by Alice Duncan
"So did I."
"What did it say? Or does it speak?"
"It doesn't speak. It spells things out. Since I made Rolly up when I was only ten, it's not supposed to be able to spell well, but nobody remembers that part. Anyway, it spells correctly these days."
"If it's you, I expect it does," said Vi, still squinting. "But whatever happened, dear? You really do look a trifle frazzled."
"Frazzled. That's a good word for it." I took in a deep breath and released it. "When Mrs. Pinkerton asked the Ouija board—well, she thought she was asking Rolly, but you know what I—"
"Yes," said Vi, probably not meaning to interrupt, but knowing what I was going to say because I'd said it so often. "I know what you mean."
"Well, when she asked the Ouija board—which she thought was being ruled by Rolly—if it or he—Oh, bother. When she asked it if it knew who'd killed Doctor Wagner, darned if that idiotic planchette didn't just zip right up to the 'Yes' at the top of the board!"
"Oh." Vi let my hand go with a little reassuring pat. "That doesn't sound too terrible, sweetie."
"Maybe not to you. But I hadn't intended it to say it knew who the murderer is. Was. Well, you know what I mean."
"Yes, I think I do. But I'm still not sure what has you so upset, Daisy. Tell me about it while I fix your lunch."
"Thanks, Vi. Let me see if I can make this make sense. If that makes sense." I heaved a sigh. "Oh, dear."
"You just sit there and relax, sweetie, and think about what happened. Then you can tell me so that I can understand."
I almost heard the unspoken "I hope" she didn't utter. And how could she understand what had happened when I didn't?
Fiddlesticks. I thought hard for a moment or two, watching Vi as she moved around the kitchen. Looked as if I were going to be eating a sandwich for lunch that day. That was all right by me.
"Very well," I said at last, hoping I'd mentally sorted out what had happened and what my feelings were. "The thing is that, even though I know I'm the one doing the thinking during a Ouija-board session, I never consciously direct the planchette to do anything. It just does what I want it to do, because I'm the brains behind it." If brains were involved. I was beginning to think my own personal brain had acquired leaks. "Maybe brains isn't a good word."
"It's a fine word, dear," said Vi with a short laugh.
Well, she could laugh. She hadn't just been involved in an uncanny Ouija-board session. But never mind that.
I went on. "But today, I had aimed to tell Mrs. Pinkerton that Rolly—that is, the Ouija board—didn't have a clue who murdered Doctor Wagner. I sure don't know who did it. But the stupid planchette went to the 'Yes' and just sat there."
Vi turned to peer at me from the stove, where she stirred something in a small saucepan. "That sounds odd," said she.
"It was odd! Ridiculously odd! I don't have a single, solitary notion who the killer is, but the stupid planchette said it did know. What's more, when Mrs. P asked if it knew the killer by name, it stayed on the 'Yes'. But I don't know the murderer's name, so if I don't know, how could the Ouija board know?"
"I don't know," said Vi.
My elbows rested on the table, and I sank my head into my hands. "I don't, either. And then, when Mrs. P asked if it would reveal the name of the killer at Mrs. Frasier's séance tomorrow night, it said it wouldn't."
"Oh?" Vi had commenced ladling out what looked like soup into a pretty flowered bowl. Mrs. Pinkerton had lovely china. Several patterns' worth, according to Vi and my friend Edie Applewood, who worked as Mrs. P's lady's maid. "Why is that? Did it tell you?"
I lifted my head in time to see Vi use a spatula to lift a toasted sandwich from the stove-top grill and on to a flowered plate that matched the flowered bowl. Then she cut the grilled sandwich into two neat triangles. Whatever my lunch was going to be that day, I probably wouldn't be able to it justice.
Or maybe I could. Just because my brain was in a muddle didn't mean I couldn't still enjoy food, right?
Putting the bowl, plate, some silverware—real silver silverware, in Mrs. P's house—onto a tray and adding a napkin, Vi brought it to me and set it out on the table as if she were a waitress.
"Thanks, Vi," said I, looking at what appeared to be a toasted sandwich with cheese, ham and tomatoes on it. The soup was definitely cream of tomato. Vi made the best cream of tomato soup in the entire world. That shouldn't surprise anyone, since she makes the best everything in the entire world. "This looks spectacular."
"I used pumpernickel bread, because I know you like it."
"You're so good to me, Vi."
"But go on with your story. Maybe the séance will solve the murder and Sam will be happy with you."
"For once," I said for her, since she'd never say such a thing.
"Nonsense. Sam loves you to death, Daisy. You know that."
Another sigh. "I know it. And I love him. But that doesn't solve the problem of who killed Doctor Wagner."
"But I don't understand. According to you, the Ouija board said it—or Rolly or... well, I don't know—But you said it said it knew who the killer was and even the killer's name."
"Yes, it claims to know. I don't have a single, solitary clue."
"Well, then, but the Ouija board—or whatever—said it does know. If it knows the killer's name, why won't it say who it is?" She wrinkled her nose. "Not that I believe in that sort of thing, you understand."
"I understand," I said after heaving a sigh.
"Then why won't it say the killer's name?"
"Beats me, but when Mrs. P asked if it would reveal the name at the séance, it said it wouldn't. And then, when she asked why it wouldn't, the stupid thing spelled out 'Not my job'. I swear, Aunt Vi, it sounded just like Sam!"
"Really? Why wouldn't Sam tell you the name of the murderer if he knew?"
"Sam would tell if he knew. But Sam doesn't know."
A moment of silence passed while I bit off the end of my absolutely scrumptious sandwich. While Vi had cut the sandwich in half, she didn't bother removing the crusts, which was all right with me since that seems a terribly wasteful habit. That's probably why rich people did it. To prove they're richer than the rest of us mere mortals and could afford to waste food and money.
I'm sorry. I'm not really crabby most of the time. I hope.
"Um... I don't understand, dear," said Vi.
"Neither do I."
"But... but aren't you and Rolly the same thing? I mean, you made up Rolly, didn't you? So how could he know something you don't know?"
I took a sip of soup. Amazing. It tasted as if Vi had sautéed some onions and maybe some mushrooms and added them to the plain old tomato soup. Not that Vi's tomato soup is ever plain or old.
"That's the thing!" I said, splashing my spoon into my soup by accident. I guess frustration does that to a person. "I'm sorry, Vi," said I, blotting up the spill with my napkin. "I don't know. I never would have said Rolly knows who the murderer is because I don't know who the murderer is!" I set my spoon beside my bowl and gazed sorrowfully down upon my delicious lunch. "I'm so confused, Vi. This has never happened before."
Never mind the time I was at a séance and the ghost of Eddie Hastings suddenly popped out of my mouth. Or the time I was playing a fortune-teller at one of Mrs. Pinkerton's parties to benefit the Pasadena Humane Society and my stupid crystal ball showed me a bunch of trees, thereby leading to the rescue of a kidnapped butler. Those things were disconcerting enough, but I'd never, ever, not once, lost control of the Ouija board's inhuman, inanimate, unconscious, lifeless, carved wooden planchette.
Until that day.
"I'm sorry, dear," said Vi. She was concerned; I could tell. She also had no more idea what to do about my problem than did I. I also got the impression she didn't think the problem was a big deal. Guess it wasn't to her, but her job didn't include spiritualist-medium-ing.
Nerts.
After heaving another heartfelt sigh, I said, "I just don't know what t
o do. Maybe I won't have to do anything. Maybe Rolly or the Ouija board or the planchette or something will relent and deign to surrender the killer's name at tomorrow night's séance." I didn't believe it.
Neither, evidently, did Vi. She rose from her chair, her face a pattern-card of disbelief. "Well, dear, I don't know if that will be any better."
"What do you mean?" I gazed at my aunt in surprise.
"If that crazy thing spells out a name, who's to say it's right or wrong? I mean, you can't just go around accusing people of murder without proof, can you?"
"But I wouldn't be the one accusing anyone," I said feebly.
"Perhaps not, but who will believe that, dear? You're supposed to be in charge of all those spiritualist... whatever you call thems. Arcana? I'm not sure if that's the right word."
"I think it is," I said, drooping slightly.
"Well, then, aren't you the one who's supposed to be in control of those things?"
"Yes."
"But in this case you aren't?"
"Right."
Vi stood there for a moment or two, peering down at me with concern. We were in agreement there. I was concerned, too.
However, that didn't stop me from finishing and enjoying my delicious lunch.
Chapter 12
When Sam came over that afternoon for a discussion about our various doctor visits and any new insights we'd gathered from our inquiries, I still wasn't sure what to tell him.
Oh, I had no trouble telling him what Dr. Benjamin had revealed about the dreadful Dr. Wagner's abortion racket. It was all the other stuff, including my thoughts regarding what might have happened to Marianne, thanks to her father, that gave me pause. I mean, that was only a guess on my part and a particularly ugly one. Only it felt right. I wished it didn't.
And I really didn't want to delve into what had happened between the Ouija board and Mrs. Pinkerton that morning. He'd only laugh. I wasn't sure I could handle being laughed at, as I was still off kilter and feeling out of control. In my own realm, for the good Lord's sake! I mean, I'd invented my spiritualist-medium self out of whole cloth when I was ten! All of a sudden to lose control of what I'd come to think of as my own personal domain made me nervous. Quite nervous. Scared, actually.
Oh, dear.
"Yeah, I heard about the abortion business Doctor Wagner was conducting from Doctor Ferdinand. The man nearly turned purple with rage when he told me about it." Sam grinned.
"I imagine he disapproved," I said, my own disapproval clear to hear. I didn't think anything about this case was laughable. "So do I. I don't think it's anything to grin about."
Sam said, "Sorry. It's not funny, but Doctor Ferdinand reminded me of my mother and father. Roman Catholic to the core. Nobody, but nobody, is allowed to abort a baby, even if everyone involved knows the poor thing will starve to death once it's born because there are either already too many mouths to feed or it's damaged somehow. I didn't mean to make light of the situation with Wagner. That man was a bastard."
I blinked at Sam's words, not quite knowing what to say.
"Sorry about the bad language," said he, clearly misinterpreting my silence.
"Oh, no!" I said, startled. I don't think Sam had ever apologized for using bad language before. "It's not that. It's that I thought you were a Roman Catholic, too. Do you believe in abortion?"
"'Believe' in it? Yeah, I 'believe' in abortion, because it happens. Sometimes a woman will abort a baby naturally. In other cases, evil men like Dr. Wagner might help them along. Do I approve of abortion?" He held out his hand flat and wobbled it a bit in what I gather is the universal gesture for "I'm not sure."
"Really?" Don't ask me why, but his equivocal answer surprised me. Sam wasn't known for being wishy-washy about anything.
"Really." He grinned again. "Surprised?"
"Kind of. I mean, you're a Catholic, and—"
Sam interrupted me. "I haven't been a practicing Roman Catholic for years now. I thought you knew that."
"Well, I guess I did. I remember when your nephew was here—"
Another interruption. "I don't want to remember when he was here."
With a small laugh of my own, I said, "I don't blame you. But I remember Frank being appalled that you'd go to a church other than the Catholic Church. I think he disapproved."
"That in itself is a good-enough reason not to attend Catholic services. Anything my idiot nephew disapproves of can't be all bad."
"He was a problem, all right." I sat still, pondering what to say next. At the moment, Sam and I were seated next to each other on one of the benches in our inglenook. A fire burned merrily in the fireplace. Spike had sort of melted himself over both of our laps, which was easy for him to do since he had such a long body. When he lay like that, he also got patted by two pairs of hands instead of one. Spike was a smart dog. Quite unlike Frank Pagano, Sam's nephew, if you wanted to think about the two males in that way.
But I'm straying from the point again. Sorry.
"You have something more to tell me, don't you?" said Sam, peering at me closely. "What is it? Spit it out."
Blast! How did he know I was concerned about something? He had begun to know me too well for my own good, Sam had.
I waffled. "It's nothing, really."
"I don't believe you."
"Well! That's not very nice, Sam Rotondo." I attempted to sound offended but couldn't quite carry it off.
"Nuts. Just tell me what's bothering you."
"You'll laugh."
"Good. I could use a good laugh."
"Or maybe you'll get mad."
Beginning to frown, Sam said, "All right, now I definitely need to know what's bothering you."
"You won't believe me."
Rolling his eyes—not an unusual gesture—Sam barked, "Just tell me, dammit!"
"All right, all right. When Mrs. Pinkerton and I were using the Ouija board this morning— Stop rolling your eyes at me!"
He stopped. "Go on." His voice was flat as the proverbial pancake.
"When we were using the Ouija board, it said it knew who Doctor Wagner's murderer is. Was. Even the killer's name."
Sam stopped frowning and began looking puzzled, which made sense to me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, who was it? According to your Ouija board."
"I don't know."
Exasperation from Sam. "For God's sake, Daisy! What do you mean it knows and it doesn't know? That doesn't make even more sense than it usually doesn't make."
"It's not my fault. The planchette got away from me."
"What the devil does that mean?"
"Just what I said, blast it! I didn't push it or anything. It just moved on its own."
"And it said it knew who the murderer was?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, who was it?" he demanded.
"It wouldn't say."
Shaking his head hard, Sam sat back against the embroidered cushions I'd made for the inglenook bench, looking pretty darned frustrated.
"I knew you'd be mad at me," I said, feeling meek and frustrated. Even I could hardly believe what I was telling him.
"I'm not mad at you," said Sam.
"You look mad."
"I'm not, but Daisy, if you know who the murderer is, tell me!"
"But I don't know. It was the... Crumb. This sounds so impossible. But it was the Ouija board that said it knew. I didn't have anything to do with it."
Looking closely at his face, which was turning kind of eggplant-colored, I sighed and said, "I knew you wouldn't believe me. It sounds incredible."
"Yes," he managed to say through clamped teeth, "it does."
After heaving a huge sigh, I said, "But it happened. Just the way I told you. The Ouija board said it knew who the killer was but wouldn't reveal the person's name."
A few silent moments ensued, during which Sam's face lost some of its purplish color. I was glad of that. Purple really isn't his color. Eventually he said, "Did your board tell you why
it wouldn't reveal the murderer's name?"
"Yes. It said revealing the name wasn't its job."
"What?"
"You heard me. It... Well, it reminded me of you, actually."
"Good God."
I decided to change the subject before Sam keeled over from frustration. His color still wasn't great.
"But I learned something else about Doctor Wagner. That is to say, I think I learned something. I'm not sure. It may be a wild guess on my part, but the thought came to me when I was talking to Doctor Benjamin."
Sam sucked in a big breath. "Go on," he said, his voice tight.
"Evidently several other doctors in town had to... mop up after Doctor Wagner's lousy work. With abortions, I mean."
"Yes, Doctor Ferdinand told me that, too. That was another thing that infuriated him about Wagner." He shook his head. "Truth to tell, I'm glad Wagner's dead. Someone probably should have killed him years ago."
"Yes, but..." Darn. If I told him my supposition about Marianne, Sam would take my theory as a reason to look more closely at Marianne and George as suspects in the vile doctor's murder. On the other hand, I felt obliged to tell him my suspicion, hoping he'd scoff. If he scoffed, I wouldn't worry so much.
"Go on," he said again, his voice sounding not quite as dangerous as it had earlier.
"All right. I may be totally wrong about this, but I got a funny feeling as I was talking to Doctor Benjamin that Doctor Wagner might have... Lord, this sounds awful."
"Just say it," said a frustrated Sam.
"I got a feeling that perhaps—and I don't know this to be true—that perhaps the evil doctor impregnated his own daughter and then botched her abortion."
"He what? Doctor Benjamin told you that?"
"No, he didn't tell me that. He couldn't, because that would have been a violation of his Hippocratic Oath."
"His what?"
"Oh, you know. It's the oath all doctors take in order to be doctors. They have to keep their patients' information confidential."
"Oh, yeah. I've heard of it, now that you mention it."
"Anyway, he told me other women had been given abortions by Doctor Wagner, and he did such a lousy job, they can no longer bear children. If he did that to his own daughter—and I know he... well, touched her inappropriately—then it might give Marianne or George a motive for killing him. Doctor Wagner, I mean. And they'd have been right to do it, so I hope it's not true, because the law and I don't see eye-to-eye on the matter of Doctor Wagner's death."
