by Alice Duncan
Suddenly Marianne, pressed a hand to her cheek, gasped and said, "Oh, my!"
I perked up minimally.
"Whatever is it, dear?" asked Diane.
"I just thought of something!" said Marianne.
Not overwhelmingly helpful, but at least they didn't seem inclined to beat me to a pulp or throw me off the Colorado Street Bridge.
"Yes?" I said, hoping for some clarification.
Mother and daughter stared at each other for approximately ten seconds. It felt like ten years.
Then Diane's expression blossomed with sudden understanding and she nodded. Marianne did likewise.
"It wouldn't surprise me," said Diane.
Huh?
"My word!" exclaimed Mrs. Pinkerton who, as ever, had managed to insert herself into the conversation. Then again, the entire séance crowd had come over to us and stood in a huddle around the sofa containing Diane, Marianne, Harold and me. "What an interesting notion!"
What notion was that? Totally confused, I.
"Yes," said Diane in a soft voice. "It is. Very interesting." After exchanging another look with her daughter, she said, her voice a bit harder than it had been, "It wouldn't surprise me to learn he had other children by other women."
This time it was I who gasped. I think a few other people did, too. Harold didn't. Man of the world, Harold.
Diane went on. "I'll have to get in touch with our attorney. He probably knows much more about my late husband's private life than I was ever privileged to know."
Not a ringing endorsement of her marriage, but we already knew her marriage had been a pit of misery.
"You know," said Marianne thoughtfully. "Gaylord or Vincent might know." She shrugged. "Or both of them. They wouldn't want to tell us if they did know about any... What would you call them? Mistresses? My late father might have had."
Mrs. Pinkerton's right hand flew to her mouth and she gulped audibly.
Diane said, "Yes. They might know. And you're right. They wouldn't tell us."
Her voice registering incredulity, Mrs. Frasier said, "Mistresses? Do you really think he might have had... mistresses?"
"It wouldn't surprise me," said Marianne, her voice dark; almost sinister. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me to find out he had a whole 'nother family or two. Or even three. He was a bad man."
With a sigh, Diane said, "Yes. He was. A very bad man."
Mrs. Frasier said faintly. "My goodness."
The herd of people standing in the room nodded solemnly, as if a puppet master were in charge of their strings. Clearly Dr. Wagner's evil ways were a poorly kept secret in the upper echelons of Pasadena society.
"I'll ask Fletcher Kingsley," said Diane. "He's the family's attorney. He'll probably know, if anyone does, if Doctor Wagner had any other children. Or about... other people who were close to him. Although how any woman could— But never mind. We all know what Doctor Wagner was."
Eight to twelve heads nodded, the faces attached to same looking grim, angry or solemn or a combination of the three.
About forty-five minutes later, during which interminable time I'd sat in the drawing room, speaking softly and apologetically to the victims of my séance and being reassured time and again, I managed to make my escape. I still felt terrible about what Rolly had said. Fortunately for me, no one present seemed to hold me accountable for Rolly's lousy behavior. They were far more forgiving of Rolly than I was. Stupid spirit control. It was the first time in my entire career I'd even considered trading Rolly in for another model.
Good Lord! If I did that, would Rolly haunt me?
I felt as though I were losing my mind. The feeling wasn't pleasant.
Harold walked me out to the Chevrolet. His bright red Stutz Bearcat was parked nearby. My family's Chevrolet looked like a fat old uncle compared to Harold's low-slung, snazzy car.
"So," said Harold, "that was kind of a fiasco, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said, still feeling guilty and drooping, "it was. And I still don't know how it happened."
"You should have a woman-to-man talk with Rolly. He's getting too big for his britches."
"That probably should be funny."
"Yes. It probably should be. I'm sorry it's not."
I heaved a huge sigh. "So am I. I hope everyone's in bed when I get home, because I don't want to talk about this séance. Ever. But I'll have to eventually. And I'll also have to confess to Sam what went on here tonight."
"The good detective doesn't really believe in your spiritualist nonsense, does he?"
"Heavens, no! But I still feel obliged to tell him. I mean... Well, I mean, what if Rolly was speaking the truth?"
I couldn't see Harold's face clearly because the night was dark; however, the outdoor lights were on—this was a mansion, don't forget—and I was able to make out his dubious expression. "And you still claim Rolly spoke without any help from you, right?"
I stopped walking, deeply hurt by the note of disbelief in Harold's voice. "Yes," I said, wanting to cry again. "Yes, yes, yes! I had nothing to do with what he said! Do you honestly think I'd have said something like that on purpose? 'Look to the family'? Do you really, Harold? I thought you knew me better than that!"
"Don't get upset again, sweetie. Yes, I know you better than that. I just wonder if... Well, if the stress of recent events is getting you down. You don't believe in the spiritualist garbage you spout any more than I do, do you?"
"No," I said, whimpering slightly. "Except every now and then, something weird happens. Like that time Eddie Hastings came out of my mouth. And tonight." I started walking again, but not with any sort of lift to my walk. I was droopy and drooping. "Oh, Harold, this was almost worse than the Eddie Hastings séance! I thought I had complete control of Rolly! I always have had before. I made him up, for heaven's sake! If he starts doing stuff like he did tonight, I'm... I don't know what I'll do. Quit the business, I guess. But then what will my family do? I guess I can be an elevator operator at Nash's, but I won't make a tenth as much money as I do now."
"You don't have to worry about that yet, sweetie. Just continue as you've been doing, and I think things will work out."
"Why do you think that? What if this happens again?"
With a shrug, Harold said, "Just visit my mother more often. She'll love it, and you won't have to worry about Rolly because she'll believe anything that comes out of your mouth. Anyway, you can read the tarot cards instead. Or the crystal ball. Or the Ouija board."
"Rolly's supposed to be in charge of the Ouija board, too, you know. He did something without my prompting the other day with the board. When I was with your mother. I think he's beginning to take over my... What do you call it? My psyche. Or something."
"Nuts to that. Just slap him down."
"How do I do that?"
Another shrug. "I don't know. Throw that wooden triangle thing across the room and yell at Rolly?"
I think he was kidding, but I said, "I might just do that."
"Sleep well, Daisy. Don't take everything so seriously. I'm sure it will work out all right."
"If you say so."
"I say so."
I sure hoped he was right. As I drove home that night, I had serious doubts.
Chapter 18
Thursday morning, I awoke with a heart heavy only partially because Spike had decided to sleep across my chest sometime during the night. I gently shoved him off and sat up in bed.
"Spike, whatever will I do?"
Spike didn't answer, which I'd expected. That morning I liked Spike infinitely more than I liked Rolly. Spike wagged his tail, which prompted me to hug and cuddle him until I remembered I needed to use the bathroom, which meant he probably did, too. So I let him out the back door leading from my bedroom to the back deck. Spike raced outside and down the steps and spent a good deal of time watering various plants. Mind you, I didn't see him do his watering. I raced to the human bathroom, leaving the bedroom door open so Spike could come in without disturbing anyone by barking t
o be let inside again.
Once I'd used the facilities, splashed cold water on my face, and peered into the mirror—I looked not unlike hell warmed up, darn it—I shuffled back to my bedroom. Spike had gone into the kitchen from which fragrant smells emanated. I wasn't hungry. That was most unusual.
Oh, dear. I hoped this didn't signal the beginning of another decline. After Billy died, I'd spun so far out of control and lost so much weight, folks told me I looked skeletal and nearly transparent. At this point, December of 1924, I still hadn't regained all the weight I'd lost.
I told myself that was a good thing. I hadn't been fat before Billy's death, but I'd been about as far from the bean-skinny ideal of femininity then in vogue as an ocean liner was from a rowboat.
Because I felt so shaky and puny, I decided to get dressed before I faced my family. In truth, I rather hoped Ma and Aunt Vi had already left for work, although when I glanced at the clock on my bedside table, I saw it was only a little past six-thirty a.m. And I'd come home after midnight. Good. If any of my family members asked why I looked so ghastly, I could blame my lack of looks on lack of sleep. Wouldn't be a complete lie.
It didn't take me much time to decide what to wear. I had no commitments except for making a telephone call to Sam, and I didn't have to dress well for that. I also didn't want to make the call, but needs must sometimes. Whatever that means.
After combing my hair—thank the good Lord and Irene Castle for the modern-day bob—I slipped on a newish blue housedress, some white cotton stockings, and my old brown walking shoes. I figured Pa and I would take Spike for a walk that morning as we usually did, and I could slip on a sweater and my coat and be plenty warm enough.
As soon as I walked into the kitchen, the 'phone on the far wall began ringing. At—I looked at the kitchen clock near the telephone—seven a.m.! Who in the world would be calling at this ungodly hour? Well, it wouldn't have been ungodly if you were a farmer or night-shift worker or something like that, but we Gumms and Majesty weren't. And neither were any of our neighbors.
The only person I could think of who might perpetrate such an inconsiderate act would be Mrs. Pinkerton in a tizzy. However, according to my friend and her lady's maid, Edie Applewood, Mrs. Pinkerton seldom got up before nine a.m. Must be nice to be rich.
Feeling annoyed as well as tired and grumpy, I stomped to the telephone, barely registering my father seated at the kitchen table with Spike at his feet.
Nearly ripping the receiver off the cradle and slamming it against my ear, I said—softly and soothingly, darn it—"Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty—"
"Yeah. I know all that," came Sam's voice, which sounded nearly as grumpy as I felt. "What I need to know is what happened at your séance last night."
"And you're telephoning at seven o'clock in the morning to ask me about it? The telephone rings in all our party-line neighbors' homes, too, you know. You probably woke them all up."
"Nuts. Working people have to get up early."
"Not this early unless they're farmers and have to rise at the crack of dawn to feed the chickens and slop the hogs!"
"Do farmers do that?"
"How should I know? I'm not a farmer! It's too early for you to telephone anyone who doesn't live on a farm!"
I heard an offended, "Hmph," from one of the people who shared our telephone wire. So there, Sam Rotondo, I thought.
Very well; I didn't feel awfully mature that morning.
After sucking in approximately twelve cubic feet of bacon-scented air—which made me feel better, actually—I said, still softly and sweetly, "Will our party-line neighbors please hang up your receivers? This call is for me. I'm terribly sorry it's so early. It was unconscionable to wake you all up so early on this"—I glanced out the kitchen window and almost groaned—"foggy December morning."
Three clicks smote my ear. I waited. "Mrs. Barrow?" I said, even still softly and amiably, curse it.
"It's real selfish of you to have people telephoning you so early in the morning, Mrs. Majesty." Mrs. Barrow's repugnant New York twang stormed through the telephone wires. "Inconsiderate, is what it is."
"Yes, it is, and I'm sorry," said I, hoping Sam's own personal telephone ear was turning red with embarrassment. It probably wasn't, Sam being Sam.
Mrs. Barrow's click at last smote my ear, and I said, "How dare you, Sam Rotondo? Don't you have any manners at all? You know we have a party line! What couldn't wait until a more decent hour?"
"Cripes," muttered Sam. "I didn't realize how early it is."
I humphed.
"Sorry," he added.
"I'm sure. Now what was it you wanted?" I didn't really need to be reminded.
"What happened at the séance last night? I heard rumblings about it."
"You heard what?"
"Cripes. Don't screech at me. I heard from one of the uniforms whose sister works for Mrs. Frasier that something odd happened. What was it?"
Before coffee? Before toast? Before bacon? Darn Sam Rotondo to perdition!
"Nothing happened!"
"Horsefeathers. It did, too. Now what was it?"
"For pity's sake, Sam. Rolly told everyone at the séance to look to the family when I asked him who committed the murder."
Silence greeted my announcement—which had been nothing but the truth, even if it didn't carry with it the emotional overtones and undertones Rolly's suggestion had elicited from last night's victims.
"That's it?" he said at last.
"That's it," I said, mad as an old wet hen, as my aunt was wont to say. I didn't have much to do with barnyard animals on a daily basis, but I could imagine how having a bucket of cold water thrown at a peaceful hen might affect its mood.
"That can't be it. Peterson said his sister was all agog."
"Agog, was she?" I tried to sound as sarcastic as possible.
"Yes. Agog. So what you told me can't be the sum total of what happened last night."
Nuts to the irritating man! "Listen, Sam. I didn't get much sleep, I just got up, and I'm tired and cranky. Let me eat breakfast, and I'll 'phone you back."
"Invite him for breakfast," my father said from his seat at the kitchen table.
I jumped, having forgotten all about him even being there. I turned, frowned, and said, "He doesn't deserve to be fed."
Pa laughed and said, "Sure, he does."
"Fiddlesticks." Nevertheless, I said into the receiver, "Pa wants you to come and have breakfast with us."
"He does?"
"Yes."
"Do you?"
"No."
"Be there in five."
He hung up.
"And a plague upon your house, you rat," I muttered as I hung up the receiver and turned. Planting my fists on my hips, I told my wonderful father, "Sam is an inconsiderate wretch. He doesn't deserve any of Vi's good cooking."
"Nonsense. He does, too. You're just cross this morning because you got in so late," said my aunt, entering the kitchen from the hall from the bathroom. When I turned to glance at her, I saw her smiling. Huh.
"Oh, my, is Sam coming over?" asked Ma, entering the kitchen from the dining room. She smiled, too. "That's so nice."
Spike jumped up from the kitchen floor and raced to the front door, barking madly. It was his oh-goody-a-friend-has-come-to-call bark, so I knew it was Sam. Five minutes, my left hind leg. He must have called from the pay telephone booth on the corner. Darn him! And here I was in my ugly blue housedress and clunky shoes.
Oh, well. Couldn't be helped. I followed Spike to the door and flung it open, scowling as viciously as I could.
"You," I said, glaring at Sam.
He had the grace to look slightly—only slightly, mind you—abashed. "Me," he said, leaning on his cane and attempting to produce an endearing smile. He was too big to be endearing, even in a Santa-Claus suit.
"Come in," I snarled.
I stepped aside, and Sam walked into the house. Because I hadn't told him not to, Spike commenced leaping upon S
am, his little doggie claws making furrows in his overcoat. I looked down at my dog, satisfied and hoping one of his claws would make a big hole in Sam's trousers. His overcoat was too thick to be damaged by a dachshund's short claws. Darn it.
"Cripes. I'm sorry I called so early," Sam said, hanging his overcoat and hat on the coat tree next to the front door. He knelt to pet Spike and looked up at me. "Is that the only reason you're so short-tempered this morning?"
Short-tempered, was I?
By golly, I was. I attempted to cheer up without much luck. "No," I said. "I didn't get any sleep, and Marianne Grenville fainted when Rolly told the assembled séance attendees to look to the family if they wanted to know who killed Doctor Wagner. Personally, I don't care who killed him! I think whoever it was deserves a million dollars and a fast car. Maybe two million dollars."
"Daisy!" came my mother's appalled voice from behind me.
Well, wouldn't you just know she'd be there to hear my ugly words? I borrowed one of Sam's favorite activities and rolled my eyes heavenward. What a stupid morning this was turning out to be.
"Sorry, Ma," I said, turning and attempting to smile at her. "I'm just tired." A glance at Sam. "And grumpy at having been telephoned too darned early in the morning."
"I'm sorry," said Sam again, pleading this time, and rising to his fee with a grunt and the aid of his cane.
"Pay no attention to Daisy, Sam," said Ma. "Sometimes those séances take a good deal out of her and really do sap her strength."
Bless my mother's heart! I had no idea she believed that!
I think I must have goggled in astonishment at her because she then said, "Well, they do, don't they?"
"Yes," I said, sniffling a trifle. "They do. Thanks, Ma."
"But that's no reason to be rude to a guest."
A guest? "Sam isn't a guest! He might as well live here, he's around so much!"
"Daisy," said my mother, tutting at me. "Poor Sam can't help being a lonely bachelor. After all, he didn't have a family to help him when his dear wife passed on."
