Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "Drinks?" Gladys appeared shocked. Prohibition was the law, after all.

  "Not alcoholic drinks. I'm sure Harold will know what to serve."

  "Who is he, anyway?"

  "Harold Kincaid. Do you remember him from when they shot that picture at Mrs. Winkworth's estate?"

  She shuddered slightly. "That horrible woman." She was speaking of Mrs. Lurline Winkworth, whose secretary she was at the time and she was absolutely correct, but that's not the point. "I vaguely recall him. He was a friend of Mr. Mountjoy's, wasn't he? If he's the one I'm thinking of, he seemed a nice man."

  For the record, Monty Mountjoy was about the most handsome man on the face of the earth and a tremendous heart-throb to thousands, if not millions, of picture-going damsels. He was a great guy, too.

  "Harold is one of my best friends, and he loves to throw parties."

  "Would he mind throwing one at our house?"

  "I don't think so, but I'll be glad to ask him. Then you can invite everyone you think might be involved in Miss Carleton's death to the party."

  "Sounds grim," said Gladys, frowning slightly.

  "Don't make it grim. Have everyone come in costumes of one sort or another."

  "Costumes? You mean witches and goblins and so forth?"

  "Precisely. My spiritualist act will fit in perfectly."

  Gladys sat on the sofa, thinking hard, for quite a long time. I didn't fidget, since I didn't have to be at Mrs. Pinkerton's house for another hour or more.

  Finally she said, "All right. I think that might be a good idea. Thank you, Daisy."

  "You're more than welcome." And with any luck, Harold wouldn't murder me, keeping the death toll in Pasadena, California, in 1924, lower than it might otherwise be.

  "I'll invite Dr. Malton and Robert Browning and a few other people."

  "Better wait until I talk to Harold before you extend invitations. I don't think he'd mind arranging your party, but I don't know what his schedule is. When would you like to do this?"

  "As soon as possible. We have to get to the bottom of the matter before anything else happens."

  "You think other people might be in danger?" I was alarmed.

  Pressing a hand to her forehead again, Gladys said, "I don't know! I didn't think anyone was in danger in the first place. I can't believe someone killed Mary. This is just terrible. Oh, Daisy, you must help us. And you must keep Homer's name out of it."

  Ask for the moon and stars, why don't you, Gladys Pennywhistle Fellowes? I didn't say that. "If it can be done, I shall do my best," I told her.

  Huh, as Sam Rotondo might say. On the other hand, it wasn't every day I was actually asked to snoop into a vile crime.

  Oh, boy!

  Sam was going to kill me.

  I'd think about that later.

  Gladys showed me around her house after I asked her to. I think she was surprised to be asked, but that was just Gladys's way. Anyone else would have been proud to show guests the delights of her new home. I think I've already mentioned Gladys's dearth of social skills. Not that it matters.

  Anyhow, I had plenty of time to get from Gladys's adorable gabled home on Santa Rosa Avenue to Mrs. Pinkerton's massive mansion on Orange Grove Boulevard. In fact, I decided to drop by the house and telephone Harold Kincaid. He said he'd be at work today, but I could leave a message with his houseboy for him to call me. Then I could ask about the Fellowes's party, and if he'd be interested in planning it. Of course, I'd tell him why the party was so important. I trusted Harold as I trusted few other people.

  I popped by the house, called Harold's number, and his houseboy, Roy Castillo, told me Harold was at work on a picture in San Bernardino and wasn't expected home until the next day. It was what I'd anticipated, but I was still disappointed.

  "May I take a message, Mrs. Majesty? Mr. Harold might telephone this evening."

  "Thanks, Roy. The next time you speak to him, will you have him ring me?"

  "I'll be happy to. Is there anything I can do to assist you in the meantime?" asked the helpful Roy.

  "Do you know how to plan parties?" I figured it was as well to ask.

  After a slight pause, Roy said, "Well, yes. I do help Mr. Harold and Mr. Del when they host parties here."

  "Do you really? Oh, my! Would you be willing to help me plan a party for a friend of mine? It will be sort of a Halloween-house-warming party and a catered affair—Uh, do you know any restaurants in town that cater parties? Just canapés and so forth."

  "The Castleton has been obliging to Mr. Harold and Mr. Del. I expect they could cater anyone else's party."

  "Great idea." I glanced at the kitchen clock and decided to cut the conversation shortish. "Listen, Roy, I may call upon your expertise in this endeavor later, depending on how Harold feels about it, but right now I have to get to Mrs. Pinkerton's house."

  "Ah. Good luck, Mrs. Majesty." Roy must have heard all about Mrs. Pinkerton's travails, since he worked for Mrs. P's son.

  For the record, Harold Kincaid and Delray Farrington lived together in a gorgeous mansion in San Marino, and, as already mentioned, they were what Sam and Billy called faggots. Or fairies. I called them friends, and I didn't care what they did in their own home. They couldn't help but be what they were, and no matter what any church person or government tells you, there's nothing wrong with them. They were born that way. I won't entertain arguments, so don't even try.

  Sorry. Got carried away there for a moment. Back to the telephone conversation.

  "Thank you, Roy. Hope I'll be talking to you soon."

  As soon as I hung up the receiver, I stooped to bid Spike a fond farewell, which he didn't appreciate. I was then sorry I'd come home before heading to Mrs. Pinkerton's place because I'd got Spike all excited, and now I planned to desert him again. Poor Spike.

  "I'll make it up to you this afternoon, Spike. You can sit on my lap while I read a book."

  Spike wasn't mollified, but I left anyway. Had to make a living, after all.

  Chapter 8

  As I had expected it to be, my visit with Mrs. Pinkerton was relatively dismal. Mrs. Pinkerton herself had red, swollen eyes and looked as if she'd been crying for days. She probably had been.

  But I'm getting ahead of my story.

  First of all, after Mr. Jackson, Mrs. Pinkerton's gatekeeper, opened the huge iron gates so my family's almost-new Chevrolet could enter the sacred Pinkerton grounds, and after I'd given Mr. Jackson a cheerful wave and he'd returned it, I parked the automobile in front of the massive Pinkerton porch. After grabbing my bag of tools (Ouija board and tarot cards. I didn't take my crystal ball with me as a rule because it was too darned heavy), I trod up the staircase to the gigantic front porch, patting one of the marble lions on the way, and knocked at the brass knocker on the front door.

  As he always did, Featherstone, Mrs. Pinkerton's butler for all the years I'd known her and probably then some, answered my knock. From the looks of him, there was nothing at all wrong with the world or with the Pinkertons. Rather like a statue, was Featherstone. Come to think of it, he wasn't unlike Sam Rotondo in that particular characteristic.

  "Good morning, Featherstone."

  "Good morning, Mrs. Majesty. Please come this way."

  I'm not precisely sure how many words Featherstone knew, but he only used a very few of them whenever I came to pay a call. At any rate, I went that way and ended up, as usual, in the drawing room, where poor Mrs. Pinkerton seemed to be having an unpleasant conversation with a gentleman whom I knew to be her attorney, Mr. Leonard Pearlman. I'd met him before under similar circumstances—that is to say another time when Stacy's lousy behavior had caused her mother grief.

  Mrs. P spotted me, clutched her saggy hankie to her bosom, leapt from her seat on the sofa and ran for me, leaving Mr. Pearlman blinking after her. I braced myself against a large piece of furniture to cushion the bump I'd get when she grabbed me. Which she did. She then commenced sobbing onto my shoulder. I was used to it. In fact, I patted her back
and said, "There, there."

  "Daisy! Oh, Daisy! It's so awful! I don't know what to do, and Mr. Pearlman said he can't help!"

  "Oh," said I.

  Mr. Pearlman cleared his throat, I presume to catch Mrs. P's wandering attention.

  As Mrs. Pinkerton didn't seem inclined to let me go or cease blubbering, I gently pulled her hands away from me, held them in a warm grip, and said in a low, soothing tone, "Mrs. Pinkerton, I believe Mr. Pearlman means to say something to you."

  With a loud wail, Mrs. P said, "He's already said something to me, and I can't stand it."

  Over Mrs. P's heaving back, I saw Mr. Pearlman roll his eyes and then remove his spectacles, retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket, and proceed to clean his lenses. His lips were pinched together tightly, and I gathered from that and from Mrs. Pinkerton's precarious state that their meeting hadn't been going well for either one of them.

  Taking a deep breath for courage and still holding on to Mrs. P's hands, I said, "Perhaps I can help somehow." Which was one of the more idiotic things I'd said in my career as a spiritualist-medium, but oh, well.

  "Oh!" cried Mrs. P. "Oh, yes! I'm sure Daisy can help us, Mr. Pearlman!"

  So saying, Mrs. Pinkerton whirled around and charged at the sofa and Mr. Pearlman again. Mr. Pearlman scooted aside so she wouldn't squash him when she landed. I walked slowly to the sofa myself, wondering what I'd got myself in to this time. Well, I didn't really wonder awfully hard. Stacy had participated in a couple of heinous crimes, and Mrs. P wanted her attorney to save her wicked soul. Stacy's, not Mrs. Pinkerton's.

  "Perhaps Mr. Pearlman can explain to me about what he can and can't do with regard to Stacy's current problems," I suggested.

  Frowning, Mr. Pearlman said, "The conversations between an attorney and his client are privileged and cannot be discussed with other people."

  Well.

  But Mrs. P, bless her, said, "No! You must tell Daisy everything you told me! I'm sure she can help us straighten this whole thing out."

  Oh, boy.

  Still frowning, Mr. Pearlman said, "This is quite irregular. I don't know..."

  "I do!" cried Mrs. P. "Tell Daisy what you told me. I'll sign a—what do you call it? A release or something! Daisy can be trusted!"

  Mr. Pearlman sat contemplating the state of things for several moments while Mrs. Pinkerton quietly wept next to him. I decided I might as well rest my tootsies, so I drew up one of the exquisite medallion-backed chairs decorating the drawing room and sat on it, looking between Mrs. P and Mr. Pearlman the while.

  After thinking about the matter for some time, Mr. Pearlman finally said, "I don't suppose anything I shall reveal to Mrs. Majesty"—he already knew my name from earlier meetings—"can be considered privileged."

  "Oh, good!" said Mrs. P.

  "But the fact of the matter is as I told you, Mrs. Pinkerton, and that is, you will need to retain a criminal attorney to oversee your daughter's case. Cases. Harrumph."

  I got the feeling Mr. Pearlman thought about as much of Stacy Kincaid as I did. And what I thought was that she should have been drowned at birth. Better to do away with a no-good waste of space like Stacy than some poor kitten that might do something useful with its life. Catch mice and other vermin and so forth. Naturally, I didn't say so.

  Rather, I said, "That sounds reasonable, Mrs. Pinkerton. I understand Mr. Pearlman has been your family's attorney for several years now—"

  "Yes!" she wailed.

  "But I also understand his specialty is not criminal law."

  "Precisely," said the lawyer as if glad someone finally understood his problem.

  "Oooooooh!" whimpered Mrs. P. It was better than a wail.

  "Perhaps," I said in my most reasonable, gentle and encouraging tone of voice, "he might even be able to suggest the names of one or two good criminal attorneys practicing in Pasadena." I smiled hopefully at Mr. Pearlman.

  He didn't appear precisely heartened by my words or my smile, but he did say, "Yes. I've already given Mrs. Pinkerton the names of two attorneys whom I know will do their very best for Miss Kincaid. Given the circumstances, which are not encouraging."

  "Ooooooh!" Another wail.

  I reached over and patted the poor woman's hand. "That sounds reasonable to me, Mrs. Pinkerton. Stacy is going to need a good criminal attorney as her case progresses. I'm sure Mr. Pearlman's suggestions are excellent ones." Not that I knew a hill of beans about criminal attorneys, but I was trying to sound calm and sensible.

  Balling her fists and pressing them against her cheeks, hankie trickling wetly, Mrs. P said, "Do you really think so, dear?"

  I was the dear in question. Mr. Pearlman rolled his eyes again.

  "Yes, I do." I said it firmly, too, what's more.

  After sniffling several times, Mrs. P said, "Very well. Daisy, dear, will you kindly write down the information Mr. Pearlman has about criminal attorneys? I fear I'm too upset to do it myself."

  No wonder there. Mrs. Pinkerton was unable to do most things by herself. I know that sounds unkind, but it was the melancholy truth. She'd been born rich, reared to be rich, and didn't know how to fix a meal or clean a house or shop for groceries. She could hire all of those things done for her and, therefore, her state of ignorance was probably larger than she was. And she was a large woman. "Of course, Mrs. Pinkerton." And I dutifully pulled my little notebook and pencil out of my handbag. By the way, the notebook was a cunning creation I'd purchased at Nelson's Five and Ten-Cent Store some months prior. It had a spiral binding and a little elastic band to hold a pencil. It came in handy for lots of things.

  I smiled at Mr. Pearlman. "Very well, Mr. Pearlman, will you please give me the names of the attorneys you believe will be able to handle Miss Kincaid's case? Cases?"

  "Harrumph. Yes. They are Mr. Cecil Grant, who is the criminal attorney operating at my own firm of Pearlman, Cohen and Pickstaff. We're located at 250 East Colorado Street, near Nash's Dry Goods and Department Store."

  "Isn't that the building that used to house Mr. Hastings' firm?" I asked. Mr. Hastings, a prominent Pasadena lawyer, and I had had dealings in the past. Not pleasant ones.

  Frowning, Mr. Pearlman said, "Yes, it is. However, our firm has nothing to do with Hastings and his cronies."

  "I'm glad to know that," said I with the utmost sincerity. I'd darned near died—and not of natural causes—in that building once.

  "Harrumph. Yes." Mr. Pearlman cleared his throat. "Another attorney I suggested Mrs. Pinkerton might retain is Mr. Hugh Merriman. His office is across the street from our firm, at 253 East Colorado."

  I dutifully wrote down Mr. Merriman's information, then glanced up from my notebook. "Of the two, do you think one is better than the other? Or, if not precisely better, then one with whom Mrs. Pinkerton could... deal with more effectively than the other?"

  Mr. Pearlman shut his eyes for about two seconds. "I don't know, but I do believe Mr. Kincaid—the younger Mr. Kincaid, I mean—might well accompany Mrs. Pinkerton when she attempts to deal with whichever man she chooses to retain."

  Made sense to me. Harold had common sense and tact, unlike his mother or sister. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure you're correct."

  "Dear Harold," said Mrs. Pinkerton as if she wished Harold were there right then. I did, too, come to think of it.

  "Will there be anything else, then?" asked Mr. Pearlman, picking up the briefcase on the floor near the sofa. "I don't believe I can be of any more assistance to you, Mrs. Pinkerton, although, of course, our firm is always happy to help you in any way we can."

  In other words, they'd be happy to help with non-criminal matters.

  After heaving a massive sigh, Mrs. Pinkerton said, "I don't think so. Thank you very much for coming today, Mr. Pearlman. I can't say you've offered me much comfort during these trying times, but I'm sure you did your best."

  "Indeed," said Mr. Pearlman, and with another harrumph and a stiff bow, he left the drawing room. What's more, he didn't even run.

&n
bsp; Mrs. P and I sat in the drawing room, gazing after him. Mrs. P sniffled another three or four times.

  "Thank you so much for helping me with Mr. Pearlman, Daisy."

  "I didn't do much except write down the names of two attorneys you might wish to consult," said I with becoming modesty. We spiritualist-mediums try hard to be modest. There's an art to it, believe me. "And I do believe you should get Harold to go with you when you interview potential criminal lawyers to handle Stacy's cases."

  "Yes. Dear Harold. He's always such a comfort."

  "He truly is. Um... Would you like to consult Rolly on the Ouija board?"

  Another sniffle or three. "Yes, please. I don't suppose Rolly will be able to help, but I would like to know what he thinks of these ghastly circumstances."

  I knew precisely what Rolly thought about Stacy Kincaid and her antics, because I was Rolly. Nevertheless, I drew up a small table in front of Mrs. Pinkerton, got the board from my bag, and placed it in front of Mrs. P. I made sure the letters and numbers faced her. By this time in my career, I could read upside-down as well as most folks could read upside-up.

  Mrs. P shut her eyes for a couple of seconds, as if trying to think of an appropriate question. Then she sighed once more and said, "Rolly, is there anything I can do for Stacy that might help her at this dreadful time?"

  That was easy. I had Rolly spell out, "Let her fend for herself."

  Mrs. P gasped. "No! She can't fend for herself! You know how easily led-astray, she is, Rolly."

  Rolly said, "Yes, we all know that. It's time she learned to behave."

  "Oh, dear." Mrs. Pinkerton gazed with me with a woebegone expression on her face. "I don't know what else to ask. Can you think of anything, dear?"

  "Not really. I think Rolly is... um... tired of Stacy's behaving badly. She does behave badly, you know."

  "Yes. I know. I should have been more strict with her when she was growing up."

  "It's no use blaming yourself in this crisis, Mrs. Pinkerton. Stacy might have benefitted from having her behind paddled when she was growing up, but she still knew what she and her gentleman friend were doing was wrong, and she did it anyway. That's nobody's fault but her own."