by Alice Duncan
"Thank you! I've always wanted to read more about India. I think Rudyard Kipling did that to me."
Regina laughed. "I think Rudyard Kipling did that to a lot of us."
"Oh," said I, as if just recalling a duty, although it had been on my mind ever since I'd sat in Dr. Benjamin's office earlier that morning, "do you have a copy of the Hippocratic Oath somewhere?"
"The Hippocratic Oath? Are you going into medicine, Daisy?"
I managed a chuckle. "No, but I was talking to Doctor Benjamin this morning, and he mentioned it. I guess all doctors are supposed to take the oath and honor it. I got the feeling the doctor Sam and I discovered the body of yesterday didn't honor it. If that sentence made any sense."
"Yes, it made sense." She hesitated for a moment or two, and then said, "I've heard awful things about him. And I understand you helped his daughter escape from his clutches a couple of years ago. I thought that was very brave of you."
"Good Lord, does everyone know I had a hand in helping Marianne? I thought the Wagner family wanted to keep it a secret." I frowned. "I know I sure wanted my name kept out of the matter."
"Things leak out," said Regina philosophically.
"I guess so," said I, wishing things could be kept in better order. Shut in a locked drawer to which only I had the key, for example. I tried to shake off my feeling of disquiet. To distract her from the Dr. Wagner scenario, I asked, "Have you and Robert set a date yet?"
Distraction worked. With a dreamy smile, Regina said, "We were aiming for June, but we're not precisely glued to the month. Almost everyone gets married in June, and I personally think an autumn wedding would be nice. Of course, we'd have to wait a few more months, but that's all right." She breathed in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "He's such a wonderful man, Daisy. And we'd never have got together without you."
Oh, boy. Matchmaker-in-chief; that was me all right. "You probably would have found each other even without me. You seem to have been made for each other, really."
"I don't know. Neither one of us is precisely a social butterfly."
I smiled. "True, but sometimes love finds a way." After hearing what I'd just said, I nearly gagged. I'm not usually so stupidly sentimental.
"That's true. After all, if it weren't for your first husband's horrible illness, you'd never have met the detective, and now the two of you are engaged."
She still looked dreamy, and I didn't want to ruin her mood, but still... Maybe Regina should know the truth.
"Actually, it was Mrs. Pinkerton's good-for-nothing daughter, Stacy Kincaid, who first brought Sam and me together. If Stacy weren't a total poop, I'd never have met him."
"She's that awful girl who was in cahoots with my wicked cousin, wasn't she?" She shuddered almost dramatically. Drama and Regina Petrie don't often go together; at least not that I'd seen before.
"She's the one, all right. Wretched brat, and her mother's had to put up with her dreadful behavior for years now. Don't know why she didn't kick the kid out a long time ago."
"Oh, but Daisy, you wouldn't throw out a child of your own, would you?"
Thinking back over the year and taking into consideration all the evil people with whom I'd had to deal, I wasn't sure about that. However, I didn't think Regina needed to know it. "Probably not," said I without much conviction. If I ever bred an animal as vile as Stacy Kincaid or Percival Petrie (Regina's criminal cousin), I'd wish for foresight so that I could have the child drowned at birth if necessary.
That sounds awful, doesn't it? Well, I guess I don't really mean it.
Or maybe I do.
Anyhow, nobody has the foresight to see what a baby will grow up to be or how it will act as an adult. I don't care what lies fortune-tellers spout, nobody can predict the future. Please don't tell any of my clients I said so. Not that I was or ever had been a fortune-teller.
Oh, pooh. Never mind. Whatever happened in the possible-child-of-mine's future, I guess I'd just deal with it when it got to me. As my aunt, father, mother and assorted other kinfolk are fond of saying, "No sense borrowing trouble." Actually, Vi's more apt to say, "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," but I don't like that saying as well, since evil and I don't get along too well.
"Thank you so much for the books, Regina. I know I'm going to enjoy them. Even the Passage to India one. Now that I don't feel so affected by that awful war, I'm able to read things that aren't jolly without going into a deep melancholy. Although I'm never going to be able to read An Amazing Interlude again." Mind you, that was a good book, but Mary Roberts Rinehart wrote it during the war, and it featured a young woman from the United States who wanted to help the war effort. By the end of the book, you still didn't know if she and/or her handsome and brave French soldier would even survive, much less thrive.
"I understand. That book got to me, too, and I didn't have your personal... What would you call them? Connections? To that war."
"I guess that's as good a word as any," said I, thinking wistfully of my late husband as he'd been before the war. "But can you direct me to a copy of the Hippocratic Oath? Just because I'm interested in reading what doctors sign on for. If you know what I mean."
"I understand completely." Regina rose from her desk chair and led me to the reference section of the library. Somewhere in the 500 stacks, she pulled out a book. "This should have it printed out. This is a reference book, so you can't check it out, but you can read it, and if you want to write it down, I can lend you a pencil and some paper."
"Thank you! I don't need to copy it down. I just want to read it. I'll take it to a table and look at it, and then I'll be sure to put it back in its right place."
With another sweet smile, she said, "You're one of the few people whom I trust to do exactly that."
We exchanged knowing looks—although I'm not sure what we knew—and I lugged the heavy tome to a table, pulled out an even heavier chair, sat, gently plopped the book on the table, opened the book and looked. It was in Greek, for pity's sake! Fiddlesticks.
But wait. There was an English translation after the Greek. Shoot, the beginning of the original text refers to Greek gods by name: "I swear by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgment, this oath and this indenture."
Interesting, and I guess I'd just learned where our English words hygiene and panacea came from. Dr. Benjamin was correct in that the words "First, do no harm" don't appear in the text. Modern-day translations undoubtedly left out the Greek-god references. It was a worthwhile oath, I decided after reading the whole thing. Too bad some doctors—like Dr. Wagner, for example—failed to abide by its dictates.
I carried the sixty-pound volume—there I go, exaggerating again—back to the 500 stacks, put it into its proper place, picked up my family's latest load of books, waved good-bye to Regina, and took the books to the check-out counter. Then I left the library and drove to Mrs. Pinkerton's palace, which was north and west of the Pasadena Public Library, on Orange Grove Boulevard—"Millionaire's Row," according to some local wits. Those wits were right. Both Mrs. Pinkerton and Mrs. Frasier lived in mansions on Orange Grove, which was a gorgeous street lined with huge estates. Mind you, our own neighborhood was nice, but South Marengo Avenue couldn't hold a candle to Orange Grove if you compared Marengo's inhabitants to those who lived on Orange Grove. Therefore, I didn't bother. Comparing the streets or their inhabitants, I mean.
After I parked my family's almost-new Chevrolet in front of the gigantic front porch of the Pinkerton place, I trod up the marble steps, patted one of the marble lions on its head, picked up the brass door knocker hanging from a brass lion's mouth, and whacked the knocker against the brass knocking plate. Almost instantly, Featherstone, the Pinkertons' butler, opened the door.
"Good morning, Featherstone!" I always greeted him exuberantly, mainly because I'd never once, in all the years I'd been working for Mrs. Pinkerton, seen
him smile or deviate an iota from his butler act. He even had an English accent, by golly! Sometimes I tried to tease him, but not so much recently. He had his pose as a butler to maintain, just as I had mine as a spiritualist-medium to do likewise.
"Mrs. Majesty," said he. "Please come this way."
So I went that way, following him, although I could find my way to Mrs. P's front drawing room blindfolded and walking backwards by that time. But I didn't want to cause Featherstone any distress, so I never veered off course. I doubt he would have reacted if I had veered, but he might have suffered internal unease, and it would have been mean of me.
Entering the drawing room, I saw Mrs. Pinkerton seated on a beautiful sofa across the room. She'd been reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair Magazine. My family didn't subscribe to Vanity Fair, which published some short fiction pieces, lots of articles about celebrities, fashions, and who was doing what with whom. Sort of a gossip magazine for rich people, I reckon. When she glanced up and saw me, she smiled hugely.
Boy, was that a change from her usual mood when I came to call. Generally speaking, especially during the past several months, she'd been hysterical, weeping, in a nervous twit, or exhibiting a combination of all of those things. Not today. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks to the Creator. I had enough on my mind already. I didn't need a panic-stricken Mrs. Pinkerton with whom to deal.
"Good morning, Daisy dear. How are you today?"
"I'm fine, thank you, Mrs. Pinkerton. And you?" I asked as I carried my pack of spiritualist paraphernalia over to the sofa and pulled up one of Mrs. P's gorgeous medallion-backed chairs across the table from her. Taking a breath and a chance, I added, "You don't seem as upset today as you've been recently."
"Have a seat, dear. No. Harold has convinced me of the error of my ways. I have always loved and continue to love my daughter, but she's going to have to deal with her problems without me bailing her out this time."
Right. Unless one counted hiring the most expensive legal counsel available in Pasadena and making sure she wanted for nothing. Well, except freedom, but she didn't deserve freedom.
But good heavens! I could hardly believe my ears. I hope this new attitude on Mrs. P's part wouldn't spell the end of my spiritualist-medium business.
Naw. She could never hold on to a good mood for long. She'd be panicking again soon; I was sure of it.
"I'm so glad to hear it," I said, and I meant the words sincerely, and not just for Mrs. P's sake, but for mine as well. She was much easier to deal with when she wasn't in a frightful tizzy. "You've done everything you can do for Stacy, Mrs. Pinkerton. She stepped in the mud all on her own this time, and she should have to deal with the consequences of her actions."
Letting out a largish sigh, Mrs. Pinkerton laid the magazine on the coffee table set before the sofa. "I know. Sometimes it's hard for me to keep my spirits up, but Harold is forever prodding me to buck up. And I know he's right."
"Harold is a good son," I said. "And he's wise, too."
"Yes. He is," agreed Harold's mother. "Much wiser than I."
He sure was. Naturally, I didn't say so. Rather, I said, "Would you like to consult the Ouija board, or have me deal out a tarot hand for you today, Mrs. Pinkerton?"
"Yes, please. I'd like to speak to Rolly through the Ouija board first."
"Certainly. Don't forget that Rolly can't answer questions about anyone but the person asking." I'd told her the same thing several thousand times, but it bore repeating. Mrs. P didn't learn easily.
"I remember, dear." She gave me a sweet smile.
So I pulled out my Ouija board, which I kept in a lovely bag embroidered by my very own hands. The board was an older model board, but I'd polished it up and kept it well-groomed. Neither my Ouija board nor I would ever present a less-than-perfect veneer to my paying clients. I set the board on the coffee table with the letters and numbers facing Mrs. Pinkerton. I'd learned to read upside-down years earlier. I set the wooden planchette in the middle of the board, and Mrs. P and I lightly placed our fingertips on it. You're not supposed to put any weight on the planchette, because—so legend has it; I personally don't believe in any of it—you might in that way prevent the planchette from moving easily over the board. Hogwash, all of it. Still, it's how I made my living so I adhered to the rules.
Once our fingertips rested lightly on the planchette, Mrs. P said, "Very well. This question isn't strictly about myself, but I would like to know, since I'll be among the guests, if Rolly will be able to help you determine the murderer of that beastly Doctor Wagner."
I was about to administer another teensy lecture about only asking questions pertaining to herself, but evidently Rolly had a different idea that day. Since Rolly is me, this surprised me a good deal. At first I wasn't sure what was happening and glanced sharply at Mrs. P to see if she was attempting to manipulate the planchette. But she had her gaze fixed firmly on our fingers, so I squinted again at the stupid planchette and felt it move on its own. I swear, it did.
Now here's the thing. I never moved the planchette using physical force. Never. However, since my mind was the functioning party to any Ouija-board transactions I perpetrated, the planchette always did what I wanted it to. It probably comes down to me unwittingly directing the planchette, even if it doesn't feel as though I'm physically moving the thing. It's a stupid triangular-shaped piece of wood, for cripe's sake. It couldn't possibly move without some input from the human in charge.
Except that day. The confounded, mindless piece of polished wood zipped around the board without my involvement. Not any involvement. Neither physically nor mentally did I direct the planchette where to go. It went anyway. All on its own.
Don't feel bad if you don't believe me. I wouldn't believe me either, if someone said that to me. But it happened anyway, whether I believed it or not.
In answer to Mrs. P's question, the planchette skimmed lightly but firmly to the "Yes" on the upper left-hand side of the board.
Shoot. What did this mean?
"Oh, I'm so glad!" Mrs. P exclaimed. "Will you be able to tell us who the murderer is, Rolly?"
Darned if the blasted planchette—being used by me, curse it, not the fictional Rolly—didn't shudder a bit and stay on the "Yes".
I didn't approve of this. However, evidently Rolly, or the planchette, or the spirits in the room, or whatever was there didn't care if I approved or not. When Mrs. P said, "Can you tell us the name or the killer?"
"Yes," said Rolly. Or me. Or the gods. Or perhaps I'd gone completely 'round the bend and insanity now ruled my fingers. As that was a distressing thought, I attempted to banish it.
Didn't work. As if impelled by forces beyond my control, I asked whatever entity was governing things at the moment, "At the upcoming séance at Mrs. Frasier's house, will you tell us the name of Doctor Wagner's killer?"
I swear to God, I didn't do a single, solitary thing to that pesky planchette. I only sat there like an idiot and watched the wooden object upon which our fingers lay slide sleekly to the "No" in the upper right-hand corner of the board.
"Oh, but if you know who it is, why won't you tell us?" asked Mrs. Pinkerton in a pleading voice.
When the wretched planchette spelled out "Not my job," I suspected Sam Rotondo had somehow monkeyed with the dratted board, although I had no idea how he could have. But darned if Rolly didn't sound just like him. Well, the planchette sounded like Sam, at any rate. All right, it didn't sound like him, because it was speechless, but...
Honestly, I don't know what I mean. Stunned didn't come even close to what I felt during that Ouija-board session. By the time I left Mrs. Pinkerton, she was gleeful.
I wasn't.
Chapter 11
About thirty minutes after our Ouija-board session started, it ended, and I was intensely glad of it. I still felt shaky as I walked from the drawing room to the kitchen to avail myself of Aunt Vi's promised lunch. My feelings stumbled around inside me like reeling drunkards, and I felt a trifle sickish
in my tummy, but I decided what had happened with the Ouija board and Rolly was a mere fluke, prompted by the unpleasant stresses of the last day or so. Not to mention talking to Dr. Benjamin that morning and my deplorable supposition concerning Marianne Grenville and her late, unlamented father.
I only hoped I was right and my life would come to its senses soon, if not instantly. I prayed for instantly.
"Good heavens, Daisy, what happened to you?" said Vi as soon as I'd set foot in her kitchen lair.
"Do I look that bad?" Guess my prayer had gone unanswered. Again. I sighed and sat on one of the chairs placed at the kitchen table against the wall.
"You only look a trifle pale, dear. Are you feeling all right?"
"Um... Yes. I'm fine. I just had a little Ouija-board session with Mrs. Pinkerton."
"Oh, dear. Was she in a state?"
"Oddly enough, she wasn't. It's just... Well, I don't know. Something weird happened."
"Oh, is that all?"
I stared at my aunt. "What do you mean, 'Is that all'? It scared me to death!"
Her eyes narrowed and she gazed upon me with some concern. "I'm sorry. What scared you?"
I shook my head. "It sounds stupid."
"That's all right, dear. If it will help you feel better, please tell me about it."
"Well..." Shoot, I felt like an idiot. "Well, the Ouija board kind of got away from me when Mrs. P and I were using it."
"It got away from you? It ran out the door? I'm not sure what that means, Daisy." Vi, bless her, sat in a chair near mine and took one of my hands, which she squeezed reassuringly. "I don't understand, dear."
"I don't, either. It spelled out things I hadn't intended for it to spell out." Beginning to feel a little more peeved than spooked, I blurted out, "And it sounded just like Sam!"
Peering hard at me and obviously puzzled, Vi said, "Goodness. I thought your Ouija-board antics were all make-believe."
