by Alice Duncan
“Oh, I’m so glad you could come!” she said, sounding as excited as I was.
I considered that kind of strange. I mean, I’m just me, and she was a Castleton. Still, I’d learned a long time before then that people are an odd lot. “Happy to help,” I said, meaning it. In truth, I was dying to find out what was so important to her that she’d had to set up a private meeting.
“Let Jones park your car. Here, let me take your keys.”
Startled, I handed her the keys, and she instantly handed them over to a man, whose name, I assumed, was Jones. He wore a uniform, by gum. Shoot, I guess the woman really was serious about this visit of ours.
“I’ve asked Caruthers to serve us luncheon on the front veranda.”
I took an unintentional glimpse at the sky. It wasn’t cloudy, and this was Southern California, but still. . . .
“Don’t worry. There’s an electric heater that Caruthers will set up so we don’t get cold. I really want to speak to you in private.”
“I see. Well, that’s very nice,” I said, although I really wanted to see inside the house. What the heck, did she not think I was good enough to set foot in her famous abode? I tried not to resent it.
And then she said, “But before we eat, you must see inside,” and I felt better. “The place is truly fantastic. My father spared no expense, as you’ll see. Well, he had all the money in the world, so why should he?”
Why indeed? Her attitude puzzled me. She seemed fond of her father, yet she spoke of his millions as if they didn’t mean much to her. I could have educated her to the perils of poverty, but didn’t think it would be politic to do so. “I’d love to see inside,” I said mildly.
She looked at me keenly. I got the impression Miss Emmaline Castleton was no dummy. “You’re wondering why I talk like that about my father and his money, aren’t you?”
“Well . . . yes, I guess so.”
“Follow me.” She walked to a huge, carved mahogany door, which was instantly opened for her by another uniformed personage. Jeez, the Castletons must have employed half the people in Pasadena!
After we’d walked inside, she led me to a gigantic staircase that split halfway up so that you could go either right or left, I guess depending on which room you wanted to visit. She spoke softly. “You see, my father truly is a wonderful man, but he and my uncle used some mighty dirty tactics to make their vast wealth. I guess I’ve always felt a little guilty about it. Although,” she admitted next, “not enough to live on my own.” She heaved a huge sigh. “Anyhow, now they’re both philanthropists. Kind of like Andrew Carnegie. After he made his millions by running down the little people, he became a philanthropist, too.”
I understood her dilemma. Principles were fine, but they didn’t put food on the table. Heck, look at me. I was a total fraud. “Believe me, I understand exactly what you mean.”
Again her gaze pierced me. “Yes. I think you do. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you. I think you’ll understand why, too. After the grand tour.”
It was a grand tour, all right. I’d never seen anything like the place. The artwork alone nearly overwhelmed me. Gorgeous stuff. And the servants! I swear, there were servants everywhere.
At one point, Emmaline—she told me to call her Emmaline—said, “Father insisted on having a cat. He said there’s nothing quite like a cat to make a house a home.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Maybe he’s right, although I think it would take more than a cat to make this place into a home.” Then I could have slapped a hand over my too-ready mouth.
Fortunately for me, Emmaline laughed. “You’re right about that! It’s just too big. Too grand.”
“But it’s beautiful,” I said as a sop.
“It is that. Wait until you see the grounds and the sculpture garden.”
“Sculpture garden?”
“Yes. Father had a whole lot of statues imported from . . . I don’t know. Greece? Well, they look like a row of Greek gods, anyhow.”
“My goodness.”
Actually, they looked like two rows of Greek gods. The grounds were as fantastic as the house. I’d have been stricken speechless except that I’m virtually never speechless, and Emmaline was so down-to-earth and . . . well, I guess the word I want is fun. Isn’t that strange? But she had a wonderful sense of humor and no pretensions at all. When I compared this daughter of wealth to Stacy Kincaid, another daughter of wealth, Stacy sank even farther in my esteem, although before it happened I wouldn’t have thought it possible.
“But you must be starving,” Emmaline said after we’d wandered around in what, to me, seemed like Wonderland for an hour or so. “I know I am. I’m sure Caruthers has our luncheon ready. I hope you like chicken à la king.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, hoping for the best. Chicken à la king was another thing Aunt Vi never made for the family. Too delicate for us Gumms, I suppose.
I did like it. In fact, it was delicious. I said so.
“Thank you. I thought it might be nice to have something a little lighter for luncheon than a big, heavy meal. We always eat . . . well in the evening.”
“So do we, thank goodness. My aunt cooks for us. She’s a marvelous cook.”
“I’ve heard Harold Kincaid say the same thing. You’re fortunate to have such a clever relation who lives with you.”
“Yes, we are fortunate.” Because I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea about Vi, I added, “Of course, if it weren’t for the war, Vi would still be living in her own home and cooking for her family, but her son died in the war, and her husband got sick during the influenza pandemic. He died of pneumonia, as so many others did. She hasn’t had the best of times these past few years.”
To my horror, Emmaline’s eyes welled with tears. Impulsively, I put out a hand to her. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I know you suffered terribly from that awful war, too. I . . . I guess we all did.”
“Oh, don’t mind me, Daisy.” I’d told her to call me Daisy. Turnabout’s fair play, after all. “I just get a little teary when I think about all the fine young men who lost everything in that damned war.”
Oh, my. I wasn’t accustomed to young women saying words like damn out loud. I thought it sometimes, and have even written the word a time or two in these journals, but I don’t drop it into casual conversations.
Emmaline wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Actually, that’s the reason I asked you to come here today.”
“It is?” I think I gaped at her. “I thought you wanted to talk to me about the Salvation Army’s program to help people in distress.”
“Yes, yes, I do. But it’s all connected to that blasted war.”
“Oh. Um . . . I don’t think I understand.”
“Of course you don’t. I haven’t told you yet. You see, I’m hoping you can advise me about a young man who suffered terribly in the conflict, and who helped my Stephen and made his last days much brighter than they might have been. He carried him from the battlefield, you see, and tended him as well as he could until he died.”
“Good Lord.”
Emmaline nodded. “He brought me a letter Stephen had written right before he subsided into unconsciousness. I know it was written by Stephen, because it was his handwriting, and he wrote about things nobody but the two of us would know about.” She looked at me earnestly. “This man is a genuine hero, Daisy. At least he’s the hero of my life.”
“It sounds like it,” I said, since I couldn’t think of anything more refined to say.
She nodded again. “He is.” Firmly. She spoke firmly.
“Um . . . I presume this fellow has had some hard times since the war ended?”
“You wouldn’t believe what he went through. He was reprimanded severely for helping Stephen, for one thing, and was even imprisoned for a while. He couldn’t get work, and he finally had to escape. I sent him money to get to South America, and he stayed in Mexico for several months. He was ill, you see. Very ill. He had that influenza, too. Plus, he’d be
en wounded in the same battle that took Stephen.”
I held up a hand to stop the flow of her words, because they didn’t make any sense to me. “Wait a minute, please. Did you just say he was reprimanded for helping Mr. Allison? And was actually imprisoned for helping him?”
Gripping her hankie tightly in both of her hands, Emmaline said, “Yes. Severely reprimanded and jailed.”
“But . . . but I don’t understand. Why ever would anyone reprimand someone for trying to save someone else’s life? That doesn’t make any sense.”
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It will make sense to you, trust me.”
I lifted my eyebrows and said, “Oh?”
“Yes. You see, the young man who tried to save Stephen’s life was a German.”
Chapter Ten
My mouth fell open and stayed that way until I snapped it shut and rose to my feet. Astounded doesn’t half describe the state I was in at that time.
Emmaline held out a hand to me. “Daisy? What’s the matter? I know Germany was our enemy during the war, but this fellow. . . .”
I regret to say I raised my voice. “Do you know what those people did to my husband? Do you? Do you have any idea what they did?”
Emmaline shut her eyes and looked miserable.
“They shot my Billy, Emmaline! And that wasn’t enough for them. They gassed him! They gassed him! With that filthy mustard gas. Only my Billy didn’t die. No, he’s only suffered every single day of his life since that battle! He’s going to die one of these days, because they used that putrid gas on him! Before I’d help a German, I’d cut off my own hand!”
And then, as if I hadn’t already made enough of a fool of myself, I collapsed onto the chair in which I’d eaten such a delightful luncheon, folded my arms on the little table Caruthers had set up, buried my face in my arms, and burst into tears. They weren’t dainty, delicate tears, either, but huge gasping sobs.
Poor Emmaline didn’t know what to do with me. Fortunately for me, her nature is sympathetic and she’s got an open and understanding heart. She knelt beside me, put an arm over my shoulders and crooned. I don’t remember what all she said, but it was something like, “I know, Daisy. I understand completely. It was Germans who killed my Stephen, too. But this young man tried to save his life, and he was punished for it. I’d like to help him if I can, and the only program I can think of that might help him assimilate is the one offered by the Salvation Army.”
“I hate G-Germans,” sobbed I. Not a pretty picture, I know.
“I understand, Daisy. Believe me, I understand.”
Wiping my cheeks with my hands—I was too upset to reach for a hankie—I said, “Do you know that my poor husband has stocked a whole lot of morphine syrup in order to kill himself when the pain of his life gets to be too much for him? Well, he has! Because of those damned Germans!”
Emmaline closed her eyes again and looked as if she were in as much emotional agony as I, although hers was quieter. Breeding shows, I guess.
I began to calm down after a few minutes. Then I started feeling like a total fool. Sniffling pitifully, I said, “I’m . . . sorry. I just . . . I don’t. . . .” But there was no need to go on. Emmaline understood.
“There’s no need to apologize, Daisy. If it weren’t for the circumstances surrounding my request, I wouldn’t help a German cross the street. Not awfully forgiving, I guess, but it’s the truth. But this fellow—his name is Kurt Grünfeld, by the way—only joined the German army because he had to. He didn’t believe in the Kaiser’s cause any more than we did.”
My spate of tears had made my nose stuffy, so I sounded like I had a cold when I said, “How do you know he’s the genuine article? I mean, how do you . . . ?”
“How do I know he’s the man who tried to save Stephen’s life?”
I nodded.
“Because Stephen told me so in the letters he wrote to me.”
Skeptical, I asked, “And you say you’re sure the letters were really from Stephen?”
“Yes.” She reached into the bodice of her gown—which, by the way, was perfectly gorgeous. No homemade frocks for Miss Emmaline Castleton. Unless, of course, she had a seamstress on the staff at the residence, which was quite likely—and pulled out an envelope.
The envelope was relatively tidy, considering she must have had it for years, but when she withdrew its contents, I saw a tattered sheet of what looked like paper torn from a book or something. The paper had brown-red spots on it, and I feared I knew what those spots were.
“Kurt said he mailed this and another couple of letters to me after the Armistice. He’d kept them for a year and a half before he was able to get them into the post. I didn’t receive them until last year. But this is the message I want you to read.” She handed me the raggedy piece of paper.
It was torn from a book, and the book had evidently been published in Germany, since it was written in German. I read:
My darling Emmaline,
I don’t think I’m going to be here much longer. My wound is severe. Kurt isn’t able to tend it properly, because we’re hiding in the loft of a barn. Please know that I love you. If you ever have the opportunity, please try to assist Kurt. He’s going to catch hell for helping me and for deserting in order to do so. He’s going to try to get out of the country, but neither of us thinks he’ll make it. It will be a miracle if you ever read this letter.
I can’t write any more now. I’m losing this battle, darling, and I’m sorry we won’t be able to see each other again. Remember me always.
Love,
Stephen
Naturally, by the time I came to the end of the letter, I was sniffling again. Without speaking, I handed the letter back to Emmaline.
She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re the only person I’ve ever shown this letter to,” she said at last.
“Why?”
“You’re the only one I’ve trusted to understand.”
Good Lord. Me? Who earned my living as a total fraud? It occurred to me then and there that Emmaline must have great depth of perception to look past the trappings of my profession and see the me inside.
“Why in the world do you trust me?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. It then occurred to me that maybe this was a setup. Could Sam Rotondo, in an effort to get me to desist in my career as a phony spiritualist, actually. . . .
No. Not even Sam would pull a stunt like this. I hoped.
She sat down in the chair that she had vacated to stifle my tantrum, and she thought for a moment in silence. I didn’t pressure her.
After what seemed like forever, she said, “I’ll tell you why I trust you, Daisy, and I hope you won’t take my words amiss.”
Shoot. But I determined to behave with dignity for the remainder of our time together. I nodded at her to let her know I was listening. I wasn’t sure about the taking her words amiss part yet. We’d see about that.
“I . . . don’t believe in spiritualism, and I have a feeling you don’t, either.”
I only blinked at her, too startled to speak.
“But you’re so wonderful at your job, and so . . . so good at it. . . . I mean, you don’t promise people anything they couldn’t figure out on their own if they had any sense, you know? And you don’t try to tell them more than you can deliver. Telling someone to live happily in this world until called to the next because the deceased loved one wants him to is, in my opinion, a brilliant ploy.”
Good heavens! Still, I didn’t speak.
She went on, a little desperately, I thought. “And I’ve talked to Harold and Mrs. Kincaid and Mrs. Bissell and other people about you. They all say the same thing. You’re the best at what you do. And you never, ever tell other people what folks tell you in private sessions.”
Finally I felt compelled to whisper, “Thank you.”
“But you don’t honestly believe you’re communicating with spirits from beyond, do you? I mean, do you really?”
Talk abou
t a struggle! Did I want to tell the truth to this woman, who had just revealed a deep, dark secret to me? Well, what the heck. Why not? I got the feeling what we said at this little meeting wouldn’t go any farther than her father’s grand front porch. After heaving a huge sigh, I told the truth.
“Of course, not.” And then, because I felt compelled to do so, I told her the total, unvarnished truth. “I began playing with the Ouija board because, back when I was ten, Mrs. Kincaid gave her old one to my aunt Vi. I made Rolly up at a family get-together when everyone else was afraid of—or pretended to be afraid of—the board. I had a grand time pretending for my family. Then Vi told Mrs. Kincaid how ‘talented’ I was with the board, Mrs. Kincaid asked me to work a party she was having, and that was it.” I hesitated for a moment and went on, kind of bitterly, “When Billy finally came home from the war, he was unable to work because he was so badly injured. So I began reading tarot cards and palms for people. I could make ever so much more money doing that than I ever could as a clerk at a dry-goods store or as an elevator operator.”
Emmaline nodded. “Yes. I see. It’s as I suspected. I can’t begin to tell you how much I admire you, Daisy.”
She admired me? Mercy sakes. “Well, I don’t think there’s really much to admire. I’m . . . well, I’m a fake.”
“But you’re so good at it. And you’re never cruel. And you tell people the truth.” She reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t you see? I went to Mrs. Bissell’s to see if what I suspected about you was the truth, and discovered it was. And you . . . you have such a strong connection with the German issue. . . .”
“I should think that would have put you off.” Feeling stupid, I added, “After the scene I just played for you, I’m surprised you still trusted me enough to tell about your German.”
She shook her head hard. “No. Don’t you see? You’re totally honest.”
Totally honest. After I admitted I earned my living as a phony. Well, I never claimed to understand rich people. I could only gaze at her in wonder.
