by Alice Duncan
Spike let out a doggie chuff of sympathy.
"But if George didn't do it, who did?"
Evidently Spike had no opinion on that subject, because he didn't utter a sound.
"Sam ought to talk to those awful sons of the Wagners, Spike. Or maybe Doctor Wagner botched an abortion on someone whose nearest and dearest decided to get even."
More silence from Spike.
When the telephone in the kitchen rang, I nearly dumped Spike on the floor, the bell startled me so much.
Spike disapproved and said so.
Giving him a loving pet, I said, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Got lost in my thoughts. Didn't mean to disturb you."
Being the kindhearted, forgiving soul he was, Spike didn't object when I lifted him onto the ground again. In fact, he wagged at me. I wish people were more like Spike. Heck, I wish I were more like Spike. Spike never held a grudge or disliked people on sight, neither of which attributes I owned.
When I walked out of my bedroom and into the kitchen, I saw Pa headed in the same direction.
"It's probably for you, Daisy," said Pa. "Want me to tell Mrs. Pinkerton you're away from home?"
"You'd actually lie for me?"
Pa shrugged and said, "Not on a regular basis, but the past few days have been pretty hard on you."
"Thanks, Pa, but I'll get it. You're the best father a girl could have, you know."
He gave me a broad, appreciative smile.
I love my family.
As ever when I answered the telephone, I said, "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"Oh, Daisy," said Mrs. Pinkerton.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pinkerton." As her voice had held no hint of her present mood, I didn't know if I'd just lied or not, but I crossed the fingers of my left hand just in case.
"Oh, Daisy," repeated Mrs. P, "I wonder if you wouldn't mind bringing Rolly and the Ouija board over today. I'd love to ask Rolly some questions regarding the Wagner murder case."
The Wagner murder case? She sounded like a bad detective novel. "Don't forget that Rolly can't answer questions about anyone but you, Mrs. Pinkerton," I said, pretending to be as sweet and kind as Spike.
"I know that, dear, but Rolly has been so helpful recently, I just thought I might give him a chance to tattle a little more." She giggled.
I didn't. As far as I was concerned, Rolly could take a long walk off a short pier—well, except that he didn't exist. Fudge. Did I trust Rolly, however insubstantial I knew him to be, not to do something outrageous again?
No, I did not.
On the other hand, Rolly was how I made my family's living—and I'm not discounting the contributions from Ma or Aunt Vi. However, neither Ma nor Vi earned what a man would have earned for doing the same jobs they did. That is to say they earned it; they just didn't get it.
On the other other hand, if Rolly continued to be uncontrollable, I might just contract a fatal case of the screaming jimjams.
Humbug. Only one way to find out.
"I'll be happy to bring the Ouija board to you, Mrs. Pinkerton." I glanced at the kitchen clock. Shoot, it was still early. Only eight forty-five. "Will ten-thirty be all right with you?"
"That will be wonderful. Thank you dear."
"Certainly. Rolly and I will see you then."
We both rang off, and I turned, frowning, to see my father eyeing me from the door to the dining room.
"On call again today, are you?" he asked.
"Yup. Mrs. P just can't get enough of Rolly and me."
"I thought you were at odds with Rolly."
"I am, but I need him."
Pa laughed, and Spike and I returned to my bedroom.
This time, however, I didn't sit and meditate. Rather, I chose a warm outfit to wear on this bleak midwinter day. Oh, very well, that's a bit melodramatic. However, I laid said outfit on my bed, and retired to the bathroom, shutting the bedroom door behind me. I'd learned shortly after Mrs. Bissel gave Spike to Billy and me that there wasn't much Spike liked better than snuggling up on the clothes I laid out on my bed. Naturally, he had to dig a nest for himself in them, thereby wrinkling them almost beyond redemption.
In the bathroom I bathed, washed my short hair, rubbed Pond's Vanishing Cream on my face—it hadn't yet made my freckles disappear, but I lived in hope—and smeared cream-of-almond lotion over the rest of my body. If nothing else, I'd smell good. Using a dab of Rexall Hair Tonic, I brushed my hair into submission, which wasn't difficult to do since I'd had it bobbed. I have to admit that my hair was easy to work with, too, which made one element of my life manageable.
Now there only remained Rolly. Maybe Mrs. Pinkerton. Well, and Sam. Aw, fiddlesticks; the Wagner murder, too.
Because I had a few minutes to spare before I left for Mrs. P's estate, I decided to join Pa in the living room and read for a few minutes. Fortunately for me and the state of my blue-and-gray flannel suit with its wrap-around skirt and box coat, Spike was firmly settled on Pa's lap. Not that a few black or tan doggie hairs would have done much damage, but still...
I picked up A Passage to India and read the first two or three pages. Chandrapore didn't strike me as a place I'd particularly like to visit because it sounded as if it were smelly and dirty. The Marabar Caves sounded interesting, however.
Before I was able to read enough to determine if Chandrapore was as ugly as it first sounded, I had to put the book aside and fetch my hat, coat and gloves (all black). I also picked up my bag of spiritualist paraphernalia and then said good-bye to my father and my dog.
"Off to Mrs. Pinkerton's?"
"Yes. Wish me luck."
"Luck," said Pa.
Spike wagged. I gave them both a pat on the head and walked out to the Chevrolet, parked as usual at the foot of the side-porch stairs. My heart performed crazy flipping maneuvers as I drove to the Pinkerton palace. It was the first time since I'd invented him that I'd been afraid of Rolly. Had I summoned a demon from the pit when I was ten, little knowing what I was to launch into the world? Or had my last two experiences with Rolly been extreme aberrations? I prayed for the latter, but my heart continued to thump unpleasantly.
But Rolly behaved! He told Mrs. P he could only answer questions about her, and that he couldn't tell her who'd killed Dr. Wagner. Not only that, but when she asked why he couldn't, he didn't spell out that same snotty "Not my job" phrase, but just said he wasn't able to.
"But you said you knew who did it last night, Rolly," said Mrs. P, sounding a little pouty.
And darned if Rolly didn't spell out, "I'm sorry."
"So you didn't mean to say you knew who it was?" she persisted.
The planchette, supposedly guided by Rolly, swept up to the left side of the board and landed firmly on the "Yes."
Hallelujah!
And so it continued. For at least thirty minutes Mrs. Pinkerton tried to get Rolly to knuckle under and tell her stuff I didn't know, but he refused to be swayed. Or perhaps I was merely mindful on that day of my ultimate control over the make-believe Rolly. I'd probably become too complacent over the years.
At any rate, I was so relieved by the time I left Mrs. Pinkerton's presence, I nearly skipped all the way down the hall to the kitchen. My day, which had begun in misery, looked as if it were going to be smooth sailing from then on. Because I didn't quite trust the day or Rolly—or me, for that matter—I knocked before I pushed open the swing door to the kitchen. Didn't want to startle Vi as I'd done on prior occasions when I hadn't announced my coming before barging into her domain.
Vi was there, chopping cooked chicken into a small dice, using her knife so deftly, she created a positive blur of motion as she wielded it. She'd tried to teach me how to do that once. The lesson didn't stick. She glanced up from her cutting board and smiled at me.
"Feeling better, dear?" she asked.
"Yes, thank you. Sorry I was so grouchy this morning, but... Well, it's over now."
"Do you have time to wait for lunch? I'm fixing chicken-salad
sandwiches with spinach-cream soup."
"Spinach-cream soup? Have you ever made that for us? I don't recall it."
"I'm not sure. It's just like any other cream soup, only with spinach."
"Oh."
With a laugh, Vi said, "See for yourself. There's a pot on the warming plate filled with the stuff. You'll probably get it for dinner, too, so I hope you like it." She tilted hear head toward the stove and sure enough, a pot sat on the part of the huge range used for keeping food warm.
So I moseyed over to it, grabbing a spoon from the kitchen drawer on my way, lifted the lid and dipped my spoon into the milky-green mixture contained therein. It didn't look particularly appetizing, but I trusted my aunt. I was right to do so.
"Oh, my, Vi, this is delicious! I'm glad we're getting it for dinner."
"So glad you like it, dear."
"I love it. You've made other kinds of creamy soups for us before, haven't you?"
"Of course, I have, but not usually until this time of year, when it's cold."
"Makes sense."
I wanted to continue dipping my spoon into the soup and eating more but restrained myself. "Rolly didn't upset Mrs. Pinkerton today."
"I thought it was you Rolly upset yesterday and the day before."
"Hmm... Yes, it was. But today he behaved himself."
"Or you remembered who's boss."
Or he did. "Yes, that's probably it."
"I'm glad you feel better. You're not still mad at Sam, are you?"
"No," said I. "I didn't mean to be so grumpy with him, even if he did call too early."
"Poor Sam."
Huh.
Vi's chicken-salad sandwich and creamy spinach soup were both delicious, and I left for home stuffed to the gills and happy to be alive.
The feeling didn't last long.
Chapter 21
When I drove up our driveway on Marengo Avenue, I noticed a large gray Cadillac parked in front of our house next to the sidewalk. It looked like the Grenvilles' auto, and I wondered why they were visiting.
Turned out they weren't. When entered the house via the side-porch door, I heard sobbing noises coming from the living room. Oh, dear. I wanted to run and hide, but knew that to do so would be cowardly, so I walked through the dining room to the living room, my heart sinking slightly with each step.
There I saw Marianne seated on our sofa, Spike at her feet, and Pa with an arm around her shoulders, attempting to comfort her. When I walked in, he looked up and an expression of pure relief sneaked across his face. That was a bad sign; I knew it.
Nevertheless, my courage didn't fail me. Actually it did, but I entered the living room anyway and walked to the sofa. Not a long journey, unfortunately.
"Whatever is the matter, Marianne?" I asked in my comforting spiritualist's voice as I approached her and Pa.
She jumped about six feet—she'd be great if the sitting high jump were an Olympic event—thereby dislodging my father's arm. Then she leaped to her feet and rushed at me like Spike going after a ball. Bracing myself, I briefly hoped she didn't aim to batter me to death. I was, if not taller, at least heavier than she, so I'd probably have prevailed. But I didn't want to fight, curse it.
However, she stopped right in front of me, wiping her eyes with her bare hands. Then she screamed, "Detective Rotondo arrested George! Oh, Daisy, he didn't do it!"
In this particular case, I knew the "he" she spoke of was George and not Sam, and that Sam had arrested George, although George hadn't killed Dr. Wagner. The English language is quite odd sometimes, especially when it comes to pronouns.
And then she sort of crumpled up. I managed to grab hold of her before she hit the floor, but I think I dislocated something in my shoulder while doing so, because it ached for a week after my deft catch. Pa rushed over and helped me guide the weeping woman back to the sofa. This time I sat next to her, believing it to be my duty. After all, I was responsible for Rolly and his idiotic pronouncements.
"I'll go make a pot of tea," Pa said softly, and he hightailed out of the living room as if pursued by a pack of screaming devils. Wise man, my father.
I wished I could join him, but I knew where my duty lay. Therefore, I said, "Did the detective actually arrest George, or did he only take him to the station for more questioning, Marianne?"
She tried to answer my question, I think, but she was blubbering so hard I couldn't understand her. I sighed, a trifle irked, even though I did feel sorry for the dear thing.
"Marianne," I said softly. "Please try to get yourself under control. You really need to tell me what I need to know."
Bless Pa's heart, he came into the living room bearing with him a couple of clean dish towels. He was clearly happy to be relieved of an onerous duty, but he wanted to help me take over for him.
"Here, Marianne," I said since she hadn't stopped weeping. "Use this towel and dry your tears. I need to know what's going on."
Furiously wiping her face with the towel, she gasped out, "I-I-I j-j-just t-t-told you!"
"You told me Detective Rotondo has arrested George, and I want to know if he really did arrest George, or if he merely took George to the police station to ask him more questions."
Sniffling and wiping more tears, Marianne gazed at me out of drowned blue eye. "Is-is there a difference? The detective took George away in a police car. From the book store! In front of all his customers!"
Egad. If Sam really did haul George out of Grenville's Books while customers meandered around, I might just have to speak to my beloved by hand. Not only did I believe George to be innocent of the crime in question, but taking him away in front of a bunch of his customers would be bad for his business even if it were proved beyond the fraction of a doubt that he was innocent of the crime for which he was being questioned. My early-morning annoyance with Sam Rotondo resurfaced and began bubbling like a witch's cauldron over a hot fire.
"I'm really sorry about this, Marianne. I'm sure George didn't kill your father, and I'm also sure the police will find the true culprit."
Unsure of any such thing—about the police finding the real perpetrator, I mean—I put an arm around Marianne's shoulder and tried to hug her and make her feel better. Didn't work.
"Daisy! What am I going to do? George didn't kill my awful father! That stupid spirit control or whatever you call him told everyone to look at the family! That's not fair to us! Neither George nor I had a single, solitary thing to do with killing my father, and neither did Mother!"
"I know, Marianne. I honestly didn't know what Rolly was going to tell everyone during that darned séance. Anyhow, I'm certain neither George nor your mother would have done—could have done—such a thing."
Wiping away more tears with a dish towel, she scowled at me. "If you don't know why he said it, who does?"
Feeling helpless and guiltier than a dozen murderers, I said, "I-I don't know. I'm sorry."
She slapped the coffee table in front of the sofa with her damp towel. "Well, you being sorry certainly helps a lot, doesn't it?"
"Here's some tea for everyone."
My father's chipper voice made both Marianne and me start. Marianne gasped, must have swallowed wrong, and commenced coughing and turning red. Lord, Lord, could the day get any worse?
The answer, of course, was yes. It could and did.
I finally persuaded Marianne to take sips of warm, sweet tea in between coughing bouts, and eventually she calmed down. Pa stood in front of the two of us, looking bewildered and as if he didn't know what to do.
Since I knew no more than he what should be done, I only sat with Marianne until she downed the last of her tea. Sniffling, she eventually stopped coughing, although tears still flowed, but I think these tears were caused by her coughing fit. At last, she stood.
Because I didn't want to stare up at her looking like the dolt I was, I rose too. Pa, I noticed, seemed to be on the alert, in case Marianne decided to slap me silly. At that point, I wouldn't have blamed her if she did.
"Unfortunate! Is that what you call it? The police practically proclaimed George's guilt before all the customers in the bookstore! That's not unfortunate. It's beastly."
She was right. I told her so. "Yes, it was a beastly thing to do, especially since they probably only wanted to ask him more questions."
But it was also possible they'd found something linking George to the murder. Policemen didn't generally rip people—especially people of a certain social standing, which George was—away from their places of work for no good reason. I didn't—still don't, in fact—believe wanting to ask more questions counted. Had someone found evidence pointing to George?
I sure hoped not. I didn't want George arrested for the crime even if he did it. Which adds one more boulder to the scales weighted against my overall character. Still and all, George was a good guy; Dr. Wagner had been evil and vicious and had deserved to die. I swore then and there—to myself; I didn't speak aloud—that I was going to grill Sam Rotondo like one of Aunt Vi's T-bone steaks—not that we Gumms and Majestys got T-bone steaks a lot—the next time I saw him.
Which, of course, was that night when he came to dinner. Thursday nights were choir-practice nights for me, and I didn't have very much time to chat before I had to leave for the church. Therefore, as soon as I heard Sam's Hudson's engine turn off, and even before Spike could begin his happy barking frenzy, I tore out the front door to assail Sam before he could enter the house. If I'd tried to grill him in front of my mother and aunt, they'd have scolded me. I raced to the Hudson even before Sam could extricate himself from its front seat. He glanced up at me, surprised.
I grabbed the sleeve to his overcoat and tried to yank him from the automobile. Sam being a large, obelisk-like fellow, I didn't succeed. I could, however, still use my voice, and I did.
"Sam Rotondo, Marianne Grenville came over here this afternoon, hysterical, telling us you'd arrested George Grenville inside his bookstore in front of his customers for the murder of Doctor Wagner. Is that true? Did you really do that?"
