by Alice Duncan
“But it’s 1925!”
“What’s 1925 have to do with it?” asked Pa.
“Anyhow, this happened in 1923,” said Sam, his voice more dry than patient.
“Nobody told me,” I said, my voice having gone tiny again.
“Good Lord, Daisy.” Glancing from me to my betrothed, Pa said, “We didn’t raise her like that. Honestly, Sam. But she’s always had quite an imagination.”
“I guess so,” said Sam, not noticeably appeased.
“I’m sorry!” I said, a little louder. “If anyone had bothered to tell me about your big bucks, I’d never even have thought about bootleggers!”
Both my father and Sam stared at me for several seconds. Then Sam heaved a gigantic sigh and sat next to me on the sofa again. Pa walked back up the hall, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” I said for the I don’t know how manyth time. “I just didn’t know, was all.”
After a few fraught seconds, Sam seemed to lose his anger. Rather, he grinned and said, “Didn’t want you marrying me for my money.”
“But you don’t mind marrying me because of my aunt’s cooking?”
“Well, sure. But that’s a whole ’nother thing. I mean, money is nice to have, but food is essential,” Sam said.
That put the final end to my bad mood. I laughed until I almost cried again.
Nine
The following day, Sam drove his big black Hudson up to the curb in front of our house at half past twelve. We’d agreed on this time as it was during his luncheon break. It was also late enough in the day so that, even in my ailing state, I should be up, if not about a whole lot.
In truth, I felt the least little bit better that morning than I had the day before. I think having Sam clear up my insane misunderstanding about his visit to the Killebrew house, not to mention his admission that he had lots of money, had helped heal my innards as well as my outards. I don’t think that’s a word, but who cares?
Oddly enough, even before Sam showed up at the door—in fact, quite a long time before—Spike had started scratching at it, as if he really wanted to go outside and see what was going on in the wide world of Pasadena.
When I peeked out the front window, I told him, “Gee, Spike, nothing’s happening out there. Samson’s not even there. At least I don’t see him anywhere.” Samson the cat belonged to the Wilsons, and he sometimes liked to lounge on our front porch in order to drive Spike nuts. “I know you like Sam, but hold your horses, all right? He’ll be here pretty soon.”
Spike made it abundantly plain that he didn’t want to hold his horses. His behavior seemed peculiar to me, as he’d been the most obedient dog in the known universe ever since he’d graduated first in his class at the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club two years prior.
When I heard Pa greet Sam in the driveway to the side of the house—he’d been tending the little flower bed there so our neighbors would have a nicer view than that of a mere driveway—I even had to nudge Spike in order for him to stop paying attention to the front door and hie himself to the side door. Spike greeted Sam with his accustomed vivacity…and then returned to the front door.
“What’s up with him?” asked Sam, staring after Spike with some bemusement.
“Don’t know. He’s been hovering around the front door all morning. I almost had to drag him away from it in order to get him to say hey to you.”
With a small frown, Sam said, “I know I usually come through the front door, but isn’t that unusual behavior for Spike? Heck, he generally leaps all over folks who come to call, no matter which door they use.”
Pa chuckled.
I said with a certain snap to my voice, “He leaps until I tell him not to, and then he desists. He is a most obedient hound.”
“Yes, I know. I wasn’t casting aspersions,” said Sam, grinning at me. Then he tilted his head and surveyed me from tip to toe. How embarrassing. However, he said then, “You look better today, sweetheart. How do you feel?”
Because I wasn’t absolutely sure how to answer that question, I first took stock of my various bodily ouches. After ruminating and flexing here and there, I said, “I think I’m getting better! Gee, I didn’t think I’d ever get better. Especially after that scene I made yesterday.” Then I turned around, trying to twirl—and yes, I know, that was a stupid thing to do—squealed, “Ow!” and would have fallen over a dining room chair had not Sam caught me.
“Careful there, Irene Castle. You aren’t ready to dance just yet,” Sam said, laughing. “Did you hurt anything? Pull off any scabs or anything?”
“No,” I said, my voice a piteous squeak.
“Don’t go jumping around yet, Daisy,” Pa advised. “It’s only the second week in January, and you have a couple of weeks of rest and recuperation to endure before you attempt leaping over chairs or waltzing.”
“You’re both right,” I acknowledged, still feeling like an idiot. “But I actually had felt better. Until I attempted my twirl.”
“Ah. That was supposed to be a twirl, was it?”
“Darn you, Sam Rotondo! You don’t have to make fun of me!”
“I’m not making fun of you, sweetheart. I just don’t want you overdoing.” He glanced at the floor.
So did I. I had expected to see Spike there. I presume Sam had, too. As a rule, when folks came over, he danced at our feet, frolicking and happy, joyful that several of his humans had gathered together. He probably thought we got together just for him.
Not that day.
He wasn’t there.
“What the heck?” Sam and I said together.
“He’s at the front door,” Pa said, sounding as baffled as Sam and I.
“Golly, I can’t imagine why he’s so enamored of the front door today,” I said. “But let me get my hat, and then I’ll be ready to go with you to Mrs. Killebrew’s place, Sam.”
“Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I laid everything out last night.”
“Efficient,” said he.
“Efficiency is one of my trademarks,” I said, not really meaning it; although, now that I think about it, it kind of is. I was always prepared for whatever I anticipated the day would bring. Because I’d anticipated this particular day would bring a walk across the street on a brisk January day, I’d laid out a brown wool jersey skirt with an over-blouse of a lighter-weight cream-colored jersey. To complement this simple day wear, I aimed to wear the perfectly gorgeous cardigan sweater Flossie Buckingham had knitted and given me at Christmas. She’d used yarns of different colors, mostly brown, cream and tan, in an irregularly striped pattern. It might sound odd, but it was a simply smashing sweater and, while it would be perfect for a casual occasion, it was also tres fashionable.
My old brown cloche hat would keep my head warm on the trip across the street. And, because I was unbalanced (so to speak) thanks to my left arm still being strapped to my side and my various bruises and bumps making me limp, I’d already tugged on a pair of black cotton stockings and my old—but fashionable—low-heeled and comfortable black walking shoes.
Nobody could ever say Daisy Gumm Majesty, spiritualist-medium to the elite of Pasadena and Altadena, was not dressed impeccably. Well, except when I was cleaning the house and doing laundry, but I’d bet even Queen Victoria had never worn her crown when she did laundry. Not that she’d ever had to do laundry, but…Oh, never mind. Heck, even when I did housework, I wore a decent day dress.
“Look what I brought you,” said Sam when I emerged from my bedroom, my hat pinned to my hair and my sweater buttoned over my blouse.
And darned if he didn’t dangle a beautiful Malacca cane before me, complete with a…I peered at it more closely. Then I gasped in surprise and delight. “Sam!” I squealed. “It’s a dachshund!”
“It is,” he said proudly. “Now not only do we have matching injuries, but we now have matching canes, only yours has a dachshund-head handle and mine has a horse’s head.”
I took the cane from him and clutched it t
o my bosom. “Oh, my goodness, where did you get it? I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“That’s because it’s the only one there is. I had it made for you at Arnold’s Jewelry Store. Well, not the cane itself, but they crafted the head for me.”
“Wow, that’s one superior cane,” said my father, looking as if he almost wished he limped so he could get a cane of his own. “And it’ll help you keep your balance, too.” He grabbed Sam’s hand and wrung it. “Thanks for taking care of my girl, Sam”
“She’s my girl, too, Joe,” said Sam. “I don’t want anything else to happen to her. At least not until after we’re hitched. If we ever are,” he added glumly.
The truth was that our engagement seemed to be dragging on quite a bit. If Sam hadn’t been shot and if I hadn’t been run into by a car, we might have been hitched already. But you never know what life is going to hurl at you—or hurl you into—so we were coping as best we could. Except when I flew off the handle. Or when Sam got grumpy. I wasn’t the only impediment to our nuptials, in other words.
“Thank you, Sam.” Naturally, I’d had to grab my hanky and mop up the few tears that had spilled from my eyes, Sam’s gesture having touched me so deeply.
And shoot. If he had enough money to get Arnold’s Jewelers to fashion a special-edition dachshund-head handle for a cane, he really must have plenty of the green stuff to keep us in comfort. Don’t tell anyone, but his revelation that he didn’t have to depend on his police-department salary had done my mood a world of good. I hate to be thought materialistic, but…well…I guess I am. At least as much as most folks, anyway.
Hmm. Now that I knew we wouldn’t be hurting for money, I’d have to have a chat with Sam about making regular donations to the Salvation Army. After all, two of our dear friends—well, my dear friends—headed the Pasadena chapter (or whatever you call it) of the Salvation Army. Not only that, but both Johnny and Flossie Buckingham had been of great service to me more than once. They’d also assisted the Pasadena Police Department. They deserved donations from us.
But never mind that. We were on our way to look through Mrs. Killebrew’s house. We were going to see what well might become our house! This was exciting. If I were up to a celebratory leap or two, I’d probably have leapt, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t, my aborted twirl earlier having squelched any desire to perform further antics of a like nature.
The cane did help me walk to the front door, as it kept me quite well-balanced in spite of having the use of only one arm. “This was a brilliant idea of yours, Sam.”
“Thanks. I know my cane helps me when I need it.”
“I hope neither of you will need your canes much longer,” said Pa, who accompanied us to the door.
You’d have thought Spike wanted to slither through the crack under the door, he’d pressed his nose so close to it. I shook my head. “What the heck is the matter with you today, Spike?”
He didn’t answer, but he did look up at me eagerly, his tail wagging deliriously. He wanted to go outside; that much was obvious.
“All right, all right. Let’s go then. But sit and stay and wait for your command.” Spike understood sentences like that, and he sat.
But darned if he didn’t break his training as soon as Sam opened the front door and before I’d given him the “Okay” command that was supposed to release him from durance vile. He scooted through the doorway as if his tail were on fire.
“Spike!” I hollered.
I took a step, intending to get my dog back, but Sam put a hand on my arm. “Wait, Daisy. Something’s wrong.”
“What?”
“Look. There’s something wrong with the porch steps.”
I looked. Spike, wagging his tail as if he were filled with the greatest joy a dachshund could experience on a front porch, had begun licking the porch steps!
“Joe, you’d better check it out. Neither Daisy nor I are very good at bending right now.”
“Yeah,” said my father, hurrying to Spike. As soon as he knelt beside the dog, I saw his nose wrinkle. “I’ll be hornswoggled,” said he, surprise writ large on his features and amazement in his voice.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It looks—and smells—as if someone’s painted the porch steps with some kind of grease!” He grabbed Spike’s collar and dragged him, protesting, back a step or two. Then he took another couple of sniffs and said, “Bacon grease, unless I miss my guess.”
“Someone smeared bacon grease on our front porch steps?” I cried, flabbergasted.
“Yes, and you aren’t to go near them until I clean them up,” said Pa, both is face and voice grim.
“But…Oh, dear.”
“Yes,” said Sam. “I’ll help you, Joe. Daisy, you go on in the house and keep Spike with you. We’d better check the side porch steps, too, and the back ones.”
“But you just used the side steps a few minutes ago,” I pointed out as I herded my hound inside the house. Spike wanted to be on the porch where the bacon grease resided.
“True. But I’m going to look at them anyway, and I also want to check the back steps before you go anywhere near them.”
“Let me get a bucket of soapy water and some rags.” Pa hurried off to the kitchen.
Spike still wanted to go outside.
“You mean…You think this was another attempt to hurt me?” I asked in a small voice.
“Yes,” said Sam. No equivocation there. Just a plain old “Yes.”
“That’s…um…distressing,” I said.
“Very,” said Sam.
“Yes,” said Pa. “It’s very distressing, and it means whoever hit you with that car isn’t through with you yet.”
And if that wasn’t a dismal thought, I didn’t know what was.
However, when we finally made it to Mrs. Killebrew’s house, she greeted us with tea, cookies and her son Eric, who seemed like a nice fellow. I do believe he’d already grown up and moved away by the time Billy, my folks, and I bought our bungalow across the street.
Then we were given a tour of the house and grounds. What a lovely home! Even the front porch was charming, with a low, white stucco fence enclosing it. It could be made inescapable (by Spike) if we closed the little wrought-iron gate. I could picture Sam, Spike and me sitting on the porch during warm summer evenings, watching the world go by. Not that a whole lot of the world walked down Marengo Avenue during the summer months. Or any other months, for that matter. Still, I loved the porch.
I don’t know how long Mr. and Mrs. Killebrew had been married, but evidently Mr. Killebrew had built the house for his missus, and they’d lived in it all their married lives. The love they’d put into it showed in every carved newel post and mantelpiece. The little back house was just as charming, and a good deal smaller. Perfect for…well…a mother-in-law or someone like that. Although—please don’t tell Sam I said this—I wouldn’t really want his mother living there. She disapproved of me, which thought always made me sad.
I managed to walk upstairs on my own, holding tightly to the banister. The upstairs was every bit as charming as the downstairs.
“Peter loved carpentry,” said Mrs. K, sniffling a little. “He was so good to us all.”
“He was indeed,” agreed Eric. “I miss Pa.”
“Are you sure you want to sell the house?” I asked. “It’s…it’s so beautiful. And there’s so much of you and your family…I don’t know. Built into it, I guess I mean to say. I don’t know how you can bear to part with it.”
After heaving a sigh as big as Pasadena itself, Mrs. Killebrew said, “I’m sure. I’ll always adore this home, but it has served its purpose, and now it’s time for me to let it go. Eric and his family are well established in Los Angeles, Peter Junior is in Arcadia, and Gabriel is a Presbyterian minister in San Luis Obispo. Linda, Eric’s eldest, is getting married soon—in June, in fact—and I do want to be present for that. She and John—John Culbertson, her intended—have built a gorgeous home in the city of Glendale. So I’m se
lling this one because the family no longer needs it. I hope it will serve another family as beautifully as it served us for all these years.”
“And then Ma will come and live with us,” said Eric with a loving look for his mother. “She doesn’t need this big place to take care of.”
“That’s true,” said Mrs. Killebrew with another sigh. “I’ll miss it, but I won’t miss cleaning and dusting it all the time. And the yard work is just too much for me these days. But I have the name of a wonderful gardener if you’d like it. He comes once a week to cut the grass and prune the bushes and does other things like that.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “If you can afford to have a girl come in a couple of times a week, I think you should do it. This place has four bedrooms, a front parlor, a back parlor, a dining room, a kitchen, and two bathrooms. And then there’s that little back cottage. Altogether, it’s just too much for me.”
It sounded as if it would be too much for me, too, but I wasn’t about to admit it. I adored the place!
“We can get domestic help if we need it,” said Sam as if that sounded like a good idea to him, too. “First we have to get Daisy healed.”
“And you,” I said.
“Ah, yes. Mother told me about your accident, Mrs. Majesty. And I understand your wound was sustained in the line of duty, wasn’t it, Mr. Rotondo?”
“Yes. To both of those things,” I said. “Only evidently, my accident wasn’t an accident.”
Eric’s eyebrows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
I glanced at Sam to see if he’d object to me telling the Killebrews our theory of the Daisy incident. He nodded his assent.
So I told mother and son someone had singled me out on purpose to smack me into that pepper tree on New Year’s Day and then told them about the bacon-grease episode.
“Good Lord,” said Eric.
Mrs. Killebrew’s hand flew to her mouth. “My goodness! That’s terrible!”
“Yes. Clearly I’ve offended someone really badly.”
