by Alice Duncan
She obliged me. “Oh, no. We can just use those cunning placemats you got in Chinatown last year. They’ll be fine.” Then she, too, walked to the living room.
Good. I’d removed the formal tablecloth after dinner at noontime because it was stained in spots. Of course, that meant I’d have to wash it. Which would hurt—
But wait! Sam’s gift, Mrs. Rattle, would be doing laundry for the family, at least for another week or so. Bless Sam’s heart. And that of Mrs. Rattle, too, of course. The mere notion of hauling baskets of laundry up and down stairs and hanging sheets and tablecloths on the lines out back made my arm and leg muscles ache in anticipation. Feeling left out, I joined everyone in the living room.
Sure enough, Sam and Lou Prophet stood just inside the house, removing their coats and hats. Mr. Prophet’s frock coat looked as if might be as old as he was. It was a curious, old-fashioned garment, long and with lots of pockets. I guess frock coats could be handy, even if Mr. Prophet’s looked out of place in so modern and civilized a city as Pasadena, California. Didn’t people used to call those coats Prince Alberts? I think so. It’s because Queen Victoria’s husband, Albert, wore them. Of course, so did thousands of other men, but Albert was famous. I think they should be called Lou Prophets, by golly!
“How’d it go at the station?” I asked Sam as I walked over to him, got on my tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. That hurt a little. Not the kiss; the stretch. This blasted pain, while much diminished from what it had been, was getting tiresome. In fact, if they ever did find out who’d ordered my slaughter, I just might take matters into my own hands.
That’s mere braggadocio. Sam would never allow me to skin Stacy Kincaid with a dull butter knife. But it was a pleasant thought.
“We learned some things,” said Sam. “And we didn’t learn some other things.”
“How helpful,” said I, a little irked.
“But I think we’re closing in,” Sam said, trying for a conciliatory tone.
“Goody gumdrops.”
“Daisy!” said Ma.
Lou Prophet laughed. “We’ll get ’em, Miss Daisy. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you, Mr. Prophet. I hope you’re right.”
“I am,” said he, sounding as if he believed himself. Good for him. Wished I believed him.
“Anyone want a roasted pork sandwich?” asked Vi, pitching her voice a little louder than usual, probably to forestall an unpleasant exchange between Sam and me.
“Sounds good to me,” said Prophet.
“Thanks, Vi. I can tell you what happened at the station as we eat,” said Sam. He’d hung his nice-looking black overcoat next to Lou Prophet’s old beat-up one. I wondered if Mr. Prophet would dislike it if I made him a new coat. I expect he would. He’d probably think it was charity. Some folks are touchy about taking anything from anyone. Then there are the Stacy Kincaids of the world who think everything should be theirs for no reason at all.
Life confuses me a lot sometimes.
“Can I set the table or anything?” asked Sam, probably trying to make up for annoying me when he first arrived. He needn’t have. I was at fault for finding fault, I guess. Still and all, it was my life on the line, and I felt rather sensitive about it.
“Nonsense. You and Mr. Prophet and Joe stay in the living room and chat. I’ll set the table,” said Ma.
“I’ll help,” I said, willing, if not eager, to do my duty.
“You just stay in the living room, too, dear. You still have a good deal of healing to do.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Maybe you could play us a tune on your fine piano there,” suggested Prophet, tilting his head piano-wards.
Why not? I usually played after we ate supper, but there was no law prohibiting me from playing before supper, was there? No. There was not.
“Will you please open the bench for me, Sam?” I asked politely. “I got some new sheet music recently.”
“Sure.” He did as I asked. Boy, if he were only that obedient all the time, I’d be so happy. Unfortunately, I doubted he’d appreciate it if I offered to take him to one of Mrs. Pansy Hanratty’s obedience-training classes for dogs at Brookside Park.
So I rummaged a while and came out with “California, Here I Come,” by Mr. Al Jolson; “Rhapsody in Blue,” by Mr. George Gershwin; and “The Charleston,” by Mr. James P. Johnson. I loved the latter, a catchy tune from Mr. Johnson’s Broadway show, Runnin’ Wild. I also loved “Rhapsody in Blue,” but hadn’t mastered it as well as I’d have liked. I only removed the music from the bench in case I managed to feel up to it in a bit.
A couple of Chopin’s etudes remained on the piano stand from my earlier practice, but I expected both Sam and Mr. Prophet would prefer livelier music. “Tea for Two,” a happy song from the musical stage play No, No, Nanette, also sat on the piano stand, so I started with that one. After I’d played a few notes, I was absolutely flabbergasted when a rusty bass voice started singing: “Just you for me, and me for you.” I didn’t stop playing, although I wanted to whirl around and actually see the wild and woolly Lou Prophet singing the lyrics to that song. I didn’t even play a false note, by golly.
And then, as if to add icing on the cake, Sam Rotondo joined his superb bass voice with Lou Prophet’s scratchier one: “Picture you upon my knee, just tea for two and two for tea.”
I didn’t realize Ma was standing in the archway between the living room and the dining room until I’d played the last chord. Then she clapped. Almost scared me off the piano bench.
“You men sound wonderful together,” raved Ma.
“Don’t they?” I agreed, pretty much. I’d known for a long time by then that Sam had a great voice. Mr. Prophet’s, while a bit rough around the edges, at least didn’t veer off-key and go sharp or flat. If he hung around, maybe I could get both men to join the Methodist choir. Slowly turning on the piano bench and taking a gander at Prophet, I decided I’d fight that battle if it came to me. Sam would be trouble enough for one poor Methodist alto to entice into joining the choir.
“Vi’s got sandwiches and a lovely apple salad ready for supper,” said Ma.
“Sounds great,” I said, sliding carefully off the piano bench.
Sam gently took one of my arms and Lou Prophet took the other. I thought that was sweet of both of them. They led me into the dining room, and everyone took seats at the table. Sure enough, either Ma or Vi had rummaged through the drawer in the dining room hutch and hauled out the beautiful Chinese place mats I’d bought the prior year. Suddenly I wanted to visit Chinatown again.
“When I’m well again and this is all over, will you take me to Chinatown, Sam?” I asked wistfully.
“Sure,” he said, looking at me strangely.
“Been there. Interesting place,” said Mr. Prophet.
Pa said a short grace before we started our supper, then Vi began handing out plates filled with pork sandwiches. The bowl full of apple salad—which also contained celery and walnuts, and which was delicious—got passed around, and we each took some.
“This is a mighty tasty meal, Mrs. Gumm,” Prophet said to Vi.
“Delicious,” said Sam as he always did.
“It surely is,” I agreed.
“We’re so lucky to have you, Vi,” said Ma.
For the next few minutes silence prevailed except for the quiet munching and swallowing that always happened during meals. Lou Prophet, I noticed, ate tidily. That kind of surprised me, although I don’t know why, since he’d been perfectly gentlemanly at dinner that day. This serves to point out that most of us have notions about people based on nothing more than surmise and chancy reports. All the dime novels I’d read about the fellows who populated the old west painted them as wild and fierce and unmannerly. Which only goes to prove yet again that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Or at least that you can’t trust the subject matter of a book to behave the way it’s written when it comes to real life.
Did that make any sense? I decided my capacity for
thought hadn’t returned to normal yet, so I introduced another topic having nothing to do with pretty much anything, although it did involve me going somewhere I couldn’t visit at the moment.
“You know another place I’d like to visit?”
“No. What?” asked Sam.
“A dude ranch.”
“A dude ranch?” asked Prophet, staring at me from across the table.
“Yes. I think it would be fun.”
Mr. Prophet’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t make another comment.
“If you think I’m going to get on a horse,” said Sam, “you’re out of your mind.”
“Not even for me?” I wheedled.
“Not even for you.”
Lou Prophet said, “I had me a great horse way back when.”
“Mean and Ugly?” I asked, grinning.
“Daisy!” said Ma.
“No, no, Ma. That was the name of his horse. Right, Mr. Prophet?”
“Right as rain, Miss Daisy. Big guy. Line-back dun. Ol’ Mean and Ugly and me, we had ourselves some good times.” His face held a reminiscent expression.
“Why did you name him Mean and Ugly?” asked Ma, clearly confused.
With a shrug, Mr. Prophet said, “Seemed to fit him.” He grinned, and I figured we’d be better off not asking any more questions about his late horse.
“Well, phooey. You’re a spoilsport, Sam,” I told him.
“Big one,” agreed Sam. “I used to want to ride a horse when I was a kid, but I’m over it now.”
“I always wanted to ride a horse. We had a horse, Brownie, but he went to the great pasture in the sky about three years ago.”
“Probably up there rompin’ with Mean and Ugly,” said Prophet.
“Probably.” I sighed a little. “Well, I guess I can go to a dude ranch by myself someday.” I then thought of somewhere else I’d always wanted to visit. “But I’ll bet you’d to like to go to the next place I want to see, Sam.”
“Oh?” Sam sounded skeptical. “And what’s that?”
“Gay’s Lion Farm in Westlake Park.”
“There’s a lion farm around here?” asked Prophet. He appeared startled. Could hardly blame the man. After all, lions didn’t grace Southern California’s landscape a whole lot. Well, except for mountain lions, but they lived, as their name implies, in the mountains.
“It’s not precisely around here, but it’s in a park—Westlake Park—in Los Angeles. They train lions for the flickers there.”
“I’ll be da…darned,” said Prophet.
I smiled at his almost-profanity.
“Harold Kincaid, who’s one of my best friends, told me all about it. Harold works as a costumer at a motion-picture studio. I guess when the studios film jungle pictures, they get their lions from Gay’s.”
“You’ve got a best friend who’s a man?” asked Prophet, his brows lowering a trifle, as if he didn’t approve of my having male friends.
“I do indeed,” said I, willing to fight for Harold. “Harold Kincaid. When my husband died, Harold took me to Egypt and Turkey to help me with my grief.”
“Yeah?” said Prophet.
“Yes. And it even worked. In a way.”
“Sort of,” said Sam in a grim voice.
“Sam doesn’t like Harold,” I told Prophet.
“I wouldn’t like my gal going on trips with other men, either,” said he. “I thought the two of you were engaged to be married.” He glanced at Sam as if he thought Sam should have put a stop to such goings-on.
“We weren’t back then,” I told him.
“Even if we had been engaged at the time, there’s nothing to fear in that regard when it comes to Harold Kincaid,” Sam said drily.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I spoke firmly, too. “Harold is a great friend of mine. While we were in Turkey and some horrible men kidnapped Sam, he even shot one of them. Harold did, I mean.”
“He shot a man in Turkey?” Prophet was dumbfounded. I could tell.
“Yes. In Constantinople. Only these days, people are beginning to call it Istanbul.” And I’d never tell Lou Prophet that, after shooting the villain, Harold had fainted. He’d done a masterful job of helping rescue Sam, and that’s all that counts.
“Huh,” said Prophet. “You got kidnapped in a foreign country?” He turned his head to eye Sam.
“Yes,” said Sam, growling. “They wanted Daisy, but they got me first. And I’ll admit Kincaid helped get me out of the mess I was in. Surprised the he…heck out of me. He’s not…” Sam’s words trailed off as he tried to think of some way to say what he wanted to say. I commenced scowling at him to let him know I’d brook no criticism of Harold. “Um, that is to say he’s not the most masculine of fellows.”
“Ah,” said Prophet as if he’d just figured out what Sam and I weren’t saying. He nodded sagely. “One of them lavender cowboys, is he?”
Sam chuckled and nodded.
I did neither of those things. “He’s no kind of cowboy,” I said, turning my scowl on Prophet. “He’s my friend, and a good one. Oh, and he’ll be coming to dinner tomorrow night, so you’ll get to meet him.” Since that thought made me happy, I ceased scowling.
“Harold is a very nice person,” said Vi. “His mother is my employer, Mrs. Pinkerton, who used to be Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Who are all these Kincaids?” asked Prophet. “Your best friend is a Kincaid, and isn’t Kincaid the name of the girl who wants you dead?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure Stacy is behind all the incidents. I wouldn’t put them past her. She’s Mrs. Pinkerton’s daughter and Harold’s sister. Harold and Stacy Kincaid are Mrs. Pinkerton’s children, only Harold is nice and Stacy is…” I eyed my mother and decided not to use the word that had instantly popped into my mind to describe Stacy, which was “evil.”
“Stacy isn’t.” There. Insufficient, but true.
“Oh.”
“It’s kind of confusing,” I admitted. “Mrs. Pinkerton is my best client and her two children are Harold and Stacy, only their last name is Kincaid. Mrs. Pinkerton divorced Mr. Kincaid after he stole a lot of bearer bonds and almost ruined the bank he managed.”
Prophet held up a hand as if to question me about something.
I said, “Yes?”
“What kind of work do you do that you have clients for?”
“I’m a spiritualist-medium,” I told him proudly. I’d be darned if I’d allow another man to disapprove of what I did for a living.
“Yeah?” Prophet slowly grinned. “Ain’t that something? Good for you, Miss Daisy.”
Sam commenced frowning. I ignored him.
“Thank you,” I said modestly. “Anyhow, Harold is a gem among men. Stacy is a glass bauble.” As soon as the words left my lips, I glanced again at my mother, waiting for a stern “Daisy” to issue from her lips. But it didn’t! Maybe Ma was becoming more accepting of me disliking people for trying to kill me. Although, to be fair, Sam hadn’t pinned the crimes on Stacy. Yet.
“I like Harold a lot,” said Pa, who didn’t suffer any prejudices at all that I’d ever detected. “And he’s done Daisy a world of good several times.”
“Yes, he has,” I confirmed.
“Good,” said Prophet, nodding his head. Then he took another bite of the delectable sandwich Vi had made for him.
“Yes,” said Sam with something like a longsuffering sigh. “Harold Kincaid is all right.”
“Well, glory be! I never thought you’d admit it, Sam!”
“Daisy,” said Ma.
Bother.
Twenty-One
The following morning, Monday, Pudge Wilson had to return to school after Christmas vacation. Therefore, he didn’t come over early to help Pa walk Spike. Pa and Spike had to walk by themselves. I don’t think either of them minded. I did, however, wonder what kind of good deed Pudge aimed to spring on me when school was out for the day. I’d have had him give Spike a bath, but it was too cold for that. Oh, well, I’d think of somethin
g.
And I did! I’d have Pudge open up my sewing machine case and haul out the sewing machine. Oh, boy, I loved to sew, and I could do it now that my wounds and arm were healing so well, even though I couldn’t yet lift the heavy machine out of its case.
Mrs. Rattle arrived at our front door at eight o’clock, bless her heart. Pa answered the door when she knocked, because nobody in the family wanted me answering the door until my tormenter was found and locked away.
Pending Pudge’s return from school, and thanks to Mrs. Rattle, there wasn’t much for me to do. Therefore, I picked up one of the books Regina had brought me, hied myself to the living room, and plopped on the sofa. Spike joined me, so I laid a cushion on top of him on my lap and propped the book on the cushion. That way I didn’t have to hold the book using only my arm muscles. Boy, I remembered the days when Billy was alive and I had shoulders like a football player from assisting him in and out of his wheelchair, helping him walk and so forth. Not pleasant memories, so I decided not to think about them.
By that time I’d graduated from Kipling’s Just So Stories, but still wasn’t up to trying anything I couldn’t be sure of enjoying. Regina knew this, so she’d brought me some of my favorites from the library. Therefore, I picked up The Case of Jennie Brice, by Mrs. Mary Roberts Rinehart. I loved pretty much anything written by Mrs. Rinehart. Except The Amazing Interlude, which she’d written during the war and which had made me cry.
Along about ten-thirty, Spike raced to the front door, singing his happy song. He was followed by Pa, who opened the door.
“Sam! Good morning to you,” said Pa.
“It is a good morning. I have great news for all of you.”
I rose from the sofa and met Sam as he turned from the hat rack. “What’s the good news? Do you know who’s trying to kill me?”
Golly, I just this second realized a person’s notion of what constitutes good news depends a whole lot on one’s circumstances, doesn’t it?
“We’re narrowing it down.”
