by Alice Duncan
"It doesn't bear thinking of," said I, sounding spiritually mournful.
"Indeed. But, Daisy, my dear friend, Ellen Carleton, just lost her daughter. To murder. I just can't believe it."
I could believe it, although her words stunned me. Kind of like a boulder to the head, if you know what I mean. "Miss Carleton? The librarian?"
"Yes. Did you know her?"
"Not well, but I met her when she worked at the Pasadena Public Library. I was horrified when she was killed."
"As was I. And I know you've told me before that sometimes it takes a spirit a while to settle into the Other Side"—whatever that was, but my income depended on it—"and that poor Mary might not be available to speak at our séance yet, but would you please give it a try? On this coming Tuesday, if that works for you. It would comfort Ellen to know her daughter is safe in the arms of our Lord."
Whoo boy. It would comfort me to know that, too, but I had no way of knowing it to be true. Or untrue, for that matter. I swear, lying for a living can be downright uncomfortable sometimes. However, it was my duty to forge onward, ever onward, so I did. Undaunted; that's me. Or should that be I? Oh, who cares?
"Certainly I can do that, Mrs. Bissel. I'm glad you already know Rolly might not be able to get in touch with Miss Carleton. If you could explain that to Miss Carleton's mother, I'd appreciate it. I'd hate for her to be horribly disappointed."
"I've already discussed the matter with her, dear. She understands. It would give her great comfort to know her sweet Mary is all right, though."
"Yes. I'm sure it would."
“And is Tuesday all right?”
I took a deep breath and used it to say, "Tuesday will be perfect, and I'll be glad to do that for her, Mrs. Bissel."
"Thank you so much, Daisy. You're such a marvel."
"Thank you. You're too kind."
"Fiddlesticks. How is dear Spike doing?"
I glanced down at my hound, who sat at my feet looking hopeful. We were in the kitchen, after all.
"He's very well. I honestly don't know what I would do without Spike, Mrs. Bissel. When I lost my Billy, Spike was my main source of comfort, even though I have the most wonderful family in the world."
"I understand completely. There's just something... Well, there's something almost magical about the comfort one can get from a dog. And, of course, dachshunds are special."
"They are, indeed."
"When my Francis passed, my children were as upset as I, and the dogs helped us all." Francis was her late husband. I'd never met him, but I'd heard from several sources that he'd been a kind and considerate man. And extremely wealthy, bless him.
"Yes. I'm sure that's so."
"Thank you very much, Daisy. I'll let Ellen know immediately."
"Try not to get her hopes up too much," I warned in my most indulgent spiritualist-medium voice.
"I shall. Thank you, dear."
"You're more than welcome. I look forward to seeing you on Tuesday." So what was one more fib? At least I liked her houseboy, Keiji Saito, who had taught me how to eat with chopsticks, a skill I demonstrated with great joy when my family and Sam and I went to Miyaki's, the Japanese restaurant in town. They were all impressed. So was I, to tell the truth.
Chapter 24
That night, Frank didn't steal anything when he came to our house to take dinner with my family. I think that's because Sam had frightened him into obedience, although I'm not altogether sure. I did notice Frank kept slipping anxious looks at his uncle. Served the little punk right. Anyhow, I know he didn't steal anything because Sam called later in the evening to tell me so.
"I think you're curing him, Sam," I said, laughing. "Did you make him strip down to his underwear and search him?"
"Pretty much. He didn't like it, either." I heard the gleefully evil tone in his voice. I did love my Sam. "May we pick you and your family up tomorrow morning for church?"
"Absolutely!" I said happily. "And stay for dinner afterwards."
"Frank isn't too much to bear for another meal?"
"Heavens, no. We've weathered worse than Frank."
"I doubt it."
I laughed again. He didn't, but he did sigh heavily and hang up his receiver.
The next morning, as promised, Sam came with Frank to pick us up and carry us to church in his big black Hudson. I guess Sam had bought Frank a suit, because he wore one that morning. It didn't fit him very well, so it's possible Sam had rooted through the Salvation Army's charity shop to get it for him. Until Frank got a job and stopped pilfering other people's goods, he really didn't deserve more. Not that the Salvation Army's charity shop didn't offer well-maintained clothing and other merchandise, because they did. My buddies Flossie and Johnny Buckingham made sure of that.
By the way, not that it matters, but did you know that the Salvation Army was born in England? What's more, it separated itself from the Methodist Church, so I guess that's one of the reasons I like it. Not the separation, but because I understand Methodists, being one myself. Besides, they do great work. The only thing about the Salvation Army I don't care for is that they don't approve of people like Harold and his ilk. I think they're dead wrong on that issue, but nobody cares what I think.
However, Pasadena's particular Salvation Army is run by Johnny Buckingham, and I'm almost certain Johnny doesn't care about other people's love lives; his only goal is to help people. Oh, and Sir Arthur Sullivan—of Gilbert and Sullivan fame—wrote the music to "Onward, Christian Soldiers," the Salvation Army's... what would you call it? Their theme song? Pretty darned classy for an organization that takes in anyone from drunkards to drug addicts to the poor and homeless.
But never mind all that. Frank was silent as Sam drove us to our church, which wasn't far from our home. In fact, until Sam was shot, we generally walked to and from church; however, since Sam's leg still hurt, he drove us. I noticed he had brought his cane with him and was sorry to see he still needed it. I guess beating up on Frank wasn't having the curative properties I'd hoped for.
I parted from my family, Sam, and Frank and headed for the choir room as soon as Sam parked his Hudson. The October morning held a distinct chill, so I'd worn a navy blue tricotine suit I'd made a couple of years earlier. It was comfy and warm.
"Daisy!" Lucy cried as soon as she saw me. She rushed up and hugged me. This surprised me a little. I mean, Lucy and I were friends and all, but we didn't normally hug upon meeting each other at church. But I hugged her back. You can never get or give too many hugs, in my opinion.
"Good morning, Lucy. You're looking spiffy today." That day she wore a plain, but pretty, nut-brown tweed suit with a single-breasted, hip-length coat. It looked to me as if had been well tailored by someone and not a store-bought item. Lucy's spouse didn't stint on his wife's spending money, bless him. "I love that suit."
Lucy twirled, grinning broadly. "Albert is so good to me. A woman named Mrs. Wilson made it for me. I'd have asked you if you wanted the job, but I imagine you're too busy with your job and making clothes for your family, except for special occasions."
"You're right about that. I don't know Mrs. Wilson, but she did a super job on that suit."
"Thank you. Albert also bought me a gorgeous coat of brown verona cloth with a raccoon collar."
Poor little raccoons. "Sounds lovely. Did you wear it today? I'd like to see it." As I spoke, I headed to the closet with the intention of hanging up my own black woolen coat. I didn't like the notion of small animals sacrificing their lives so I could wear their fur.
As soon as I opened the closet door, I saw my question had already been answered. There it hung: Lucy's brown verona-cloth coat with its raccoon collar. I petted the collar. "Oh, my, this is so soft, Lucy."
"Thank you. Albert is so good to me."
She'd already said that, but I didn't point it out to her. She loved her Albert, and he seemed to be a loving and generous husband. I approved of him, even if I didn't approve of killing animals so ladies could wear the
ir furs. After all, those animals needed their fur. No woman alive, unless she lived in Siberia or somewhere like that—maybe Minnesota, for instance—needed a fur-trimmed coat.
"Good morning, ladies," said Mr. Hostetter, coming into the choir room from the sanctuary. "Mrs. Fleming will begin our organ prelude shortly, so please stop chatting, get your books and folders, and line up." He ran a tight ship, Mr. Hostetter.
We did as he'd bade us and all lined up, sopranos first, altos next. Then came the tenors and basses. Lucy and I sat in the front row. I was the only alto sitting there, but I've already explained why I did so.
The church service went smoothly, as it almost always did—there had been a couple of exceptions earlier in the year when a couple of folks dropped dead during the communion service, but that was extremely unusual—and Pastor Smith gave a rousing sermon that even kept most of our more elderly members of the congregation awake during the entire service. Our anthem went well, and the congregation all stood and sang the designated hymns.
The only reason I mention the attendees standing and singing the hymns is that Sam actually sang. He generally didn't sing loudly, but I heard him that day. His gorgeous bass voice rang out during "Now Thank We All Our God." I got the distinct impression Frank was embarrassed by his uncle's enthusiasm, because he kept shooting alarmed looks at him. Fiddle to him. I loved to hear Sam sing. So did the rest of my family; I could tell, because they all smiled during the hymns.
When church was over and we choir members had returned our choir accouterments in their proper places, Lucy and I walked to Fellowship Hall to have a cookie and a cup of tea with our respective families. The Gumms, the remaining Majesty, and Sam Rotondo generally stayed only long enough to partake of one cookie, because Vi had our dinner cooking at home, and we'd all rather eat real food after church than a cookie or two. When we entered the hall, Lucy instantly left me and made a bee-line for her Albert, who stood with her parents.
I, of course, headed toward my family which, of course, included Sam. And Frank. He sat at a table, his hands folded on top thereof, and with a plate holding one cookie in front of him. Sam stood over him, leaning slightly on his cane and looming large and menacing. My parents and Vi sat at the same table, and it looked to me as if they were having trouble not laughing. I'd have to ask about that later.
"Hey, Ma and Pa and Vi and Sam and Frank."
"Good day, dear," said Ma. "Today's anthem sounded beautiful. We're fortunate to have such a fine choir at our church."
"I agree. What about you, Frank?" said Sam, still looming over his nephew. He shoved his shoulder a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit.
Frank nearly fell off his chair, righted himself, and mumbled, "Yeah. Sounded good."
"He loved it," said Sam, grinning.
"Want to sit a bit, Sam? Or do you want to stand there for another several minutes?" I worried about his leg.
"Oh, I'll just stand for a little while," said he. "Have to keep an eye on Frank here. Don't want him taking off with any more candlesticks, do we?"
Frank grunted.
"No, we certainly don't. Eat your cookie, Frank, so we can go home and eat some of Vi's marvelous dinner."
Frank said, "Huh," but ate his cookie. It looked like a molasses cookie to me. I liked molasses cookies all right, but they weren't my favorite, so I eschewed—I always want to say gesundheit after I use that word—cookies and sat next to Ma.
We watched Frank devour his cookie. I think we embarrassed him with our stares, because he turned that unbecoming puce color again. Too bad. He deserved it.
As soon as Frank swallowed his last bite, Sam lifted him by his shoulders and stood him on his feet. "All right, then. Let's be off. I'm looking forward to another one of your delicious meals, Vi. So is Frank. Aren't you, Frank?"
"Uh... Yeah. Sure."
"Yeah, sure, what?" asked Sam sweetly.
"Uh... Yeah, sure... sir."
"Good boy. Come along now." He took Frank by the arm and yanked him out to the car. If Frank lived through his stay in Pasadena, he'd probably never run away from home again.
"If Frank lives through his stay in Pasadena, I doubt he'll run away from home again," my father whispered in my ear, thereby confirming my belief that Pa and I were alike in many ways.
I giggled. "I think you're right."
When we trooped into the house, it smelled wonderful. Spike met us at the door, barking joyfully. Naturally we stooped to pet him and tell him what a good boy he was. Even Frank, I do believe at his uncle's command—he shoved him again—petted Spike. Spike wagged his tail at Frank, thereby demonstrating that dogs are more forgiving than most people.
"Daisy, can you set the table and help me get dinner on the table after we put up our wraps?" asked Vi.
"Sure will," said I.
I knew what smelled so good. Before we'd left for church, Vi had put a smoked ham, a bunch of potatoes, carrots, onions and several rutabagas—which are, perhaps, my favorite vegetable—into a huge pot, let it come to a boil, and allowed it to simmer all through church. This was what Vi called a "New England boiled dinner." I guess a lot of New Englanders—my family originally came from Auburn, Massachusetts—ate New England boiled dinners. Of course, we also ate another of New-England’s much-loved repasts, baked beans and brown bread. That was my father's favorite meal. I liked the beans, but the brown bread was a little too sweet for me.
Not that anyone cares what I like. Sorry. I got distracted. That happens a lot when I think about food.
I thoroughly enjoyed my dinner, which we ate in the middle of the day on Sundays. I think lots of people do. Then we could loaf for the rest of the day, take naps, read, or whatever and then grab a snack for supper if we wanted one.
Sam and Frank sat in the living room with Ma and Pa while I cleaned up the dishes. Vi went upstairs to take a nap, which she richly deserved. I didn't ask Frank to help, because Sam would have to supervise, and I thought he needed to rest his leg.
Almost as soon as I'd put away the last pot and stored the leftovers in our Frigidaire, the blasted telephone rang. I didn't instantly cross the kitchen to pick up the receiver, but waited until I knew the call was meant for our house. It was.
Grumbling to myself, I walked to the stupid 'phone and held the receiver an inch or two away from my ear, expecting an hysterical Mrs. Pinkerton to be on the other end of the wire. She wasn't. Rather, this telephone call was from the Pasadena Police Department, and the officer calling asked to speak to Sam. I quickly made sure the line was clear of party-line snoopers.
"Good Lord, what's wrong now?" I asked myself as I strode to the living room to deliver the message.
Sam, who'd seated himself next to Frank on the sofa, looked displeased by my news. Nevertheless, he rose and came toward me, leaning heavily on his cane. "Cripes, what's wrong now?"
"I don't know, but I'll get some aspirin tablets for you to take after you hang up the receiver."
"Thanks," Sam said, lifting the receiver, which I'd carefully placed on top of the wooden telephone box.
I took off for the bathroom. I knew from experience that Sam wouldn't speak into the telephone if I were nearby to "snoop," as he'd call it. That was all right. I'd get the news out of him later.
When I returned to the kitchen to fill a glass with water, Sam was speaking. "All right. I'll be there as soon as I can be. Where did you say it was? On the campus, I mean. I know where Cal Tech is."
I felt my eyes open wide. Cal Tech! Something bad had happened at Cal Tech? As Sam was a homicide detective, I presumed the call signified another murder. Good heavens. As might be expected, my mind began whirling and sorting through possibilities. My money was on Dr. Malton being the perpetrator, but that was only because he was such a slimy character. I hoped like heck Robert Browning hadn't spent the day at Cal Tech, although I suspected he had, because he didn't have much else to do when he wasn't working at the chemical plant.
Oh, dear.
After getting th
e precise location of whatever he had to investigate from the officer calling him, Sam hung the receiver on the cradle and let out a huge sigh.
"What's the matter?" I asked, handing him three aspirin tablets and the glass I'd just filled.
"I don't think I should tell you," he said, frowning thoughtfully. Then, as he popped the aspirin tablets into his mouth and lifted the glass to drink, the stupid telephone rang again. I lifted the receiver and recited my usual greeting, forgetting to hold the receiver away from my ear.
Big mistake. The person on the other end of the wire practically screamed, "Daisy! It's happened again! I can't believe this! It's awful!"
I blinked at the receiver, perplexed, and said, "Who is this, please?"
"It's Gladys! Oh, Daisy! Philip Jeffreys' body was just discovered at Cal Tech. Oh, Daisy, he was murdered! This is terrible! It's awful! Oh, my God, what can you do? Please. You have to help!"
"Um... I'm not sure what I can do, Gladys. Detective Rotondo has just been called to the scene of the crime."
"Oh, no! Oh, Lord, Daisy, what will this do to the project?"
That stupid project again. It sounded to me as if Gladys thought her husband's project was more important than a human life. Therefore, my voice was much sterner than it usually was when I said, "I have no idea what it will do to the project, Gladys, but I feel awfully sorry for Mr. Jeffreys' family and friends."
I guess Gladys detected my disapproving tone, because I heard her gulp. She'd stopped screeching when she said, "Oh. Oh, of course. Yes, that's true. I didn’t mean to sound callous. Really, I don't. But... Well, you know how important this project is to Dr. Fellowes and Dr. Malton."
"Yes, I understand that. Detective Rotondo will find the evil-doer."
"But I want you to do it, so there won't be so much publicity!" cried Gladys.
"I fear it may be too late for that, Gladys. Two murders involving people from the Institute will certainly make the newspapers."
"Oh, God," she whispered. Then she said, "Good-bye, Daisy. I'm sorry to have troubled you." And she hung up.
