Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  Spirits United

  A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

  Book Eleven

  by

  Alice Duncan

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-979-5

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2017 by Alice Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Meet the Author

  Dedication

  For Lynne Welch and Sue Krekeler, my fabulous beta readers. Mega-thanks to my niece, Sara Krafft, who found pictures of the "old" Pasadena Public Library for me. Many thanks, too, to Sten Voght Cantwell, who gave me the idea for this book. Thank you buckets and buckets. I need all the help I can get!

  Oh, and before I forget to mention it and somebody screams, I know perfectly well that Caltech's Athenaeum didn't open until 1930, but it's such a lovely, charming place, I decided to give Daisy an interesting location to conduct some of her sleuthing.

  Chapter 1

  In case you haven't been following my adventures, such as they are, let me fill you in a bit. In late May of 1924 my fiancé, Sam Rotondo, detective with the Pasadena Police Department and my late husband Billy's best friend, was shot in the thigh by an evil woman named Eloise Frances Petrie Gaulding. By the time this story starts, spring had bled into summer, and summer into autumn. Sam had darned near bled to death, thanks to that dreadful Petrie person.

  Therefore, it was a crisp Wednesday in mid-October of 1924 when I aimed to make a trip to the Pasadena Public Library. Sam, who had only recently been allowed to return to work but was required to remain at his desk, a circumstance he hated, had just driven to our house. My family and I lived in a tidy bungalow on South Marengo Avenue in the lovely city of Pasadena, California. Sam still had to use a cane because his leg, while mostly healed, still hurt. He also hated having to use his cane. He refused to take any pain medication other than aspirin tablets, too. My Billy had died of an overdose of morphine syrup, and Sam wouldn't take the stuff. I was sorry he hurt but extremely glad of his decision regarding morphine.

  By the way, Billy had been a casualty of the Great War. It didn't kill him instantly, but the Germans' poisoned gas ruined his lungs, and his legs were full of shrapnel. He probably could have lived with the shrapnel, but the lungs made him unfit for work. That's why he eventually decided to do himself in. I didn't blame him, although his death precipitated a truly awful time in my life. Thank God for our family physician, Dr. Benjamin, who reported his death as "accidental" on the death certificate. I still missed Billy. A whole lot.

  Anyway, it was about one in the afternoon when Sam's knock came at the door. Spike, my late husband's brilliant dachshund, and I greeted Sam at the door. I told Spike to sit and stay. Because he'd achieved first-place in his obedience training class at Brookside Park two years earlier, Spike sat and stayed, although he didn't want to. He wanted to jump all over Sam. Therefore, I wasn't being mean to Spike, but only thoughtful to Sam. Spike didn't understand, but he obeyed. Would that human beings would go and do likewise.

  "Hey, Sam!" I said, getting up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "I didn't know you were coming over this afternoon."

  "I didn't either. But I had to go to the doctor, and my boss told me to take the rest of the day off." Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped into the living room, sat on the sofa, and patted it as an invitation for Spike to jump on it and greet Sam properly.

  Spike, good dog that he was, waited until I'd released him from durance vile before he allowed himself to leap on the sofa and welcome Sam. His tail wagged deliriously as he licked Sam on the chin. I gazed with fondness at two of the most important men in my life.

  "What did the doctor say?" I asked.

  Sam shrugged. "Same as ever. It'll take time, but it will stop hurting eventually. Probably."

  "I'm glad of that, even if it is taking a long time."

  Sam said, "Huh."

  "Good afternoon, Sam," said my father, who used to work as a chauffeur for rich folks in Pasadena but couldn't any longer because he had a bad heart. Pa is the third most important man in my life. Maybe along with my best friend, Harold Kincaid.

  "Afternoon, Joe," said Sam to my father as he petted Spike for all he was worth. Sam might be an old grump sometimes—often, even—but he knew how to treat man's best friend.

  "I was just going to go to the library, Sam," I said. "We need more books."

  He eyed the table upon which my family deposited the books they'd already read. When I wasn't working as a spiritualist-medium for wealthy ladies in Pasadena, I was the official family book-gatherer. I relied a good deal on my favorite librarian, Miss Petrie, to select books for all of us. Miss Petrie and I were approximately the same age and shared similar tastes.

  Oh, and if you're interested, I don't really believe one can communicate with people who have died, but pretending to do so made for a much better income than if, say, I'd worked as an elevator operator at Nash's Dry Goods and Department Store or stood for hours beside one of the conveyer belts at the Underhill Chemical Company, where items like fertilizer and cosmetics were packaged. Not that fertilizer and cosmetics have much to do with each other, but the company produced and packaged both.

  Sam said, "Huh," again. He said that a lot.

  "Would you like to come with me?"

  He looked at me as if I'd invited him to join me in jumping off the Colorado Street Bridge. "The library?"

  "Yes. We're out of books."

  Sam, who had been a horrible patient, growled, "I just got here, and you want to leave me and go to the library? Anyway, what are those?" He pointed at the book-laden table.
<
br />   "Those are the books we've already read. I'll just return those and check out more."

  "Detective stories, I'll bet," he grumbled.

  "Yes," I said firmly. While he was recovering from his injury, I'd read to him. One of the books I'd read—he said I inflicted it on him—was The Window at the White Cat, by Mrs. Mary Roberts Rinehart. I'd wanted to show him that I wasn't out of line when I'd suggested he look for a suspect in a dumbwaiter. I got the feeling he wasn't convinced when I finished the book. On the other hand, he was probably being difficult on purpose. As I said, he was a terrible patient.

  "Well..."

  "Come on, Sam. I heard Dr. Benjamin tell you your leg will get better and stop hurting so much if you walk a lot. I know it hurts, but walking is good for you. We can walk around the library, and I'll introduce you to Miss Petrie."

  "Good Lord, you mean there's another Petrie in the woodwork?"

  There were two branches of the Petrie clan living in Pasadena at that time. Both branches had originated in Tulsa, Oklahoma, but Miss Petrie's side of family was good. The other side was about as rotten as a family of people could get. Poor Miss Petrie had often suffered for her evil cousins' sins, although I doubt many people connected her with the Petries who were always getting into trouble. And I mean bad trouble. Like murder and child-slavery and stuff like that.

  "You know very well Miss Petrie is from the good side of her family's tree. She's even helped you a couple of times through me, don't forget."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  My father chuckled. "Go ahead, Sam. She might get into trouble without an escort."

  "Pa!"

  "That's true," said Sam, adopting a judicial mien.

  "Nerts."

  Both my father and Sam had more than once accused me of poking into other people's business, thereby getting myself into pickles of various types. It wasn't true, but neither one of them would admit as much.

  "I'll drive us," I said to my cranky beloved.

  "I can drive," Sam said, surly to the Nth degree.

  "I know you can, but I'm going to drive us. If you don't like it, you can stay here and play gin rummy with Pa."

  "Oh, no you don't," said Sam. "I'm going with you. I don't trust you not to stumble over a crime or a body or something if I'm not with you."

  Pa laughed.

  I didn't.

  Nevertheless, I scooped up the books from the already-read table and headed out the side entrance of our house. Sam, limping behind me and grumbling something about his damned cane and how he should be carrying the books for me, followed. I didn't bother answering the old grouch.

  The library wasn't far away from our house, sitting as it did on the corner of Raymond Avenue and Walnut Street. I parked in front of the building so Sam wouldn't have far to walk.

  "Would you like me to take your arm?" I asked politely.

  With a glare that might have annihilated a lesser person, Sam growled, "No! I don't want you take my arm, dammit. I'm not a total cripple."

  "Oh, stop being so miserable, Sam Rotondo. If I didn't love my engagement ring so much, I'd be tempted to take it off and throw it in your face."

  I didn't mean it. True, the ring Sam had given me was gorgeous, featuring a beautiful emerald set among some golden leaves, but I'd never take it off. It wasn't huge and flashy, but I loved it. What's more, Sam's father had created the design and made it. For months I'd carried it on a gold chain around my neck, next to another, braided, chain that held a Voodoo juju given to me by a lady named Mrs. Jackson, who was an honest-to-goodness Voodoo mambo from New Orleans, Louisiana. When Sam got shot, she gave one to Sam, too.

  Sam said, "Huh." Told you he said that a lot.

  "Are you wearing your juju?"

  "Yes, I'm wearing the stupid juju."

  "It's not stupid. Mrs. Jackson said it would bring you luck and healing."

  "Yeah. I believe that about as much as I believe you can communicate with dead people."

  "Sam Rotondo, you're impossible!"

  "I know it." He sounded a little sulky when he added, "Sorry I'm such lousy company. I'm sick of this cane, I'm sick of hurting, and I want to get better now. I don't want to wait for more months to pass."

  "Did Doc Benjamin give you any idea how long you'll have to use the cane?"

  "No, but the wound got infected a couple of times, and that's slowed down the process. Maybe another month or two."

  I knew all about those infections. I'd worried and prayed and worried and prayed, and was nearly overwhelmed when the good doctor finally released Sam from our house, where he'd been recuperating since his discharge from the hospital, and allowed him to go home to his darling little bungalow on South Los Robles Avenue. I missed him when he left, even if he was crotchety most of the time. I guess that means it was true love. Or something.

  We climbed the steps to the library, Sam cursing under his breath as he maneuvered his cane on the concrete stairs. Even though I still carried a big pile of books, I opened the door for him. He eyed me evilly and said, "Thanks."

  "You're ever so welcome."

  As soon as we got inside the library, I breathed in a deep lungful of library-scented air. I loved the library. It was my second-favorite place in the whole wide world, next to our bungalow on Marengo.

  "I'll take these to the returns table, and then I'll introduce you to Miss Petrie."

  I didn't wait for Sam to grumble anything, but hurried to the returns table and quietly set down my armload of books. Then I rushed back to Sam, who didn't look any the worse for having been left alone for five or six seconds. I grabbed his arm. "All right, you big galoot. You're going to meet Miss Petrie."

  "Goody gumdrops."

  "Stop it!" I gave his arm a good shake.

  He grinned down at me, and I knew he'd been grumpy on purpose. He did that sometimes just to rile me. Terrible man, Sam Rotondo. I have no idea why I loved him so much. I guess because, beneath his tough exterior, he was an old softie. Not very many people knew that, and I think Sam wanted them kept in the dark.

  Miss Petrie watched us walk up to her little desk in the reference section and smiled broadly. We were good friends, Miss Petrie and me. I don't know why we weren't on a first-name basis by that point, but I always called her Miss Petrie and she almost always called me Mrs. Majesty. She'd slipped and called me Daisy a time or two, but she always looked embarrassed afterwards.

  For the record, I had once thought Miss Petrie to be a lot older than I, but had recently learned she was only twenty-five to my twenty-four. The way she dressed and wore her hair made her look older and more librarianish, I guess. She always wore boring clothes, and always pinned her hair in a knot on the top of her head. It had long been my opinion that she could be a pretty woman if she took a little more care with her appearance. Maybe she thought librarians were supposed to look stuffy. I don't know, but I sometimes itched to get my hands on her.

  Another friend of mine, Flossie Buckingham, had asked me to help her re-create herself, only her reincarnation had been directly opposed to the one I wanted to perform on Miss Petrie. Flossie had been a gangster's moll and needed toning down. Miss Petrie, in my opinion, needed toning up.

  "Miss Petrie!" whispered I upon arriving at her desk. "Please let me introduce you to my fiancé, Detective Sam Rotondo. He's with the Pasadena Police Department. Oh, I guess you already knew that."

  "How wonderful to meet you at last, Detective Rotondo," said Miss Petrie in a thrilled whisper. She held out her hand, and Sam shook it.

  "Pleased to meet you," said he, not snarling for once. He actually behaved properly and smiled as he shook her hand. Sort of like a tranquilized rhinoceros, if you know what I mean.

  "Oh, Daisy," said Miss Petrie after Sam had let her hand go. "I have so many books for you!"

  "Thank you!"

  "Hmm," said Sam. "You're the one who feeds her detective-novel reading habit, I've heard."

  "You betcha," I said.

  "Yes indeed," said Miss Pet
rie, her smile faltering slightly.

  "Don't mind him," I told her. "He acts grouchy on purpose."

  "Do not," said Sam grouchily.

  "He's a man, Daisy. I know what men are like."

  She did? Her words surprised me since, as far as I knew, Miss Petrie was an unmarried young lady and, also as far as I knew, she'd never been engaged or anything. Maybe she grew up with brothers. I did know that she had more than a handful of ghastly male cousins. Maybe they'd colored her opinions.

  Naturally, Sam said, "Huh."

  "So what do you have for us today, Miss Petrie?" I nearly rubbed my hands with glee.

  "Two new arrivals from Mrs. Agatha Christie!" she exclaimed. Naturally, she whispered her exclamation. It can be done; believe me. "Poirot Investigates, which is a collection of short stories, and The Secret Adversary. The last isn't about Hercule Poirot, but introduces two young people at loose ends after the war. They get together in this book. I loved it. It's ever so much better than Murder on the Links. The two young people are Mr. Tommy Beresford and Miss Tuppence Cowley. They aren't married in the book, but I expect they will be soon. Rather like you and the detective." Miss Petrie giggled.

  "Oooh, thank you!" I hugged the two volumes to my bosom. Not that women were supposed to have bosoms in those days. But I wore my bust-flattener and did my best. Because of my profession as a spiritualist-medium, I always attempted to look fashionable when I went out in public. Nobody wants to hire a sloppy spiritualist.

  "And we just got a couple of books by Mr. E. Phillips Oppenheim, too. I think I've told you that it sometimes takes a while for books to get here from England."