office to get their wounds attended to. Prophet didn’t like being in the same doctor’s office with Angie, but Sam told him—quite gruffly, too—to get over his distaste and allow the doctor to bandage him. I was there the entire time, and I could tell Mr. Prophet never did get over it. Too bad for him.
Angie said she felt terrible about having brought all of her Tombstone (and New York and St. Louis and Grand Junction and the Chinese Province of Canton) problems to Pasadena. Sam said he did, too. He couldn’t very well charge her with anything, however, since none of her husbands had brought charges against her. Technically, her marriage to Adolph Grant was illegal, because she’d still been married to… Lord, I can’t even remember the name of the first man who’d showed up in her house. Raymond? Alberts? Raymond Alberts? I think that was it. Or maybe she’d been married to Mr. Godfrey. But no, her marriage to him had been illegal, too.
Good Lord. I’d only been married once so far, and that one time had practically done me in.
After Dr. Benjamin doctored Angie’s wounds, given her an eye patch he told her to wear for a week, and ordered her to stay in bed for at least two days, Angie seemed subdued when Sam pulled up to her front porch. Li helped Angie get out of the car.
“Thank you,” Angie said in a tired voice. “And I’m sorry again.”
“It’s all right, Angie,” said Li. “None of this was your fault.”
By then, I expect three out of the three people remaining in Sam’s Hudson (Sam, Mr. Prophet and I) disagreed with Li on the point, but none of us said so. Sam growled a little. I didn’t blame him.
At any rate, Sam, Mr. Prophet and I straggled into my parents’ bungalow at around dinner time Thursday evening. I’d called Pa from the police station to give him an abbreviated version of what had happened at Orange Acres, so Ma had already set the table for dinner by the time we arrived. I felt guilty for making her perform this service, since she worked hard at her job every day and didn’t need my chores piled on top of her own.
“Don’t be silly, Daisy,” Ma, a gracious and loving soul, said when I confessed to my feeling of guilt. “It wasn’t your fault you were late.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand how these things always happen around you, though.”
If I hadn’t been so darned tired, I’d have asked her what she meant by her remark. Or maybe I wouldn’t have. I already knew what she meant.
Anyway, we all sat at our places at the table, Pa said grace, and we dug in. I was awfully hungry by that time.
“Delicious dinner, Vi,” said Sam.
“Thank you, Sam,” said Vi.
“It’s great,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Thank you, Mister Prophet. I enjoy cooking for my loved ones.”
Her loved ones? Did she include Mr. Prophet in the group? I didn’t ask.
Dinner Thursday night was Swiss steak with fried onions and tomatoes. Vi had thoughtfully cut up Mr. Prophet’s steak for him before she’d handed him his plate. She did so because Dr. Benjamin had put his left arm in a sling and told him to keep it there for a week. He’d also told him not to use the arm for a few weeks, even after he no longer needed the sling. Mr. Prophet had grumbled under his breath a few times in the doctor’s office, but when he glanced over to see Sam and me smiling unkind smiles at him, he’d acquiesced with a
n “Aw, hell.”
“Are you too exhausted to attend choir practice, Daisy?” Ma asked. She sounded solicitous, but I think she’d have been annoyed if I’d bowed out of my duty just because someone had attempted to kill me a few hours earlier. My mother expected her children to fulfill their obligations unless they were bedridden or dying.
Therefore, although I really didn’t want to, I said, “Oh, no. I’ll go. I always enjoy choir practice.” To prove it, I smiled at everyone. When my gaze hit Sam, he crossed his eyes at me. He’d probably have stuck out his tongue, too, if my parents weren’t present.
“That’s my girl,” said Pa, with an approving grin of his own.
Sam said he’d drive me to choir practice, bless his heart. He had to have been at least as worn out as I was, but when I told him he didn’t need to drive me, he said, “Don’t be crazy. I want to make sure you don’t get into any more trouble.”
I wanted to kick him under the table but, as mentioned above, my parents were present.
Mr. Prophet didn’t join us when we went to the church for choir practice. He wanted to get into his cozy little cottage, he told us, and read for a while. I had a sneaking suspicion he might want to visit a bottle of tangleleg he’d stuffed away somewhere in the cottage, too, but I didn’t let on. What the heck.
While I’d been all for Prohibition when it was first propounded as a law of the land, mainly because I didn’t want my war-wounded and shell-shocked husband to fall into a bottle, I’d begun to doubt the good of prohibiting anyone from doing anything—barring murder, slavery, and a few other choice sins. It seemed to me Prohibition only promoted crime. Look at all the bootleggers running around in those days if you don’t believe me! Well, you can’t, but I’m sure you understand what I mean.
“It’ll be all right,” said Sam as he parked his Hudson near the Marengo entrance of the First Methodist-Episcopal church on the corner of Marengo and Colorado. “I’ll drive you right home, and then you and Spike can sleep in tomorrow morning.”
“Can’t sleep too late,” I said morosely. “I have an appointment with Missus Pinkerton at ten.”
“Well, sleep until eight then.” He laughed and exited the car.
Because I felt so drained, I let him walk around to my side of the Hudson and open my door. He helped me out, since my right leg and hip hurt a lot, too. I’d peeked at my nether limbs in my bedroom mirror and so far, the right one had taken on a sort of dark pink color. I suspected that by the following morning, I’d be black and blue from my waist to my right knee. Phooey.
Anyway, Sam walked me to the choir room, then detoured to the sanctuary where he took a pew next to Lucy Zollinger’s husband, Albert. The two men greeted each other with smiles, shook hands warmly, and suddenly I absolutely loved Sam Rotondo! I don’t know why, but just seeing him there, blending in with my own personal community—in spite of his being an Italian from New York City—gave me a mushy feeling in my heart. In fact, I darned near burst into tears.
Clearly, I was extremely exhausted.
I didn’t have time to think about it, because as soon as she saw me, Lucy Zollinger rushed over to me, clutching a book in her hands.
“Look at this, Daisy!” cried she, thrusting the book at me.
I looked. My nose wrinkled. The book’s title was Eating Your Way to Health. I gazed at it for a moment, then glanced up at Lucy again. “Ah.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Oh, Daisy, I read about this book in one of Albert’s periodicals! It’s just been published, and Albert went to Grenville’s books and bought it for me when I asked him to. He’s so good to me.” Lucy paused to sigh happily about her Albert before continuing, “It’s got a lot of tips about how to get and stay healthy. It even offers exercises!”
I said “Ah” again.
Peering at me in astonishment, Lucy demanded, “Daisy, don’t you see?”
“See what?”
“This will be a wonderful opportunity for us.”
“It will?” I’d begun to wish I’d stayed home that night, Ma’s approval or no Ma’s approval.
“Yes! At fellowship last Sunday, Missus Dermott and Missus Benjamin and I were talking about how nice it would be to establish a ladies’ exercise class. We could hold it here at the church, either in the parlor or in Fellowship Hall. Most of us need more exercise than we get, and this book can tell us exactly how to go about it. And if we do it as a group, it will be fun! It even suggests exercising to music on a Victrola!”
“Exercises?” I asked feebly. “You want to start an exercise class? Here? At church? With a Victrola?”
“Yes!” Lucy sounded excited.
I think I said, “Ah” one more time, but I’m honestly not sure. Thank the good Lord, Mr. Hostetter called the choir to attention then. I was so glad of it, I nearly burst into tears again.
However, one of my more fervent wishes had come to pass during the week—a week that wasn’t even over yet. I’d met a real, honest-to-God scarlet woman. Doing so had proved strenuous and painful, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad if it or not, but at least I now knew scarlet women looked pretty much like all the other women in the world.
How disappointing.
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Page Ahead for an Excerpt From:
EXERCISED SPIRITS
Exercised Spirits
A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 16
The second time I drove through the big, wrought-iron gate at the Pinkerton mansion that day, I stopped to chat with Jackson, the Pinkertons’ gatekeeper.
“Good to see you, Miss Daisy,” said Jackson, his big pearly-white smile gleaming in his dark face.
“You, too, Mr. Jackson. How’s your mother doing?”
“She’s just fine, thank you, Miss Daisy. She’s been saying special prayers for you and your auntie, too.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Has she? Why’s that?”
“Laws, I don’t know, Miss Daisy. She gets these notions in her head, and there’s no telling why. But she told me to tell you to keep your juju close by.”
I lifted the chain upon which my Mrs. Jackson-made juju hung and showed the juju to Jackson. “I wear it all day, every day. Please tell her so. And if she ever lets on why she thinks Aunt Vi and I need special prayers, please let me know, okay?”
With another laugh, Jackson said, “Sure will, Miss Daisy. I sure will.”
“Thank you!” said I, and drove up the long drive to the front of the Pinkerton palace. The bright yellow sports car I’d noticed when I’d dropped Vi off earlier in the day still sat in the circular drive. This fact seemed odd to me. And, because it seemed odd to me, I wondered if it had anything to do with why Mrs. Jackson deemed it necessary to say special prayers for Aunt Vi and me. Then I told myself not to be an idiot, parked the Chevrolet, grabbed my bag of tricks, which contained my Ouija board and tarot cards, and walked up the stairs to the massive porch’s massive door. I patted one of the massive marble lions on my way to the door then rang the chimes. Sometimes, because it was there, I’d use the brass lion’s brass knocker on its brass knocking plate, but that morning I felt like chimes.
Lo and behold, Harold Kincaid opened the door!
“Good Lord!” I cried. “Where’s Featherstone!”
“And a bright and cheery good morning to you, too,” said Harold with something of a snarl.
�
�I’m sorry, Harold. I’m just so accustomed to Featherstone opening the door, you surprised me. Besides, I didn’t see your car.”
“Yes you did, unless you’re blind as a mole,” Harold told me.
“Are moles blind?” I asked, honestly curious.
“How the devil should I know. You’re blind as a bat then. Is that better?”
“I don’t understand,” I told him, confused.
“You saw my car, dammit!”
“What?” I turned around and scanned the circular drive and surrounding grounds. They were beautiful, but I saw no bright red Stutz Bearcat lurking anywhere. Turning back to Harold, I said, “Where?”
“Right in front of your eyes, Daisy.”
I whirled around again and stared at the circular drive. “That yellow thing?” I asked, astonished.
“That yellow thing, as you so inelegantly call it, is my brand new Kissell Six Forty-five Gold Bug Speedster. For your information.”
“Wow! I didn’t know you’d bought a new car, Harold!”
“I told you I was going to.”
“Well, yes, I know you did, but I didn’t think you’d buy a new car and not tell me about it.” I felt a trifle hurt, actually, although I’d never let on to Harold. We were great friends and all, but I guess he didn’t have to tell me everything he did every time he did it.
“I had planned on popping by this afternoon to give you a ride in it, actually.”
These words made me feel better. “Thanks, Harold. What does Del think about it being bright yellow?”
“He hates it, but I already told him I wouldn’t buy a Ford just because it’s black. I like a machine that reflects my personality.”