Spirits Unearthed

by Alice Duncan

  "I know." Marianne pulled away from me, crumpled her napkin in her fist and swiped at her face as if she wanted to rub off her features. I cringed in sympathy with her soft-as-silk skin. "You were the first person besides Mother who ever knew the least little thing about that man, and you saved me."

  With a couple of sniffles of her own, Diane pulled away from me, too, and said, "Yes, and I'll be forever grateful to you for it."

  "I... don't deserve your thanks. Really. I just couldn't send Marianne back to such a situation."

  "Other people wouldn't have bothered to help me," said Marianne, still sniffling. "Except for you, that kind Mr. Kincaid and George were the only people who cared about why I ran away from home and assisted me. I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't. Or Mother. That man literally held her captive. As his personal slave."

  "Yes, he did. But oh, what he did to you was so much worse."

  I agreed with both women, but I had to know one more thing. I didn't want to ask my next question either, but I did.

  "Um... Have you told George about what your father did to you and what the result was?" I asked Marianne, hoping she'd say no, although that wouldn't speak highly of her character. Still, it was an embarrassing and humiliating admission to make to the person who wanted you by his side for his life. Then again, he probably deserved to know. Still, if George had wanted children...

  Oh, boy, I wished I were out of that house!

  But Marianne surprised me. Stiffening her spine, she said firmly, "Yes. I had to tell him the truth, because I loved him. He loved me, but he deserved a wife who was... a whole woman. If he wanted children, he'd have had to look elsewhere." She turned her face away from both her mother and me, and I understood. What an unspeakable thing to have to tell a man with whom one wanted to start a family. But Marianne had spoken the unspeakable, and I thought highly of her for doing so.

  "That must have been hard to do," I said. It was more of a whisper, actually.

  "It was. But it wouldn't have been fair to George if I hadn't told him."

  "And God bless him, he said he only loved Marianne more for confessing the hideous truth to him!" said Diane, beginning to drip tears again.

  I handed her a clean hankie. I'd brought extras with me because I'd anticipated tears—providing I gathered enough courage to ask my snoopy questions. By that time I was glad I had, but I still felt mighty uncomfortable.

  "Yes," said Marianne, sniffling herself. "George was absolutely wonderful."

  "He's a good man," said I, knowing the statement, while true, was weaker than a newborn kitten. "A very good man."

  "The best," agreed Marianne.

  I didn't know about that—I preferred my gruff and grumpy Sam to the staid and well-read George Grenville—but I allowed Marianne her prejudice. George Grenville must stand in her life as a golden idol. And he was, to her. I admired him.

  I admired them all: Diane, Marianne and George. Mind you, Marianne and George had nearly driven me 'round the bend at the time during which I attempted to rescue her, but they'd improved upon further acquaintanceship. In fact, George had actually stood up to Marianne's wicked father right there in his book store while Billy and I were present. I'd squashed the awful man's hat flat, but that was nothing compared to what he deserved. At the time I didn't fully understand precisely what he deserved. I understood it all now, however, and I, too, hoped he'd suffered before he'd died.

  That's not very nice of me, but it's the truth.

  Dr. Wagner had been a poisonous man, and he'd poisoned his whole family. Not to mention the lives of countless other people. I'm not sure why no one had ever sued him for malpractice. I suspect it had something to do with the shame of having one's family's dirty linen aired in public. Such a lawsuit would be obscene and scandalous, and everyone tried to avoid scandal. I would never reproach anyone for that, but silence in some cases meant evil people like Dr. Wagner got away with far too many devilish deeds.

  Heck, Fatty Arbuckle's career had been ruined, and he hadn't done anything wrong except preside over a drunken party in San Francisco. He'd been acquitted of murdering that poor girl whose name I can't remember by three separate juries, but his career in the pictures was over.

  Which just went to show once again, if more proof were needed, that life was completely unfair.

  Dr. Wagner had got what he deserved, but he'd received his deserts far too many years after his iniquitous career had begun. Heck, he was a lot older than Fatty Arbuckle, and he'd done far worse things than the comic actor, but he'd lived into his fifties—I'm guessing there—and that was at least thirty years more than he'd deserved.

  Eventually I managed to pry myself away from the Wagner women—well, I mean Diane Chapman and her daughter, Marianne Grenville. I applauded them for wanting to drop the "Wagner" part of their names like hot coals as soon as they possibly could.

  And now I knew for sure that both George and Marianne had excellent motives for murdering Marianne's father.

  Bother. I hate when things like that happen.

  Chapter 14

  However, there wasn't much I could do about the truth, and I knew I had to tell Sam what Marianne and Diane had revealed to me.

  I didn't want to. Sam would surely be convinced George did in the evil doctor because of what the doc had done to George's beloved wife. I still didn't think so. I simply couldn't make myself believe either George or Marianne would do such a thing as beat Dr. Wagner over the head several times with a blunt object. They weren't violent types. Besides, the evil doctor must have splattered his killer with a ton of blood, and I had a feeling Marianne—and maybe even George—would shrink and faint from the sight of so much blood.

  Or maybe one or the other of them had murdered the beast. Or maybe they'd even been in cahoots with each other. I'd been wrong about people before. Far too often for my own personal comfort.

  Sam sat in his office at the Pasadena Police Department, frowning down at a mess of papers on his desk when I walked through the door, making the heads of all the officers sharing the room lift their heads, gaze my way, and grin. They always did that, and it always embarrassed me. Nevertheless, I knew it to be my duty to tell Sam what I'd learned. I'd decided to visit him right after I left the Grenville place before I ran out of courage and decided to keep the women's secrets... well, secret. So I sat in the chair beside his desk and, in spite of his frown, told him what I'd just learned. I did so in a whisper so no one else would hear me.

  Sam sighed heavily before he said, "That gives the three of them the best motive for the man's murder I've heard so far," he muttered. I got the impression he didn't like admitting it any more than I did.

  "I still don't think any of the three of them did it."

  Lifting his head, he gazed into my baby blues with his black-olive eyes. "And why is that? Because you like them? People other people like do bad things all the time. You must have figured that out by this time, what with you stumbling over corpses all the time."

  "Stop blaming me for finding bodies, darn you, Sam Rotondo."

  "I'm not blaming you for the crimes themselves. You're just sort of... I don't know. You're like a magnet for dead bodies or something. The Typhoid Mary of crime."

  "I am not." But we'd been over that same ground countless times—which might possibly mean he was right. "Anyhow, you're going to have to find some kind of proof that anybody did it, and I'll bet you can't, at least for Marianne, Diane and George. I mean, say George and Marianne were in it together. Which one wielded the blunt instrument? George? He's probably not strong enough to whack a person that hard, and neither is Marianne."

  "If Mr. Grenville hit the man enough times, he probably could have caved in his skull."

  My nose wrinkled of its own accord. "Wouldn't Doctor Wagner have objected?"

  "Who knows? Maybe Grenville drugged him."

  "Nerts. Supposing George did manage to overcome the evil doctor and batter him to death, then what happened? Did he and M
arianne dump Wagner's body in the back of George's Cadillac and drive it to Mountain View?"

  "Somebody did," said Sam doggedly. In fact, he often reminded me of Spike, who never gave up on a scent.

  "Well, don't stop looking for suspects just because George and Marianne and Marianne's mother have a motive. According to Doctors Benjamin and Ferdinand, they were far from the only people in Pasadena with good, if not better, motives to do in Doctor Wagner."

  "True. But I don't know any of the other people's names."

  "That's no excuse for quitting."

  "I'm not quitting," Sam said. "But I don't have a lot to work with here."

  "Hmm. I suppose not." Something occurred to me. It had probably occurred to Sam a couple of days prior to that moment, but I figured I'd ask anyway. "Did you find Doctor Wagner's records somewhere? I mean, did he keep records of his patients and procedures?"

  "Probably. Our men are still searching the house. We only found the body a day and a half ago, you know, and the judge signed the search warrant yesterday."

  "It seems like longer ago than that."

  Sam shook his head. "I know, but it wasn't."

  I looked up to take a peek at the clock hanging on the wall near Sam's desk, but it seemed to have stopped at five o'clock on one day or another. "What time is it anyway? Do you know?"

  Sam bent his left arm at the elbow, shook his coat and shirt sleeve down, and squinted at the wristwatch he wore. "Need my reading glasses, curse it. But it looks like eleven forty-five."

  "Is that too early for lunch?"

  After peering from his watch to me and staring for a second or two, Sam said, his tone of voice suspicious, "Why?"

  "I'm inviting you to lunch, you big oaf! If your leg can stand it, we can walk to the Crown City Chop Suey Parlor up the street. My treat."

  Sam thought over my invitation for approximately two and a half seconds, shrugged, and said, "Sure. Why not? I'll even let you pay."

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He rose to his feet, pressing hard on his desk to take as much weight as possible off his left leg. Raising his voice slightly, he said to the room at large, "Going to lunch. Back in a bit."

  The rest of the men in the room, most of whom I knew by sight if not by name, all grinned at the two of us.

  "Take your time," called one of them.

  "Have a good time," another one said.

  "Will do," said Sam with a grin of his own. He snagged his hat from the coat tree right next to the office door, slapped it on his head, and we left the station, Sam's cane tapping as he walked.

  "How's your leg today?" I asked, peering with concern at the implement he wielded. I was beginning to worry about Sam's slow recovery.

  "It's better. Still hurts. Helps if I stay off it."

  Feeling guilty, I said, "I should have parked the Chevrolet in front of the station so you wouldn't have had to walk up the block."

  "Nuts. A little exercise is good for it. Doc Benjamin said so."

  "I hope so. I should get more exercise than I do, too. Walking Spike around a few blocks with Pa in the morning doesn't pump up the old muscles much."

  "Yeah, but you do laundry and clean house and so forth. That gives you plenty of exercise."

  "Maybe."

  But I didn't want to talk about exercise. I wanted to talk about Dr. Wagner's murder. Since I wasn't totally insane—yet—I waited until we were seated in a snug corner of the Chinese restaurant up the street from the police department and had placed our orders before I brought up the subject. I loved Chinese food. Still do, for that matter.

  "All right, Sam, what's happened so far? Have you talked any further with the two sons? Do their alibis hold up?"

  His eyebrows dipping like a fuzzy V over his eyes, Sam said, "I'm the copper here, not you. I'm the one who's supposed to ask the questions, not you."

  "That's unfair, Sam! We're in this one together. Even you said so. You even asked me to talk to people."

  "All right, all right. We're still checking everyone's alibis, including the sons'. I don't know anything at this point." As if he begrudged saying so, he added, "I appreciate the information you gave me at the station."

  "You're welcome. I didn't want to tell you because I knew you'd jump to the conclusion that George or Marianne or Diane—or all three of them—did the dirty deed. Dirty only insofar as the scene of the crime was muddy. Whoever did in that horrible man deserves a medal or a lot of money. Or both."

  "Vindictive little thing, aren't you?"

  "If vindictive means I think he got what he deserved, then yes, I am. He was a foul, degenerate, despicable creature. I'd rather deal with a rattlesnake than a person like that. He doesn't deserve to be called a man."

  Not that I held a grudge or anything.

  With a grin, Sam said, "Not that you hold a grudge or anything."

  I laughed. "If anyone deserved to have a grudge held against him, it was that detestable doctor."

  "I agree."

  Our food arrived, and we both dug in. I especially loved the spare ribs.

  When the first pangs of our hunger had been dulled, I said, "I'm holding that séance tonight at Mrs. Frasier's house. If I learn anything from the gathering, I'll tell you as soon as I can."

  "Wonderful. I can hardly wait to hear what your precious spirit control tells you tonight."

  "Don't be mean, Sam. It's not my fault the Ouija board did something without me directing it."

  "Huh."

  I gnawed a bit of meat from my sparerib, annoyed at my beloved. "It's not," I insisted after I swallowed.

  "Right."

  I gave up. However, lunch was good, and I actually paid the bill, even though Sam tried to wrest it away from me. But I liked to keep my word, and I'd invited him, darn it!

  * * *

  Dinner at the Gumm-Majesty house that night was good, if not quite as spectacular as it had been the night before. Vi had made a lovely beef-and-noodle soup using left-over rib roast and vegetables. She made some delicious cornbread to eat with it. I adored Vi's cornbread slathered with butter and drizzled with honey.

  "Wonderful, Vi," said Sam, discreetly slurping soup. He didn't make any slurping noises; sorry if I gave that impression. He was a tidy diner.

  "Especially on such a cold night," said Ma.

  "Thank you," said Vi. "Just leftovers."

  "Not just leftovers," said I. "You made a wonderful whole new meal from the leftovers. That takes talent. Definitely more talent than I possess."

  "We all know about you and the war between you and the kitchen," said Pa, chuckling.

  He was right, darn it.

  At any rate, dinner was delicious. Since I had to work that evening, Sam helped me with the dishes, and then he took off for home. So Spike and I inspected my closet for séance-worthy attire. There was a whole lot of it jammed into the closet, thanks to my adoration of sewing and need for suitable business costumes. At least that's my excuse for my somewhat extravagant wardrobe, and so far nobody's quibbled with me about it. Heck, I earned the money I spent on fabric and notions, and there was plenty left over for household expenses. I also made clothes for everyone else in the household.

  Does it sound as though I'm trying to justify my too-many clothes? Guess I am, although inside, I know there's no need to apologize for it. Really. Honestly.

  Oh, never mind.

  Eventually Spike and I decided on a fairly new gown I'd made of dark green satin. It had long sleeves and very little decoration. The skirt was asymmetrical, falling to ankle-length from an embroidered patch on the right hip. The rest of the skirt varied from that one fall of fabric to a discreet six inches above my ankles. Tasteful. I always attempted to be tasteful in both my attire and my demeanor.

  The dress's material was shiny and quite lovely—and marvelously inexpensive thanks to Maxime's year-end sale of fall and winter fabrics and colors. I'd bought it in late December of 1923, so the fabric was about a year old, but the gown itself was a new
creation. It went stunningly well with the emerald engagement ring Sam had given me and which his father, who owned a jewelry store in New York City, had designed. I had to hide my juju in my handbag, but I kept the bag with me. Not that I believed in the overall good-luck-giving capabilities of Voodoo jujus, but it couldn't hurt to carry it with me, could it?

  After I'd fixed my makeup—pale powder with a mere touch of mascara on my eyelashes and a wee bit of pencil on my eyebrows—I looked pretty darned good if I do say so myself. I'd brushed my hair into a sleeker bob than usual, using a dab of Columbia Greaseless Hair Cream; and decided to be daring and use the skinny green hair band I'd created out of leftover green satin studded with golden sequins I'd bought at Nelson's Five and Dime. It looked quite elegant when I kind of wove it into my dark red bob, and I was impressed. Heck, the total cost of creating the hair band had been about three cents. I tell you, I might not be good for much, but I was a heck of a good seamstress and spiritualist-medium.

  Once I'd donned my séance costume, put on my black pumps and grabbed my handbag—into which I'd put my juju—I shook out the black, crushed-velvet cape, the fabric for which I'd snagged at a junk sale at church. I think it used to be someone's ball gown in the 1890s or thereabouts—and threw it over my shoulders. Then I walked to the living room and made a grand entrance, which would have been grander if Vi hadn't already gone up to bed.

  "So, how do I look?" I asked my mother and father, twirling in front of them.

  "Beautiful, sweetheart," said Pa, bless him.

  "My goodness, Daisy, you really do look wonderful. I don't think I've ever seen you wear your hair quite like that," said Ma.

  "No, you haven't. I tried to press out its waves with a little hair tonic. And I've never used a hair band before. Do you like it? I feel kind of like Anna May Wong, only with red hair and not so much money."

  "Who's Anna May Wong?" asked Ma.

  "You don't know who Anna May Wong is?" I asked my mother, awed.

  "Heck, even I know who Anna May Wong is," said Pa.

  "She must be famous," said Ma.

  "Very," said I. "She's a movie star. She's Chinese, so her hair is black. And her hair is straight, and I can't make mine go completely straight. Heck, Ma, she starred in The Thief of Baghdad, with Douglas Fairbanks! We saw that movie at the Crown."