Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "You've got that in one guess," said Harold, snarling slightly. "And it had to rain today, didn't it?"

  "I'm sorry, Harold," I said, my voice oozing sympathy. I did feel for the poor guy. Being with his mother all day long would be a trial for anyone. Being with his mother on the errands planned for that particular day with the rain and wind trying to tear everything to bits would be brutal.

  "So sorry, dear," said Vi, smiling a bit at Harold, whom she adored almost as much as I did. "But your mother does need you so. Especially during these terrible days."

  "Yes," said Harold, trying to sound polite for Vi's sake. I knew that because I knew the symptoms of his false sincerity.

  "What your mother really needs is for someone to shoot Stacy through her black heart," I said, knowing as I did so that Vi would object.

  She did. "Daisy! What an awful thing to say!"

  With an evil grin, Harold said, "She's right, you know." He gave himself a little shake. "But tell me what time to meet you. And should I come to your house?"

  "I haven't telephoned Gladys yet. I'll do that as soon as I get home, and... Should I call here? Will you still be here?"

  "I expect so," said Harold, gloom writ large on his features and in his voice. "I expect Mother will have a frightful time getting herself ready for the day's visits. She's going to cry all over me, you know. I'll probably be wringing wet by the time I get home, and that's not even counting the rain."

  "I know." I gave him a sympathetic hug. "But I'll call you as soon as I get a time from Gladys. You might as well come to our house, and we can drive up to her place together." I bethought me of Harold's adorable, bright red, but alarmingly small Stutz-Bearcat. "Are you going to be driving your mother around in your car?"

  "Good God, no. I'm taking her Rolls."

  "Jackson's not going to drive you?"

  "No. I'm perfectly capable of driving that monster. Poor Jackson still has a little trouble with his leg when it rains or gets cold."

  "I'm sorry to hear that."

  Jackson, the Pinkertons' gatekeeper (as I've mentioned before) had been shot by a member of the Ku Klux Klan a year or so earlier. It grieved me to know he still suffered from his wound, and I wondered if Sam would be similarly afflicted in years to come when the weather turned cold or rainy. I hoped not.

  "Yeah. Jackson's a good soul. He didn't deserve what happened to him."

  "He certainly didn't," said my aunt, a staunch defender of the Jacksons of this world. As were we all, including my mother, who might not have any imagination but who held firm principles regarding right and wrong. I believe I've mentioned that before, probably too often. Sorry if I repeat myself.

  "Well, you'd better get going before Mother learns you're here. You don't look your usual well-groomed self this morning." Harold eyed me up and down with disfavor.

  "When I left home to take Ma and Vi to work, I didn't know I'd be yanked into anybody's house, Harold Kincaid," I told him with equal disfavor.

  "Don't get all het up, Daisy. Just joking with you."

  To prove it, he gave me a peck on the check.

  Vi laughed.

  I left, getting even more soaked running to the Chevrolet than I'd become leaving it. It was already a stupid morning, and I sincerely hoped the rest of the day went better.

  Chapter 14

  I had intended to telephone Gladys as soon as I got home from my journey to the Hotel Marengo and Mrs. Pinkerton's mansion. However, by the time I brought the Chevrolet to a stop at the foot of the steps to the side door, I was almost frozen solid, turning into an icicle, and shivering to beat the band. Oh, very well, it was probably fifty-five degrees or so, but that's cold for Pasadena, dang it. And, of course, I'd neglected to use the Chevrolet's heater. It didn't do much heating, but it helped when I remembered to turn it on.

  Therefore, after giving my dog and my father a quivery greeting, I headed straight to the bathroom and drew a bath. Not really. What I did was fill the tub with water and add some sweet-smelling bath salts Harold had given me as a present for something or other. In case you wondered, I've never much cared for the expression "draw a bath." It sounds silly to me. But that's neither here nor there, nor is it relevant to this particular story.

  Anyway, once I'd warmed up, washed my hair and brushed it out so that it would dry in its usual stylish bob, I got into another comfy housedress, donned my soft slippers, and joined Pa in the kitchen. He was playing a game of solitaire, and Spike was watching dolefully from his perch at Pa's feet. Any time anyone sits at the kitchen or the dining-room table, Spike expects them to eat, not play cards. I could sense he was terribly disappointed. Therefore, because I loved my dog and knew he wouldn't get further snacks until dinnertime, I went to the cupboard, took out an arrowroot biscuit and spoke to him in a conversational tone of voice.

  "Spike," said I, "what's one plus three?"

  Spike, recognizing this question as an indication of food to come, began barking. As if by magic, he stopped when he'd uttered his fourth yap.

  "Good boy!" I said, praising him to the skies and tossing him a bite of arrowroot biscuit.

  "That's amazing," said Pa. "I didn't see you move a single muscle."

  "I twitched my little finger," I admitted. Still, I thought Spike was a most intelligent hound to have caught on to the game as quickly as he had. In the beginning, of course, I'd had to make broad gestures and give him a treat instantly when he'd hit the correct number, but we'd been practicing. "I should show Spike's skill to Sam's nephew. Maybe that would impress the little toad."

  "Toad?" Pa laughed. "Sounds as if you don't care for the lad any more than Sam does."

  "I don't. He not only stole a silver candlestick from... Well, I'm not sure from where he stole it, but it was probably from our church. And not only that, but he's become involved with some crooks back home in New York City, and he's been driving his mother and father crazy. Oh! And Sam's sister's name is Renata. Isn't that a pretty name?"

  "Yes, it is. Italian, I presume."

  I shrugged. "I'm sure it is." I gazed down at my dog once more. Spike, alert and wagging, looked happy. "Spike," I said, "What's five minus two?"

  Three barks presaged the advent of another tiny arrowroot treat. Then I knelt and petted him, which he enjoyed, although I'm pretty sure he'd have preferred more arrowroot biscuits.

  "Sorry, Spike. If I let you get fat, Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Hanratty will lynch me."

  Creaking a bit—I really should begin a course of Swedish exercises—I rose to my feet and headed for the telephone on the kitchen wall.

  "What's up?" asked Pa. "You don't generally pick up the telephone receiver unless you have to."

  I laughed. "I need to call Gladys Fellowes and set up a date for Harold and me to meet with her and tour her home on the morrow. Harold has to visit attorneys with his mother today."

  "Poor guy," said Pa, who meant it. He hadn't met Mrs. Pinkerton more than once or twice, but he knew all about her from several sources, and he liked Harold a lot.

  So I telephoned the Fellowes's residence. A woman other than Gladys answered, and I assumed she was the "morning help" Gladys had told me about. It would be nice to have someone else clean the house for one, but I cleaned ours because I had the most time of all the women therein. Not that men aren't just as capable as women at... Never mind. I'm not intending to start a revolution or anything.

  After Gladys came to the 'phone, I said, "Good morning, Gladys. Harold Kincaid and I would like to stop by your house tomorrow so he can see where to set things up for your party. He'll also be able to assist you in ordering the food from the Castleton. In fact, you can probably leave all the ordering of foodstuffs to him, because he does this sort of thing all the time."

  "Thank you, Daisy. I truly appreciate this. Are you're sure you won't mind playing a fortune-teller?"

  "I do it all the time."

  Gladys chuckled, which sounded rather odd coming from her. "I suppose that's so. This is so kind of you."


  "Happy to help," I told her, meaning it. Heck, I had a valid reason to snoop into a murder case, thanks to Gladys! What could be better than that? Well, other than there having been no murder to begin with, but it was too late for that. "Have you drawn up a list of people you want to invite?"

  "Um... Yes. I think so. Why don't I wait until you and Mr. Kincaid get here, and you can go over it with me? I don't want to leave anyone out who should be there."

  "Good idea."

  "Oh, and Daisy, would you be willing to visit Cal Tech with me today? There's a rather nice restaurant there, and I could introduce you to the people who are working with Dr. Fellowes. Just so you'll... well, see them. If you know what I mean. I'm only assuming one of them killed Mary, but..." Her voice trailed off.

  "I agree with you."

  Gladys sighed. "I can't believe I actually know a murderer."

  "It is difficult to comprehend, especially when they're all smart and work at or with the California Institute of Technology. I mean, you don't generally think of people like that as coldblooded murderers."

  "Yes, it is." A significant pause ensued. Then Gladys said, "Would you be able to visit with me today?"

  She wanted me to... What is it they say? Scope out the suspects? I think that's it. "Um... Sure, Gladys. I'll be happy to do that. Um... It's raining outside, you know."

  "I know." She sighed heavily. "But I do so want you to get a head start on... On this thing." I had the feeling Gladys finally recalled we Gumms and the one remaining Majesty were on a party line.

  "Yes, I see. Certainly. I'll be happy to join you." Which meant I'd have to get all dressed up and go out in the rain again, but needs must, I reckon.

  "Sounds wonderful. Get here whenever you can. We might as well take your machine, since it'll already be warm. That is, if you don't mind. Sorry. I'm not used to being polite. That sounds awful, doesn't it?"

  "Only to someone who doesn't know you," I said with a chuckle of my own. "I'll be there as soon as I can. But what time do you want Harold and me to join you tomorrow? I have to telephone Harold and let him know."

  "Oh, yes. Hmmm. How about ten-thirty? I believe Homer will be home then, and perhaps you can renew acquaintanceship with each other."

  "Perhaps we can," said I, being gracious. From what I recalled of Dr. Homer Fellowes, he'd probably blink several times at Harold and me and wonder what we were doing cluttering up his house. But what the heck. "Very well. I'll be at your house as soon as I can be today, and we can drive to the university."

  "Thank you so much, Daisy."

  "You're more than welcome."

  Drat.

  However, rain or no rain, I had to do my duty. I telephoned Mrs. Pinkerton's house. Harold and his mother had already gone on their search for an attorney to represent Stacy Kincaid in her cases—there was no defense for her, as far as I was concerned. She'd willingly participated in ghastly crimes, and the fact she was an idiot was no excuse.

  Pardon me. I get rather "het up," as Aunt Vi occasionally says, when I think about the utterly worthless waste of space and oxygen Stacy Kincaid constitutes.

  I asked Featherstone, who had answered the telephone in his customary formal, butlerish manner, to have Harold telephone me sometime that afternoon. He took the message. I thanked him, he thanked me for some reason beyond my comprehension, and we both hung up our receivers. I turned around.

  Pa stood there, holding the newspaper, and gazing at me with concern. "Going out into the weather again?"

  I told him about Gladys's plans for my day. Well, I didn't tell him I'd be prying into a murder case, but I did tell him she wanted to take me to lunch for helping her with her party. That almost wasn't even much of a fib.

  "She might have chosen a more pleasant day," muttered Pa.

  "You don't know Gladys. She doesn't think about things like weather and so forth. She's a brain."

  "Brains don't understand weather?"

  "Yes, but... Oh, never mind. It's too complicated. Just know that Gladys was a whiz at algebra and even went on to take geometry and calculus and trigonometry and adored them, and you can kind of get a picture of her. She probably even understood chemistry."

  "Good Lord," said Pa.

  "I couldn't have said it better myself."

  So Spike and I paid another visit to my bedroom, where I flung open the overstuffed closet and gazed at the bounty contained therein. After pondering for a few minutes and recalling the hideously chilly weather, I decided to don one of my more recent creations: a sage-green wool velour long-sleeved suit with a low belt of the same fabric and some charming embroidery on the thigh-length coat. I'd done the embroidery myself, of course. The skirt was ankle-length, and the whole thing was lined with satin de chine, which actually cost more than the wool velour, because it wasn't on sale at the same time the wool was. But when I wear wool, I really need to line it or I'll itch like crazy. I'd make a lousy sheep. The entire ensemble went beautifully with my golden engagement ring with the emerald set into it.

  I decided to wear my black cloche hat and black low-heeled shoes with a cross strap. The shoes were elderly, so if they got ruined in one or several puddles, they wouldn't be that great a loss. Anyway, if the shoes died, they'd have gone to a valiant death, helping in the search for a vicious murderer.

  Of course, I could have worn my galoshes, but that would have spoiled the effect of my attempt at spiritualistic allure. I always had to keep my job in mind when I went out in public. If you could call the California Institute of Technology public. If all the employees thereof were as uninterested in human interactions as Dr. Homer Fellowes, I could probably arrive in my nightie and bathrobe and no one would notice. On the other hand, that's a gross generalization based upon my knowledge of one professor and his wife. Neither Gladys nor her husband were social butterflies, as I've said often enough already.

  But enough of that. By the time I got myself all "dolled up," as Pa said, the rain had slackened. I was happy about that. Even if my shoes didn't get ruined in puddles, I wasn't keen on getting drenched again. By the time I drove up to the Fellowes's residence on Santa Rosa Avenue, the interior of the car was lukewarm instead of icy.

  Gladys was waiting for me, and she unfurled her umbrella and scampered as quickly as an extremely pregnant woman can scamper. It was more like a quick waddle really.

  Opening the passenger's door, she sort of galumphed into the Chevrolet, shook out her umbrella, furled it, and set it gingerly upright on the floor next to her. "Glad it's not pouring like it was earlier this morning," said she.

  "Me, too," I agreed. "I had to go out in the weather this morning and got soaked and frozen. I forgot to turn on the heater in the car."

  "Is it on now?"

  "Yes. It's not awfully efficient, but it's better than nothing."

  "Yes. Homer says automobile manufacturers are making great strides when it comes to comfort and conveniences in machines. He follows all of that stuff."

  "That's nice to know. Do you share his interest in automobile mechanics?"

  "Good Lord, no. I prefer to study music."

  "Really? I like to sing in our church choir, and I play the piano. Do you play an instrument?"

  "Yes. I took piano lessons when I was a girl, and now I'm learning to play the harp."

  "The harp! Mercy, the harp has always struck me as an instrument that would be difficult to play."

  "No more than any other, although I expect that if my hands become rheumatic like those of my mother's, I probably won't be able to play it into my old age."

  "That's a melancholy thought," said I. Naturally, I instantly began thinking about my own fingers and if they'd be able to span out and hit the piano keys when I was elderly.

  Gladys shrugged. "Getting old is a fact of life, if you're lucky." She shot me a quick glance. "I'm sorry, Daisy. Was that a callous comment? I forgot for a moment about your late husband."

  "It's all right," I said with a sigh. "Billy's been gone for a coup
le of years now. I still miss him, but life for the rest of us goes on, even though... Well, sometimes right after his demise, I wished it wouldn't. But now I'm about as happy as anyone else on this sorry planet, I imagine."

  "Yes. One does adjust, doesn't one?" She smiled, an unusual expression for her. "Getting back to my mother's rheumatic fingers, she keeps telling me she's 'losing her grip.'"

  "That's funny!" I said and actually laughed. Gladys wasn't known for cracking jokes.

  "Mother enjoys a good sense of humor." She frowned. "I didn't seem to inherit that characteristic from her, although both she and Father are excellent mathematicians. They say music and mathematic abilities go together."

  "I've heard that before. Not in me, they didn't. I love music, but I definitely wasn't a whiz at math."

  "No, but you have lots of other skills many of us lack." She sounded mournful, and I shot her a quick glance out of the corner of my eye.

  "What on earth kinds of skills do I possess that you don't?" I demanded. I mean, I knew she was socially awkward, but I couldn't think of any other skill I might have that would mean anything to Gladys.

  With a sigh, Gladys said, "Oh, you're so friendly and meet and talk to people so easily. I get nervous and clam up around strangers. And you dress so beautifully, and your hair is so nice, and... I don't know. I just wish I were more like you, I guess."

  Good heavens. That was a surprise to me, and a rather welcome one. "Thank you, I guess. I can't imagine anyone wanting to be like me, but I'm flattered."

  "It's not empty flattery," said Gladys, being her usual literal self. "I mean it sincerely."

  "I know. That makes it all the nicer. Um... I know we're going to the university, but is there an entrance somewhere I should look for?" We were at that moment driving south on Lake Avenue. Tracks for the red cars, our trolley system, ran up and down Lake, and the tires on my vehicle slid a bit on them. Stupid rain. Not really. We needed it. But I'd have appreciated the rain in my nice warm house more than I did in my lukewarm Chevrolet on a slippery street.