by Alice Duncan
"Yes, I did. Harold told me."
It was only then I noticed Harold, who stood near the back door, grinning like an imp. He was so adorable in a cuddly, Teddy-bear kind of way. "Harold!" I rushed over and gave him a big hug, although to this day, I'm not sure why I did that. Guess I was just relieved and happy and... I don't know. He was my best friend, you know?
"Daisy, whatever is the matter with you?" he asked, laughing and returning my hug.
"I don't know. I guess I'm just relieved. We might have a break in the Wagner case." I don't know why I said "we," either.
"Oh? What happened?" Harold said.
"My goodness!" Vi said.
"What kind of break?" asked Harold, peeling my hands from his shoulders. "Did someone confess or something?"
"No, but the Dermotts' son, Claude, overheard an incriminating conversation at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club. Several men were laughing about having hidden something at the Grenvilles' house."
"My goodness," said Vi again.
"Who were the talkers?" asked Harold.
"Claude didn't know," I told him.
"Hmm. That doesn't sound awfully helpful to me." Harold frowned.
"Maybe not, but then again, maybe the murderer was among those laughing."
With a shrug, Harold said, "Maybe."
Tilting my head a bit and staring at him, I said, "You know, it's possible somebody who's been living at that club really is the murderer."
"Maybe," Harold said again.
Vi said, "What did that young man overhear again, Daisy? Someone laughing about... what?"
"Whoever he heard, they were laughing about having hidden something in George Grenville's place. Somewhere. I don't know where, but it might have been the potting shed. That's where the police found the bloody baseball bat."
"Yuck!" said Harold.
"My goodness," said Vi.
"Hearsay," said Harold succinctly. "Even if you knew who was talking."
"It's hearsay now, but we may be able to figure out a way to get them to confess."
"You don't even know who they were," Harold reminded me.
"I know. But maybe the young Mr. Dermott's testimony might lead to the killer. Or something."
Harold grinned. "Or something."
"Oh, forget about that awful murder and sit down and eat your lunch, Daisy. I made enough for Harold, too."
"You're the queen of the kitchen, Mrs. Gumm," said Harold.
"Yes. You are," I agreed.
"Go along with the both of you," said Vi, gesturing for Harold and me to sit at the kitchen table.
So we did. And Vi served us delicious chopped ham sandwiches along with little carrot and celery sticks. She also added several olives to both of our plates. I loved olives. So, evidently, did Harold, because he gobbled them down as if he were starving. Harold and Spike had that characteristic in common. They were both a teensy bit chubby, but both could convince you with their eyes that you were mistaken; they weren't at all chubby, and you were mistaken in thinking they were.
I didn't believe either one of them.
We discussed the conversation Claude Dermott overheard as we ate our delicious lunches.
"You probably know more than I about who's living at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club, Harold. Claude Dermott is going to bring me a list of current residents, but I might as well get my own list started. Can you give me a list of names? Besides Fred Greenlaw, I mean. I suspect the murderer is young." I leaned down, picked up my handbag, and dug out my cunning little notebook and pencil.
"Why do you suspect that?"
Harold's question startled me, and I pondered it. "Um... I don't know."
Vi said, "I don't see why the murder had to be committed by a young man. Or even a man."
"Whoever committed the murdered had to have the strength to carry the body to the cemetery and bury it," I said.
"Ah. Yes, I see," said Vi. "So it was probably either someone young, or there was more than one person involved."
"Right," said I. "So if Harold can think of any people who live at the club, my list and the list the younger Mr. Dermott brings tonight might give Sam a place to start looking. I guess the people don't have to be young."
Harold nodded as he chewed. "Most of the men living there are young, however. Perhaps not in the first blush of youth, but not elderly."
"I guess there's a reason they call it the Golf and Tennis Club," I said. "Not too many elderly folks play either game."
With a chuckle, Harold said, "You're wrong there, but let's not get started on that. I'll try to think of people I know who live at the club."
"Thanks, Harold," said I, wondering why an old person would even want to play tennis or golf. Heck, I wasn't old, and I didn't want to participate in either sport. On the other hand, I didn't particularly want to participate in any sport. My family wasn't filled to the brim with sporting-mad folks. That's probably because the members of my family, unlike those in many Pasadena, families, had to earn the money they lived on and hadn't inherited it. I didn't say that aloud, since it sounded mean-spirited and petty.
"First of all, both of my brothers-in-law have been staying there for quite a while."
"Mr. Pinkerton's sons? His polo-playing sons?" I was kind of surprised, although not very much. I wouldn't want to live with Mrs. Pinkerton if I were either of them.
"Yes. Clark and Carl, and they do play polo. But they're both nice fellows, and they're both engaged to be married to nice women. Then they aim to move to a house. One house for each couple, that is. In fact, I do believe they've both made offers on homes."
"Must be nice," I said. But I wrote their names down on my list. "Anyone else?"
Munching on a bite of sandwich, Harold shut his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling, as if that might help him think. "Let me see," said he. "Who else? Fred Greenlaw—the younger one—has been living there until the house he's having built is finished, but you already knew that. The Wagner sons have both lived there for quite some time. Theodore Ferdinand—"
"Ferdinand, did you say? I'm sorry, Harold. I didn't mean to interrupt you, but did you say Ferdinand?"
Harold opened his eyes and blinked at me. "That's all right. And yes, I said Ferdinand. Teddy Ferdinand. His old man's a doctor. What's so all-fired important about Teddy?"
"I don't know, but a Doctor Ferdinand—I can't remember his first name—had been in a vicious feud with Doctor Wagner, or so Sam found out recently."
"Huh. Not sure that means anything. Teddy is a nice-enough fellow. Didn't follow his father into the medical profession."
"What does he do for a living?"
"Not much, if what I've heard is true. Teddy can be something of a hot-headed fellow at times, though, and I know he adores his father, whom"—Harold grimaced—"he calls Pop. I didn't know about his old man and Wagner feuding. Interesting. I can see Teddy taking up the cudgels in defense of his father, although don't quote me on that."
"I won't," I said, ruminating about the sins of fathers and how those sins might affect their sons. "If the young Ferdinand was also angry with Doctor Wagner—and he might have had good cause, given the nature of Doctor Wagner's transgressions, even if he wasn't peeved about his father's grievance with him—he might have had a motive for doing in the evil doctor."
"Maybe," said Harold. "But let me think some more before you condemn anyone. I'm certain there are more fellows I know who live at the club." He recommenced thinking. "Jacob Levine has lived there for a few months. He's a banker. Phil Martin. He's a lawyer, and—Say, I think Phil was courting Marianne Wagner for a while there."
"Really? I didn't know anyone had courted her except George."
Harold gazed at me with pity. "Daisy Gumm Majesty. For the longest time, everyone in Pasadena thought Doctor Wagner was a very wealthy man. And he was, for a while. The daughters of very rich men get courted, even if those daughters are shy and withdrawn, as Marianne was, if I recall her correctly from parties."
&
nbsp; "Yes," I said musingly. "She was. That's about all I remembered about her when Sam first told us she was missing." Poor Marianne. Small wonder she'd been shy.
"Phil is still looking for a moneyed young woman to marry. He doesn't like to work. Kind of like the Wagner boys and Teddy Ferdinand. He's got some kind of income, but I don't know where it comes from."
"I didn't know there so many lazy, idle young men living in Pasadena," I said with a sniff.
"Tons of them," said Harold, grinning.
"Shameful," said Aunt Vi, who'd been listening in. That was all right with me.
"I think it's shameful, too, Vi," said Harold. "I'd rather work for a living than depend on a spouse's inheritance. That's what my father did, and he was enough of an example for me."
Vi tutted.
"Can you think of anyone else who lives at the club?" I asked Harold.
After pondering for several seconds, during which he polished off the rest of his sandwich, Harold said, "Not offhand, but that doesn't mean there aren't more fellows staying there."
"Why do so many young men want to live there?" asked Vi.
"Good question, Vi. Yeah, Harold, why do they? You'd think they'd either remain with their parents until they married or get an apartment or live in a boarding house if they wanted their independence."
"If you have an apartment or a house, you have to take care of it yourself, sweetie. And all the boarding houses I've seen don't cater to the likes of the wealthy young men who belong to the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club. Everyone I know who lives at the club, except for Fred, enjoys being catered to, but they don't want to get carped at by their parents. You know, 'Go out there and get a job, you indolent lout,' and stuff like that."
"Oh, my. That kind of makes me feel sad, Harold."
With a shrug, Harold said, "If it's any comfort, most of the men my age whom I know aren't like that."
"And a good thing, too," said Vi.
Harold laughed. "Anyway, I'll keep thinking about who might live there, and I'll call you if I can think of anyone else. I'll ask Del. He'll probably have a name or two for you."
For the record, Del was Harold's… I don't know what you'd call him. Lover? Well, whatever he was, Harold and Del lived together.
"Thanks, Harold."
"Even if Sam also agrees that somebody planted the baseball bat, how do you aim to prove it?" asked Harold after Vi had removed our sandwich plates and presented us each with a pretty cut-glass bowl filled with tapioca pudding. She'd even whipped some cream to put on top.
"This is astonishingly good, Vi," I told her. Then I said to Harold, "I'm not sure how to prove anything, but we'll think of a way."
"Yes, this is magnificent pudding, Vi. I've never tasted better."
"Thank you both. I put a little almond extract in it to give it a little... Punch, I guess."
"It's punchy, all right. It's spectacular," I told my wonderful aunt.
"It is indeed," said Harold.
"Anyhow, getting back to the murder, if the conversation Claude Dermott overheard leads to anything, I'm sure we'll figure out a way to trap the murderer."
"Confident wench, aren't you?"
"I trust Sam." I said in staunch support of my fiancée. Grumpy he occasionally might be, but Sam was a darned good detective. And he was only grumpy because of his poor wounded leg.
After a moment during which, I presume, Harold thought, he tilted his head to one side and said, "I might have an idea for you. Don't know if it will help, but it can't hurt."
"What is it?" I asked, all ears. Well, and mouth and stomach. That entire lunch was perfection.
"Fred Greenlaw lives at the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club."
"Yes, I know. You've told me that several times. So what?"
"So there's going to be a Christmas get-together at the club tomorrow night. Why not have a gypsy fortune-teller there? I'm sure Fred can arrange it all. You don't require much time to prepare, do you?"
Did I? After approximately three and a half seconds of consideration, I shrugged. "No. All I need is my costume, which is hanging in my closet, and my crystal ball and tarot cards. I think I'll leave the Ouija board at home." Something occurred to me. "Will there be other females there, or will I be the only one? I'd feel really... I don't know. Conspicuous and embarrassed, I guess, if I were the only woman present."
"Naw, there will be lots of women there. It's the club's annual Christmas bash, and all the members bring their wives, female friends and, in Fred's case, his sister."
"Oh, I like Hazel Greenlaw!"
"Everyone likes Hazel, and she'll be glad to see you again, too."
"Sounds good. What time should I show up, or will you pick me up? I'd love it if you would, because I won't feel so much like an interloper if I attend with you."
"Sure."
"Thanks, Harold. Do you think Sam should come, too?" If Sam knew I was attending a Christmas party where a possible murderer might lurk, he'd be furious unless he were there with me.
"Of course. If the party yields results, he'll need to be there to arrest the bad guys."
"Oh. Of course. Silly me."
"Silly you," Harold agreed, the beast. "Anyhow, he doesn't look like a copper when he's all dressed up. When the two of you came to my mother's house for that dinner party a couple of months ago, you'd never have known he wasn't an Italian count, he looked so grand in his dinner jacket."
"That's sweet of you, Harold. I'll tell Sam you said so."
"Probably not a good idea," said Harold, grinning at me. "But definitely make the detective come. By force, if necessary. Remember that if we actually do discover something, we'll need him."
"True."
With a slight frown, Harold added, "In truth, I wish we could have a couple of other policemen there. Just in case, you know?"
"Do you really think someone might get out of hand?"
"Somebody murdered Doctor Wagner. And, while he needed killing, you and I don't."
"True. Thanks, Harold. Maybe Sam can get a couple of other officers to hang around outside during the party."
"Wouldn't hurt," said Harold.
"Thanks, Harold. I appreciate you suggesting this."
"Not a problem. I hadn't planned to go to the club's party, since I'm not precisely a sports fan, but Del has to attend mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Misery tomorrow night, so I might as well go to the party while he does that."
"Harold Kincaid, you're a caution!" Vi exclaimed. "Whatever is Our Lady of whatever you said it was?"
"He means St. Andrews, Vi. Harold and religion don't mix well."
"Oh, my," said my aunt, faint disapproval in her voice.
"I don't mind religion," Harold said, probably to appease Vi. "I just don't much care for the Roman Catholic Church."
It was the right thing to say to Vi, who considered Roman Catholics not much better than idolaters. And don't mention Baptists around her, either. She thinks they're all barefooted, illiterate backwoodsmen who wrestle bears every day and eat with their fingers. I don't know why.
I felt better about things when I left Mrs. Pinkerton's house. My tummy was full of good food, Harold had solved the problem of how to get the members of the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club and me in the same room together, and we were having leg of lamb for dinner. Life didn't get much better than that.
Chapter 26
Vi left the Pinkerton mansion with me that day since, as she'd said, she got off early on Fridays. As I drove us home, we discussed the Wagner case. By the time we got to our bungalow, we hadn't come to any earth-shaking conclusions about the matter.
As Vi prepared dinner for a party of eight, rather than the usual five she generally had to feed, I cleaned up the house. It didn't require a whole lot of cleaning since we were neat people, but I dusted the furniture, ran the dust mop over the polished wooden floors, and carpet-swept the various rugs in the various rooms. The place positively sparkled when the doorbell rang at around five-thirty that evening.
> I knew Sam was at the door before I even reached it, because Spike had told me it was he. Spike has a special way of greeting his favorite friends.
"Evening, Sam," said I, lifting myself on my tiptoes to give him a little kiss.
"Evening," said he, kissing me back. He handed me a pretty bouquet of flowers. "Here. For you."
"Thank you, Sam! These are lovely."
"You're welcome. Everything set for tonight?" He sniffed the air. "It sure smells like it is." He knelt with a pained grunt and gave Spike a thorough petting.
I smiled in approval, glad Sam loved my dog. "Leg of lamb. With popovers."
As he hung his hat and coat on the coat tree, Sam said, "Sounds delicious. I'd never even heard of a popover until I met your family."
"Old English recipe, according to Vi. You can make it in a big dish and call it Yorkshire pudding, too. Not that I know from personal experience, you understand. Sometimes she serves it as Yorkshire pudding, and sometimes she prepares the same batter and pours it in to a popover pan."
"What's a popover pan?"
"You know how much I know about cooking, Sam Rotondo."
"True, but you might have witnessed the preparation of these particular popovers. You also know what a popover pan is, so I'm sure you can explain to me what one is."
"You're right. Vi's pan is a heavy cast-iron thing that looks like a muffin tin, only black. She says you have to heat it in the oven with some kind of grease before you pour the popover batter into it."
"Sounds complicated."
"Everything related to cooking is complicated for me." I gazed up at my beloved. "I'm sorry, Sam. You're getting a lousy cook as a wife."
"That's all right. You have other talents." He grinned down at me.
I'm pretty sure I blushed. "Well, I hope you enjoy your popovers."
"I'm sure I will. I didn't think the British had any tasty culinary customs. When I was in England chasing you and Harold, they fed me stuff like cheese-and-pickle sandwiches and sausage rolls." He gave a judicious head-tilt. "The sausage rolls were good, but the rest of the stuff I ate there was pretty bland."
"Not like the Italians, eh?"
He grinned again. I was pleased to see his mood had improved since we'd spoken on the telephone earlier in the day. "Can't beat Italians when it comes to food."
