by Alice Duncan
"I took your telephone number, so I'll give you a ring if I need to clarify anything with you," said Harold.
"Very well," said Gladys as if she hoped really hard he wouldn't need to clarify anything. "Thank you both." That was an afterthought, but I didn't care. Gladys was Gladys, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Her. Whatever I mean.
When Harold started the Bearcat and headed back to my house, he said wryly, "Well, that was fun."
"Gladys isn't precisely a social butterfly. But she's nice. Really."
"If you say so. I'll get started on the planning at once. It'll take some organizing to get everything done in a week."
Thinking of the three costumes I'd have to stitch up—I already had a Gypsy fortune-teller costume hanging in my overstuffed closed—I said, "Yes. Me, too."
Chapter 21
As luck—or Mrs. Pinkerton—would have it, the telephone was ringing when Harold and I walked into our tidy bungalow on South Marengo Avenue. I sighed and headed for the kitchen, leaving Harold with my father and Spike.
"Daisy!" Shrieked Mrs. P.
I'd had the presence of mind to hold the receiver away from my ear before I picked it up, anticipating who'd be on the other end of the wire. Swallowing my sigh, I said in my most beatific and soothing spiritualist's voice, "Yes, Mrs. Pinkerton. I'm sorry you're in such distress."
"Oh, Daisy! May I see you today? Please? I know it's Saturday, but please? I need to consult Rolly. He can tell me if I've selected the right attorney for Stacy's defense."
In my opinion, there was no defense for Stacy. "I'm sure you did, Mrs. Pinkerton. Harold interviewed them all, didn't he?"
"Yes. He was an angel. But... Oh, Daisy, I'd feel so much better if the attorney I chose had Rolly's approval."
I swear. Poor Mrs. Pinkerton. She had all the money anyone would ever need in a lifetime or two, one great son, a very nice husband, and she wanted a fake spiritualist's fake spirit control to tell her she'd chosen the right attorney for her villainous daughter. Sometimes—often, in fact—human beings flummox me.
"I'm sure Rolly will approve of your choice," I said. "But I have another commitment today, and I won't be able to visit you with Rolly until after that."
"Oooooooh!" she wailed. She was the best wailer I've ever met in my life. "Very well, if you can't come right now, I understand. Oh, but Daisy, I hope you can visit soon."
"So do I," I lied.
We said our good-byes, and I hung the receiver in the cradle. Instantly the darned instrument rang again. I waited a second or two in order to discern if it was our ring. It was. I picked up the receiver and daringly held it to my ear. I figured Mrs. P couldn't have redialed my number in so short a time, and she was the only wailer I knew.
"Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs.—"
"Yeah, yeah. I know who you are," said Sam, sounding particularly truculent. Frank seemed to be playing on his nerves like a guitarist. Poor Sam. "Your damned line was busy when I called a minute ago."
"Mrs. Pinkerton," said I.
"Oh. Well, can Frank and I come over? He'll bring the Buddha and apologize for taking it."
"Bet he'll love doing that."
"I don't give a rat's patootie what he wants. The kid's a menace. He's like an albatross around my neck. He's poison. He's stupid, and he's bad."
"Hey!" came, faintly, from Sam's house.
"Yes, he does seem to be all of those things. You may tell him I said so, if you like."
"Good. I will. Be there soon."
And he hung up. Not one for the polite inanities of etiquette, my Sam. Oddly enough, that was one of the things I loved about him.
"Detective Rotondo?" came Harold's voice from behind me.
I turned and saw that he and Pa had entered the kitchen and had each taken a chair at the table. Because we always had a bowl of oranges on the kitchen table, Harold had filched one and was attempting to peel it.
"Yes. He and his nephew are coming over in a few minutes. You might do better with a knife," I suggested to Harold. "The Valencias are more difficult to peel than the navels, but they're sweet and delicious. I think that's the last of the Valencias. The navels are bearing like mad, though."
"Thanks."
"Here," said Pa, handing Harold a knife and a little plate so the juice wouldn't drip all over the kitchen table. Not that it didn't experience drips and spills all the time, but it was a nice thought on his part. My father is a wonderful man. Spike, who didn't much care for oranges, sat at Harold's feet and looked hopeful in spite of things. "So Sam and Frank are going to visit again, are they?"
"Yes," said I. "Frank stole my little Chinese Buddha when they were here last night."
Harold choked on a bite of orange. I whacked him on the back a couple of times. After he caught his breath, he said, "He stole something from you?"
"Yes. He's evidently shaping up to be a hard case. But Sam has him well in hand. So far. I think he goes through his pockets every night before he allows Frank to bed down on the sofa."
"Good Lord," said Pa. "First the candlestick and now your Buddha?"
"Yep. He's one of your classic pieces of work, I guess." Whatever a piece of work was.
"A candlestick?" asked Harold, his voice still rather tight.
"He stole it from the church when Sam and he went to choir practice with me."
"He stole it from your church?" From everything I'd gathered over the years we'd known each other, Harold didn't respect churches of any variety very much. He called Del's church, St. Andrews Catholic Church on Fair Oaks, "Our Lady of Perpetual Malice," for example. Apparently, though, even Harold had his limits. "Poor Sam."
"You betcha," said I.
We chitted and chatted for a few minutes, and I, being the old softie I am, caved in to Spike's pleading gaze and gave him a little piece of arrowroot biscuit. He was such a good doggie, he deserved a treat.
"I suppose you're going to pamper my mother with your presence after the detective and his criminal nephew leave," said Harold.
"Yes." I heaved a deep and heartfelt sigh.
"Sucker," said Harold.
"Not really. I'm earning a living. She wants Rolly to endorse the selection of attorney you and she made yesterday."
"Good God," said Harold.
Pa guffawed.
"That's what I thought when she told me why she wanted me. I feel sorry for your mother, but I'm not eager to endure her misery."
"She brings it on herself."
"In this case, Stacy brought it on her."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Genetics?"
Pa laughed. Harold grinned. And the doorbell rang. Figuratively speaking. It actually kind of scritched.
"Must be Sam and Frank," I said, getting up and following my faithful hound to the front door. Spike always beat me to the door.
"Oh, good," said Harold. "I want to meet this famous nephew of his. Maybe we should get him and Stacy together."
"Bite your tongue, Harold Kincaid," I said, feigning horror. "Anyhow, Stacy's going to be in the clink for a good long time."
"You hope."
"I hope," I acknowledged.
After telling Spike to sit and stay, which he did, I opened the door. Sure enough, there were Sam Rotondo and a morose-looking Frank Pagano standing there, coats buttoned up against the cold. I smiled at them both.
"Come in, gents." I stood back and gave my beloved dog the signal that he could begin welcoming the guests. He did so with gusto. I was sorry to see Sam using his cane again.
Nevertheless, Sam, who knew what good manners were and when they were called for, bent over and gave Spike a friendly greeting. "Good boy," he said to Spike, who loved hearing that he was a good boy. "Want to teach my nephew some manners?"
"Hey," said Frank.
"You could obviously use some lessons," I told the boy. Boy, heck. He was a young man and should know better than pull the shenanigans he'd been pulling. I held out my hand. "Give me back my Buddha."
Poutin
g, Frank stuck a hand into his overcoat pocket and said, "Here. Sorry."
"Sorry for what?" I asked, looking him square in the eye, which was rather difficult as he was a good deal taller than I. But I have my methods.
"Sorry I ended up with your statue."
"'Ended up' with it? You stole it, is what you did, young man. It's past time you began taking responsibility for your deeds, good or evil. I'm sorry your uncle has to put up with you."
"Jeez," muttered Frank, handing over the little Buddha. It was quite pretty, in a colorful Chinese sort of way. "Sorry."
"Sorry for what?" I refused to relent until he confessed to his evil deed.
"Sorry I took your thing."
"You stole it, is what you did. And it's a statue of Buddha. Well, statuette, I suppose is a more appropriate term."
"Don't waste your time," advised Sam. "He doesn't know the difference between a statue and a horseshoe."
"Hey," said Frank, although his voice was small.
Not that it matters, but I'd looked at several books in the library that dealt with Asian art. The Japanese fold paper in amazing ways to create birds and dragons and so forth. I think the paper art is called Origami. Overall, however, I preferred Chinese art to Japanese art. Not that I'd done a vast study of either. I'd just looked at library books. However, the Chinese pictures I'd seen were bright and vibrant and... well, kind of gaudy. The Japanese art I'd seen was, while lovely, too darned serene for my taste. Give me a lively, active scene any day to one of boring tranquility.
Hmm. I wonder if that signifies something I don't really want to know about my personality. Never mind. I don't care think about it right now.
"We can't stay long," said Sam. "I have to go to the train station and see when I can get rid of this freeloader."
"Hey," said Frank.
"Oh, be quiet," I told him. "You don't have a say in anything. Take your uncle's coat and hang it and your own on the coat rack. You have to meet a friend of mine."
"I do?" Frank neither sounded nor appeared pleased about the upcoming introduction.
Sam grinned. "Is Kincaid here?"
Odd that he should be pleased Harold was here. He didn't approve of Harold, as I believe I've mentioned before. Harold didn't care about Sam one way or the other, although he'd voiced his appreciation a couple of times. Heck, he'd shot a man in Turkey in order to save Sam's life once! Sam should appreciate Harold and not the other way around, in my humble opinion. Which, needless to say, I didn't voice just then.
"Follow me," I said after Frank had done as I'd ordered.
Pa and Harold had drifted to the dining room. Pa smiled at Sam and said, "Good morning, fellows. Happy to see you, Sam."
"You, too, Joe," said Sam, shaking my father's hand.
"And what do you have to say for yourself, young man?" asked Pa, holding his hand out to Frank.
"Uh... Nothing," said Frank, shaking my father's hand. He dropped it almost instantly.
"Good thing, too," said Sam. Turning to Harold he nodded and said, "Kincaid."
"Good morning, Detective Rotondo," said Harold in a hearty voice, shaking Sam's hand with vigor. "And this is your nephew I've been hearing so much about?"
"Nothing good, I trust," said Sam.
"Not a thing," said Harold.
Frank said, "Hey," only he didn't sound awfully sure of himself.
"That's him, all right," said Sam. "I, for one, am profoundly sorry for it. He belongs in New York City."
"Hey," said Frank again.
"It's good to meet you anyway, young man," said Harold, holding out his hand to Frank.
"Yeah. You, too," said Frank, shaking Harold's hand as briefly as he'd shaken Pa's.
"We'd better be going," said Sam. "We have things to do."
"As do I," I told him. "I have to visit Harold's mother."
"I'm sorry," said Sam.
As his nephew stared at him, Harold laughed. So did Pa.
I didn't, but that's only because I knew what was in store for me. "See you two tonight for dinner, I hope."
"You sure you want to risk it again?" asked Sam, watching his nephew rather as he'd watch a cockroach scuttle across a counter.
"Aw, why not? We'll teach Frank some lessons in good manners one of these days."
"You really think so?"
"Perhaps you'd better handcuff him so he can't steal anything else," I said as I walked the two New Yorkers to the door.
"Not a bad idea," said Sam.
Frank said, "Hey."
Chapter 22
My visit with Mrs. Pinkerton was as fraught as I'd expected it to be. I'd been kind of hoping Harold would go with me to see his mother, but he said he had a party to plan so I forgave him.
Because I figured I should, I took my tarot deck with me along with my Ouija board. Just as I'd foretold—see? I really was good at this spiritualist nonsense—she wanted me to deal out a tarot hand for her. It was as unencouraging as Rolly had been, although Rolly had approved of her attorney.
It had been a busy morning, I'd had no lunch yet, and I was tired and hungry by the time Mrs. P let me go. She wept all over me, as usual, and I decided to take a detour to the kitchen before I left for home. Maybe Vi would feed her poor, starving niece.
She did, bless her.
Setting a plate with a sandwich and some apple salad on the kitchen table, along with a bowl of steaming soup, she said, "Featherstone told me you were here, and when I looked at the time, I guessed you hadn't eaten luncheon yet."
"You guessed correctly. Thank you so much, Vi." Then I registered what she'd said. Staring at her hard, I asked, "Featherstone speaks to you?"
"Of course, he does," said Vi, sounding and looking surprised. "Why wouldn't he?"
"I don't know." I picked up my spoon, hoping the soup was as good as it smelled. "I just never think of Featherstone as being human. He's always been a butler to me."
Vi laughed. "Daisy Majesty, you're a caution!"
See? Told you she said that to me. I still don't know what it means.
The soup was, as I might have predicted—there goes my spiritualist's wisdom again—delectable. The sandwich, too, which was made with ham and cheese, both of which rested on a bed of rye bread with mustard, lettuce, tomato slices, and very thinly sliced onions, was one of the best sandwiches I'd eaten in my life. I'd have gobbled it down in three seconds had my aunt not been watching.
"That was delicious, Vi. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"You're more than welcome, sweetie. There's a slice of lemon custard pie with meringue on top for you if you can stuff anything else inside you."
"I can always stuff pie in," said I. "I've never heard of lemon custard pie with meringue before."
"It's a recipe I got from Evelyn McCracken. She calls it 'lemon meringue pie,' so I guess that's what it is."
Glancing up from the slice of delicious-looking pie Vi had set before me, I said, "Didn't she used to cook for the Bannisters?"
"Yes. She still cooks for Mrs. Bannister now that her husband is deceased." Vi sat in another chair at the kitchen table. "Evelyn said Mrs. Bannister is ever so much happier now without him. I don't know whether to be shocked or not."
"Huh," said I, borrowing freely from Sam. "You should be as happy as she. He was a vile person and didn't deserve to be called a human being. He not only beat her to within an inch of her life, but he sold children into slavery to horrible, perverted men."
"Daisy!"
"It's the truth, Vi. You know that. I told you precisely what that evil man did."
After a pause, she said, "Yes, I do know it. I just wish things like that didn't happen."
"So do I." Then I shut up and ate my pie. It was absolutely heavenly. When I'd scraped my plate, seeking the last splotches of lemon curd and meringue, I said, "You ought to make this for the family, Vi. It's wonderful."
"I aim to do just that. Evelyn said you can make any sort of custard pie you want and plop a meringue on top. She said she's
even made a custard pie with coconut on it."
"Oh, can you make that for my birthday?" I loved coconut almost as much as I loved Sam.
With a laugh, Vi said, "You won't have to wait that long. I aim to feed the family one tonight."
"You're a saint, Vi."
"Don't be silly."
"It's true," I said firmly. Then I kissed my marvelous aunt good-bye and exited the mansion by the service-porch door. I didn't want Mrs. P to see me and ask me for one more Rolly chat or another tarot-card reading. It would be just like her to think Rolly or the cards might change their minds in the forty-five minutes or so since they'd both told her what they'd told her. Or something like that. Anyhow, some people baffle me. A lot of them do, actually.
By the time I got home, Spike was ready for another walk, and I was bushed. However, knowing where my duty lay, I changed clothes, put the leash on my faithful hound, a coat and hat on me, and walked Spike around the neighborhood. Pa was out visiting someone or other, so it was just Spike and me on that brisk October afternoon. The wind blew, but not hard enough to knock us off the sidewalk, so we enjoyed ourselves.
When we got home, I hied myself to the sewing room, rummaged through my various materials and scraps thereof, and decided I needed to make a visit to Maxim's Fabrics on Colorado Street in order to get enough yards of white fabric for a couple of togas and look around to see if I might find a suitable—meaning cheap—fabric with which to make a globe. I'd also have to figure out a way to make it round. I mean, Gladys was quite round in the front, but a globe is round all over, so I'd have to create something. Perhaps Harold would have an idea. He made clothes for the stars in the flickers, after all. He knew more about how to construct costumes than I did.
I was just about to step out of the house when the dad-blasted telephone rang again. I contemplated not answering it, but my livelihood and that of my family depended on the money I made in my odd profession, and the telephone was a huge part of it, so I took a deep breath for courage and headed to the kitchen.
"Gumm-Majesty residence—"
"Yes, yes, I know all that."
Harold! Thank God!
"I'm so glad it's you, Harold! I feared it was your mother again."
