by Alice Duncan
"You're not being rude," I said, feeling a little sorry for her. She always had been a trifle socially awkward, but I chalked that up to her mathematical brain, which wasn't like the brains of most of us. "And I appreciate the offer, but I truly don't want any coffee or tea right now."
"Thank you. But Daisy, I do hope you can help. I don't know whom else to talk to about this." She glanced around furtively. "I don't want anyone else to hear."
"Is anyone else in the house?"
"No."
I refrained from rolling my eyes. "Then you probably needn't fret about being overheard."
"I suppose not. But Homer is so worried. It's about Mary Carleton, you see. She worked with Homer on a project at Cal Tech. She was helping with the research, being a librarian and all." Gladys squinted at me. For the record, she wore thick spectacles, although I don't think they detracted from her appearance. She'd been a pretty, if sober-sided girl, and she was now a pretty, if sober-sided young woman. Anyhow, Homer Fellowes wore even thicker specs, so they seemed evenly matched in that department. "Did you know she was a librarian?"
"Yes, I did. I met her when she worked for the Pasadena Public Library, although I didn't know her well."
"I see. Well, she was helping Homer and another scientist named Dr. Gregory Malton with some geological studies. Homer said she all of a sudden started acting strange a week or so ago, and then someone went and murdered her, and Homer is desperately afraid Gregory might have done something to her."
"Why would he do anything to her? Did Dr. Fellowes give you a reason or a motive for his having done so?"
"No. He and Dr. Malton divided up the project, and Mary was helping Dr. Malton. Something she said made Homer think there might be something shady about the research they were doing."
"Oh. Hmm." And I was supposed to figure it all out? I didn't even understand what she was talking about, for pity's sake. "I'm not sure what you want me to do, Gladys."
She started wringing her hands. I honestly didn't know people did that except in novels. But her hands, which were sturdy and well-shaped, started wringing each other atop her protruding belly. "I don't know! Oh, I don't know what you should do. But someone has to do something, or the entire project might fail, and it would be a black spot against Cal Tech and Homer, and I can't let that happen!"
"If Homer had nothing to do with her death, I don't see how he—"
"Of course he had nothing to do with her death!" cried Gladys, offended, unless I missed my guess.
"I didn't think so," I said soothingly. "In fact the police yesterday seemed to be concentrating on another individual entirely."
"Who?" she demanded abruptly.
Not precisely a fount of polite refinement, our Gladys. I answered her anyway. "A gentleman named Robert Browning."
"Oh, no!" Gladys, who had been sitting forward in her armchair, collapsed back into it and looked stricken.
"You know Robert?" I asked her, surprised.
"He's working with Homer and Dr. Malton."
"On a project regarding geology?" What was geology, anyhow? Something to do with rocks, I think.
"Yes. Oh, dear. This is just awful. You mean Robert was in the library when Mary was killed?"
"Yes, as was I. And my fiancé, Detective Rotondo."
"No! We can't have the police involved in this!"
"Detective Rotondo is recovering from a work-related injury and isn't personally working on the case," I said in a repressive tone. What the heck did she mean, the police couldn't be involved? In a murder? Applesauce! "Anyhow, the police pretty much have to be involved in the solution to a murder, don't you think?"
With a hand to her brow, Gladys whispered, "Oh, dear. Oh, dear." Dropping her hand, she gazed mournfully at me. "I suppose they do, but the project can't be tainted. It can't be, Daisy! It would just kill Homer if anything happened to the project. And a murder of one of his staff might blot his image as a brilliant scientist and inventor."
She spoke as if Homer's precious project were more important than a woman's life. "In that case, I suspect his image might already be blotted. After all, I'm sure the police will find out they were working together."
"Oooooh," said Gladys in something of a moan. "I suppose you're right, but there must be a way to keep Homer's name apart from the killing."
Confused only faintly describes my feelings at that moment. A woman was murdered, she'd worked with Dr. Fellowes, and Gladys didn't want anyone to know about it? "I can't imagine how you can keep Dr. Fellowes's name out of the newspapers, Gladys. I'm sure the police will have to interview him about the work she did for him."
"Oooooh," moaned Gladys again.
"But see here. The police department has every reason not to sully the names of innocent people and institutions. Nobody wants to blacken Cal Tech's good name—or that of Dr. Homer Fellowes, for that matter. Pasadena owes a good deal to the Institute, and the police will make every effort to keep its reputation intact. However, they do have to investigate murders. That's what we taxpayers pay them for."
"I know. I know." Gladys resumed wringing her hands. "But... Oh, Daisy! Don't you see? Homer simply can't be linked to so heinous a crime!"
I heaved an exasperated sigh. "He's already linked to it, if only by association. If Miss Carleton and Dr. Fellowes worked together, there's no way to get away from some sort of link. Anyhow, I'm still not sure what you want me to do about it, Gladys. I'm sure the police will investigate the crime, nab the culprit, and lock him up. I'm also certain Dr. Fellowes, Dr. Malton, Robert Browning and the other folks who are working on their project will be exonerated."
"But... But, they'll all be linked to a murder! A scandal! It might prevent their project from coming to fruition."
Puzzled, I asked, "How?"
"Oh, I don't know! They'll be linked! Don't you see that?"
"No," I answered frankly. "I don't see that. If the project upon which everyone is working is worthy of... of... of... Well, I don't know what it might be worthy of. I don't know beans about Cal Tech or geological research, but if they discover something useful, I'm sure no one who matters will hold a murder against them."
"You don't think so?"
"I doubt it. What are they working on, anyway? If it's important, the work will go on, and no one will blame them for poor Miss Carleton's murder."
Gladys sat in her chair, pensive, for several seconds. Then she glanced at me with a pleading expression on her face.
"I'm sorry, Daisy. I'm just so worried that all the hard work Homer, Dr. Malton and Mr. Browning are doing will go for naught if there's something like a nasty murder tainting it. Oh, and they're doing a geological study of the local foothills."
"Really?" Why did anyone need to know about the geology of the local foothills? I didn't ask. "At any rate, I'm not a trained investigator, and the police don't like amateurs butting into their work. Besides, I'm still not sure what you want me to do."
"I want you to snoop! You're good at it."
Golly. Thanks.
"And you won't allow irrelevancies to get in your way."
"Irrelevancies?"
After hesitating for a moment, Gladys said, "Yes. I mean, you might uncover some things that look bad but that don't relate to the project."
"What sorts of things? And if they don't relate to the project, why would anyone care? Unless, of course, they relate to Miss Carleton's murder."
Gladys stilled her restless hands by clamping them together. With her head thrown back, she stared at the ceiling for a second or two. Then, again looking squarely at me, she said. "You don't believe that any more than I do."
"I don't?"
"No. You don't. You know very well that if anything the least little bit scandalous shows up in anyone's background, people will hold it against Homer and his fellow researchers." And darned if she didn't turn a glorious crimson color.
Totally befuddled by this time, I said, "I still don't know what you think I can do that the police can't, Glad
ys. I... Well, if there's any disgrace or shame in anyone's background, I'm sure the police won't advertise it. Not unless it has something to do with the murder."
"It doesn't."
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. Then I opened it again and said, "Is there something scandalous in the lives of anyone involved in the project?"
"I wouldn't call it scandalous."
"You just did."
Gladys's lips pinched into a tight line before she spat out, "Society holds things against women that it wouldn't hold against men, you know."
Whatever that meant in the overall scheme of things. "Yes, I do know that, but if there's a stain on someone's past, I'm sure the police won't advertise it. Unless it's bloody murder or something." Which Miss Carleton's death had been. Thinking about it made me shudder.
"Did you read The Scarlet Letter in high school?"
"Yes. I thought poor Hester Prynne was treated shamefully, but I'm not sure what that has to do with anything."
After perusing me with another sharp glare, Gladys said—grudgingly, if were to judge her tone—"Oh, very well. The same thing happened to Mary. Mary Carleton had a baby out of wedlock. There. Is that scandalous enough for you?"
Chapter 7
My mouth dropped open for a second. I shut it with a clack of teeth and said, "I had no idea. Poor thing."
"Very few people do. And I don't think it's fair that her shame should follow her to the grave. She wasn't that sort of woman, if you know what I mean."
"I guess I do. I didn't know her well, but she seemed a most unlikely candidate for having a child while unmarried."
"She was, and it wasn't her fault."
"I'm sure of it," said I, not quite knowing what I meant. If she'd had a child out of wedlock, she must have participated in its conception, after all. But I didn't know the circumstances, so I resolved to keep any judgmental opinions to myself. "Did she say who the father of the child was?"
"Um... I'm not sure."
I didn't believe her, but I didn't press the issue.
Gladys went on, "I believed her when she said she was misled into trusting the father of her child. He told her he wanted to marry her."
"But he didn't. Marry her, I mean."
"But he didn't," echoed Gladys.
"Men," I snarled, thinking bitterly about a few other men I'd met (not Sam, who was a gentleman even if he didn't act much like one sometimes). "I'm so sorry to learn of this."
"I'm sure you are, but that's not the point. You know very well that if news of it gets out, her reputation will be smirched forever, and so will Cal Tech's and those of the people working on Homer's project."
"I honestly don't see that," said I. Then I thought about what Gladys had said and what I'd said. "At least, I don't think it will." After all, Fatty Arbuckle's career had been ruined even though he'd been thrice vindicated in the death of a woman who'd attended one of his parties.
"I think it will," said Gladys firmly. "Which is why I want you to pry into the matter. You'll do a much better and more thorough job of it than the police will, and you'll be infinitely more discreet. I know it. As soon as they find out—if they find out—Mary was a fallen woman"—she placed a particularly vitriolic emphasis on the last two words—"they'll stop even caring who killed her. They'll just assume she was a wicked creature, the villain was someone at Cal Tech, and the reputations of the school and all of Mary's co-workers will be tarred with the brush of disgrace."
If she said so. Personally, I was a little skeptical. "I still don't know what you expect me to do about it," I told her. "I'm not a detective, you know."
"I know. But you helped find out who was sending those hateful letters to those actors a couple of years ago. I figured you knew how to pry into things without causing alarm."
Not precisely flattering, but true. "Sometimes," I said noncommittally. Something then occurred to me, although it didn't strike me as brilliant. "Um... Could you and Dr. Fellowes host a dinner party or something? You know, a house-warming party or something like that? You might get everyone together that way, and maybe I could look over the suspects."
"A dinner party? Me?" She pointed to her chest.
"Just a thought."
She sat still for a few moments, deep in thought. Then she said, "That's not a bad idea, although I can't cook a lick. Poor Homer and I have to dine out more often than not because I'm so dismal in the kitchen."
"So am I!" said I, thrilled to have found common ground in this one element of our lives.
"Homer wants to hire a cook, but so far we haven't. I do have a woman who comes in to clean the house every morning. She went to the store for some things I asked her to buy for the baby's room, but she'll be back soon."
Must be nice.
"But I don't know about a dinner party."
Another idea occurred to me, and this one didn't sound as hopeless as my last one had. "Perhaps you could host a party at a restaurant. It would be pretty expensive, I guess, but..." My voice trailed off.
"That's a good idea," said Gladys as if she weren't sure of herself or my idea. "We'd have to invent an occasion. Homer's birthday isn't until February, and mine just passed."
"Happy birthday," I said. Conditioning, I guess.
"Thank you. It was two weeks ago. But Daisy, you go to parties all the time. I know you do, because you're always going to rich people's homes and so forth and pretend to talk to ghosts and things like that. There's no way on God's green earth I could possibly plan and carry out a party. It's... it's just not one of the things I'm good at."
"I'm not a party-planner, Gladys. All the planning of the parties I attend is done by other people. The homes to which I go are those in which I've been hired to conduct a séance or something of that nature."
Gladys's nose wrinkled. "A séance? Good Lord. I don't think I could host a séance. Everyone would laugh at me."
Thanks again, Gladys. "I'm sorry. But I don't plan parties. I conduct séances and read tarot cards. If you'd like to hire me, I'll be happy to conduct a séance. If you want anything else from me, you're out of luck."
After another several seconds, Gladys sat up straight and beamed at me. It was the first time since I stepped foot in her home that she'd smiled. "Wait a minute! Maybe it would be entertaining to have a séance here. Our friends would laugh, but I think they'd be interested enough to come. That's a wonderful idea! I do like it." Her face fell again. "Oh, but Daisy, I suppose I'd have to feed the people who come to the séance, because otherwise it would seem extremely odd. Perhaps we can make it into a... what do you call it? A fun evening, or something like that. And I can neither cook nor plan parties. Do you think you could help me?"
Fiddlesticks. "I already told you I can't plan parties, Gladys. Or cook."
She sat silent for a few moments, thinking furiously. I could tell.
"But you know people who host parties, don't you?"
"Yes. Lots of them."
"Well, do you think one of them might be able to help me? It's for a worthy cause."
An idea struck me, sort of like the blow from a baseball bat. "Wait a minute. Is there any upcoming occasion you might wish to celebrate? Thanksgiving is coming up, but I don't think you'd have many guests if you hosted Thanksgiving at your house. Besides it's more than a month away."
"Good heavens, no."
"Well, I've already suggested hosting a house-warming party. I think it's a good idea, and it's a valid one. I don't think any of your intellectual friends will scoff at attending a house-warming party."
Pursing her lips, Gladys thought about my suggestion for a bit. "Hmmm. Maybe that's not a bad idea, after all." She glanced around her living room. "Do you think people will even want to see our new home?"
"Of course, they will! It's a lovely new home, and I think everyone will be enchanted with it."
"How do we go from a house-warming party to a séance? Nobody in the world will think I believe in such nonsense." Gladys seemed to recollect with whom she
spoke, and pressed a hand to her cheek. "Oh, Daisy, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to disparage your line of work."
"That's all right, Gladys. If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll let you in on a secret."
"I don't know whom I'd tell, but I'll promise not to tell your secret if you want me to."
"Thank you. I don't believe in spiritualism any more than you do. I have to earn a living, however, and spiritualism a much better-paid job than most of the other ones I might be able to get."
"Really?" Gladys appeared astounded.
"Really. And, you know, your friends needn't think of a séance as a serious business. Pretend you're just holding a party with a friend of yours—Oh! I just thought of something! I've been to many charitable parties in which I set up a tent and read palms and tarot cards and consult the Ouija board and my crystal ball. You could have an amusing party with a pretend-mystical aura to it." Another idea struck me, and this one truly was brilliant. I sat up and said, "A Halloween party! Host a house-warming Halloween party!"
"Halloween? Good gracious, how did you ever think of that? Oh, Daisy, that might just work."
"I believe it will. And nobody will think anything about me plying my trade at a Halloween party! It'll be all in fun and in the spirit of Halloween."
"You're brilliant, Daisy. You really are!"
"Nonsense. I barely passed algebra in school. You're the one with the brain."
"But I have no imagination," said Gladys, showing a more genuine understanding of herself than I'd heretofore judged her to have.
"Well, I have enough imagination for a regiment of know-it-alls," said I. "No offense meant."
"None taken. I've been called a know-it-all my whole life, even though I never thought I was snooty about it." She sighed, as if regretting her know-it-all-edness.
"No, you never were snooty about it. You were just smart and scored high marks all the time." Truer words were seldom spoken. Gladys never had bragged about being a highbrow.
"But I still don't know how to plan a party. Do you know anyone who can help me?"
I thought for maybe half a second. "Actually, yes, I do. Harold Kincaid is a master at such things." Harold Kincaid was going to love me for this. I'm kidding. Although he truly was a great party-planner and party-thrower. "I'll bet you can host great Halloween party with nothing but canapés and various drinks."
