by Alice Duncan
Albert Zollinger trotted at Gaylord's heels and put what looked like a restraining hand on his shoulder. Gaylord frowned at him.
"Please, Mr. Wagner, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Zollinger, and her very good friend, Mrs. Majesty. They were just practicing the duet they're going to sing at church on Christmas Eve."
"Ah," said Gaylord, disappointment flitting across his face. Unless that was my imagination giving him emotions he didn't feel. "So you're both married ladies."
"Yes," said I, before Lucy could tell him I was a widow.
"I'm sorry to hear it."
His buddies in the background chuckled. I wanted to sneer, but didn't.
"Who was that singing?" came another voice from the door.
When I glanced over to see who had spoken, darned if I didn't espy Vincent Wagner. I didn't know the pernicious Wagner brothers hung out at the Castle Green. Then again, they were rich—or had been, anyway—and rich people frequented fine restaurants, one of which the restaurant in the Castle Green was.
"These two ladies were providing the entertainment this afternoon, Vince," said Gaylord, giving a sweeping gesture meant to encompass Lucy and me. He winked at his brother. "They were practicing for church."
"Church, eh?" Vincent more or less snickered. "Ah, well. Isn't that nice?"
"Not only that," said Gaylord, "but I do believe Mrs. Majesty will be honoring us with her presence at tonight's Christmas party at the club. Isn't that right, Mrs. Majesty?" He smiled down at me. I have no idea why he made me think of a slithering cobra. He was actually rather stocky.
So was his brother, who said, "Really? Will you be singing Christmas carols for us?" Vincent asked.
"Um... No," I said, thinking Christmas carols would be much more appropriate than pretending to be a fortuneteller at a Christmas party.
"I do believe she's going to bring along the tools of her trade," said Gaylord, who seemed to know more about my business than I wanted him to. "Isn't that so, Mrs. Majesty?"
"Yes," I said with something of a snap.
"And what tools are those?" asked Vincent as if he really wanted to know.
"Her crystal ball and so forth," said Gaylord, still smiling down at me. "Claude Dermott told me she'd be attending tonight's shindig."
"Her crystal ball? My goodness!" said Vincent. He looked surprised. Didn't really blame him for that. But I was sick of this conversation. It made me feel ill at ease, perhaps because I just didn't care for the two Wagner brothers.
"Among other things," I said.
"So you're an adept at the mystical arts?" said Vincent, his smile growing wide.
"So people tell me," I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.
"I've never connected spiritualism and Christmas before," said Gaylord. "This evening should be interesting."
"I haven't, either, Gay. But I'll be sure to stop by and have my palm read or whatever."
"I'm only bringing my crystal ball," I said. My throat had gone tight. "I won't be reading palms."
"Ah," said Vincent. I'm not sure what he meant by that ah, if anything. He turned to a fellow standing next to him. "Stanley, will you look at this."
"Yes?" said the man whom I assumed was Stanley. "Look at what?"
"Why, Mrs. Majesty here," said Vincent. "She's going to be at the Christmas party tonight. Only she won't be singing Christmas carols. She'll be plying her crystal ball."
"Is that right?" said Stanley, who was also kind of stocky. I wanted to get out of there. Actually, I wanted to be out of there. Ten minutes prior to all those men showing up.
"I understand Mrs. Majesty is the finest spiritualist-medium in the entire city of Pasadena," Gaylord told his brother. "Isn't that so, Mrs. Majesty?"
As I said, I wanted to be gone. So I contented myself with a short, "Yes," plucked my hymnal from the piano stand, and stuffed it under my arm. "Let's be off, Lucy. We've practiced enough."
"Yes, indeed," said Lucy's Albert, taking his wife's arm. Then he took mine, too. Fortunately it wasn't the arm under which I'd tucked the hymnal, or the book would have fallen, plop, to the carpeted floor. I don't like bending pages of other people's books, and that one belonged to my church.
"There's no need to rush off," said Gaylord as the three of us marched to the door, where the clot of men parted rather like the Red Sea for Moses.
No one responded to Gaylord's plaintive statement.
Vincent said, "See you this evening, Mrs. Majesty. I'm looking forward to it."
That made one of us.
Then the man called Stanley said, "So am I," which made two of them. I'd begun to dread the mere thought of seeing any of those men again. Ever.
Once we were out in the hallway again, Lucy said, "Who on earth were those men?"
"Two of them, Gaylord and Vincent, are Doctor Wagner's sons," I told her.
"Oh. I didn't care for them. Didn't they seem... I don't know. Insolent? I thought they were."
"So did I," I agreed.
"They are," said Albert Zollinger firmly, letting go of my arm, but keeping his wife's in his grasp. "The both of them. They're useless so-and-sos."
"Goodness. How do you know them, Daisy?"
"I don't know them. I mean, I've met them at parties at rich people's houses. But I don't know them. I don't want to, either."
"I don't blame you." Lucy hugged her Albert's arm, and I wished Sam were there so I could hug his arm.
I didn't spend any more time with Lucy or her husband, but drove home after we'd escaped from the Valley Hunt Club's parlor, the Wagner brothers, and their coterie of friends. A feeling of uneasiness accompanied me from that stupid parlor all the way home. I don't know why.
Chapter 28
When Sam appeared at our door at about five-thirty in the evening, that danged feeling of uneasiness still pestered me, although I had managed to nap for an hour or so with Spike. I told Sam about it. The feeling, not the nap.
"The Wagners were there?" said Sam, frowning as he hung his hat and coat on the rack next to the door.
"Yes, and they were... I don't know. They weren't mean or anything, but they made me edgy. Nervous. Uncomfortable. Lucy said they were insolent, and I think that's a good word for it. They came over and spoke to us superciliously."
"Superciliously?"
"Yes," I said, feeling a trifle
defensive.
"That's probably because you don't like them."
"I don't know them." I gazed upon my intended. "But you might be right. Aren't you going to wear your fancy suit to the party tonight? Harold said you looked like an Italian count when we went to that dinner party at his mother's house."
Sam stared down upon me, clearly appalled. "An Italian count? Precisely how many Italian counts has Mr. Kincaid met in his life?"
Shrugging, I said, "I don't know. I expect at least a couple. He's got all the money in the world and can travel anywhere he wants to, you know."
"Yeah, I guess I do know. My fancy shirt and evening jacket are in the Hudson."
"Oh. Want to bring them in? You can change into them here if you want."
"That's what I'd planned to do," said Sam. "What time are we supposed to be at this Christmas party?"
"I think it starts at eight. We should probably get there a little early so Mr. Dermott can show us where he wants me to sit."
"I'll fetch my shirt and jacket after we eat, then."
"Very well." I reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. Couldn't do much more than that without shocking my parents.
After Sam had returned my peck with one of his own, he said, "Try not to be nervous. I'll be there, and nothing bad can happen to you." He smiled down at me, and I appreciated him a whole lot.
"Thanks, Sam. I know you won't let anything bad happen to me."
"You betcha." As Sam knelt to pet Spike, who had gone with me to the front door, I fidgeted, in spite of Sam's words of assurance. Sam glanced up at me. "What's the matter?"
"I do
n't know," I said. Then I added honestly, "I know you'll be at the party and will be vigilant, Sam. You're wonderful to me. But ever since those two Wagners and their group of friends showed up when Lucy and I were practicing our Christmas-Eve duet, I've been nervous as a cat."
Standing up with a grimace—I noticed he hadn't brought his cane into the house—Sam said, "I didn't know cats were particularly nervous creatures." He grinned, but I didn't enjoy his sense of humor that evening.
"Stop being so literal, Sam Rotondo. I've never had a cat, but Samson, Pudge Wilson's cat, always runs away from Spike." The Wilsons lived in the house just north of ours. Pudge was a cute kid.
"That's probably because every time they see each other, Spike chases Samson."
"Probably," I conceded. "But I suspect things become time-honored clichés because they hold a modicum of truth, don't you?"
It was Sam's turn to shrug. "Beats me, but I'm willing to take your word on it."
"It's not my word," I mumbled, irritated. "It's wisdom of the ages."
"And who am I to doubt the wisdom of ages?" asked my darling fiancé, still grinning at me.
"Evening, Sam," said Pa, walking into the living room from the hall. "You all ready to escort Daisy to this fancy party tonight? I can't imagine what crystal balls and Christmas have to do with each other, but Daisy said hers is going to be used in aid of discovering Doctor Wagner's murderer."
"Evening, Joe," said Sam, shaking my father's hand. "I doubt we'll learn anything, but it's worth a try, I guess." His eyebrows dipped as he peered at me. "Daisy's edgy about it, though."
Turning to me, my father said in surprise, "Edgy! When have you ever been nervous about practicing your spiritualist routine?"
"Not often," I admitted. "But I'm not looking forward to this evening's party."
"There's a first," said Sam, still grinning. "You're usually champing at the bit to stick yourself into my homicide cases."
"Am not," I said ungraciously—and, I regret to say, untruthfully. Then I left Pa and Sam to chat while I went to the kitchen to see if Aunt Vi needed any help. I'd already set the table.
"You can take the shepherd's pie to the table. Put it on a trivet." She gestured to some wrought-iron trivets hanging on hooks on the wall.
"Want me to set it at your place?"
"Yes, please."
So I did as she'd asked, and then returned to the kitchen, kind of like an obedient sheepdog. Only all I herded were food and silverware. Sheepdogs have it much harder than I.
After I'd set a basket of dinner rolls on the table, Vi stood back, her hands on her hips, thinking. I could tell, because her brow furrowed. A second or so later, she said, "I guess that's it. I made enough shepherd's pie to feed an army." She grinned at me. "So it should satisfy your father and Sam."
I grinned back, feeling a little better about life in general.
By the way, my aunt has told me more than once that if you make a shepherd's pie with beef instead of lamb or mutton, it's not a true shepherd's pie. If you make it with beef, it's cowboy's pie. I guess that makes sense. I have no idea what one would call if it one made it with chicken. A poulterer's pie? Whatever it's called, I like it a lot.
Ma walked into the kitchen yawning. She got off work at noon on Saturdays, and she liked to take a little nap on Saturday afternoons. I'd done the same thing, being a firm believer in naps if you're facing a long day and a longer night. "Something smells good," she said, sniffing the aromatic air appreciatively.
"Shepherd's pie," I informed her.
"Made with the lamb left over from last night's dinner," Vi added.
"Oh, good. I like shepherd's pie," said Ma.
Vi and I exchanged a glance and a smile, glad we had my mother's approval for something edible. She'd managed to eat and almost enjoy chicken curry the few times Vi had fixed it for the family, but she was basically a meat-and-potatoes kind of gal. If one can call one's mother a gal.
"It smells wonderful," I said. "I think everything's on the table. Anything left for me to set out, Vi?"
"I don't think so. Thanks, Daisy."
"Thank you."
"Call the men in for dinner, will you, sweetheart?"
"Sure, Ma."
So I called the men in for dinner, we all took our places, and Pa said grace. Then Vi dished out a heaping mound of shepherd's pie and passed it my way. I passed it on to Pa, who passed it to Ma, who passed it to Sam, who smiled as he stared down at it.
"That sure looks good," he said.
"It is," I told him as I passed Ma's plate on to Pa.
Eventually, Vi got us all served, we passed the rolls and butter, and dug in. What a great meal. When we were finished with the main course, I collected the dishes, and Vi told me to set out bowls. So I did, and darned if she didn't appear at the kitchen door holding a great, big baking dish in which she'd prepared an apple crisp for our dessert! I adore apple crisp. Vi says it's not the same thing as an apple brown Betty, whatever that is, but I don't care. It's delicious, especially served, as Vi served ours, with vanilla ice cream on top.
"I almost feel ready to face that stupid Christmas party," I told Vi after I'd scraped up the last morsel of apple-crisp topping—Vi said it's made with butter, oatmeal, brown sugar, and cinnamon, but you couldn't prove it by me—and sighed happily.
"Glad you liked it," she said, smiling benevolently at us all. As mentioned previously, it amazed me how much she loved to cook and loved having people love her cooking.
"Wonderful meal, Vi," said Sam.
"Delicious," said Ma.
"Superb," said Pa.
Unanimous vote. Happens a lot when Vi cooks.
We all rose from the table, and Ma and I began to clear it.
"I'll wash the dishes tonight," said Ma. "You have to work, and I had a nap this afternoon."
"I had a nap this afternoon, too, but I appreciate the offer. I have to change into my Gypsy fortune-teller costume."
"And I have to go out to the car and get my fancy duds," said Sam, helping Ma and me carry dishes to the kitchen sink.
"I'll meet you in the living room," I told him. "Then I guess we should get going."
"I guess," said he, limping toward the front door.
"Where's your cane?" I called after him.
"In the Hudson."
"Better take it tonight. If you don't need it to walk with, maybe you can bop someone on the head with it."
Sam grimaced at me over his shoulder.
Ma said, "Daisy!"
Aw, heck. "We're trying to find a murderer, Ma," I said in my own defense.
"Still and all, I don't believe you should say things like that."
"Very well, Ma," I said upon a sigh. Then Spike and I went into our bedroom.
I'd already set out my fortune-teller costume, so I just took off my day dress and slipped into the costume. I'd made this particular outfit a couple of years prior. It consisted of a white peasant-style blouse and a multi-colored skirt. I'd sewed together different colored strips of cloth that had ended up in my bits-and-pieces drawer, drew the skirt together at my waist with elastic stripping I'd found at Nelson's Five and Dime, and wore it and the blouse with a bright red sash that dangled. For my head covering, I chose a blue, red, and yellow striped material. Because I didn't know what the night would bring, and also because I always did so, I put on the Voodoo juju Mrs. Jackson had given me. After slipping the juju over my head, I put on lots of colorful, cheap necklaces I'd found in various junk shops around town. I jangled like a ring of keys when I walked.
Right after Sam had been shot, Mrs. Jackson made a juju for him, too. A couple of months earlier, his juju had heated up every time he was in the company of the guy who turned out to be the murderer. Since Sam didn't believe in spiritualist mumbo-jumbo, it kind of irked me that it was his juju that had pointed to the murderer and not mine.
Of course, I didn't believe in spiritualism, either, in spite of recent evidence that might point to it efficacy, but never min
d. I surveyed myself in the cheval-glass mirror after I'd finished plopping the last bead necklace over my head and around my neck.
"What do you think, Spike? Do I look like a Gypsy?"
Spike, never having seen a Gypsy, didn't answer, although he did wag his tail. I'd never seen a Gypsy, either, but I'd seen photographs in the National Geographic. They didn't look like I looked at the moment, but I would probably be hired to play a Gypsy in a minute if I were to audition for a part in a Hollywood movie. The last time I'd worn the same costume, Harold had complimented me on it, so it couldn't be all bad.
Anyway, I'd venture to guess nobody else attending that night's party had ever seen a real Gypsy, either.
Spike and I left the bedroom, re-entered the kitchen, and there was Sam, looking as dapper and handsome as I'd ever seen him. Darned if Harold hadn't been right about him.
"You look great, Sam!" I told him, inspecting him from tip to toe. "Wonderful. You do look like an Italian count!"
"Yeah?" said Sam, sounding skeptical. "And how many Italian counts have you met?"
"None. I've never met a Gypsy, either, but I'm supposed to look like one. What do you think?" I gave a twirl, clanking riotously as I did so.
Sam shook his head. "I suppose you look as much like a Gypsy as I do an Italian count."
"You both look great," said Pa, beaming at us from the door to the dining room. "You make a nice couple."
"Thanks, Pa." I went over and gave my father a peck on the cheek.
"The two of you look wonderful," said my mother, smiling at Sam and me.
"Thanks, Ma."
"But you don't have dark hair," said Sam. When I glanced at him, he'd commenced frowning at me. "Gypsies have dark hair, don't they?"
"I'm going to wear a colorful striped scarf," I told him. "Nobody will know my hair's really red. Sort of red. Dark red."
"Auburn," said Sam.
"How poetic of you."
Sam rolled his eyes. Then he said, "You have gorgeous hair."
In other words, everything was completely normal in the Sam-Daisy romance department.
Harold showed up just about then. We'd agreed he'd escort us to the party, since he actually knew a member of the club in the person of Dr. Fred Greenlaw. No one needed to know Sam and I were there at Claude Dermott's invitation. Claude was still worried he might get killed if Dr. Wagner's murderer actually did reside at the club. Even if he didn't live there, he might attend that night's party.
