Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "No. Dr. Benjamin paid a call and prescribed a composer for her, so she's napping at the moment. What I want is for you to meet me at Maxime's Fabrics. Can you do that?"

  "Now?"

  "Now."

  "I was just headed there! This is quite fortuitous, Harold Kincaid. You must have read my mind."

  "That's your game, not mine. But I figured you'd probably need help rounding out your friend in order to make her look like a globe in the back as well as the front."

  "You did read my mind! That's precisely why I was going to Maxime's. Well, that and to get enough fabric for two togas."

  "And a red sash for the detective's. He'll look quite regal in a white toga with a red sash—or whatever you call it. It will go over one shoulder and tie around his waist with a white cord."

  "Wow, you really know your way around a toga, don't you?"

  "You bet I do. The Nash Studio is planning a production of Julius Caesar, and I've had togas on my mind lately."

  "They're doing a Shakespeare play? With no sound? That should be interesting."

  "Very. But please join me at Maxime's. I know just what we can do for Mrs. Fellowes to make her look globelike all over."

  "Good, because I couldn't think of a way. You're a pal, Harold."

  "Damned right I am."

  So I met Harold at Maxime's, and he'd already picked out the toga cloth—twelve yards, for crumb's sake! Fortunately for yours truly, the white percale Harold chose wasn't expensive.

  "Why make an expensive one? You'll only re-use the fabric to make sheets or something, won't you?"

  "Guess I'll have to. I prefer making clothes."

  "Well, you can be practical for once and make sheets for your family."

  "I'm always practical."

  "Right." Harold sounded skeptical. As I've said many times, he knew me well.

  The gorgeous crimson percale was heaver and cost a bit more than the white sheeting, but it was worth it. I needed four yards of that, but I could make my nieces beautiful dresses out of it for Christmas after Sam's duty at the Fellowes's Halloween party was over. I'd trim both dresses with white lace, too. I already had the lace, ripped from one of Mrs. Pinkerton's old dressing gowns Edie Applewood had once given me, claiming she didn't know what to do with it but she knew I would. She was right as rain. Good old Edie.

  "The detective will appear quite stunning in red and white," said Harold.

  "Yes. He will, won't he?" I smiled, picturing a grouchy Sam, whining and complaining as I made him don his toga. But he'd enjoy it. I knew my Sam. Complain as much as he wanted to; he enjoyed acting. Heck, he'd sung the role of Pish-Tush in The Mikado a year or so before, the original Pish-Tush having been imprisoned for murder, and he'd done it like a pro. Sam had a spectacular bass voice, which he didn't use often enough in song. He seemed to be using it to good effect on his nephew these days, however, so I didn't repine. I'd get the old grump to sing at Christmas time, providing he'd managed to rid himself of Frank by then.

  Because Dr. Fellowes didn't require anything but white for his ancient Greek toga, all I then needed was fabric for Gladys's globe.

  Harold had solved that problem, too.

  "Here," said he, holding out a bolt of gray-blue muslin.

  "What's that?" I squinted at the bolt. The color didn't look awfully jolly to me. Then again, it was going to be turned into a globe, so I guess the color could pass as that of the various oceans.

  "Ocean," said Harold, again reading my mind. Or maybe I'd read his. Piffle. It doesn't matter.

  "Brilliant. And you can draw the continents and stuff on it?"

  "Yes. And then it won't be good for anything else, but maybe you can use it as rags or something."

  "I'm not going to rip up a good three or four yards of fabric in order to make rags!" I said, outraged at the thought. "Anyhow, it'll belong to Gladys after the party, and so will Dr. Fellowes's toga material."

  "You're too kind. You've already roped me in to planning their party, and you're making the costumes. You ought to get something out of it."

  "With any luck, we'll get a murderer out of it."

  "Good Lord. The killer of that dead librarian, you mean?"

  "Yes. All the suspects will attend the party."

  "Good Lord," Harold repeated.

  Harold and I marched to the counter and looked around. Generally speaking, there were a couple of women who worked there, eager to consult, advise, offer opinions, and cut fabric for Maxime's customers. Not today. Today Harold called out, "Anybody here?"

  Almost instantly, a woman appeared from the back of the store, clearly embarrassed at having been caught not attending to business.

  "I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Langlois, a lady I'd know for years from the fabric store. "Oh, Mrs. Majesty, I'm sorry you had to wait."

  "It's all right. I was surprised not to see you as soon as we walked in." I gave her a smile to let her know her absence hadn't annoyed me, although it might annoy Maxime—whoever she was—if someone had made off with bolts of material because Mrs. Langlois hadn't been supervising things.

  "It's just been a confusing day, is all," said she. "Miss Dabney is ill today, and Mrs. Harris had to leave because her daughter got sick at school and poor Mrs. Harris had to pick her up." She lowered her voice. "I was just devouring my lunch back there." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder to designate the back room. "Hadn't had time to eat since I opened the shop at nine this morning."

  "Mercy, that's a long time to go without food. I'm so sorry about Mrs. Harris's daughter. Do you think she'll be all right?"

  "I don't know. Mrs. Harris said the school nurse didn't explain the nature of Gretchen's illness."

  "I hope she gets well soon."

  "As do I," said Mrs. Langlois.

  Harold cleared his throat.

  "Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Langlois. "I'm so sorry! You must want to set those heavy bolts down." She cleared off a space on the counter by sliding several pattern books to the side. Harold dumped three bolts of fabric onto the empty space.

  "Are these for you, Mrs. Majesty?" asked Mrs. Langlois.

  "Yes and no," I told her, smiling. "Please, Mrs. Langlois, allow me to introduce you to one of my very best friends, Harold Kincaid. Harold is a costumer for a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles, and he's going to help me make a friend into a globe for Halloween."

  "Pleased to meet you," said Mrs. Langlois, holding out her hand for Harold to shake, which he did. Then she glanced at me and back at Harold as though wondering if we harbored a budding romance. If she only knew.

  "Likewise," said Harold. "In order to accomplish the globe costume and ties for the togas, we'll also need some one-inch cord and two packets of bias tape, either this color or white. Doesn't matter what color the cord is. Oh, wait. It does, too, because we'll use it for the togas. So the cord should be white."

  "Togas?" said Mrs. Langlois.

  "Halloween party," I explained.

  She nodded. "Of course. Let's visit the notions section. I'm sure we have the kind of cord you need."

  She was right. Harold selected four yards of white cord and two packets of grayish bias tape. Then he stood there, tapping his chin with a finger, thinking. He turned to me. "How much white thread do you have at home?"

  "Not enough," I said. "I think we'd better get another large spool of mercerized white thread and one small spool of red. I'd better match the red to the crimson percale you found, Harold. And I'd better get some thread to match the globe costume."

  Eager to atone for her earlier absence, I guess, Mrs. Langlois said, "How much do you need of the crimson percale? I'll cut it and bring it over."

  "Thank you. Four yards, I believe. Right, Harold?"

  "Right."

  Eventually we left Maxime's laden with parcels full of fabric and sewing notions.

  "Now all we need is cardboard and starch. Do you know where we can purchase cardboard?"

  "Nelson's dime store, I expect. They probably have starch, t
oo."

  "Good. Because we're going to need both for the globe."

  Oh, boy. Gladys was going to love this. I’m fibbing.

  But that was all right. She wanted me to find the killer, so she'd just have put up with being a starchy globe instead of merely a starchy professor's starchy wife.

  I'm sorry. Sometimes I can't help myself.

  Chapter 23

  Harold helped me cart all the parcels into our house, said his good-days to Pa and Spike, and then took off to contemplate globe-making.

  "Looks like the two of you did some shopping," said Pa, eyeing the packages Harold and I had set on the dining room table.

  "We did. I have to make Gladys Fellowes into a globe, and I have to make a Roman toga for Sam and another, Greek, toga for Dr. Fellowes."

  "I didn't know there were different kinds of togas."

  "Neither did Gladys. But I looked them up in the library once."

  Pa shook his head. "You're a wonder to me, Daisy. You know more about things I never even think about than anyone else I've ever known."

  I squinted at my father. "I don't know if that's a bad thing or a good one."

  He laughed. "It's a good thing."

  "You really think so?" After contemplating the packages, I said, "Think I'll take these to the sewing room and open them up. Then everything will be in one place and I won't get confused."

  "If you say so, sweetie."

  So Spike and I retired to the sewing room, and I opened the parcels of fabric and sewing notions. I'd just put the new spool of white thread into the thread-holder device Pa had made for my multitude of colorful spools—very handy with carpentry, my father—when the stupid telephone began ringing.

  I looked at Spike.

  Spike looked at me.

  Pa called, "Daisy, it's for you!"

  So I sighed, said, "Sorry, Spike," and headed to the kitchen.

  I'd no sooner taken the receiver from Pa's hand and spoken my ritual speech into the instrument than I heard Robert Browning's voice. Only it hardly sounded like him. In fact, I didn't realize it was he until he told me so.

  "Daisy! It's Robert Browning. I'm sorry to bother you, but I've got to talk to somebody about this, and since your fiancé—"

  "Wait just a minute, Robert." I know it's impolite to interrupt people, but if you've ever had a party line, you'll understand. Trust me on this.

  I cleared my throat. "Will all our party-line neighbors please hang up your receivers? This call is private, and it's for me."

  There came through the wire three clicks. I waited for a fourth when: "Well," said our most persistent party-line neighbor, Mrs. Barrow, "you might give other people a chance to use their 'phones every now and then, you know! You're always hogging the line."

  "Nonsense. I haven't been home all day long, Mrs. Barrow. Now please hang up your telephone."

  She did. Slammed it onto the receiver, I think, because it made quite a noise. I'd have thoroughly disliked Mrs. Barrow if she hadn't assisted in the solving of a murder case once. But there was no question that she was an irritating woman. Plus, she had a perfectly hideous back-east accent, much uglier than Sam's—or even Frank's, for that matter, and I hated to think Frank was better at anything than anyone else, even Mrs. Barrow. Did that make any sense?

  "I'm sorry," said Robert, sounding as if he were on the verge of a nervous collapse. "I forgot most folks have party lines."

  "Yes. We have one. What's the matter, Robert? You sound dreadful."

  "You'd sound dreadful, too, if the police believed you to be a murderer!"

  "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry, Robert. If only you hadn't picked up that knife."

  "That was stupid, I know. But that's not the only thing. I also knew Miss Carleton, and the police think I'm responsible for... for something... well, for something reprehensible that happened to her. And I'm not, Daisy! But I promised both her and Elizabeth I'd never tell a soul what happened."

  "Oh. Do you mean about her baby?"

  Silence reigned over the telephone wires for several seconds, giving me plenty of time to listen hard and make sure Mrs. Barrow hadn't surreptitiously picked up her own telephone receiver. You can tell when someone does that because you can hear a kind of hollow sound on the line. Hard to describe, but there you go.

  At last Robert said in a small voice, "You know about her baby?"

  "I know she had one. I don't know any more except that she wasn't married at the time." I hurried to explain, "And I'm not blaming her for anything! I'm sure women get into that fix more often than anyone cares to acknowledge, and it's seldom their fault. At least, that's what I think. Men can be so persuasive sometimes."

  More silence. Then, "I didn't know anyone else knew."

  "Gladys Fellowes told me. I don't know how she knew, unless she and Miss Carleton were friends or something."

  Another spate of dead air ensued. After several empty seconds had passed, Robert said, "Daisy, may I see you privately? I don't know when. Maybe... I don't know. When would be good for you? I have to talk to somebody about this, and since you and Detective Rotondo are... well, you're good friends—"

  "We're engaged to be married, but I won't tell him anything you tell me not to tell him. If that makes sense."

  "Yes. Yes, it does. Thank you, Daisy. I really appreciate your willingness to listen. Maybe you can give me some advice. I'd ask... Well, never mind. But thank you. Could we meet somewhere to talk?"

  "I can visit your office if you like. I'll probably have to see a client on Monday, but I can go to the Underhill Plant after that."

  "Actually, I'll probably be at Cal Tech on Monday. The project is nearing completion, and I have to be there quite often these days."

  "Why don't you come to our house for dinner on Monday night? I know you and Regina—I mean, Miss Petrie—are going out to dinner on Tuesday."

  "She told you?" He sounded pleased.

  "Yes. She told me. She's quite happy about it."

  "She is?"

  "Yes, she is."

  "I'm so glad. She's... Well, I'm not sure exactly how to say this, but she's the first woman I've met since Elizabeth passed away with whom I can converse easily. Except for you, of course, but that's because we've been friends forever."

  My insides lit up like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Not because of what Robert had said about us being friends—we were friends, but that's not the point—but because of what he'd said about my very favorite librarian in the whole, wide world. I think Robert Browning and Regina Petrie would make a practically perfect couple. I didn't say so, because I didn't want to spook Robert.

  "I think you and she share some common interests," said I, trying to be sly.

  "We do. I went back to the library on the Saturday after... Well, after that horrible day, and she guided me to some wonderful biographies."

  "I'm so glad. But will you be able to come to dinner with us on Monday?" Then I remembered Sam and Frank. Fiddlesticks. "Nerts. I fear the detective and his nephew will be here, too, but if you could possibly come early—maybe four-thirty or five? That would give us plenty of time to talk alone."

  "I'd rather not dine with Detective Rotondo right now. I know that doesn't sound very nice of me, but the man suspects me of a hideous crime, Daisy."

  "Does he really? Or is he just treating you like any other suspect, do you think?"

  "I don't know how he treats most of the people he suspects of murder, but I wouldn't feel comfortable dining with him. I hope you don't hate me for that."

  "Don't be silly. I know you didn't kill poor Miss Carleton. Sam has to treat everyone like suspects until he proves to his satisfaction they aren't."

  "I'll be really glad when he clears me."

  "Me, too. Would you rather meet at the library or something? There's always an empty table or two for folks to chat at, if we keep our voices down. Nobody uses the periodical room much. We can meet in there, if you like."

  "I would like that. I'd get to see Miss Petrie, too.
Thanks, Daisy. I really appreciate this."

  "Of course, Robert. You can tell me what you have to tell, and I can tell you if you should tell Sam or not."

  "Thank you." He sounded uncertain. "Although... Well, I promised Miss Carleton and Elizabeth I'd never tell anyone what she told me."

  "Word's already got out in some circles, so I don't think you can keep it a secret much longer, and the longer you delay, the worse you'll look in the eyes of the police. Besides, both of those women are deceased, and they're beyond caring. Unless they're watching from above, and I'm sure they'd rather you clear yourself of a charge of murder than keep a secret that's no longer... I guess relevant is the word I want."

  "Oh, God." Pause. "All right. Four o'clock in the periodical room at the library. Thank you, Daisy. You might just be a life-saver."

  Dramatic, but I know I'd be frightened if Sam suspected me of murder, too.

  "You're welcome. See you then."

  We both hung up.

  Instantly the telephone rang again. Pooh.

  "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking," said I, as ever.

  "Daisy, this is Griselda."

  "Good afternoon, Mrs. Bissel!" I always liked hearing from Mrs. Bissel because she wasn't prone to hysterics as was Mrs. Pinkerton.

  "Good afternoon. I have a request of you, which I hope you won't mind."

  "I'm sure I won't mind," said I, unsure of any such thing. However, Mrs. Bissel was a thinking woman, again unlike Mrs. P, so I didn't anticipate too much trouble from her. Well, there was that time a real, honest-to-goodness ghost showed up at one of my séances held at her house, but the less said about that, the better. Scared the bejeebers out of me. I don't even believe in ghosts, for Pete's sake.

  "A dear friend of mine just lost her daughter, and she's terribly upset."

  "I can imagine. The notion of losing a child wrings my heart. It's difficult even to contemplate such a tragedy." Of course, I had no children, but I had nieces... and there was even hope on the horizon, perhaps, of having a family of my own one day.

  "It is indeed. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to Dennis, Genevieve or Joanie." Dennis, Genevieve and Joanie were her children, all three grown up and with families of their own.