by Alice Duncan
Murder-magnet, my foot.
Anyway, back to the telephone call. I pretended to look at my calendar—I really didn't have so much work that I had to keep track of it—and told Mrs. Bissel, "I can do a séance next Tuesday, if that would work for you."
"Perfect! I'll serve dinner at seven o'clock. You must come to dinner, too. Then the séance can begin directly thereafter. I promise not to have more than seven people, including you, at the séance."
"You're very kind, Mrs. Bissel. That will work perfectly for me."
What it really meant was that I'd miss one of my Aunt Vi's meals. As Aunt Vi is the best cook in the entire universe, I'd probably eat better at home. But I'd get paid for dining at Mrs. Bissel's house, so I didn't repine. We said our good-byes and each hung up our receivers. By the way, the reason Mrs. Bissel mentioned the number of folks she'd have to dinner is that I don't allow more than eight attendees at any séance I conduct. People are unmanageable at the best of times, and when several of them are supposed to sit still, hold hands, and be silent, the fewer the better. They all ought to go to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club, in my considered opinion.
I'd no sooner set the receiver on the cradle than the stupid telephone rang again. Frowning at the device, I picked it up and began my usual greeting. I didn't get past the "Gumm-Maj—" part before I was interrupted.
Mrs. Pinkerton.
"Daisy!" cried she, sobbing piteously. "Oh, Daisy, I need you!"
It was nice to be needed. I suppose. "You sound distressed, Mrs. Pinkerton. Whatever is the matter?" I knew, of course, what the matter was. Nevertheless, I also knew how to do my job.
"Oh, I'm just so upset about Stacy. She's going to have to stand trial!"
Yeah. As was only right since Stacy, Mrs. Pinkerton's daughter, had abetted if not participated in one or more murders, not to mention the capture and imprisonment of several children. What's more, she'd done this whilst conspiring in the cause of providing perverted men pleasure. The thought made me sick. Truth to tell, Stacy made me sick. I didn't say so.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Pinkerton. However, you know she participated in something truly..." I couldn't think of a word that might not get me fired. Detestable was correct but probably wouldn't sound right to Stacy's mother. Ah. I thought of one. "...illegal."
Another hefty sob. "I know. That girl has caused me nothing but grief."
"Yes. I agree with you, and I'm awfully sorry."
"But can you come over, Daisy? Tomorrow? I'd so appreciate it."
"Of course I can, Mrs. Pinkerton. Will eleven-thirty be a good time for you?"
"Yes." Sniffle. "Eleven-thirty will be fine." Sniffle. "Thank you so much."
"Of course." I spoke gently. I really did feel sorry for the woman, even if she didn't have two brain cells to rub together.
That was unkind. Please forgive me.
We hung up, and I walked back to the living room where I found Sam and Spike awake and alert, and both sitting up. Sam looked as if he felt a bit less ravaged, too.
"Is your leg feeling better?" I asked him tentatively. In those days, I never knew what would set him off.
"Yes. Thanks for the aspirin and the sofa." He glanced at Spike. "And the dog."
"You're welcome. You do know you're a pain in the neck when you're hurting, don't you?"
He sighed about as heavily as he'd been limping earlier in the day. "Yes, and I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't take my misery out on you."
True. Since I heard what sounded like the purr of an automobile's engine pull up and then stop in front of the house, I opted not to say so. "Wonder if that's Harold bringing Aunt Vi home."
"Don't know. Think I'll stay here while you find out."
Sam didn't care much for Harold Kincaid, Mrs. Pinkerton's son, a peach of a guy and one of my very best friends. There was no legitimate reason for his dislike. Harold was what Sam and my late husband used to call a fairy. What they meant was that Harold was a homosexual. It wasn't Harold's fault, but Sam couldn't be brought to believe it. Men can be so stubborn sometimes.
Hmm. That meant Sam and Spike shared a characteristic. Dachshunds can be stubborn, too. Interesting. I'd have to relay my insight to Sam. He'd be pleased.
I'm joking.
Spike, who had no prejudices about people just because of things over which they had no control, was delighted to go to the door with me. In truth, he got there first, having four legs to my two. After I told Spike to sit and stay, which he did, bless him, I opened the door to see who was out there.
"I was right!" I said for Sam's benefit. "Harold brought Aunt Vi home, and he's carrying what looks like a pretty heavy cardboard box. I'll bet it's full of dinner for the family."
"Huh."
Good old Sam.
"Hey, Harold!" I called. "Good evening, Vi!"
"Hey yourself," said Harold, grinning. "You're going to love what's in this box, Daisy. Your aunt outdid herself today."
"Oh, go along with you, Harold Kincaid," said Aunt Vi.
Harold merely grinned some more, and I opened the door wider. "Oh, goody. I love Aunt Vi's special dinners."
"This isn't really special," said Aunt Vi modestly. "Just a roast of pork."
"I love pork roast," I said, meaning it.
"This is special," said Harold firmly. "It's not your old, every-day pork roast."
"Oh. Good. I guess. I don't think you can ever go wrong with roasted pork, so however you cooked it I'm sure it's delicious, Vi."
"You're a sweetheart, Daisy," said my aunt, which made me happy. I thought about asking her to relay that sentiment to Sam, but didn't.
Harold carried the cardboard box into the dining room and set it on the table, Vi, Spike and me following hard on his heels. Spike seemed especially interested.
Sam had risen from the sofa and limped slowly after us. I don't think either Harold or Vi had noticed him yet.
They did when he said, "Smells good."
"Oh, Sam! How lovely to see you this evening," said Vi. Mind you, Sam dined at our home most evenings, but Vi still enjoyed his company.
"Good evening, Detective Rotondo," said Harold. He gave me a wink and turned to give Sam his hand to shake.
Sam shook it. He didn't allow his prejudices to get in the way of good manners. Usually. "Mr. Kincaid," said he in a gruff voice.
I took the lid off the cardboard box and looked inside, where I saw pretty much nothing but crumpled newspaper. "We're having newspaper for dinner?" I asked.
"Daisy, you're a caution," said Vi. She had a variety of expressions she used often and which made no sense to me, of which "you're a caution" was one.
"Whatever a caution is. May I remove the newspaper?"
"Of course. Then you can take the pot with the roast in it to the kitchen and put it in the warming oven."
So I removed the newspaper. Succulent aromas nearly made me swoon. "Oh, my, this smells good. It smells almost like Thanksgiving, only slightly different." I got a couple of potholders from the kitchen and carefully removed the pot from the box. I didn't uncover it, but did as Vi had told me to do, carried it into the kitchen and put it in the warming oven.
"There's a good reason for that," said Vi.
"How come?" I asked.
"You'll find out," said she, looking mysterious. Very well. That was all right by me.
"You'll love it," said Harold. "Must be off now. Will you be going to see Mother soon, Daisy? She's in a rare state, thanks to Stacy."
Sam huffed. As Stacy had been instrumental in getting him shot, I didn't blame him.
"Yes, she called, and I'll see her tomorrow morning."
"Too bad I won't be there. Gotta work."
"What are you working on now?" I asked him. Harold was a costumer for a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles.
"It's a war epic called The Big Parade. I don't think you should see it. It's going to be a really good picture, but it'll make you sad. John Gilbert and Renee Adoree. I love designing clothes for Miss Adoree."
>
"She's beautiful. You're probably right about the picture, though."
"Yeah," said Sam, surprising me. He generally stayed out of conversations with Harold unless he couldn't avoid them. "Who wants to be reminded of that blasted war?"
"True," said Vi, removing her coat, hat and gloves. She'd lost her only son, Paul, in the war.
"Here, Vi. Let me take those." I grabbed her discards.
"Thank you, Daisy. Just put everything at the foot of the staircase if you will."
Vi lived in the two rooms upstairs in our bungalow. Those two rooms would have been perfect for a married couple, but by the time Billy came home from the war, he couldn't climb stairs. Our house looked kind of like a flat house with another, tiny, house on top of it. Lots of Pasadena bungalows looked like that. Ours wasn't unique.
"It's no trouble to carry them upstairs," said I, proceeding to do same.
"You're a love, Daisy."
"Yes, you are," said Harold.
Sam kept mum this time. He would.
Harold left shortly after that. I saw him out to his snazzy bright-red Stutz Bearcat and bade him a fond farewell. Of all my friends, I think Harold and I have the most in common. Maybe that sounds odd because of his perhaps-peculiar characteristics. Too bad.
Anyhow, after I saw Harold off, I went back inside and set the table for dinner. It was about five-thirty by that time. Pa and Sam were seated in the living room, chatting. Vi was preparing for dinner in the kitchen.
Ma came home just about then. She looked tired and bedraggled.
"Rough day at the Marengo?" I asked her. My mother was the chief bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo, which was a darned impressive job for a woman to have in those days. Of course, if she'd been a man, she'd have made more money.
"No worse than most," said she with a smile. "It's the fall audit, and things are always busy during the audit. That's why I'm a little later than usual."
I didn't even know what an audit was. Pathetic, I know.
"Would you like some help there?" she asked.
"No. You've worked hard today. All I've done is clean house and go to the library." I omitted the murder.
"Oh, good. I'm sure you picked up some wonderful books for us."
"Indeed, I did. What's more, I learned that Miss Petrie's first name is Regina. Her full name is Regina Minerva Petrie. She doesn't care for it, but I think it's kind of pretty."
"Rather theatrical for a librarian," said Ma, plunking herself down on a dining room chair. She'd rid herself of her coat and hat at the door and stuffed her gloves in the coat pocket.
"Yes. I think that's why she objects to her names. She's not a theatrical person."
"Maybe we should have named you Regina. It would fit your profession better than Daisy does."
"It doesn't matter. Everyone thinks Daisy is short for Desdemona." As mentioned earlier, I'd called myself Desdemona from the very beginning of what became my career, when I first played with the old Ouija Board Aunt Vi had brought home from Mrs. Pinkerton's house. I was ten years old, it was Christmas, and I couldn't believe it when the entire family actually believed I was communicating with the Great Beyond with the Ouija board and a pretend spirit control, whom I called Rolly. At the time of the Carleton murder, I'd long known that both Desdemona and Rolly were silly names, but it was too late by then. I've made my living as a fake spiritualist-medium ever since that Christmas, thanks to Aunt Vi telling Mrs. Pinkerton about my so-called "gift". It's a darned good living, too. It pays better than Ma's job at the Hotel Marengo, which isn't fair. Heck, I didn't even know what an audit was, and I made more money than my mother. I'll never understand life.
Then again, whoever said life was fair? Nobody I know.
Chapter 5
Harold was absolutely correct when he told me Aunt Vi's meal for that evening wasn't your plain, ordinary roast pork.
"Oh, my!" said I when Vi brought in a platter filled with what looked like a rolled-up bunch of pork chops sitting on their bottoms in a ring with their bony legs in the air and covered with little paper things with frills on them. "I've never seen anything like that before!"
"Me neither," said Pa, looking and sounding intrigued.
"I haven't, either," said Sam, likewise enchanted.
"Nor have I," said Ma unenthusiastically. Ma wasn't big on culinary experiments, although she'd managed to enjoy Mexican, Turkish, and Indian (the kind from India) delicacies, thanks to Vi.
Vi appeared pleased with herself, as well she should have, when she set the platter before her own place at the table. It was then I realized that the fancy pork-chop circle was filled with something.
I sniffed. "Is that turkey dressing?" My mouth had commenced watering the moment I'd put the pot in the warming oven. By that time, I was nearly drooling.
"It's made pretty much the same way. Pork is delicious with dressing. And cranberry sauce. And applesauce. And potatoes."
"I love pork," I said, in awe of my marvelous aunt.
My cooking skills are best not spoken of. Well, truth to tell, I have no cooking skills. I'd been known to burn water—not the water itself, but the pot it boiled in was beyond repair when I finally remembered to turn off the burner under it.
"This is called a crown roast of pork. You can see why," said Vi, gesturing to the circle of pork.
"By George, it does look like a crown," I said.
"Hence, the name," said Vi.
"I love those fancy little paper things on the bones."
"Those, if you'll believe it, are called panties."
"Good heavens." I was kind of shocked, although I don't know why.
"Will you fetch the vegetables from the kitchen, Daisy?" asked Vi. "Then we can all dig in."
So I brought to the dining room table a bowl of green beans with almonds (making them what the French called haricots verts almondine), a bowl of applesauce, and a bowl of cranberry sauce. I had to make three trips in order to get everything on the table. I'd make a lousy waitress. There were even roasted potatoes and gravy, which I carefully poured into the Gumm-Majesty gravy boat. The gravy, I mean. Not the potatoes.
"Are the Pinkertons celebrating a special occasion or something?" I asked as I carefully placed the gravy boat near Vi at the head of the table. I didn't even spill.
"No. I just feel awfully sorry for Mrs. Pinkerton these days. She's so upset about Stacy. I figured they could use a special meal, even if it isn't a special occasion. And, of course, I always make enough for us."
"Lucky us." I shut my eyes and reveled in the delicious aromas wafting from the various platters and bowls.
"Indeed," said Pa.
"It smells good," said Ma in a tentative sort of voice.
"It smells delicious," said Sam. "I'm a lucky man, to get to dine here."
"Nonsense. You're part of the family now," said Pa.
Sam looked at me. "Not quite yet," said he.
"One of these days," I said. "You're in no condition to marry anyone at the moment."
My mother said, "Daisy!" which she does every time she thinks I'm making an inappropriate comment.
"I'm not being rude. Thanks to his leg, Sam's grumpy as an old bear lately," I told my mother.
"It's not just my leg. You'd be grumpy, too, if your fiancée was always stumbling over dead bodies," said Sam.
"I didn't stumble over anything!"
Pa said, rather loudly, "Let me say grace, and we can dine on this perfect meal." Pa was generally the peacekeeper-in-chief at our house.
So I shut my mouth, bowed my head, and Pa said grace. When I opened my eyes again and looked across the table at Sam, he was grinning at me. Blast the man!
That was one of the most succulent roasts of pork I personally have ever eaten. And Vi was right about it going well with dressing, cranberry sauce and applesauce (not together). It was sooo good, I forgot all about the early part of the day. Therefore, I almost groaned when Ma decided to ask about Sam's comment regarding stumbling over bodies.
> I did mutter, "Oh, no."
Bless my father's heart. He said, "When Sam and Daisy went to the library this afternoon, somebody died."
"That's too bad," said Ma.
"Yes," said Vi. "It is. Did you know the person, Daisy?"
This time, I think I heard Sam say, "Oh, no," under his breath. Too bad. It was his fault for bringing up the matter in the first place.
"Yes. I didn't know her well. But she used to be a librarian there. Her name was Miss Mary Carleton."
"Dear me," said Ma. "Was she elderly? Did she have a heart spasm or something?"
Nerts. But what the heck. "No. She was murdered. Stabbed."
Ma laid her fork on her plate and stared at me. "In the library?"
Since my mouth was full, I merely nodded.
"Do they know who did it?"
"Not yet," said Sam.
I glanced at him and saw he regretted bringing up the subject. Huh. Served him right.
"Poor Robert Browning—you remember him, don't you? Works at the Underhill Chemical Factory? He was there, and he picked up the knife. He said it was sitting on a library shelf one stack away from where poor Miss Carleton got stabbed. It was all bloody."
Ma frowned. "That doesn't sound like a wise thing to do."
My mother may lack imagination and an adventurous soul, but she was excellent at knowing what to do and what not to do in any given situation.
"It wasn't," I said. "Sam talked to him for about three hours. I think he thinks Robert killed the poor woman." I sniffed to let everyone know what I thought about that state of affairs.
"It wasn't three hours," mumbled Sam after he'd swallowed a bite of potato. "But he's on the suspect list."
"Oh, dear," said Ma, looking quite unhappy. "I remember Robert from when you were in school, Daisy. He used to get teased about his name."
"I know how that feels," I mumbled, forking up another bite of pork, dressing and cranberry sauce. A notion occurred to me as I chewed happily, and when I swallowed, I said, "I just thought of something! Robert was going to marry a woman named Elizabeth, just like the original Robert Browning! Wouldn't that have been something? Only I don't think his Elizabeth's last name was Barrett."
