by Alice Duncan
“Thank you, dear. I’m so very sorry this happened to you.”
“Me, too,” I said, still sounding sloppy.
“Good evening, Beatrice,” said Ma, walking into the living room from the dining room. “How nice of you to call.”
Mrs. Killebrew turned and smiled at my mother, who was holding out her hand to the newcomer. Mrs. K took Ma’s hand and squeezed it in both of hers.
“Good evening, Peggy. I wanted to check to see how your Daisy is doing. And…” She hesitated for a minute, then said, “And I have something I’d like to discuss with Mr. Rotondo.”
“Absolutely happy to discuss it with you,” said Sam, walking up to the two ladies. “Will we need privacy?”
Privacy? What the heck?
“Perhaps that might be a good idea, Mr. Rotondo,” said Mrs. K.
“Just call me Sam, please. Everyone does.”
“And everyone calls me Beatrice,” Mrs. K said with a girlish giggle.
Very well. So they were Sam and Beatrice. I was Daisy. Pa was Joe, Ma was Peggy, and my aunt was Vi. And I still didn’t know what the heck Sam and Beatrice had to discuss—in private—with each other. Doggone it! I was Sam’s fiancée! I should know when other women had dealings with my betrothed. Never mind that Mrs. Killebrew was considerably older than my parents and had several adult grandchildren. One of whom, an extremely pretty blonde named Linda, was approximately my own age.
I felt discarded. Abandoned.
Before he left our house to walk across the street to Mrs. Killebrew’s pretty little bungalow—little being a comparative term in this case, her house being a lot larger than ours and even had a little one-bedroom cottage behind it. I think they call those little cottages mother-in-law houses or something like that. I hope I’d never have to find out. Not that I didn’t like Sam’s mother; heck, I’d never even met the woman, although I know she disapproved of her son, born a Roman Catholic, marrying a Methodist. Anyhow, neither ours nor Mrs. Killebrew’s home was a mansion—Sam bent over and gave me a kiss on the forehead.
“What’s going—?”
“Tell you when I get back,” he said with what I could only consider a wicked grin.
And off the two went. Across the pepper-tree-lined street to Mrs. Killebrew’s bungalow. My parents, Vi, and I stared at each other. I’m sure my expression of befuddlement was as great as or greater than those on the faces of my parents and aunt.
What in the world did Sam and Mrs. Killebrew have to talk to each other about? At night. In private, of all things?
I smelled a rat. Something rotten in the state of Denmark. Or, rather, the state of California, which was where we lived.
Then an awful thought occurred to me.
Was Sam going to leave me for Linda Killebrew?
The cad!
Eight
A tap came at the front door about fifteen minutes after Sam and Mrs. K left. I almost told Pa not to answer the door, but I think I was the only one in the family who was actually miffed by Sam’s strange behavior. The rest of the family members were merely puzzled.
“Sam!” said a happy-sounding Pa.
I growled something under my breath. I think only Spike understood what I’d said. I didn’t then and still don’t, but Spike and I spoke the same language that night.
“Don’t get huffy, sweetie,” said Sam, strolling over to the sofa as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“I’m not huffy,” I said huffily.
“We didn’t know you had business with Mrs. Killebrew,” said Pa. His voice was conciliatory. Pa was the peacemaker in the family. Ma was unimaginative, humorless and dogmatic—and probably the kindest and sweetest person in the universe. Vi knew how everyone was supposed to behave and made sure they did so. I was the only one liable to fly off the handle. Not that I could fly off anything just then.
“I didn’t have business with her until recently,” Sam said, answering my father and sitting next to me on the sofa. He patted a cushion for Spike, who took him up on his offer and bounded onto the couch next to me. I wished I could bound. I’d bound all over Sam Rotondo and beat him to a jelly.
“It’s Linda, isn’t it?” I said, trying not to cry.
As I dabbed at a leaky eye with my hanky, Sam gave me a look of incomprehension. “Who’s Linda?”
“Linda Killebrew! You know very well who Linda is, Sam Rotondo! She’s Mrs. Killebrew’s granddaughter, she’s beautiful, she’s blonde, and she’s been visiting her grandmother a whole lot lately!”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met the lady,” said Sam, still sounding perplexed. The bounder (speaking of bounding)!
“I think I’ve seen her a time or two recently,” said Pa musingly.
“See? It is Linda!”
Sam put a hand on my shoulder. I wrenched said shoulder, my left, from his grasp and screeched in pain. “Damn you, Sam Rotondo! You’re leaving me for a blond hussy!”
“Daisy!” came Ma’s definitely shocked voice from just outside the living room. Guess she’d been in the dining room. “Linda Killebrew is a lovely young lady, and I don’t allow my children to swear.”
I turned my face into a sofa cushion and sobbed as if my heart were breaking. Which it was, darn it.
“Daisy?” Sam’s voice sounded tentative. I guess he didn’t dare put a hand on me again. “Daisy?”
“I think you might be over-reacting a little bit, sweetheart,” said Pa, his tone judicious.
Huh! Showed how much he knew!
“All Sam did was walk across the street with Mrs. Killebrew. Why don’t we let him tell us about it before you jump to unlikely conclusions?”
“They aren’t unlikely!” I wailed, reminding myself of Mrs. Pinkerton, which was a dismal thing to be reminded of. “I don’t blame him. I’m all bashed up and ugly, and Linda is gorgeous. And she’s younger than I am! I’m an old hag!”
“Daisy,” said Sam, a little more forcefully. “Will you calm down for a second so I can tell you—”
“I don’t want to hear about it!” I sobbed. Our poor sofa cushion was sure getting a work-out that evening.
“Daisy,” said Sam, his voice now firm and commanding. “Stop over-reacting and listen to me.”
“No! You’re a two-timing villain!”
“I’m thinking about buying Mrs. Killebrew’s house!” Sam all but shouted at me.
“You’re what?” cried Pa, elated unless I missed my guess.
“Oh, Sam, how wonderful!” Ma rushed up to the sofa and handed me a clean hanky. I snatched it out of her hand and snuffled into it, beginning to feel like a dim-witted dunce.
“It was supposed to be a surprise for Daisy,” said Sam. “Maybe I shouldn’t have kept it a secret. But jeez, I’ve only just worked out the details with Mrs. Killebrew and her son. That’s why I went over there just now. I don’t want to do anything definite about buying it until Daisy has a chance to look the place over and decide if she wants to live there.”
Slowly I sat up. My left shoulder ached like mad. My face was wet with tears.
I was, clearly and indisputably, an imbecile.
“Better now?” asked Sam almost as if he feared my answer.
I wanted to disappear into the sofa cushions and never come out again. I’d seldom in my life felt so ridiculous.
After another several snuffles and a few more tears, I blubbered, “I-I’m sorry, Sam.”
“That’s all right, love. It’s nice to know you care.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, as if he weren’t quite sure, “I think.”
Very well. I started crying again. “I-I feel s-s-so stupid!”
“You’re in pain, Daisy. That makes people nuts sometimes. Remember how weird I was after I got shot?”
“I’m not weird!”
“Of course you’re not,” Sam said in a rush.
“Nope. Not at all,” said Pa, likewise afflicted.
“Oh, Daisy, how can you be so silly?” asked Ma, who evidently didn’t give a care if s
he hurt my feelings. I wouldn’t have, either, in her position. I’d been not merely weird, but probably maniacal, as well.
“I-I don’t know,” I admitted. “I g-guess I feel and look so awful, I can’t imagine anyone wanting me. Especially after that stupid scene.”
Spike, knowing when his human needed canine care, licked my chin and gave me a tentative wag. I would have hugged him to my bosom, but I could only use one arm, and that one only slightly. I did, however, recommence sniveling.
Therefore, I felt even stupider than I had before.
As tenderly as he could, Sam said, “Tell you what, sweetheart. Tomorrow, we’ll dust off Billy’s old wheelchair, and I’ll push you over to Mrs. Killebrew’s house. We can go through it, and you can decide if you’d like to live there. Mr. Eric Killebrew—Mrs. Killebrew’s oldest son—and I have worked out all the details. All we need is your approval. Or disapproval, if you don’t like the idea.”
“Oh, Sam!” I warbled, my emotions tumbling over each other in the chaotic havoc remaining of my innards. “I’ve always loved that house!”
“You have?” He sounded surprised and pleased. “That’s…That makes me feel good. I wasn’t sure you’d like living across the street from this house.” I felt his neck snap as he lifted it to peer at my parents. “Not that we don’t want to live near to you folks, especially since my job entails odd hours and so forth.”
“We’d love it,” said Ma.
I glanced up from my hanky, since her voice had sounded suspiciously watery. Sure enough, she had tears in her eyes. I held out her formerly pristine hanky, but she shook her head. “That’s all right, dear. I’ll get a clean one from my drawer.”
I eyed the sopping mess I’d made of her hanky and didn’t blame her.
Pa pulled up a chair and plunked himself down into it. “When did you get the idea to buy Mrs. Killebrew’s place, Sam?”
“It was an accident, really. I was standing on line at the canteen at the station a while back, and Eric Killebrew—he’s Judge Wilbur’s clerk in the district court, courtroom four—asked me if I was the fellow he’d seen visiting your house so often. So we got to chatting, and he told me his mother wanted to sell the family home and come to live with him—Eric—and his family in Los Angeles. Since Mr. Killebrew passed on, she doesn’t have any other family nearby, and I guess she’s finding that house a little too much to take care of on her own.”
“My goodness, that was a lucky accidental meeting,” said Pa, smiling up a storm.
“What a wonderful idea!” said Ma, similarly animated. I suspect they were both attempting to make up for my disgraceful tantrum, which wasn’t theirs to do, but mine.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” I said, feeling as though my heart—and what was left of my brain—were residing in the basement under the living room, probably smashed into tiny little pieces and having been kicked underneath the furnace. “I don’t know what made me say such awful things to you.”
“I don’t either,” said Sam, tentatively putting a hand on my left shoulder again. This time I didn’t wrench it away from him. “And I’m sorry you were upset. I’m sure it’s just the result of your injuries. Being in pain all the time can wreck a person’s mood.”
I don’t know about anyone else in the house at that moment, but Sam’s words instantly made me think of my late, beloved Billy. He’d been in pain all the time, and Sam was right. Billy’s monumental pain and wrecked health had been responsible for his many foul moods and temper fits. And I’d tried so hard to understand and be patient—and had almost invariably failed. Naturally, that made me want to cry again. I resolutely sniffed back my tears.
“I’m going to try to walk over there with you. Is that all right, Sam? I don’t want to get out Billy’s wheelchair. It…it makes me feel bad.”
“It made me feel better when I had to use it,” said Sam with uncharacteristic candor. He wasn’t generally so apt to admit he’d been a pain in the hind end when I’d nursed him.
“But my situation is different from Billy’s. I only have minimal injuries that will get better in a couple of weeks.”
Boy, it hurt to admit that! Both my Billy and my Sam had been much more grievously injured than I. Of course, they’d both had fits and tantrums, too, so maybe Sam was right. Fits and tantrums went with the recuperative territory.
He squeezed my shoulder—gently—and said, “It’s all right, Daisy. We all understand. You’re hurting. But I do hope you like the house.”
“I’m sure I will.” I’d almost stopped snuffling, although I now sounded as if I had a fierce cold in my head, and my nose would probably never become un-stuffed. And I didn’t even want to think about my puffy red eyes. “What about that darling little court on South Los Robles where you live now?” I asked Sam.
After peering at me as if I were nuts for a second or two, Sam said, “I gave notice to my landlady.”
“I’ll bet she’s sorry to lose you.”
“Yes,” said Sam with a little sigh. “She cried. I felt like a louse.”
“Aw,” I said, touched. “That’s so sweet.”
“Yes, well, she didn’t think so. But I expect she’ll get over it. I told her I’d visit from time to time.”
“That’s so nice of you.” I took another swipe at my nose with my soggy hanky, my heart having gone all mushy and sentimental.
“And you can still dine with us!” said Ma, as if she’d just recalled this most significant fact.
Being able to eat Vi’s cooking was about the first thing I’d thought of when Sam had plunked his plan in my lap. Which pretty much shows you where my brain resided most of the time—in my stomach. Then again, the notion of having to cook meals for Sam and myself had been worrying me a whole lot in recent months. As I’ve mentioned often already, I couldn’t cook. Anything. Boiling water presented a challenge.
“That’s probably the main reason Sam wants to buy the place,” I said, trying to be funny.
“It is,” said Sam, winning himself a soft smack from me—but he also got a giggle, so it was all right.
After they’d evidently decided I was over my fit of the dismals, Ma and Pa bade Sam and me a good-night, and wandered off to their bedroom. Vi had gone upstairs to her room not long after we’d finished dining.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked Sam a question. I asked it tentatively, because I wasn’t sure I should ask it at all—but I really wanted to know the answer.
“Um, Sam?”
“Yes, Daisy?”
“Um…I probably shouldn’t ask this.”
“You shouldn’t ask what?”
“Well…Isn’t Mrs. Killebrew’s house kind of expensive?”
“Expensive?” He frowned at me. “No. Why?”
“Really? I’m glad to hear it. I don’t want you to go broke housing us.”
“Daisy, we don’t have to worry about money.”
“Well, I don’t worry about money. Not normally. I mean…Um…I didn’t think policemen could afford to buy homes in Pasadena. I read in the Star News that most of the officers in the PPD live outside the city limits, because Pasadena is…well, so snooty. And expensive. I mean, I make lots of money as a spiritualist-medium, but I didn’t think—”
“Sweetheart, I don’t have to live on my police salary.”
I think my mouth fell open, although I couldn’t find words in it anywhere. I clacked my teeth together and managed to say, “Oh?”
“Nope. I’m a wealthy man, believe it or not.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How’d that happen?”
“I own a chain of jewelry stores in New York City with my father. He’s the mastermind and genius behind the design of the jewelry. I’m the money man. I’ve always been good with money, both the making of it and the keeping of it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
For some reason, Sam’s news bothered me. “You know, Sam, I understand Italians have for
med a bunch of gangs in New York, Chicago and places like that and run illegal liquor. Are you sure you didn’t get your money that way?”
With a glare that would have made me run away if I were able, Sam said, “Are you serious? Do you honestly think I have any association at all with a bunch of murdering bootleggers?”
“Well…Not really, but you know, you’re Italian and…” My words trickled to a stop.
Sam continued to glower at me.
“Um…I’m sorry, Sam.”
“I should hope to hell you are sorry! You have no idea how hard it is to get a good business established and keep it going. And did you really, for one minute, think I’d get involved with murdering crooks? I’m a policeman, dammit!”
“Um…I…guess not.”
“You guess not?” Sam stood and stamped around the living room for a few seconds. Spike watched him, worried. So did I, and I worried too.
“I truly am sorry, Sam. It’s just that I had no idea.”
“But you jumped to the conclusion that, because I don’t have to live on my policeman’s salary, I’m a damned bootlegger?”
“No,” I said in a voice that was as small as I could make it.
Pa entered the living room, his robe on, and gazed upon us with concern. “What’s going on in here?” he asked.
“I told Daisy about the jewelry-store chain in New York, and she thinks I’m involved with bootleggers!” Sam told Pa.
“She what?” Pa, plainly shocked, looked from Sam to me. “Whatever gave you that idea, Daisy?”
“Well, nothing. I mean, I don’t genuinely think Sam has anything to do with bootleggers, but I didn’t know he had a lot of money either.” As you can imagine, I was feeling stupider and stupider as the seconds ticked past.
“Good Lord, Daisy,” said my father. “Sam showed me detailed reports of his financial status when he asked me if I’d give the two of you my blessing on your nuptials.”
“He did?”
“He did.”
“When? Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Daisy,” said Sam in his “patient” voice, which drove me nuts, “it’s a time-honored tradition for a man to ask the father of his intended for his blessing.”
