by Alice Duncan
After we’d run the aunt thing into the ground, I had Rolly get in touch with Mrs. Baskerville. This “contact” was more fun, because it had to do with dachshunds. My library research came in handy here. Mrs. Baskerville told Mrs. Bissell that she should continue as she’d begun and that, sooner or later, if she kept her breeding stock pure and did her best in the show ring, she’d have a dog in Westminster. Perhaps even more than one. I could tell Mrs. Bissell was pleased with old Rolly, even though my—I mean his—advice was no more than common sense.
When Mrs. Baskerville had been dealt with, a few other people asked questions of departed loved ones, and Rolly obliged them all. I believe I’ve already mentioned that I’d made Rolly up when I was ten years old. There were occasions when I wished I’d named him something more dignified, but it was too late to change his name now. Anyhow, most of my clients spelled his name Raleigh, and that was dignified, wasn’t it? Rolly had a lovely Scottish accent. I’d learned how to fake a Scottish accent very early in my life, because I’d gone to school with a girl who came from Scotland. Glasgow, to be precise.
I’d been hoping that Miss Castleton would ask Rolly a question, but she didn’t. It occurred to me that I was, in a way, auditioning for a job. Well, we’d see what came of all this nonsense, I reckoned.
And then I came out of my trance and it was time to see the puppies. Mrs. Bissell led all of us out to her kennels, where the man whose job it was to tend to the dogs turned on the lights and showed us the latest litter. Dachshund puppies are probably the most adorable creatures on earth (I think I’ve already mentioned that), and Mrs. Bissell bred some beauties. Most of these guys were black and tan, like Spike, but there were a few reddish-brown ones, too. I wanted to take them all home with me, but Spike would probably have objected. Well, and the rest of my family, too, of course. Not to mention Mrs. Bissell.
After the puppies came refreshments in the big living room. Mrs. Bissell served little sandwiches with their crusts cut off, pastries, tea and stuff like that. After the huge meal I’d consumed at home, I didn’t really crave food, so it was easy to maintain my above-it-all spiritualist pose in the face of food. Several of the séance participants wanted to talk to me, however, so I stayed and chatted for a while. It had been a busy day, though, and I was tired, so I left shortly after eleven. Not, however, before I’d booked two more séances. I always told Billy I was good at my job, and I really was, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Unfortunately, Miss Castleton wasn’t among the folks who chatted with me and/or hired me. I began to wonder if she’d changed her mind about meeting me. Oh, well.
Hilda was the one who opened the door for me to leave, and I decided to see if I could learn more about her. I still believed she was German, and I hoped I could confirm my suspicion with some cleverly worded questions, provided I could think of any, cleverness not being one of my major skills.
“It’s so nice to see you here, Miss Schwartz. Isn’t Mrs. Bissell a lovely lady? I’m glad you got a job with her.”
“Ach, yes. Mrs. Bissell is so kind.”
“Say, Hilda, I’ve always been interested in Switzerland. Tell me about it, will you?”
Did she appear to be slightly dismayed? We were standing on the patio outside the back door, and it was dark out there, so I wasn’t sure.
“Ach,” she said, “I don’t know much to tell. Switzerland is a pretty country.”
“Lots of mountains,” I suggested.
She seemed to brighten. “Lots of mountains. Green valleys. Nice people.”
“And cuckoo clocks,” I said, feeding her another clue.
“Ach, yes! Cuckoo clocks. Yes.”
“And dachshunds,” I added cleverly.
“Dachshunds.” She nodded. “Lots of dachshunds.”
I didn’t believe her. I could believe a Saint Bernard or a—Darn. What was that dog Billy had told me about? Oh, yes—Swiss mountain dogs. But dachshunds? I didn’t think so. Speaking of mountains . . . “Can you yodel?”
“Yodel?” She swallowed. “Ach, no. No yodel.”
I got the impression she didn’t know what yodel meant. Hmm. Very interesting.
“Where in Switzerland were you born, Miss Schwartz?”
This time I could tell she was unhappy with my question. “Uh . . . I was born in the country,” she said.
I didn’t believe her. “I see. Was there a city of any size near you?”
“A city? Ach . . . ach, yes!” She sounded relieved that she’d managed to think of a Swiss city. “Geneva. We was near Geneva.”
Where Frankenstein came from, by gum! “How interesting. As I said before, I’d love to visit Switzerland one day.”
“Yes. Pretty country,” Hilda confirmed, and she scuttled back inside the house before I could ask her about Swiss chocolate. Or was it the Belgians who made the best chocolate? I couldn’t remember.
But Hilda didn’t seem to know a whole heck of a lot about what she claimed was her native land, either. I reminded myself that I didn’t know much about America’s own Southern states. Or New Hampshire or Maine, for that matter. Or even Illinois or Nebraska.
On the other hand, Switzerland was a whole lot smaller than the United States. One would expect a native to know about yodeling and cuckoo clocks and the kinds of dogs endemic to the country of one’s birth.
She peeked out the door once more, before I’d taken more than a couple of steps toward the Chevrolet. Oh, boy! Maybe she was going to tell me something more.
“Mrs. Majesty?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for the class, Mrs. Majesty. You helping us a lot.”
Since I was tired and wanted to go home and get to bed, I decided not to resurrect the subject of Switzerland. “Thank you for coming to it, Mrs. Schwartz.”
“Miss Schwartz,” she corrected. “I not have a husband.”
“I see. Well, husbands aren’t necessarily all they’re cracked up to be.” I knew, as soon as the words left my lips, that I shouldn’t have said that. My darned mouth!
But Hilda didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about. A bit dreamily she said, “I like to marry someday.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said, trying to redeem myself in my own eyes, if not hers.
“Yah. I hope so.”
And that was that. I went to the Chevrolet—and I didn’t have to crank the thing because it had a lovely newfangled self-starter—but before I could depart, another figure wafted toward me from the patio.
By gum, it was Miss Emmaline Castleton! Oh, good! Maybe I’d get another job.
She appeared to hesitate when I spotted her. Thinking she probably wouldn’t be able to see me in the dark, I nevertheless pasted a friendly smile on my face, and said, “Miss Castleton?”
As if having come to a decision, she walked firmly toward me. “Mrs. Majesty? May I speak to you for a minute?”
“By all means,” I said. “Would you like to go back inside?”
“No.” She shook her blonde head. She had the prettiest hair. “I don’t want anyone else to know I’m talking to you.”
Mysterious. “Very well.” I bowed my head in a gracious gesture of capitulation.
She came up to me, stopped, and seemed again to be uncertain what to do next. Since I didn’t know what her problem was, I couldn’t offer her any clues.
Eventually, she said, “Mrs. Bissell and Mrs. Kincaid have both told me a little bit about your background, Mrs. Majesty.”
Good Lord. Did she mean that Mrs. Bissell and Mrs. Kincaid told her I used to sell raspberries door-to-door when I was a kid? Did they tell her that Mrs. Kincaid gave my aunt my first Ouija board, and that’s why I started messing around with spiritualism?
“I mean,” she explained, “about your husband’s problems.” She bowed her head.
It took me a minute because I had to swallow the lump that instantly formed in my throat when she said those words. She spoke so very softly and sympathetically, I darned near started crying. Then I
remembered she had problems of her own. “Yes,” I said in my softest, most soothing voice. “I understand you also suffered grievously from that war.”
She nodded. “I did. I . . . Stephen Allison and I had planned to marry, but he . . . he died.”
“Yes. I remember reading about his passing. That war caused more grief than anyone should have to endure.”
“I agree.” She stopped talking again.
Darn it, I wished she’d get on with it! To speed her up, I asked, “Are you interested in getting in touch with Mr. Allison?”
Her head snapped up. “Stephen? Good Lord, no!”
Oh. Well, that took the wind out of my sails. I didn’t know what to say.
Fortunately, Miss Castleton continued. “What I’m interested in is getting some information about the Salvation Army’s program for sponsoring immigrants.”
Boy, I wouldn’t have figured that to be her problem in a billion years! “The Salvation Army’s program?” said I, stuttering slightly. “But. . . .”
She shook her head. “I know, it sounds absurd, but I have a reason for asking. I need to know if . . . if a person I know can get help there.”
This woman had access to most of the money in the world, and she wanted the Salvation Army to help her? I still didn’t understand. Instead of saying that, I said, “How did you know about my dealings with the Salvation Army?”
“Harold Kincaid told me you were teaching a cooking class there. He also told me a little bit about the program you’re helping with.”
Hmm. It made sense that Harold and Emmaline Castleton knew each other, both being in the very wealthy segment of Pasadena society. However, I still didn’t know why she was interested in the Salvation Army. “Um . . . are you interested in volunteering at the Salvation Army?”
“Yes.” Then she shook her head again. “No.” She lifted her hands and let them fall in a classical gesture of frustration. “Oh, it’s all so complicated!”
Because I was tired, and because I felt her pain, and because I was nosy, I said, “Perhaps we should get together somewhere else at another time. Somewhere we can talk in private, I mean, and not have to worry about being interrupted.”
She leaped at that suggestion. “Yes! Oh, yes, Mrs. Majesty. Thank you so much. Won’t you come to my house for luncheon? Um . . . the day after tomorrow? Or Tuesday? Tuesday would be better, although I’m terribly anxious about this whole thing.”
“Tuesday would be fine with me,” I said in a low, caressing tone. “When you say your house, do you mean . . . ?”
“I mean my father’s palace.” She sounded sarcastic. Then she brushed her hand over her eyes, and said, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Father is a wonderful man. He just doesn’t . . . understand some things. I desperately need advice, Mrs. Majesty. Please come on Tuesday.”
“I’ll be happy to, Miss Castleton.” And that was no fib. I’d been fascinated by that gigantic estate on South Allen Avenue and Oxford Road for years. I’d love to be able to see it in person.
“Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. I’ll tell Stickley to admit you at the gate.”
From that, I assumed Stickley was the gatekeeper, as Jackson was Mrs. Kincaid’s gatekeeper. “I’ll see you then.”
We shook hands on it, and I drove home, mulling over my conversations with Miss Castleton and Hilda. I didn’t know enough about Miss Castleton to mull much of anything at that point, so I figured our conversation was over.
After our little chat, I was pretty sure Hilda came from Germany and not Switzerland. Should I do anything about that? It was altogether possible that she was in the country legally, after all. I suppose I could ask Johnny Buckingham to dig a little deeper into her background. Or I could talk to Sam about her. If anyone discovered she was here illegally, the authorities would deport her.
I expected my heart to leap at that thought, but it didn’t, surprising me. It then dawned upon me that I liked Hilda. Even though she was probably a German. I liked her a good deal more than I liked Gertrude Minneke, in fact, and I was willing to keep Gertrude’s secret.
Oh, bother. I hated having secrets. Shoot, I generally didn’t have any secrets at all, and now I had two of the darned things to bedevil me!
Chapter Eight
The next day was horrible. We all went to church in the morning, and that part was all right. So was lunch, which was pork ribs and liberty cabbage. Oh, very well, it was sauerkraut, but that was German, and I still called it liberty cabbage, even though the war had been over for several years. Anyhow, pork ribs, which Aunt Vi cooked in the oven with liberty cabbage, apples, and potatoes was one of my favorite meals.
But after lunch, when I was planning which spiritualistic outfit to wear the following day when I visited clients, I discovered by accident that Billy had managed to secrete several bottles of morphine syrup in the back of our closet. If I hadn’t been searching for a shoe I needed, I never would have found his stash.
Ma and Pa had settled in the living room and were reading the Sunday edition of the Pasadena Star News, and Aunt Vi had gone upstairs to her quarters to take a well-deserved afternoon nap. Billy and Spike had gone out in the backyard, where we’d planted two orange trees: a Valencia and a navel. Having both trees was great, because it meant we had lovely fresh oranges all year long, or just about. Besides, the blossoms smelled heavenly when they were blooming. Sometimes I’d go out back just to breathe in their scent.
That afternoon, I stared into the box containing the morphine syrup, confounded. I was well aware of Billy’s morphine use, but I generally picked up his supply from Dr. Benjamin. At least I thought I did. Where had he come by all this stuff? More importantly, why had he come by it? He didn’t need to stash morphine syrup away, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t mind visiting the doctor for him. An awful thought came to me then, and my knees almost gave out. I managed to get myself to the bed, and I stayed there for several more minutes, brooding and feeling a great, sick weight on my heart.
Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I went out back to talk to Billy. He sat in his chair under the navel-orange tree, flipping through the latest edition of National Geographic, one of his favorite magazines. I think he liked it because before we were married, we talked about traveling the world someday. He didn’t look up when I shut the back door. Pa had built a ramp both in the front and back so Billy could maneuver his wheelchair, which was one of those modern ones with the big wheels that enabled the person in it to move about by himself. Or herself, if that was the case. Spike had rolled himself up in a little doggy ball and resided lazily on the grass beside the wheelchair. He was so relaxed, he only wagged his tail when I showed up. I’ve never, ever regretted getting Spike for Billy. They were constant companions, and Billy never treated Spike rudely, as he did me.
“Billy?”
He lifted his head, but he didn’t smile. “Hey, Daisy.”
I walked over and crouched down next to his chair. “Billy, I found all that morphine syrup you had stored in the closet.”
His lips pinched, and his eyebrows lowered. Then he said, “Dammit, Daisy, what were you doing snooping around in my things? Can’t I have any privacy? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m a damned cripple? Do I have to give up all my freedom, too?”
I told myself to hold on to my temper. “I wasn’t snooping. I was looking for a shoe. I found the box by accident. What I want to know is why, Billy. Why do you have so much morphine syrup?”
“That’s my business.”
“Where did you get all that stuff, Billy?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“But—”
“And I’ll tell you right now that if you get rid of those bottles, I know where to get more.”
I was flummoxed. “But I can get plenty of morphine from Dr. Benjamin.”
He stuck his nose in his magazine again. “Not plenty enough.” His voice had turned into a surly growl.
My voice cracked a
little. “What do you mean, Billy? I know you’re in a lot of pain, but—”
He slammed his magazine down onto his lap. “Dammit, Daisy, don’t you understand? I hate this life of mine! I hate the body I can’t use any longer. I hate that I can’t do anything. I hate that I can’t walk, can’t work, can’t breathe half the time, and I . . . I just hate it. I hate that I can’t be a proper husband to you. Can’t you understand that?”
I felt my chin tremble and tried not to break down. “I do understand that, Billy, but I don’t want anything to happen to you. You can take too much of that stuff, you know, and it’d kill me if that happened. I know you’re in pain, and I—”
He interrupted me again. “I love you, too, Daisy, but you need a whole man. You don’t need a wreck like me. For God’s sake, do you think I like being this way?”
My voice broke, and I had to speak through tears. “I don’t want anybody else! I know you hate being the way you are now, Billy, but I’d die if anything happened to you.”
“For God’s sake, Daisy, something has already happened to me.”
“I know it, and it’s horrible. But I’ve loved you my whole life, Billy. I don’t care if you’re confined to a wheelchair.”
He slammed his hand over his chest. “I care, dammit! And I hate it. This life is more painful than I can stand, and one of these days, when it gets too bad, I want to know that I have an option. One of these days, when I can’t stand it any longer, I’m going to use that syrup, and nobody’s going to stop me.”
I stared at him, horrified, for several seconds. “You’d . . . you’d really kill yourself? On purpose?”
He hesitated for a second, his lips a thin, flat white line. Then he said simply, “Yes.”
“Oh, Billy!” And I buried my head in his lap and cried, right on top of the National Geographic.
