by Alice Duncan
Mrs. Pinkerton's face crumpled like piece of balled-up paper. "Oooooooh!"
"She did something particularly bad this time, you know," said I, retaining my soothing, gentle voice, but speaking the truth as I knew it. I don't often tell my clients the truth, but I figured Mrs. P needed to understand that murdering people and human trafficking were activities in which no morally upright person would participate. And Stacy had participated in both of those activities. Willingly. "I'm sorry to speak so bluntly, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"No, no. You only told me the truth. Stacy is such a disappointment."
"She probably got her bad qualities from her father," I said in mitigation of Stacy's many faults. Her father was at present residing in San Quentin Prison for embezzling from the bank he ran. A truly bad man.
"That may well be true," said Mrs. P a little, but not much, more brightly.
"I'm sure it is." Boy, was I a staunch friend or what?
Mrs. Pinkerton patted my hand. "Thank you, Daisy. You're always such a comfort. Can you read the cards for me? Maybe they'll tell me what's best for me to do."
Her lawyer, Harold, Rolly and I had already told her what was best for her to do, but Mrs. Pinkerton preferred to believe the tarot cards. I swear...
"I'll be happy to," said, I, reaching into my bag for my pack of shabby tarot cards. I simply had to get a new deck, but I wasn't sure where to do that. Probably Harold would know. Or even Sam, although Sam was less likely to impart the information than was Harold. Sam didn't approve of what I did for a living. Nuts to him.
So I shuffled the cards and spread out a Celtic Cross pattern. I was surprised to see not awfully many swords in the layout. Swords are the iffiest cards in the deck, and generally mean trouble. Mind you, the top cards in the spread were the three of swords, which means a time of weeping and deep feelings; and the page of disks (present environment), signifying that Mrs. Pinkerton was soon going to be immersed in a whole bunch of written communications. Heck, I didn't need a tarot card to tell me Mrs. Pinkerton was suffering through a bad time and was facing a mountain or two of paperwork.
The rest of the layout contained a four of cups (distraction), the fool (an element of surprise), the eight of wands (urgency), another couple of pentacles, another couple of cups, the empress, and by gum, it ended on a truly uplifting card. The position of this last card signifies the outcome of any given situation, and this one boded well. The ace of pentacles, which signifies a rosy result after a lot of hard work. I wasn't sure about the hard work—we were talking about Mrs. Pinkerton, after all—but I was more than happy to tell her this card was a promising one.
"Ahhh," she said with a sigh. "I'm so glad."
"So am I. You deserve some good news after everything that's happened lately."
"Um... Well..." Mrs. P paused, then said, "Never mind."
"What," I asked, pretty sure what she was going to say.
I was right.
"You can't tell me what's in store for Stacy, can you?"
"No, I can't. The cards only work for the person whose life they concern. I have a feeling Stacy is going to have to serve her time in jail or the California Women's Penitentiary, but you know, Mrs. Pinkerton, she brought this upon herself."
"You don't think that awful man led her astray?"
"That awful man" was Mr. Percival Petrie, with whom Stacy had run away, and whose aunt had shot Sam in the leg. Petrie had killed himself by tripping over my prone body—prone because Stacy had decked me—and falling down some concrete basement steps, which was a better fate than he deserved. If he'd received the punishment he deserved, he'd have had to suffer a lot more before he died. Not that I'm an old meanie or anything, but that's true. If you don't believe me, just ask Regina Petrie.
"No, I don't," I answered firmly. "Stacy was ripe for mischief, and I have a feeling she'd have found it with or without Mr. Petrie. With any luck, Captain Buckingham will visit with her and help her to straighten herself out." Johnny Buckingham, husband of my dear friend Flossie, worked as a captain in the Salvation Army, and he's never given up on anyone yet that I know about.
"He's a good man," said Mrs. Pinkerton, surprising me. She'd been aghast when Stacy first joined the Salvation Army, but that was only because she was a snob. If Stacy had been saved by Father Frederick, a very kind Episcopal priest of Mrs. P's acquaintance, Mrs. P would have been delighted. As it was, at least she admitted to Johnny's goodness.
"He's a very good man, and I'm sure he hasn't given up on Stacy." Because sometimes I can't help myself, I added, "Even if she doesn't deserve his faith in her."
Ouch. I saw Mrs. Pinkerton wince and was almost, but not quite, sorry I'd voiced such a brutal truth.
She cast her gaze to her hands, which still squeezed her damp hankie. "You're right. She doesn't deserve his help. He did his best."
"He'll try to help her now, too. Johnny doesn't give up on people."
"A fine quality. I'm about ready to wash my hands of Stacy."
Golly! Not that I blamed her.
After handing me a wad of money, Mrs. Pinkerton sent me on my way with many compliments and her very best wishes. And this, in spite of my having spoken my mind about her abysmal daughter. Wonders, as people say, will never cease, I reckon.
Chapter 9
I walked down the hall to the kitchen in order to say hello to my wonderful aunt, who was, as usual, preparing dinner for the Pinkertons (and us). She was up to her elbows in flour and seemed pleased to see me.
"I hope you were of some little help to Mrs. Pinkerton, poor thing. She's been so upset."
"And rightly so," said I, not feeing a whole lot of compassion for Mrs. P or her idiot daughter. I take that back. I did feel sorry for Stacy's mother. Stacy could rot in hell for all I cared, and she probably would one day.
"Yes, I know you're right," said Vi, "but the poor thing really does try, you know."
"I know. I only wish she had more practical sense sometimes. Poor Mr. Pearlman seemed almost beside himself when I arrived. He'd been trying to explain to Mrs. Pinkerton that he couldn't handle Stacy's case, and she didn't want to hear that."
"He can't?"
"No." I plopped myself down on a kitchen chair. "He doesn't handle criminal cases. However, another attorney in his firm does, so Mrs. Pinkerton is planning to take Harold with her to interview him. I'm sure Harold will do most of the interviewing."
"I'm sure you're right." Vi dumped out her bowl of whatever-it-was onto a floured surface and began rolling out the whatever-it-was.
"Making bread?" I asked, interested. Vi made great bread. Vi made great everything.
"I'm rolling out dough, Daisy. Bread doesn't need to be rolled out. This is crust for a pie," said she. "Peach pie."
"Oh, I love peach pie! I didn't think peaches were in season."
Vi gave me a look. "Why do you think I make you help me preserve so much fruit during the summertime and fall?"
"Oh, yes. I forgot all about preserved peaches."
"That's difficult to imagine," said Vi. "You certainly complain enough when you're helping me." She smiled, though, so I knew she didn't mean it. Anyhow, I really didn't complain when I helped her preserve fruits and vegetables, because I knew we needed them.
"Whatever kinds of peaches they are, the pie sounds delicious."
"I'm making one for us, too," she said, bless her. "Do you want lunch, Daisy?"
Did I? Suddenly I recalled Sam's fedora, at present residing in the front seat of our Chevrolet. "Thanks, Vi, but I'd better not. Sam left his hat at our house last night, and I'm going to take it to him."
She gave me a knowing smile. "Hoping your man will take you out to lunch, Daisy?"
"Not really. The poor guy still has a hard time walking. I just thought I'd pop by with his hat and then go home and have a roasted pork sandwich." The thought of that sandwich made my mouth water.
"That's sweet of you, dear. Tell Sam he'll love dinner tonight. I'm fixing a hearty beef stew with biscuits
. And, of course, the pie."
"Yum. Thanks, Vi. You're the best." I rose, kissed her on the cheek, and scrammed out of the house, now hungry for my sandwich. But Sam came first. I probably ought to remember that more often.
I aimed the Chevrolet west on Orange Grove, turned south on Fair Oaks Avenue, and headed to the Pasadena Police Department, which sat behind our city hall on the corner of Fair Oaks and Walnut Street. I parked and walked into the building, twirling Sam's hat on my finger. The officer at the front desk was one I'd seen before, although I'd never formally met him. Evidently, he knew who I was because he grinned impishly and said, "I'll just buzz Detective Rotondo."
"Thank you," I said, striving for dignity. It wasn't easy, what with nearly everyone in the entire Pasadena Police Department knowing Sam and I were engaged.
After hanging up and making a face, at the 'phone, the uniformed officer said, "I'll unlock the door, and you can go right on up. You know where his office is, right?"
"Right."
The officer, named Tilden according to his badge, rose and unlocked the door for me. I took it from there, climbing the stairs to the second floor and marching into Sam's office. To my surprise, I saw a swarthy fellow—actually, he looked quite young; maybe in his teens—seated in the chair beside Sam's. The boy didn't look happy. His appearance was unprepossessing. He'd oiled his hair, which evidently wanted to curl, until it shone and sat on his head like a helmet. He looked, in fact, rather like young men I'd seen in photos of modern-day criminals as they attempted to appear normal. I hope he hadn't been arrested for doing anything stupid. Oddly enough, he resembled Sam to a slight degree.
"Good morning, Detective Rotondo," said I, knowing I should address him thus in his place of work.
"Not so far," he said.
I eyed the young man seated next to him. To my astonishment, Sam gave him a clout upside the head, and the young man said, "Hey!"
"Stand up, Frank," growled Sam. "You're in the presence of a lady."
Frank, whoever he was, glowered at Sam and stood. Looking sulky, he nodded at me. I smiled and nodded back, mainly because I didn't know what else to do.
"Mrs. Majesty"—Sam was being formal, too—"this is Frank. Frank Pagano. Frank, Mrs. Majesty is my fiancée."
Frank seemed startled to hear this news.
"How do you do, Frank?" I asked politely. Because I really did try to act like a lady—most of the time—I held out my hand for Frank to shake. "It's nice to meet you."
After looking at my hand as if he'd never seen one before, Frank shook it. His grip was feeble. "Pleased to meetcha," said he in an extreme back-east accent.
"Frank is my nephew," said Sam as if he didn't want to admit it.
Surprised, I nevertheless rose to the occasion. "Oh! How nice!" I said. "My family and I are quite fond of your uncle. Welcome to Pasadena, Frank."
Frank glanced at his uncle, who was scowling blackly at him, then said, "Thank you, ma'am." He didn't sound as if he meant it. After a sharp gesture from his uncle, Frank sat again.
"Um, Detective Rotondo, you left your hat at our house last night and I brought it to you." I placed said hat on his desk, which was cluttered with papers.
"Thank you." He didn't sound as if he meant it, either.
"Um, will you be bringing your nephew to dinner tonight, Detective Rotondo? My aunt is fixing a hearty beef stew with biscuits. With a peach pie for dessert, made with peaches we preserved earlier in the year." It's odd, but I never forget food, whether it's been eaten or not. Heck, I could probably tell you what I ate on the last Saturday of 1923.
"What's beef stew?" asked Frank in an undertone. "It ain't Italian, is it?"
Another clout and another "Hey" from Frank.
"The word is 'isn't,' not 'ain't.' And it's past time you learned the whole world isn't Italian, Francis Pagano," said Sam in as stern a voice as I'd ever heard him use on anyone other than me. Sam glanced up at me. "I don't know that I can make it tonight. My schedule has been... interrupted." He gave his nephew another ferocious glower.
"Mr. Pagano will be welcome, too. I'm sure we'll all be happy to meet one of your relations."
"I doubt that," muttered Sam.
Frank said, "Jeez."
"Well, think about it. Vi adores feeding people, and she loves meeting new people. New to her, I mean."
"Huh. Not sure anyone is going to enjoy meeting this guy."
"Hey," said Frank.
"Be quiet," Sam ordered. "I'll call you. Is that all right, Mrs. Majesty?"
"Yes. Thank you." I smiled at Frank, who looked at me blankly. "I hope you can make it to dinner, Mr. Pagano."
"Uh... Thanks."
"See you tonight, I hope," I said to Sam and turned to walk to the door.
As I reached the door, I heard Frank whisper, "But Uncle Sammy, she ain't Italian."
I heard another clout and another "Hey," and then I heard Sam say, "It's Detective Rotondo to you, you sorry hoodlum. And again, the whole world isn't Italian. Thank God."
I left on that note, wondering why Frank was there and why Sam seemed so peeved about it. On the other hand, Sam was grouchy most of the time these days, what with his lame leg and all. Frank's sudden presence in Pasadena was interesting, at all odds.
I drove home after that and was greeted by an ecstatic Spike. My father wasn't there, so I figured he was out and about, chatting with one of his thousand or so friends. My father is an extremely sociable individual, and he had friends all over town.
I made myself a roasted-pork sandwich, cut an apple into quarters, and had myself a lovely, lonely lunch. Spike wanted to join me, but I couldn't risk him becoming fat because excess weight is bad for dachshunds. Well, I suppose it's bad for anyone, but it's especially bad for dachshunds because of their long backs and short legs. They truly need another pair of legs in the middles of their torsos, although they would look extremely odd. It would help them carry those long backs, though.
I glanced down at my beloved pooch. "Sorry, Spike. I'll give you a bite after I finish eating."
Pa came home as I was chomping the last of my apple.
We smiled at each other. "Been out gallivanting with your friends, Pa?"
"You betcha. Went down to Hull's Motor Works and talked with Herb and Wilson. We mainly talked politics. Herb likes Coolidge and Wilson is for Davis."
Charmed, I said, "Oh, my! I'll be able to vote this year, won't I? I've never voted in an election before. Which one do you prefer, Pa?"
"I don't like any politicians as a rule. I'll probably vote for Coolidge, because he's a Republican. Republicans used to be reformers, but I don't know if they still are. Harding turned out to be an out-and-out crook. But remember Theodore Roosevelt? He cleaned up New York City some—according to Sam, nobody can ever clean up New York City entirely—and established rules for food processing companies so they can't poison us as easily as they used to be able to do."
Pa wasn't a cynical sort, but he generally knew what was going on in the realm of United States politics. And he was right about Roosevelt who was, so far in my relatively short life, my favorite president. He was also a Republican, although so had been Harding, and he, as Pa just said, had turned out to be as crooked as a dog's hind leg. I'd heard Sam grumble about "Tammany Hall," whatever that was, as running things in New York and knew he disapproved of whatever Tammany Hall was. All I knew was that it was a Democratic institution. The Democratic Party, I mean, not the philosophy of a democratic society. According to Sam, all Tammany Hall cared about was graft and getting rich, which sounded a lot like the rest of the world in its seamier moments.
"Want a sandwich, Pa?" I asked, not caring to discuss politics, which I found a frustrating topic, mostly because people on both sides seemed so stuck in their own opinions, no one could persuade them out of whatever they wanted to believe in. Sort of like religion, if you know what I mean. I don't mean to be sacrilegious, but if you think about it, I believe you'll think so, too. And I was excited about
being able to vote for the first time in my life.
"No, thanks. I had some soup and a sandwich at Hull's. Herb's wife brought them."
"Was it as good as one of Vi's pork sandwiches."
"Nothing is as good as anything your aunt cooks," said Pa.
We all loved and admired Vi. What's more, as I've already mentioned, since neither Ma nor I could cook worth pig slop—if you'll pardon the crudity—we'd probably all have died of ptomaine poisoning by this time if not for her.
"All right. I'm going to take Spike for a walk and then I think I'll read for a bit. Choir practice is tonight, so maybe I'll rest for a while, too. Vi's serving beef stew and biscuits for dinner. With a peach pie for dessert."
"Yum," said Pa.
"Want to go with Spike and me?"
"Sure."
I tossed a little piece of roasted pork to my hound. Spike appreciated it greatly. He appreciated even more when, after washing up my few lunch dishes, I got the leash from the service porch hook and showed it to him.
Pa, Spike and I walked around the neighborhood. Leaves were beginning to fall in places, although we in sunny Pasadena didn't get real fall weather like folks got back east. Both of my parents and Vi came from Massachusetts, where, I understand, the fall leaves are gorgeous. But I didn't mind. I adored my city, and what we lacked in fall colors, we more than made up for on New Year's Day, when we celebrated every new year with a parade featuring lots of floats covered with flowers. Our relations in Massachusetts envied us our weather. Roses in January? Unheard of in other places.
I love Pasadena.
Chapter 10
When we returned home, the stupid telephone was ringing. I sighed, handed Pa Spike's leash, and went into the kitchen to answer the instrument.
"Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"You called?"
