by Alice Duncan
"A costume? For me? But... I haven't been invited to any party, Daisy."
"You will be," I said. I'd make sure of it. I aimed to talk to Robert Browning myself and demand he invite Regina to Gladys's party. Whether he wanted to or not. I would make sure all the suspects attended that party, dang it. Besides that, I had great hopes for a union between Robert and Regina.
As Ma and Vi went to bed and Pa sat in the living room reading The Amazing Adventures of Letitia Carberry, chuckling from time to time, I trod to the kitchen and began washing up the dinner dishes. As I was drying the very last cooking utensil, the stupid telephone rang.
"Good Lord," I muttered as I went to the telephone and lifted the receiver, hoping the caller wasn't Mrs. Pinkerton in a crisis. I'd barely uttered, "Gumm-Majesty—" when Sam's voice broke in.
"In case you wondered what happened to the little Chinese figurine you used to have in the china cabinet in the dining room, it's here now. I just plucked it from Frank's pocket."
"The little thief!" I cried, truly offended. Shucks, the kid had broken bread with us and then he'd stolen from us? He really was a lout. "I bought that in Chinatown a couple of years ago. It's a little statue of Buddha, and I like it!"
"That's why we're bringing it back to you tomorrow."
"Thanks. Be sure to call first, because I'll be spending a lot of the day with Harold and Gladys Fellowes."
"Will do. And Frank will apologize most sincerely. He said it must have fallen into his pocket."
"Right."
"I can't wait to get rid of him," said Sam.
I heard a faint, "Hey" in the background, but Frank was firmly in my black books by that time.
"Tell himself to 'hey' himself, and stop taking things that belong to other people. He's a purloining pig. You can tell him that, too, if you want to."
Sam must have turned his head because I heard him say, "You're a purloining pig, Frank Pagano, and don't ever forget it. Mrs. Majesty is the kindest person I know, and if she calls you a pig, you're a pig."
"What's that other word mean?" I heard in the distance from Sam's house.
"A damned thief," his uncle explained.
"Hey," said Frank.
Then I thought of something. "I think psychologists and alienists have a word for people who steal things compulsively, as if they can't help themselves. What's that word? Begins with a K, I think."
"Kleptomaniac," said Sam.
"That's it! Maybe he's a kleptomaniac."
"The hell with that. He's a thieving thug, is what he is."
I heard a faint "hey" from Sam's house.
I couldn't help it; I laughed. "Don't tell him I laughed. Tell him I'm outraged, will you?"
"You bet I will," said Sam. "Good-night."
"Good-night. Love you, Sam."
"You, too," said Sam, who probably didn't want to use the L word in front of Frank.
Boy, Frank was sure a handful. I hoped Sam could rid himself of the lad soon, although I felt sorry for Renata. Sam was right. She didn't deserve a weasel like Frank.
Oh, well. One can't choose one's relatives.
Chapter 20
The following day, Saturday, Harold arrived on our doorstep promptly at ten a.m. Pa and I had just taken Spike for a walk around the neighborhood, so I hadn't neglected any particular duties and was feeling quite care-free as Harold and I waltzed out to his gorgeous red Stutz Bearcat.
"I love this car," said I, admiring the Bearcat's shiny surface. It darned near glowed in the October sunshine.
"I do, too. Roy gave it a bath and a wax job this morning before I drove over here."
Have I mentioned that Roy Castillo was Harold's house boy? Well, he was. He did pretty much everything for Harold and Del, from cooking to car-washing. He was a nice young man, too. It was a shame Sam's rotten nephew couldn't be more like Roy.
The drive to Gladys's house was pleasant, although Harold had the top up on his machine because, while the sun shone, the weather remained chilly. "I like Gladys's neighborhood. It's lined with those lovely deodar trees, and it's especially pretty at Christmas, when they hang lights on the trees."
"I have a friend who's building a house on Santa Rosa," said Harold. "Well, you know him too. Fred Greenlaw."
"Dr. Greenlaw! I really liked him. He was so good to tend to Mrs. Bannister on the sly as he did."
"Good thing nobody decided to press charges against us for sheltering a criminal."
Indignant, I said, "She wasn't a criminal! She was a victim of her brute of a husband!"
Harold slipped me a wicked grin. "I know it. I just like to rile you sometimes."
I smacked Harold's arm and he pretended the auto went out of control and zigzagged on the street. Good thing there weren't any other machines on the road. "Stop that!"
"Just funning you," said Harold.
A trifle peeved, I said, "I swear. Sam does the same thing. You two have a lot in common, whether you like it or not."
"Saints preserve us," said Harold in a God-be-with-me voice.
"Nerts."
We arrived at the Fellowes' home. Harold pulled into their driveway.
"Nice place," he said.
"I think so, too. Where's Dr. Greenlaw's house going to be?"
"Up the street a little, near Mendocino."
"This is such a pretty neighborhood."
"Yes, yes, but let's get this thing started. I have a lot of planning and ordering to do, depending on when you want to have this party of yours."
"I'm hoping Gladys will want to do it on the eighteenth."
"That's next Saturday, Daisy. I'm good, but I'm not magic."
"Neither am I," I said, grinning.
"My mother thinks you are. She told me to beg you to call her after we're through here today."
"Oh, joy. Your poor mother."
"Anyhow, I suppose the eighteenth will be all right. The Castleton always leaps to obey any requests from Pasadena's elite, you know."
"Yes," I said, not being among Pasadena's elite, but knowing a whole bunch of them, "I know."
We'd reached Gladys's home, so Harold swung his Bearcat over the little bridge—the ditches along some of those streets were really deep—and we got out. When we reached the front door I rang the bell, which chimed delightfully, just as Harold's did. We Gumms and Majestys, as I've mentioned, didn't have chiming doorbells. No sooner had the chimes begun than Gladys opened the door.
"You're here!" she said. "I'm so glad! This whole thing is becoming a nightmare."
We stepped into the front hall and I asked, "What whole thing?" I'd never seen Gladys perturbed before. Ever since I'd met her in the first grade, she'd seemed the image of brilliant, if distant, serenity. I guess a murder in one's life upsets things. Well, for heaven's sake, I knew it did.
"The project is teetering on the edge, Daisy, and Dr. Fellowes is so worried about it! You have to find the killer! The police keep interrogating Robert Browning, and I know he didn't kill poor Mary."
"Oh, dear. I don't think he did it, either."
"Robert Browning? The name sounds familiar," said Harold.
"This one isn't the poet," I told him. "He's a scientist, and he's one of the top managers at the Underhill Chemical Plant."
"Oh, him," said Harold. He tilted his head to a judicial angle. "He'd never kill anyone. He's a nice fellow."
"We know that!" said Gladys, actually going so far as to pull her hair a little. "But the police are too stupid to believe it!" She gave me a guilty look. "Sorry, Daisy."
"That's all right. Sam's not in charge of the case. You can call them all kinds of names if you want to, but don't smirch Detective Rotondo. He's not stupid. At all."
"If you say so."
Gladys didn't sound convinced, which peeved me a little. Granted, neither Sam nor I were mathematical geniuses or anything; still, we each had a few little gray cells. In fact, I hadn't met too many truly stupid policemen. I'm sure there were some—actually, I knew it, because six of them
had been suspended from the police department for joining the KKK—but Sam didn't associate with them and, therefore, neither did I. Come to think of it, Sam didn't socialize with very many of his colleagues. Although I'd never much thought about that aspect of Sam Rotondo, just then I wondered why that was. I'd have to ask him.
Harold had been glancing around at his surroundings, seemingly not interested in Gladys's husband's project or much of anything else except the party. "Daisy said you'd like to host this shindig next Saturday night, the eighteenth."
Gladys gasped. "The eighteenth! Oh, no, we can't possibly have it then. That's the date of a faculty dinner, and Homer and I must attend. It's mandatory."
"Oh," I said, a little disappointed. I figured the sooner we held the party, the sooner Sam could arrest someone. Someone other than Robert Browning. "Would the following Saturday be better?"
"Yes," said Gladys. "Or Friday night, the twenty-fourth."
How she kept the days of the particular dates in her head without glancing at a calendar mystified me. Just one more aspect of Gladys's braininess, I suppose.
"Oh, but wait!" said Gladys, clapping a hand to her cheek. "I believe I have those dates confused. Let me look." She took off, I guess to find a calendar, and trotted back almost instantly. Perhaps trotted isn't the correct word. Thumped was more like it. "The eighteenth will be fine. The faculty dinner is on the twenty-fifth."
All right, I take back what I said about Gladys and dates.
"That would be better for me," said Harold. "The sooner, the better. I'll have to do a good deal of planning, although this appears to be a fine place for a party. Spacious. Lots of room for people to dance—"
"Dance?" Gladys cut in. "Do we have to dance?"
"You don't have to, but I think folks would appreciate having music and dancing. If you don't want to have dancing, you don't have to."
"I think dancing would be fun," I said, because I loved to dance. Hmm. I'd never asked Sam, but if he liked to dance, too, that would be nice.
"Well..." Gladys let her sentence die out. "I guess people at Cal Tech like to dance as much as anyone else."
"Probably," I said, although I couldn't imagine a bunch of brilliant scientists romping and dancing the foxtrot. Or that new dance, the Charleston, which I thought was delightful.
"I guess we can have dancing then," said Gladys, sounding monumentally unsure.
"You can decide on the dancing later. But having the party next Saturday will be good for me. I have a lot of work to do for the studio, and my mother has needed me more than usual lately." Harold glanced at Gladys. "You do plan to let the Castleton provide the viands, right?"
With a peek at me, Gladys sounded a little uncertain when she said, "Uh... Yes, I think that's what Daisy and I decided. Isn't it, Daisy?"
"Absolutely. Neither you nor I can cook a lick, and the Castleton has great stuff. Right, Harold?"
"Right. And what the Castleton can't provide, Roy can."
"Who's Roy?" asked Gladys.
"My house boy. He'll help serve, too. He's a very helpful fellow, Roy."
"He studied cookery with my aunt, who's the best cook in the world," I added.
"Oh," said Gladys. "That's nice. Maybe I can get your aunt to teach me to cook."
"I don't know. She tried to teach me, but it didn't work. I still can't cook worth beans."
"Daisy has other talents," said the loyal Harold.
"Yes, I know." Gladys sighed. "But let me take you around to look at the rest of the house. You'll probably need to see the kitchen, right?"
"Right," said Harold.
So Gladys took Harold and me on a tour of her lovely new home. I was favorably impressed all over again, and almost wished I could afford to build my family a pretty new house on Santa Rosa Avenue. On the other hand, it might get a little crowded around Christmas time, what with people driving up and down the street all night.
During our tour of the Fellowes's place, Harold took extensive notes, beginning with the Fellowes's telephone number. We ended our sojourn in the living room. Gladys sighed as she all but collapsed into one of her pretty burgundy-colored armchairs. Harold and I shared the sofa.
"This will be a snap to put together," said Harold. "Between the Castleton and Roy, we can fix your guests up with a fine assortment of canapés and non-alcoholic drinks." He peered closely at Gladys. "You do want non-alcoholic drinks, right?"
Gladys appeared shocked by the question. "Of course! Dr. Fellowes and I are not law-breakers, Mr. Kincaid."
"I thought not." Harold appeared a bit downcast, as if he'd hoped he'd at least get a glass of sherry or something for his efforts on Gladys's behalf.
"And... Daisy, did we decide people should come in costumes? I can't remember."
She could solve algebraic equations and probably deal with all sorts of geometric proofs, but she couldn't remember if we'd decided on a costume party. How typically Gladys. I said, "Yes. For Halloween, remember?"
"Oh. Right." She glanced down at her protruding tummy. "I have no idea what I'll dress up as."
Then and there I had another of my brilliant ideas! This time I was pretty sure it actually was brilliant. "I know! A globe!"
"A globe?" Harold stared at me.
"A globe?" Gladys, on the other hand, appeared almost pleased. "Oh, that would be perfect! It would go with Halloween and Dr. Fellowes's project." Her face clouded over. There we go again, with another silly expression. But never mind that. "I have no idea how to dress like a globe, but it's a brilliant idea." See? Told you so; even Gladys thought it was brilliant.
"That's all right," said I, the noble seamstress. "I know precisely how to do it. I'll sew up your costume. And Harold, who's a wonderful artist, can draw the pictures of a globe on it."
"I can?" Harold didn't appear precisely honored to be called a wonderful artist.
"Yes. I've seen your work, Harold Kincaid."
After heaving a largish sigh, Harold said, "All right. I guess it's the least I can do for you taking care of my mother."
"Thank you. Anyhow, I have to make a costume for Sam—uh, Detective Rotondo, too."
"What's the detective going to be?" asked Harold, clearly fascinated, as if he couldn't imagine Sam as anything but a policeman.
"A Roman senator!" I said, so pleased with myself I beamed all over. Well, I don't know that actually, since I couldn't see myself, but it sure felt as though I were beaming.
"Great idea! I don't think the detective would approve of looking like a gangster or anything like that."
"No," said I. "He definitely wouldn't."
"You mean he'll wear a toga?" asked Gladys.
"Yes."
"Um... Weren't they rather flimsy garments?"
"Flimsy? What do you mean?"
"Well, didn't they reveal a good deal of... of a gentleman's... body?" Gladys turned red. Red looked better on her than it did on Frank Pagano, although it wasn't her best color.
"Good heavens, no! Whatever gave you that idea?"
Looking puzzled, Gladys said, "I'm not sure, really. I never liked history much. I guess I saw a moving picture with people in togas, and they didn't cover much."
"You're probably thinking of Cleopatra or one of those Biblical epics. They always make people wear flimsy costumes in those things," said Harold.
"In Biblical epics?" I asked, shocked. Don't ask me why. I knew enough about the motion-picture industry, thanks to Harold, to understand the industry as a whole will use any excuse to draw people in to see their flickers, and naked skin will do it every time.
"You know better than to ask that, Daisy," said Harold in a don't-kid-me-kiddo voice.
"Yes. I do. I'm sorry I even asked."
Gladys said, "Oh." Then her countenance took on a contemplative cast. "Didn't the ancient Greeks wear costumes that looked kind of like togas?"
"Yes," said Harold and I together. We looked at each other and laughed.
"Harold and I have studied the same history a
nd costume books, I think. We both need information about what people wore when, Harold for his job and I for mine."
"Oh. Well, if the Greeks wore proper kinds of togas that covered the body sufficiently, Dr. Fellowes would probably wear one of those. Do you think you can make two togas, only make them so they'll be different from each other? I'll gladly pay for your services, of course. And yours, too, Mr. Kincaid."
"Fiddlesticks," I said. "I love to sew, and I'll be making a toga for Sam, so I'll just get enough fabric for two togas, and I'll make them look different."
"Perhaps the Roman can wear one of those red sash-things," said Harold. "Lots of them did that. Red or purple. I prefer red."
"True, and red is a good color for Sam. Anyhow, he's Italian, so he really should wear a toga."
Both Gladys and Harold looked at me blankly.
In an effort to redeem myself, I said, "But I'll be sure Dr. Fellowes's toga is in the Greek style and all white."
"I didn't know togas came in different styles," said Gladys.
I rose from the sofa. "Learn something new every day, I guess. But I need to get going now. I think I'll probably have to pay a call on Harold's mother, and I know Sam and his nephew will be visiting me today."
"I didn't know Detective Rotondo had a nephew," said Harold, also rising.
"Yes. He has several sisters in New York City, and many nieces and nephews. This one sprang himself upon Sam without warning."
"Goodness. I wouldn't like that," said Gladys. Not one for spontaneity, our Gladys. Well, I wasn't, either, so I didn't blame her for her attitude.
"Nor would I," said Harold. "Fortunately, I have no nieces or nephews."
I thought briefly about his sister and said, "And aren't you glad."
With a shudder, Harold said, "You bet your life, I am."
Gladys appeared puzzled. Then again, when she was communicating with normal people, she generally did.
"I'll give you a telephone call later this week, Gladys. I'll have to figure out how to make you into a globe, but I don't think it will be difficult," I told her
"Thank you. I think," said Gladys.
Harold and I laughed again. Gladys sort of half-smiled.
