Shaken Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 13): Historical Mystery

by Alice Duncan

  “I like me a piano tune from time to time,” said he. Turning to Sam, he said, “Want me to help you drag that vermin into the house?”

  “I think I can do it,” said Sam, who was a big man.

  And he did do it. Dragged Bruce Petrie into the house by his ropes and, true to his word, hauled him over to the piano in the northwest corner of the living room and shoved him underneath the piano bench. He made sure to cover the man’s mouth with the gag before he left him there because nobody wanted to hear him whine and curse as we feasted. The rest of us retired to the dining room.

  Naturally, discussion around the table centered on the scoundrel who’d try to break into our bungalow and murder me and who might have hired him. I reiterated my belief that Stacy Kincaid remained the ultimate source of this latest incursion into my peace of mind and body. “I think I’ll telephone Harold. He might know something, even if he doesn’t know he knows it.”

  Everybody looked at me. Lou Prophet seemed to be savoring his meal. In our brief acquaintance, I hadn’t seen him appear so placid and serene as he did then. He actually smiled at me—a little.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Sam. “Maybe even his mother knows something she doesn’t know she knows.”

  “She doesn’t know a whole lot,” I muttered. Unkind, I know.

  “Daisy,” said Ma. She always does that when I’m rude or catty. I was used to it.

  I heard Lou Prophet chuckle under his breath and decided I really did like him.

  We finished our meal in a leisurely manner, not rushing ourselves in spite of the occasional thumps and groans from the living room. Bruce Petrie could just stay there and suffer, as far as I was concerned. In fact, if I had my way, I’d stick him in the basement with the other killer I’d locked in there and let him die and rot, too.

  Sometimes I’m not very nice, but please don’t tell my clients.

  I was well enough by that time to help clear away the dishes, so I did, with Ma’s help. Then I bought out the pie—apple, by golly—and set it at Vi’s place at the table. She cut big wedges of pie and handed them around on the plates Ma had set at her place for the purpose. Vi deposited a thick chunk of cheese on each plate, too.

  As he always did when we had apple pie and cheese, Pa recited, “‘Apple pie without some cheese is like a kiss without the squeeze.’”

  “Joe,” said Ma. “That one’s so old, it’s growing whiskers.”

  “Still true, though,” said Pa, grinning at her.

  “Sure is,” said Lou Prophet.

  I studied him surreptitiously and decided he’d probably been quite the lad—I think the British use that expression to describe womanizers—in his day. Which had been about thirty or forty years prior to that day. I could tell he’d been handsome once. Actually, he still had an earthy, if rugged and well-worn, appeal about him. Not that I wasn’t totally devoted to Sam, but heck, a girl can still look, can’t she? Men do. All the time, curse them.

  After we finished dining, Sam and Lou Prophet hauled Bruce Petrie out from under the piano bench, dragged him to Sam’s Hudson and stuffed him in the back seat. I was sorry to see them go. Not Petrie. The other two.

  “Come back later,” I called after them. “We can have roasted pork sandwiches for supper, and then I can play the piano.”

  “You up to playing already?” asked Sam.

  How nice of him to ask. “Dr. Benjamin unwrapped my left side last evening, and I’ve practiced a bit. I can play without injuring myself.” I hoped.

  “I like me a good piano tune,” said Mr. Prophet again.

  So Sam shrugged and said, “Sure. We can tell you if we find out anything more from this source after we question him at the station.”

  “Source,” muttered Prophet. “I’d call him a sumbitch.”

  “We try not to use language like that in front of the ladies,” said Sam, clearly trying not to laugh.

  Oddly enough, although I scolded Sam about his swearing from time to time, Prophet’s didn’t bother me. I think that was because he looked so much like a man to whom curses came naturally, they just seemed part of him. That doesn’t make any sense. Oh, well.

  Spike and I took a nap after Ma, Pa and I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I was so full of good food, I nearly swooned even before I fell onto my bed. Then I was sorry I hadn’t taken more care about positioning myself, because falling had aggravated a lot of my aches and pains and twanged my left shoulder. Therefore, because it helped and because I didn’t need as much of it as I had a couple of weeks earlier, I got back up, went to the kitchen, pried the lid off the peppermint drops, took a sip of morphine syrup, popped a peppermint drop into my mouth and returned to bed. I swore I’d take no more morphine syrup after this. It would be aspirin for me.

  We napped for about two hours! Boy, I never knew naps could feel so good. When I arose again, I took off my church clothes—bad me for not doing so before my nap—put on a fairly respectable house dress—blue, like my eyes—and went to the kitchen. There I hauled a chair to the telephone and sat myself on it before dialing Harold Kincaid’s number. Spike sat beside my chair, gazing longingly up at me, hoping for food. Poor Spike. “In a little bit,” I promised him. He didn’t appear appeased.

  For the record, Harold lives in a community called San Marino a little south of Pasadena. Nobody but extremely wealthy people lived in San Marino. I don’t think they even allowed middle-class folks like the Gumms and the one remaining Majesty to purchase property in their hallowed grounds. The Castleton estate was there, and Harold lived not far from it. Mr. Castleton, after making a fortune on the backs of the Chinamen and Irishmen who’d built the railroad, had retired there on his estate and built a hospital, which also carried his name.

  I knew his daughter, Emmaline. In fact, Emmaline Castleton was an actual friend of mine. Every time I talked to her, I felt as though I were speaking with royalty, although she never acted snooty or above-it-all. Very nice person, and one with whom I had something unlucky in common. My Billy had been injured during the late war and had then taken his own life. Emmaline’s fiancé had been killed outright—sort of outright. He’d been shot and suffered for a week or so before succumbing to his wounds. Odd as it may sound, a young German soldier helped him through the days during which he’d suffered. In effect, the war had slain both Emmaline’s man and mine, but at different times. Gloomy thought.

  Anyway, as soon as I ascertained none of our party-line neighbors were on the ’phone, I called Harold’s home. His houseboy, Roy Castillo, a very nice young man who had been kidnapped from his home in Tortuga and brought to the United States to serve perverted men, answered the telephone.

  “Good afternoon, Roy. This is Daisy Majesty.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Majesty?”

  “Oh, call me Daisy, please. We don’t need formalities anymore.”

  With a little laugh, Roy said, “Very well, Miss Daisy.”

  “Is Harold home today, Roy? If he is and he’s not doing anything important, I’d like to speak to him.”

  “I’ll fetch him for you,” said Roy. He had the loveliest accent. Lilting and musical. I guess people from Tortuga all sound like that. Roy’s the only Tortugan I’ve ever met.

  After a few moments, Harold’s somewhat high-pitched voice came over the telephone wires. “What is it now, Daisy? Somebody run you over with a freight train this time?”

  “What a delightful mental image that conjures up, Harold.”

  “Always happy to do my part,” he said. “What’s up, Daisy? To what do I owe this delightful interruption of my peaceful Sunday afternoon?”

  “Another Petrie has slithered out from under his rock. He tried to break into the house and shoot me today.”

  Silence on the other end of the line lasted until Harold burst out, “What?”

  “You heard me. Bruce Petrie. I’d never heard of this one before, but he tried to jimmy the lock on our back door. Good thing Sam forced me to lock all the doors. We usually don’t b
other.”

  “How’d you find out about him before he did the dastardly deed? Clearly, you’re not dead.”

  Had I told Harold about Mr. Lou Prophet? By golly, I don’t think I had! How could I have not told my best friend about such a colorful, old-timey character? Silly me. I guess I’d confined most of my conversations about the old bounty hunter to the family, Sam, Regina Petrie and Robert Browning.

  So I told Harold about Mr. Lou Prophet.

  “He was a what?” Harold sounded slightly stunned.

  “A bounty hunter. In the old west. He used to go out and capture criminals, bring ’em in dead or alive and collect the reward money for them. People used to write dime novels about him.”

  “Good Lord. And he’s here in Pasadena? How old is this guy, anyway, if he was chasing crooks in the 1880s and ’90s? He’s got to be a hundred years old!”

  “Not quite. I’d guess in his mid- to late-seventies. He was hired as a consultant on some picture sets where they film all the westerns they show nowadays, only he can’t do that anymore. He has a wooden leg because he was with two ladies of the night and a crate of bootleg liquor in an automobile that drove off a cliff in Santa Monica. He was the only survivor. Well, most of him survived anyhow. His leg didn’t.”

  “Good Lord. And Sam’s awful nephew threw a knife at you? In your church?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good Lord.”

  That was Harold’s third “good Lord.” I considered the good Lord and Lou Prophet for a second or two and couldn’t help but laugh. After I stopped—actually, Harold told me to shut up—I said, “I have a feeling the good Lord and Lou Prophet don’t have a lot to do with each other on a regular basis.”

  “I’ve got to meet this man.”

  “Sure! Come on over any old time. He’s staying in Sam’s house across the street.”

  Another spate of silence ensued. Crumb, I guess I hadn’t told Harold about Sam having bought the Killebrew house, either. I’d been a total failure in the gossip department these past couple of weeks.

  So I told Harold about Sam buying the Killebrew house.

  Harold came out with his fourth, “Good Lord.”

  Twenty

  After Harold recovered from his state of shock, I asked him if he thought his sister might be the person behind all the recent attempts on my life.

  “Wouldn’t put it past her, although I don’t know how to find out.”

  “Hmm. Do you visit her in jail?”

  “Why would I do something like that?”

  “Valid question. Does your mother visit her?”

  “Mother? Visit anyone in jail? Get a grip on your senses, Daisy Gumm Majesty. Do you honestly think my mother would be caught dead walking into a police station and asking to speak with a prisoner?”

  “Not even her own daughter?”

  “Mother doesn’t seem to be as fond of my darling sister as she once was.”

  “Really? I’m astonished!” I meant it, too.

  “Really. In fact, Mother is totally disgusted that Stacy, her daughter, did something that disgraced the family so thoroughly.”

  “I don’t know about the thoroughly part. Anyone who knows about your father probably blames him for Stacy’s behavior and acquits your mother of any negligence or wrong-doing. Heck, he’s the one who disgraced the family, although I do know your mother’s not the firmest of disciplinarians—”

  “Ha!”

  “But she’s not an evil person. She’s just been too rich and pampered all her life. Sort of like Stacy, actually, only your mother didn’t use her wealth for evil. She used it for…well, supporting me, for instance.” For a couple of years my income from catering to Mrs. Kincaid as a spiritualist-medium had pretty much supported my entire family, in fact.

  “I guess you might be considered a good cause.”

  “Thanks, Harold.”

  “But let me think about how we can get Stacy to spill her guts—”

  “Ew.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I’m trying to think of someone Stacy might talk to. Someone not of her ilk, I mean.”

  “What about Johnny Buckingham?”

  “The Salvation Army fellow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I…don’t know. I think Stacy’s through with the Salvation Army at this time in her nefarious career.”

  “They aren’t through with her,” I said, thinking about how Johnny and his Army didn’t ever seem to give up on people. Even people like Stacy. Johnny had rescued her a couple of times before. Why not now?

  “I don’t suppose it would hurt if you asked him to talk to her,” Harold admitted.

  “Sam says if he finds out she’s the one who hired Bruce Petrie to kill me, she won’t be able to turn states’ evidence.”

  “Really?” Harold sounded pleased.

  “Really.”

  “Then that makes it even more important to pin it on her.”

  “If she did it,” I cautioned.

  “Oh, hell, who cares at this point? My sister is a disgrace to humanity. She’s done enough evil deeds in her short life to send her straight to hell.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in heaven and hell.” My voice was teasing, but Harold’s attitude about religion had at first shocked me. Then it didn’t anymore. I don’t know why, except that most people who consider themselves Christians don’t countenance Harold and his ilk, and I don’t think people like Harold are in any way sinful. Harold himself told me he was born the way he was, and choice had nothing to do with it. Heck, Del Farrington, Harold’s all-but-spouse, was a firm believer. He even went to Saint Andrews every Sunday of his life and believed wholeheartedly in his Roman Catholic Church. Harold called Saint Andrews “Our Lady of Perpetual Malice,” but not in front of Del.

  Catholicism didn’t go over very well in my family, either, but not for the same reason. Both Ma and Aunt Vi considered Roman Catholics little better than idol worshipers. But how did I get on this subject? I beg your pardon.

  “I only hope there’s a hell waiting for Stacy. I don’t care about anyone else. Except my father. He can go to hell, too,” said Harold, sounding as if he considered himself magnanimous. “But let me think about this. I might be able to come up with an idea about tricking Stacy into confessing she hired someone to wipe you out.”

  “Thanks, Harold.”

  “So when can I meet this old-west character of yours?”

  “Um…I don’t know. Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow evening? We dine at the unfashionable hour of six p.m., but maybe you can force yourself. I’m sure Vi won’t mind, and I’ll see if I can get Mr. Prophet to dine with us, too. He’s an interesting bloke.”

  “I doubt he calls himself a bloke, sweetie.”

  “No, I’m sure he doesn’t.” I chuckled as Harold and I disconnected our call.

  Then I called the Buckinghams. I kind of expected they wouldn’t be home as it was still Sunday, and their Sundays were filled to the brim with services and stuff like that. I was right. Hmm. I wracked my brain to think of someone else who might be able to help me. And couldn’t. Fudge.

  “What are you doing, Daisy?” asked Ma as she walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes. Guess she’d napped, too.

  “Trying to think of someone who can make Stacy Kincaid confess she’s hired people to kill me.”

  Ma gasped. “Oh, my! Do you really think it’s the Kincaid girl who’s behind this?”

  I got up, slowly so I wouldn’t twang all over, and said, “I don’t know, Ma. I just hope we can find out who’s doing it before they succeed.”

  “Oh, Daisy! Don’t say that!” Ma threw her arms around me. Because she did it out of love, I didn’t scream, although it hurt a good deal to be squeezed at that particular time in my life.

  “I’m sorry, Ma. Didn’t mean to upset you, but…Well, somebody is trying to kill me, you know?”

  “Good Lord.” Now my mother was saying it.

  I hoped Sam and Mr. Prophet would come home soon
.

  Vi walked into the kitchen. She, too, was rubbing her eyes. I guess Sundays are big nap-days for folks who are lucky enough not to have to work on Sundays.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, peering at my unhappy mother.

  “We were just talking about who might be trying to kill me,” I told Vi. “Oh, and can Harold come to dinner tomorrow night? He wants to meet Mr. Prophet.” That didn’t sound diplomatic, but I’m not sure what precisely was wrong with it. I added, “And also because you’re the best cook in the universe. Even Mr. Prophet knows it now.” Not sure if that made it any better, but I was stuck for something to say next. Luckily for me, it didn’t matter.

  “Get along with you, Daisy,” said Vi, giggling.

  “It will be nice to see Harold again,” said Ma, who didn’t know about Harold’s one eccentricity. In fact, I suspect she’d once hoped I’d marry Harold after Billy’s demise, but she was happy with Sam.

  “He’s one of my very best friends,” I said.

  “What time is it?” asked my father as he, too, walked into the kitchen. He didn’t rub his eyes, but he looked a little heavy-lidded and I’d bet anything he’d napped, too.

  I glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Five-thirty.”

  “Hmm. Are Sam and Mr. Prophet back yet?”

  “Not yet, Pa. I hope they get here soon so they can tell us what happened at the station.”

  By gum, the moment I finished that sentence, Spike took off like a rocket for the front door. We all knew what that meant. At least I hoped it meant what Spike thought it meant.

  “I’ll get the door,” said Pa. “You just stay here, Daisy.” What a nice man my father was. Always considering other people’s feelings. And their aches and pains.

  “Will you be making sandwiches, Vi?” Ma asked.

  “As soon as I know how many to make, I will. Let’s see if that really is Sam and Mr. Prophet first.”

  “Good idea.” Ma walked from the kitchen into the dining room, which led into the living room.

  I hauled the chair I’d sat in back to the kitchen table. “I don’t suppose we have to set a fancy table for sandwiches, do we?” I asked my aunt, hoping her answer would be no.