by Alice Duncan
Shaken Spirits
Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery Series, Book Thirteen
Alice Duncan
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright 2019 by Alice Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Reader Invitation
Scarlet Spirits
Purchase Scarlet Spirits
Aunt Vi’s Hungarian Goulash
Also by Alice Duncan
About the Author
First and foremost, my (almost) infinite thanks go to Peter Brandvold, who gave me his own character, Lou Prophet, to play with. In his salad days, Lou was a hard-drinking, womanizing, well-armed and dangerous bounty hunter. By the time Lou shows up in Daisy’s world, he’s old, tired, worn-down, one-legged and cranky, but Daisy, Sam and I had a whole lot of fun with old Lou, and expect to continue doing so, unless Mean Pete makes me give Lou back to him.Many thanks also to my wonderful beta readers, Lynne Welch, Sue Krekeler, David Bedini, Karen Rhoads, Iris Irene and Gina Gilmore. I really appreciate your help. I need all the help I can get, and I needed every one of you.And thanks to P.J. Graves, who told me about Gay’s Lion Farm!
Foreword
Now you can experience the smells and flavors of Aunt Vi’s kitchen, just like Daisy! Once again, we were fortunate enough to convince Aunt Vi to share one of her mouth-watering recipes. When you finish the story, page ahead for Aunt Vi’sHungarian Goulash which is not to be missed. Enjoy!
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One
When I woke up at home, aching to beat the band, I couldn’t remember what had happened. The final thing I recalled was sighing when the last band and the last float in the 1925 Tournament of Roses Parade passed us by, and we got ready to walk home, chatting happily amongst ourselves.
My fiancé, Detective Sam Rotondo, who worked for the Pasadena Police Department, had joined us for the special event. Even though we weren’t married yet, Sam was part of the family.
It being the first day of January and mid-winter and all, the weather was brisk, although you can hardly tell one season from another in Southern California. However, winter is colder than summer, even in Pasadena.
Therefore, I worried a bit about Sam’s left leg, which had sustained a bullet wound a few months prior to that day. It seemed to hurt him more when the weather turned chilly. “Are you sure you can walk all the way to Colorado?” I asked him before we left home, being the solicitous fiancée I was. Oh, and Colorado is a street in this case; not the state.
“Of course, I’m sure,” said Sam grumpily. He didn’t like to have his weaknesses pointed out, even if they weren’t his fault.
“Just asking,” said I, miffed, although I’m not sure why. I knew Sam well enough by then to know he’d be a touchy old grouch if anyone mentioned his leg. “Have you taken any aspirin this morning?”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “You know I have. You’re the one who gave them to me along with the glass of water.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I just worry about you, is all.”
Sam rolled his eyes ceiling-wards. He was always doing that.
“Well, I do! It’s because I love you.”
“Are you going to be a nagging wife?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Just checking.”
He grinned, and I felt like smacking him. He enjoyed getting me all riled up for no reason, the fiend.
“Anyhow,” Sam continued, “I have this lovely new cane to use if my leg bothers me.” He brandished same, and I felt my face flush. I’d given him that new cane, a Malacca number with a swell horse’s head handle, as one of his Christmas presents. He’d needed it because I’d broken his old cane over the head of a vicious murderer. But I didn’t like to think about that.
After we’d settled the cane-and-leg issue, Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, Sam, and I all began the walk up to Colorado Boulevard, where we aimed to find a place from which to watch the big parade. We were joined in this endeavor by the Wilsons, our next-door neighbors to the north. Pudge Wilson, the young scion of the family, had celebrated his thirteenth birthday not long back and had graduated to full Boy Scout status. He wore his uniform proudly and always attempted to do at least one good deed every day, preferably early so he didn’t have to think about it again.
It became apparent shortly after the Wilsons joined our party that Pudge’s good deed on this New Year’s Day was to assist Sam Rotondo, who didn’t appreciate Pudge’s efforts on his behalf. I kind of wanted to take Pudge aside and tell him to lay off that particular good deed, but I didn’t get the opportunity. We walked in a clump and got to Colorado Street together. Pudge then made himself useful by clearing a spot on the curb from which we could watch the parade. I worried about Sam having to stand for so long, but I didn’t press the issue. Anyhow, Pudge had thought to bring his camp stool, which folded up when not in use.
“If anyone gets tired of standing, just sit here,” said he, giving Sam a meaningful glance.
“Thank you, Pudge,” I said, since Sam didn’t seem inclined to acknowledge the boy’s thoughtfulness.
Pudge, who had been sweet on me for quite a while by then, blushed up a storm. He was so cute. I have no idea why his nickname was Pudge, because he was approximately as big around as a broom straw. I’d asked Mrs. Wilson once, and she’d merely shrugged and said she didn’t know either.
The Rose Parade was beautifu
l, as usual. The Tournament of Roses Queen that year was Miss Margaret Scoville, a pretty young woman whom I didn’t know personally. Criminy, that made me feel old—and I’d only just turned twenty-five in November! But there you go. All my school friends were married or working or having babies or whatever, and a whole new crop of lovelies had sprung up while I wasn’t looking. Time flies, even when you’re not having fun.
After the parade ended, we started the short walk home.
And that was all I remember.
When I woke up, Dr. Benjamin, our wonderful family doctor, stood at the head of my bed. Spike, my late husband’s beloved black-and-tan dachshund—everyone else in the family loved him, too—lay on the folded quilt at the foot of the bed, staring at me and looking worried. Sam, Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Benjamin and Pudge had clumped together around my bed. Ma and Aunt Vi were crying into their hankies. Mrs. Wilson held Pudge’s hand in hers, and it looked to me as though they were squeezing each other’s hands hard.
I’m pretty sure I blinked at the assembled masses. “Wh-what happened?” I asked. Not original, but I really wanted to know.
“You were hit by a car,” said Pa, his voice shaking slightly.
“I was?”
“Yes,” said Ma. She sniffled and added, “Sam insisted on carrying you home.”
“With your leg?” I said upon a gasp, my left arm having given a particularly sharp twinge just then.
“No,” said Sam, his voice grim. “In my arms.”
I’d lifted my head slightly to ask my stupid question, but let it fall again, exhausted and annoyed. Besides, lifting my head hurt. “You know what I meant.”
“Yeah. I know.” Sam brought a chair from the kitchen into my bedroom—which was right off the kitchen and, therefore, easy to fetch—and fell onto it with something of a plunk. “You nearly scared the life out of us,” he added.
“Oh, Daisy, we were so frightened,” whispered Ma. Pa put his arm around her and gave her a hug. “You were bleeding everywhere!” She turned and wept onto Pa’s shoulder.
“There was blood all over the place,” Pudge contributed. He sounded a little more excited than troubled. What the heck. He was a boy, and I understand boys are like that.
“I-I still don’t understand precisely what happened,” I said. Looking to Dr. Benjamin, who was probably the most coherent member of the group gathered in my bedroom, I asked, “Do you know, Doc?”
“Only what your father told me. A car hit you and slammed you into a nearby pepper tree.” For the record our street, Marengo Avenue, was lined with pepper trees. “Sam carried you home, and Vi telephoned my house.”
“I’m sorry,” said I, grieved to have been the one to spoil his holiday. “But thank you.”
“I’m not sorry. I’m glad I was home,” said he in his brisk way. “Dorothy and I were getting ready to listen to the football game. Well, I was, anyway.” He grinned. His wife only looked sort of pained, and I got the impression Mrs. Benjamin—Dorothy—wasn’t as fond of football as was the doctor.
“I hurt all over,” I said then, taking a mental scan of my body’s aches and pains. “Is anything broken?”
“Your left shoulder was dislocated,” said Dr. Benjamin. “With the help of Sam and Joe”—Joe is my father—“We managed to jerk it back into place.”
I grimaced at what sounded like an icky process. I noticed Sam grimacing, as well, so I suspect my assessment had been correct.
Dr. Benjamin grinned. “A dislocation is slightly better than a break. At least your bones are all intact, but I’m going to have to bind your left arm to your body, and you’re not going to be able to use it for a week or two. You need to allow it to heal, and that requires rest. You’re lucky the arm wasn’t broken.”
Lucky, was I? Somehow I couldn’t find it within myself to be grateful. “But I need both of my arms!”
“Daisy, you need to heal,” said Sam in what, for him, was a gentle voice. “It’ll take time. That’s what you’re always telling me about my leg.” As already mentioned, Sam had been shot in his left thigh by an evil woman some months prior to this current disaster. He wasn’t a patient…patient, so I was irked at him for giving me the same advice I was always giving him.
“But…but what about my job? Have you ever tried to manipulate the Ouija board with only one arm to use? Or shuffle a deck of tarot cards? Or lift a crystal ball?”
In case that sounds like several odd questions, let me tell you why it wasn’t. I earned my living, and that of my family, by practicing the art of spiritualism. I used my Ouija board and tarot cards all the time to talk to other people’s dead relatives. Do I truly believe I can communicate with ghosts? Good heavens, no! I’m not an idiot; but I am a really good spiritualist-medium.
“No. I think you’re the only one who has to worry about those things,” said Sam tartly. Then he grinned. “But, hey, we’re a matched set now. I have a bum left leg, and you have a bum left arm.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.”
“You were all cut up, too,” said Pudge, still excited unless I missed my guess. “Like Mrs. Gumm said, when it hit you, that car flung you really hard against that tree, and you got scraped all over.”
“Oh.” No wonder everything hurt.
“But I disinfected all your wounds and got you bandaged. You’ll be fine in a couple of weeks. Except for your arm. That might take a little more time.”
“Oh, no.” I began to cry then and felt like a fool.
“It will be all right, sweetheart,” said Pa, leaning over to give the top of my head a peck.
“And you’ll regain full use of your arm,” said Doc Benjamin, probably trying to cheer me up. “Although you’ll have to be careful not to lift anything heavy or do any strenuous activities with that arm for a while. It will take time to fully adjust to being back in its proper place, and the muscles in your arm and shoulder were all strained severely. Human joints aren’t like Lincoln Logs, you know.”
“What’s a Lincoln Log?” I asked.
“Toy logs you can use for building stuff,” said Pudge. “They’re keen.”
“Oh.” To my knowledge, I’d never heard of a Lincoln Log, but I filed the name away in the back of my brain. My good friends, Johnny and Flossie Buckingham, had a little boy whom they’d named after my late, beloved husband, Billy. Maybe little boys liked building things with Lincoln Logs. Heck, maybe little girls did, too. I didn’t know much about children at that point in my life.
“Who was driving the car that hit me?” I thought to ask.
“We don’t know,” said Sam.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You mean whoever it was got away? You didn’t even copy down the number plate?”
“Didn’t have one,” said Sam.
Silence filled the room as I contemplated Sam’s comment. “Isn’t there some kind of law in California that says you have to get a number plate on your motorcar?” I asked. “And a driving license? I thought that was the law nowadays.”
“Yes. California has required licensing of autos since 1914…maybe it was 1917. But the car that hit you didn’t have a number plate. Don’t know if the driver had a license, but if I ever find him, he’ll never get another one.” Sam sounded as if he meant it.
“Good,” I said. Then I dripped a few more tears, feeling sore, pathetic, and stupid.
“Oh, Daisy, we were all so worried about you,” said Vi. “But you just rest in bed for a few days.” She turned to my mother. “Peggy, let’s set the table. Dinner is ready. All I have to do is serve it up.”
“Good idea,” said my mother, the Peggy in question.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I feel like a loafer. I’m the one who should be setting the table and laying out the foodstuffs.” I did those two things because they were the only two things I could do when it came to cooking. Nobody in my family would allow me to cook anything, because they knew I couldn’t. And I’d tried, too. Melancholy reflection.
&nbs
p; “Don’t be silly, Daisy,” said Ma, stiffening her shoulders, taking a quick swipe at her recently dripping eyes and nodding at Vi. “You just rest.”
“But—” I said.
“You, young lady,” Aunt Vi said sternly, “do as your mother says. And that means, don’t do anything. Just rest.”
“I’ll bring a tray in for you and Sam,” said Ma. Glancing at Sam, she said, “Unless you want to join us at the table, Sam.”
“That’s all right. I’ll stay here with Daisy. She might need help cutting up her food.”
“Good point,” said Pa. He dropped the arm he’d had around my mother’s shoulders and turned abruptly. Heading toward the kitchen, he asked Pudge and Mrs. Wilson, “Will you be joining us for dinner? There’s plenty for everyone.”
“Oh, Ma, can we?” asked Pudge, sounding as if he’d never heard such a great idea before. Well, he was only thirteen.
“We have our own meal cooking, Pudge,” said Mrs. Wilson, smiling at her son. She knew why Pudge wanted to dine with us. It’s ’cause Vi was a much better cook than anyone else in the known universe. Turning to me, she said, “Take care of yourself, Daisy. I’ll send Pudge over to check on you from time to time.”
“Thank you,” I said weakly.
“You’re welcome.”
“Yeah,” said Pudge, squaring his own shoulders and trying to look tall. “I’ll check on you every day.”
