by Alice Duncan
“Like a dream. If Mother survives until the wedding, it should be a grand affair.”
“I hope Stacy isn’t going to wear her Salvation Army uniform.”
“Lord, no! Mother would have a conniption fit if she did. No, Mother’s having a dress made for Stacy, too.”
“And Stacy isn’t arguing about it?”
“Oddly enough, she isn’t. She’s really taken to this Salvation Army stuff. She’s actually trying to modify her behavior.”
“Good Lord. It doesn’t seem possible.”
“She’s so self-righteous about her religious turn, she’s harder for me to take than she was when she was drinking and smoking and getting arrested.” Harold chuckled.
I’d have joined him, but I was feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I sighed again. “If she keeps behaving rationally, I might have to change my opinion of her, and I’d hate to do that.”
Harold grimaced. “Don’t do anything so rash yet. This Salvation Army kick is still young.”
“I suppose you’re right. She’ll probably have a relapse once the novelty wears off.” I regret to admit that I hoped she would.
“Oh, I’m sure she will.”
Harold took me to a lovely and wildly expensive Japanese restaurant called the Fujiyama, where the food was delicious and the decor was quite exotic. I’d never eaten Japanese cuisine before, and this restaurant was one of two of the ilk in Pasadena, the other being a place called the Manako. I was terribly impressed with something called tempura, which was basically vegetables coated in a light batter and fried, then dipped into some kind of yummy sauce. Thanks to Harold and lots of good food, I felt slightly more cheery when we left the place and walked to the parking lot at the rear of the building.
And darned if I didn’t practically stumble over Gertrude Minneke! She stood in the alleyway leading to the street where the car was, talking to a man in a waiter’s uniform whom I’d seen carrying dishes inside the restaurant. They were deep in conversation, and both of them appeared worried. Good heavens, now what?
“Miss Minneke!” I said in a bright voice.
Both Gertrude and her gentleman friend jumped about a foot and a half. When she landed, Gertrude swirled around, her hand pressed to her bosom, her eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets. “Mrs. Majesty!”
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I told her, feeling a trifle guilty, although I don’t know why.
“Oh, that’s all right.” She kind of panted the words. “Um . . . please meet my brother, Mrs. Majesty. This is Eugene.” She took the hand of the waiter, as if showing him to me. “Eugene Minneke.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Eugene. His back-East accent was stronger than Gertrude’s. I could swear he also didn’t mean what he’d just said.
“Likewise,” I said, holding my hand out for him to shake. “And this is my very good friend Harold Kincaid.”
Both Minnekes gave Harold tense smiles, and Eugene and Harold shook hands.
“It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Majesty,” Gertrude said in an uncertain voice.
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed. We were both lying; I could tell.
Taking Harold’s arm, I said, “Well, we need to run,” and hurried us along, sensing that Gertrude and Eugene wanted to be alone to continue their conversation.
“What the devil’s wrong with those two?” Harold asked as he opened the door for me to enter his auto.
“I don’t have a clue. Gertrude is in my cooking class at the Salvation Army, and she keeps disappearing every time I spot her anywhere.”
Harold got in the car on the driver’s side. “They both looked as nervous as cats.”
“I agree. Gertrude even went to my church last Sunday. She said she wanted to talk to me about something, and then she ran away again.”
We both agreed that this was strange behavior on Gertrude’s part, but I was no closer to learning the reason for it. I decided that I was going to have a long chat with Gertrude after our class next Saturday.
When Harold dropped me off at home, I got into the Chevrolet and drove to the library. There I found every book I could find about dog breeding and showing. Oddly enough, there were quite a few of them.
And then I toddled down to the periodical section and looked up all the articles I could find in old newspapers about the Castletons.
Sure enough, I found a long article about Miss Castleton’s late fiancé. His name had been Stephen Allison, and he’d died in Flanders not long after the United States had entered the war. The most complete article I discovered was from the Pasadena Evening Post, a newspaper we didn’t subscribe to. The article mentioned that Mr. Allison and Miss Castleton had planned to marry, but had decided to postpone the wedding until after Mr. Allison returned from the war. Unfortunately, by the time he returned, he was in no condition to marry anyone. He’d been buried at the Mountain View Cemetery in Altadena, the same place where Billy’s mother and father were laid to rest.
I closed the newspaper, feeling tears sting my eyes. Darn it, why was life so hard? True, Miss Castleton had tons of money, but she didn’t have Stephen Allison any longer and, although I hadn’t met her yet, I’d have wagered a good deal that she’d rather have him than her father’s money.
The article had said she resided at her father’s mansion in a part of town called San Marino. In later years, Mr. Castleton would donate his gigantic house, grounds and collected art works, both paintings and sculptures, to the City of Pasadena as a museum. At that time, the place was a grand home. I wondered if Miss Castleton wandered the grounds, missing Stephen and wishing her life could be different.
By that time in my life, I’d known for decades—well, slightly more than two decades, at any rate—that rich people and the rest of us aren’t the same. Rich people didn’t have to worry about dying from want and starvation, for instance. Still, people were people, and I had a strong feeling that Emmaline Castleton and I had a lot in common, even if we came from opposite ends of the social ladder. In short, I felt sorry for her.
Bother.
Chapter Seven
Saturday arrived at last. That was the date set for Mrs. Bissell’s séance, and my introduction to Miss Emmaline Castleton. I really wanted to meet her and find out why she’d called me. I sensed another good client in the offing, but I tried not to build myself up too much. After all, you never knew about these things. Perhaps she only wanted to hire me for a charity party or something.
But the séance would be held at night. Before I could commence communicating with the dead, I had to survive dealing with the living at another cooking class, a task far more difficult than raising the dead, at least for me. As you can probably tell, my confidence level hadn’t risen perceptibly by that point in time as regards to the art of cookery. This is probably because I’d tried to make breakfast for Billy and me that morning, and my efforts were not universally successful. At least I didn’t burn the toast. The eggs suffered a far more severe fate. Billy only laughed, so that part was all right.
At any rate, I’d selected a very simple recipe for my class to make that day, not for their sake, but for mine. The recipe, for scalloped cheese bread, resided on page nineteen of Sixty-Five Delicious Dishes, a book against which I had begun to harbor quite a grudge.
The only thing I looked forward to as far as that class went was finally discovering why Gertrude Minneke behaved like a frightened deer every time a representative of the police department showed up in her vicinity. By that time I’d decided that, as much as I didn’t want to agree with Sam Rotondo about anything at all, I did agree it was the presence of law enforcement that so frightened Gertrude.
To facilitate my chat with Gertrude and to soften her up, if such a thing was possible, I decided to gently ask the ladies in my class to tell the rest of us a little about themselves as our scalloped cheese breads baked. Flossie, bless her heart, brought the name tents again, so I could call the women by their proper names.
“Let’s all turn to page nineteen,
ladies,” I said, smiling as if I were happy to be there.
Pages rustled.
“We’re going to make scalloped cheese bread today. As I’m sure you know, both cheese and bread are cheap commodities these days, and they can be combined to make many tasty dishes.” Aunt Vi had told me so; therefore, I knew the statement to be true.
We went through the recipe step by step—there weren’t many of them, thank God—and then we carted our filled baking dishes to the oven in the back of the hall. As our cheese breads baked, I put my crafty plan into action.
“Until our dishes are cooked through, I think it would be nice to learn a little bit about each other.” Noticing uneasy glances pass among my students, I smiled and said, “I’ll begin with me.” They all laughed. If they only knew how little there was in my life to laugh at.
Nevertheless, I gave them a short summary of my life up to that date, leaving out the more unpleasant parts of it, most of which involved my husband and his ruination at the hands of the Germans.
“And now, who’d like to introduce herself first?”
A resounding silence filled the hall. I sighed inwardly, but remained undaunted. Darn it, I wanted to know who these women were! Especially Gertrude and the woman whom I suspected of being German. I squinted at the name tent on her desk. “Hilda Schwartz? Would you like to begin? Tell us a little about yourself.”
She started slightly, an indication to my mind that she wouldn’t at all like to begin. She swallowed her nervousness, however, and told us the following tale in a heavy and, I believed, Germanic accent: “My name is Hilda Schwartz, and I’m from Switzerland.”
“Switzerland! Oh, my, I’d love to visit Switzerland someday,” I said, aiming for a rapturous tone. In truth, it had never crossed my mind to visit Switzerland, although I’d read Heidi when I was a kid.
My enthusiasm seemed to calm Hilda somewhat, because she smiled and went on with more confidence. “My country is beautiful, with big mountains and grassy meadows.”
“What language did you speak there, Hilda?” Was I crafty, or was I not crafty?
“Oh, we Swiss speak many languages. Some of us speak Italian, some of us speak French, and some of us speak German. In my part of Switzerland, we mostly speak German.”
Hmm. She might be telling the truth, I guessed. Just because a person spoke German didn’t necessarily mean she was from Germany, evidently. I’d have to ask Billy, since he knew considerably more about the world than I did, thanks to his subscription to National Geographic.
“I see,” I said. “And why did you come to our country?”
Was it my imagination, or did Hilda stiffen a little? It was probably my imagination.
“Oh, it was the war,” she said with an air of gravity that seemed unfeigned. “My brother”—she pronounced it brudder—“fought in the war, and he died in France.”
“Oh? I thought Switzerland remained neutral during the conflict.” I smiled sweetly, or tried to.
She swallowed. “Switzerland was, but we were living in France at the time the war started, and he . . . he joined the French army.”
“Really? Why were you in France?” I maintained my smile and tried not to feel guilty about my nosy questions.
“I was working as a nanny. My brother Hans was a . . . a chef.”
“Oh, my! A chef! I’m surprised he didn’t teach you how to cook.”
I could tell she was grinding her teeth. Evidently, that chef comment had been a mistake. I got the strong impression she was making up her history as she spoke.
“We never were home at the same time,” she said, solving that particular problem with one deft blow. “Hans was my last relation in the world. Our parents were dead, and I didn’t know what to do after the war ended. But the nice Salvation Army people agreed to sponsor me.”
Did that answer all my devious questions? I wasn’t sure. But it looked to me as though Hilda was through talking. She clamped her mouth shut, smiled at me and folded her hands on her desktop as if challenging me to question her further. I decided not to, although I longed to ask her if her connection with the Salvation Army had occurred all the way from Switzerland, or if she’d managed to get herself onto this continent before her sponsorship began. I reminded myself that I could probably ask Flossie or Johnny.
Unfortunately, our scalloped cheese bread didn’t take long to cook, and we hadn’t got as far as Gertrude before we had to retrieve our dishes from the oven. But that was all right. She wanted to talk to me and I could detain her after the class. I might still be able to discover answers to her strange behavior.
By gum, the scalloped cheese bread was pretty tasty, thereby making this my fourth success in a row. And there were only three more Saturdays of this nonsense left. The cheese bread and the knowledge that more than half my torture was behind me was almost enough to rebuild my confidence from the morning’s breakfast catastrophe. As my students, holding their dishes wrapped in towels to absorb the heat, filed out of the room, I wanted to clasp Gertrude by the arm in order to prevent her escaping again, but Flossie forestalled me by coming over and thanking me for the hundredth (or perhaps thousandth) time for teaching the class. Bother! There went Gertrude, sliding out of the room. Would I never learn the woman’s story?
“You’re welcome, Flossie. I’m happy to do my part.” And if that wasn’t a bold-faced lie, I didn’t know what was.
Flossie stayed and chatted with me until I was sure Gertrude was gone for good, at least for that day. I was impatient at first, but Flossie was so good-hearted and well-meaning that I eventually relaxed. After all, except for nosiness, what did I care how many evils possessed Gertrude Minneke and her brother? Well, except that I didn’t want anyone to suffer unnecessarily, of course. Still, Gertrude’s woes were none of my business unless she wanted me to know about them. Drat it.
But I was wrong! As I gathered my notes, my recipe booklet and my now-lukewarm baking dish and prepared to depart for home, lo and behold, who should show up but Gertrude Minneke! I’m sure I looked as pleased as I felt, because her steps faltered a bit as she approached me.
“Um . . . Mrs. Majesty?”
“Yes, Miss Minneke? I hope you’ll confide in me. I’ll try to help you if I can.”
“Oh, thank you!”
“Would you like to sit down?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
So we sat ourselves in two of the student desks, and Gertrude began her tale of woe.
“Mrs. Majesty, thank you so much for agreeing to talk to me today. I hope you’ll be able to advise me on what to do.”
“I’ll do my best.” I refrained from telling the poor dear that my judgment had been faulty a whole lot in recent years.
“You see, Eugene and I are from back East.”
“Mrs. Buckingham told me you’re originally from New Jersey.”
Gertrude’s expression sharpened. “You’ve talked about me?”
Oh, dear. There went my mouth again. “We didn’t talk about you,” I lied. “Mrs. Buckingham has given me a little background information on all of my students, to aid me as I teach the class. She’s from the eastern United States, too. New York City, in fact.”
“I see.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I guess that makes sense.”
“I’ll be happy to help you if I can,” I told her once more, wishing she’d get to the good stuff.
She sucked in a deep breath and then blurted it out. “Eugene was falsely accused of a terrible crime back in our home state. But he didn’t do it, Mrs. Majesty! I know Eugene, and he couldn’t have done it.”
I was shocked. I’d expected to be told about financial worries or family problems, but not crime! No wonder the woman was afraid of the coppers. In actual fact, I didn’t quite know what to say.
“He didn’t do it,” Gertrude insisted again. “He couldn’t have done it. He was with me at the time, so I know he didn’t do it.”
“Um . . . exactly what didn’t he do, Miss Minneke?”
> She gulped and hesitated and then landed the blow. “He was accused of killing a man.”
Murder! Good heavens!
Here I need to take a slight detour to explain something. I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly rational person and even generally unbiased, if you discount my problem with Germans, and you might even say that particular prejudice was almost justified. But I haven’t admitted to something else here. Every time I was introduced to a young, healthy man in those days, I wanted to ask him if he’d volunteered to fight for the freedom of Europe, as my Billy had. I suspected Eugene hadn’t, although he looked old enough to have done so when I’d met him. Perhaps this suspicious attitude on my part was unjustified, but I still had it, and it had faintly tarnished my initial impression of Eugene Minneke.
Very well, my confession is out of the way. Now I’ll take you back to the rest of that Saturday afternoon’s conversation.
Gertrude must have taken note of my shocked expression. She clutched my arm. “Oh, but he didn’t do it, Mrs. Majesty. He couldn’t have done it. He was with me! And,” she continued stoutly, “we’re going to prove it.”
“I . . . see.” I peered closely at her, trying to decipher if she was sincere or merely shamming sincerity. Naturally, I couldn’t tell one way or the other. I read novels all the time where people see anger or grief or falsity or truth in other people’s eyes or expressions, but I’ve never been able to do likewise. Maybe it’s a device novelists use to help their plots along. Maybe other people are more discerning than I. Phooey. “Um . . . do you think it was wise of you two to flee the state? I mean, wouldn’t you be more apt to find proof of his innocence in New Jersey?”
She shook her head so hard, her bun nearly collapsed. I’d had my hair cut and shingled the year before, but none of my students were up-to-date in that way. They probably couldn’t afford a visit to a barber.
“No! That’s the point! The police refused to believe him. They wanted him to be guilty! Oh, don’t you see?” She snatched a handkerchief from a pocket and sniffled into it. “If the situation hadn’t been so dire, we’d have stayed there and fought the accusation, but the corruption in the police department back East is foul. It’s hard for people who live out here to understand how bad it can be back there.”