by Alice Duncan
"I don't, either, although I suppose it's possible." Sam's scenario didn't sound awfully credible to me, mainly because Altadena and Pasadena weren't full of vagrants, both being respectable and relatively high-class communities. "I'll look for a branch."
After glancing from the body to Spike, Sam said, "Better take Spike with you."
"Right."
So I called my dog and he came with me, even though he wanted to dig up and probably gnaw on some more of the body. Poor Spike. I was always spoiling his fun.
The Mountain View Cemetery was well kept and had lovely grounds. The caretakers of the place didn't leave branches lying around for too long at any one time. However, after walking approximately seven and a half miles over and around various graves and headstones, Spike and I eventually found what looked to me as though it might be a fair to middling stick with which to scoop mud from a hole. Spike and I carted it back the seven and half miles (I'm exaggerating; it only felt like seven and a half miles) to Sam, who still stood guarding the remains. Poor Sam. His leg must have been killing him by that time.
He frowned at me. "Took you long enough."
"Go chase yourself, Sam Rotondo. You try finding loose branches in this cemetery. The guardians of this place keep it clean. It took us this long to find this one stupid branch."
I thrust it at him, which turned out to be a mistake, because he took a step backward and must have wrenched his bad leg again. "Damn it!"
"I'm sorry. But I wish you wouldn't swear," I said.
"I'll stop swearing when my damned leg stops hurting."
I merely sighed heavily.
Nevertheless, Sam, after eyeing the branch, turned it around so that its larger end pointed at the ground, and started scraping. Spike wanted to help, but I wouldn't let him. Poor Spike.
After he'd dug and scraped for plenty long enough to work up a sweat and, I'm sure, violate his leg even more severely, Sam stepped back, panting, and squinted down into the hole he'd dug. "Can you see it any better now? I can't stoop very well because of my leg. I can tell it's a man—at least I think it's a man—but I don't recognize the face because it's covered with mud. But I don't want to scrape around much more because... Well, the corpse is decomposing, and I don't want to disturb it or rub any of it off the bones."
"Ew." I didn't want even to look at the body's muddy face, but I knew where my duty lay. Therefore, sucking in a breath of clean air for courage, I walked over to the face Sam had partially revealed. Horrid sight. "What's that thing on his chin?" Whatever it was, it stuck up through the mud in a little point.
"I have no idea," said Sam.
I gasped. "Good Lord!"
"What? Who is it? Do you recognize him?"
"No," said I, slapping a hand to my hammering heart. "But if that muddy, pointy thing is a goatee on the face, it might be Marianne Grenville's dreadful father. He's the only person I know in these enlightened times who wears a stupid goatee."
Sam glared at me. "Who the devil is Marianne Grenville, and who's her father?"
"Good Lord, Sam, don't you remember? It was two years ago. Marianne Wagner ran away from home and then married George Grenville. This may be... perhaps used to be... Doctor Everhard A. Wagner. And he was a ghastly man! I hope it's he, and if it is, I'm glad he's dead. I only hope Marianne or her mother didn't kill him. He deserved to be murdered, but they'd only get into trouble if they did him in."
"Jeez," said Sam. "What did the guy do?"
"For one thing, he used to beat up on his wife and daughter. He also..." Nerts. This was embarrassing. "He used to... touch Marianne in inappropriate places. Mrs. Wagner's the one who gave me the money to buy our Chevrolet. She thanked me for helping to rescue her daughter. Marianne's the presumed-to-be-a ghost I exorcized from Mrs. Bissel's basement. Remember?"
Still frowning, Sam said in a second or two, "I remember. You said it was a cat living down there. I knew you were fibbing."
"It wasn't a mere fib," I declared vehemently. Perhaps a trifle too vehemently, since I still felt kind of guilty about my part in rescuing that particular damsel in distress. "If I'd told you the truth, you'd have forced Marianne to go back home and be mistreated by her old man some more. I think, once everyone knew Marianne had been found and was safe, people began finding out things about Doctor Wagner. Unsavory things. I understand his medical practice kind of took a nosedive."
"Proud of yourself?"
"For ruining his business? Actually, yes, unless his wife is suffering from the loss of income. For helping Marianne escape from a terrible home, yes. I'm very proud of myself, thank you." I gave Sam as good a glare as he was giving me. "If the police ever tried to help people like Marianne and her mother, people like me wouldn't have to get involved, you know."
Sam stopped frowning and heaved a huge sigh. "Yeah, yeah. However, the police can't just butt into other people's lives."
"Yes. So I've been told before. Even when that awful Mr. Bannister nearly murdered his wife."
"We could have done something if he'd succeeded in murdering her."
"A whole lot of good that would have done the poor woman!"
"You think the police should run roughshod over the population? I think that's what happens in dictatorships and old tsarist Russia."
"Phooey. But I guess you're right." I hated admitting it.
"Anyhow, I'd better take another look at the body and try to determine how he died. I don't dare remove any more mud for fear his flesh will come off with it."
I said, "Ew," again.
"And it's going to hurt my leg, so if you don't want to listen to me swear, you'd better take Spike for a walk around the grounds."
"Can't I do it for you?"
"No." Succinct. That was my Sam. "Police business."
"I'm sorry, Sam."
"I'm sure."
"I am. I don't want your poor leg to hurt any more!"
"I know it. But move out of the way so I can take a closer look at the body. I'd like to give the marshal some kind of idea of how he died. If I can tell at this stage of the game."
I did. And he did, uttering several grunts of pain on his way down to his knees. He was silent for what seemed like a day or two, and I got itchier and itchier, wanting to know what had caused the death of the man whom I assumed to be Dr. Wagner.
And who would dump a body in a cemetery? This whole scenario didn't make sense to me. I wanted to ask Sam questions, but he was already in a pretty bad mood, I knew he was in dreadful pain, and I didn't want to make things worse.
However, by the time he finally shoved himself to his feet, I was about to climb out of my skin in anticipation. "Well?" I asked.
"Well what?"
"Darn you, Sam Rotondo! What was the cause of death? Could you tell?"
"Give me a handkerchief," said he. Not very enlightening.
Nevertheless, I withdrew a hankie from my handbag and passed it to him. He wiped his hands, and I noticed red stuff mixed with the dirt as he wiped. I decided that hankie didn't need to be laundered. I could make zillions more, so I'd just throw that one away.
"So?" I asked after he'd taken approximately a hundred years to clean his hands as he stared down at what was left of the dead man. "Did you figure out what did him in?"
"Yeah." And he stopped speaking.
Wanting to pummel him about the head and shoulders, I demanded, "Well, what was it? How'd he die?"
"Somebody bashed in his skull. Looks like several blows with some kind of blunt instrument."
"Ew. If it's Doctor Wagner, I didn't like the man, but that sounds like a painful way to go."
"Yeah. It probably was. Anyhow, we have to get to a telephone." He looked troubled. "I don't like leaving the body unguarded."
"Why? Do you think someone will want to steal it? This isn't Victorian England, Sam. Medical students don't have to dig up graves or murder people in order to study anatomy anymore."
"That was in Scotland, and they weren't medical students. They were just a co
uple of drunks trying to make a buck."
I stared at my fiancé. "How the heck do you know that?"
"I like to read."
"So do I, but I've never heard about... those men."
"Burke and Hare. Anyway, that's not relevant. I don't like to leave the body unattended."
"I can stay here if you want to go down to Marengo and call the county marshal."
"Cripes, no! With my luck, you'll find six more bodies while you're waiting here."
"That's not fair, Sam."
"Huh. But let's get to the machine. I'll have to ask for Margaret's blessing another day. And I took the whole damned day off so we could come here."
"I know, Sam, and I'm sorry. This isn't fair."
"What is?"
He had a point. Nonetheless, I attached Spike's leash to his collar. Then Sam, Spike and I walked back through the muddy cemetery to Sam's big Hudson. There I toweled off Spike's dirty feet—I'd come prepared—and Sam drove us from the cemetery in Altadena to my home in Pasadena.
When we got to my family's tidy bungalow on South Marengo Avenue, I gave Sam the privilege of getting in touch with the Los Angeles County Marshal's Office. I wouldn't know what to say to them.
The only member of my family at home at the time was my father, Joe Gumm, who had a bum ticker and could no longer work at his job as chauffeur to rich people. Great guy, my father. He beamed at us when we walked through the front door, but his smile faded when he saw the expressions on our faces. Well, Spike was still jolly, but Sam and I probably looked as upset as we were.
"What's wrong?" asked Pa.
"Your daughter did it again," said Sam, sounding grim. He marched through the living room and dining room to the kitchen, where our telephone hung on the wall.
That 'phone got a lot of use, mainly because people were always calling me and asking me to read their palms, deal out tarot cards or consult my "spirit control," a guy named Rolly. Not my fault. I named him when I was ten years old, and I really don't think childhood blunders should be held against one forever. Heck, I'd named myself Desdemona back then, too, thinking it was a much classier name than Daisy, which is my real name. I'd have named both Rolly and me something else except that we both had a reputation by the time Spike found that wretched shoe in the cemetery.
As Sam limped into the kitchen, Pa looked at me quizzically. "What happened?" he asked.
"Spike found a shoe with a foot in it at the cemetery."
"He did what?"
Feeling a bit snarly, I said, "You heard me."
I love my father. He's one of the most wonderful people on the face of the earth. I was mightily peeved, however, when he shook his head and said, "Good Lord, Daisy, Sam's right about you. You stumble over bodies everywhere, don't you?"
"He is not right! Anyhow, this wasn't my fault. Spike found this one."
"Someone dumped a corpse at the cemetery? Really?" Pa appeared astounded, which only made sense.
With a sigh, I sat on one of the dining-room chairs and said, "Yes. Somebody evidently murdered whoever it was. I think, although I'm not sure, it's the body of Doctor E.A. Wagner."
"Who's Doctor Wagner?"
I heaved another sigh. "Remember when I exorcized the ghost from Mrs. Bissel's basement a couple of years back? Well, that ghost turned out to be Marianne Wagner, who isn't a ghost at all, and she'd run away from home because her father was a cruel monster."
"Yeah? I remember that episode. A little. So he's a monster, is he?"
Because I didn't want to go into lengthy explanations, I said only, "Yes."
Sitting beside me, Pa took my hand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It must have been unpleasant for you."
"It was. But it was Sam who had to inspect the body to figure out what caused his death." I shuddered. "It hurt his leg and must have been... really awful."
"I'd say so."
Sam's rumbling basso-profundo voice issued softly from the kitchen for several minutes. Then Pa and I heard the receiver click into the cradle, and Sam limped from the kitchen to flump into one of the dining-room chairs.
"So what now?" I asked him.
"Gotta meet the marshal at the cemetery."
"How long will it take the marshal to get there?"
With a shrug, Sam said, "Don't know. They aren't that far away. On Foothill and Lake." He heaved himself to his feet.
"That's close to Mrs. Bissel's house," I said, surprised, as the only official building I'd ever noticed in that area was a local branch of the fire department. Not that I'd been looking.
"Probably. Nine-forty East Foothill. Right there on the corner."
"Yes. Mrs. Bissel's place is on Foothill and Maiden Lane. The marshal's office must be almost across the street from her."
"Very close then," said he.
"Crumb. We should have called from her house."
"Probably better that we didn't. We don't want to advertise a crime all over town before we need to."
"I guess you're right."
However, before he could escape, I said, "Stay there for another little minute, Sam. I know your leg is aching"—I didn't react to the hideous frown he shot at me—"so I'll get you a couple of aspirin tablets before you go."
"Thanks."
Burning to ask my next question but not quite yet, I went to the bathroom, shook out three aspirin tablets from the bottle, and sidestepped into the kitchen to get a glass of water for him to take them with. I don't think that sentence is correct. Oh, who cares?
"Here you go, Sam. Maybe these will ease your pain a bit. You're going to have to stand around a lot, aren't you?"
"Yes." He took the aspirin and the water. "Thank you. Want to go with me?"
Chapter 3
So surprised was I at this question, my mouth fell open and nothing came out of it for several seconds. Under normal circumstances, Sam will do anything to keep me away from his cases. Maybe he didn't care this time because it was the county marshal's problem? I didn't know.
Evidently I was silent too long. Sam's face crunched up into an expression of exasperation, and he said, "Well? You're always trying to pry into my cases. Do you want to come with me to the cemetery or not?"
"Yes!" I cried, perhaps too loudly. I saw Sam wince. "I'm just so surprised you asked me to!"
"You don't have to screech at me," he mumbled.
Pa laughed.
I leaped from my place at the table, startling Spike, which I regretted, and raced to Sam, to whom I gave a big, smacking kiss. Deciding it was safer not to ask why he wanted me along, I didn't.
"You don't have to be so thrilled. You're the one who's going to have to identify that rotting corpse, you know. Provided it turns out to be whoever that man you told me it was, is." His nose wrinkled. "Did that make sense?"
"I know what you meant," said I. "That's why you want me along? In case I can identify who it is? Was?"
"Yeah. And it's the county's case, so I won't have much to do with it. I hope."
I didn't voice my own hope that they'd want Sam right, smack in the middle of solving the crime. Once we were back in his Hudson again, however, I did ask a pertinent question. Or maybe it wasn't, but I wanted to know the answer anyway. "Who's going to notify the next of kin?"
"Don't know yet."
"You're always so helpful, Sam."
He shot me a grin. "I know. That's why you love me."
"Right." Actually, he was partially correct. He drove me nuts when he refused to discuss his cases, but he was always there when I needed him. "Thank you for letting me tag along with you."
"You're welcome."
We said no more as we tootled up Fair Oaks to the cemetery. The county marshals had shown up before us. Two uniformed men stood outside their official automobile, arms crossed, one of them carrying a large satchel, and both looking as though they'd rather be somewhere else. I didn't much blame them, but they'd signed on for this duty.
As Sam pulled into the dirt parking lot, the two uniforms started walking our wa
y.
"Detective Rotondo?" one of them asked. I squinted, but couldn't see a badge or anything on his coat. Maybe he attached it to his shirt. Or maybe he kept it in his wallet. That's where Sam kept his.
"Yes," Sam said, getting out of the machine. He walked over to my side and opened my door. I, too, stepped out.
The second officer said, "Is that a civilian?"
"Yes," said Sam.
"She shouldn't be here."
"She's the one who found and may have identified the body."
"Oh. Well, then, I guess it's all right." He held out a hand to me. "I'm Marshal Evans."
Taking his hand, I said, "Daisy Majesty."
He dropped my hand like a hot rock, nodded and turned to Sam with the same hand held out. "Detective Rotondo. Can you lead the way to the corpse?"
With a sigh, Sam said, "Yes. It'll take me a while because I have to use this thing." He shook his cane as if he wished it were human and he could somehow damage it with the shake.
"Take your time," said Marshal Evans.
Sam turned to me. "Lead the way, Daisy. You can move faster than I can."
After receiving a nod of agreement from Marshal Evans, I led the way. Sam lagged a little way behind us. I got the impression he just didn't want to get involved in this particular case and wasn't going to put himself forward in any way whatsoever.
The ground was still squishy. Fortunately, I hadn't changed my damp shoes for another pair, so the mud and grass didn't hurt them any more than they were already hurt.
After about three or four minutes, the group of us arrived at the would-be grave of the corpse that might be that of Dr. Wagner. Sam put a large paw on my shoulder, I guess to give me courage. "Here it is." I pointed. "I think, although I'm not positive, that it's Doctor Everhard A. Wagner. If it is he, his wife is Diane Wagner, and his daughter is Marianne Grenville. She's married to George Grenville. His sons are named Gaylord Wagner and Vincent Wagner."
"Thank you, Mrs. Majesty." Marshal Evans grabbed a tarpaulin out of his satchel, spread it on the ground and knelt. I was impressed by his state of preparedness.
