by Alice Duncan
“Did you find anything?” Mrs. Cummings put down the butter knife.
“I may have,” I lied. “I need to meditate upon several aspects of this situation.”
Mrs. Cummings blinked a few times and said, “Oh.”
I've never figured out why poor people, like my relations and Mrs. Cummings are, as a rule, so much less gullible than rich ones. Probably because they had to do all the things rich people didn't want to do. Hard work has a habit of clearing one's mind of irrelevancies. Like, for example, spirits and ghosts.
Because I figured Mrs. Cummings would only become more skeptical if I tried to explain myself, I asked, “Is Mrs. Bissel around somewhere, Mrs. Cummings? I need to talk to her.”
“She's out back with those dogs of hers.” Mrs. Cummings evidently didn't share Mrs. Bissel's and my own appreciation of dachshunds. “Always underfoot, those dogs. They're pigs, Daisy Majesty. Worse than pigs, because they're so cunning, and you can't resist 'em. They're apt to eat a body out of house and home.”
“I'm hoping to get one for my Billy. He needs something to keep him company when I'm working.”
Mrs. Cummings eyed me sympathetically. Shaking her head, she went back to what she'd been doing before I interrupted her, which looked like washing dishes. “It's a crime, what happened to your Billy, Daisy. So many young men lost, and so many hurt, damn the Kaiser to perdition.”
“My sentiments precisely,” I told her. “Thanks, Mrs. Cummings.” Worried that I'd start crying if I stayed there and received any more of her sympathy, I went in search of Mrs. Bissel.
As soon as I opened the door to the sun porch and stepped out onto the patio's still-wet flagstones, I heard where the kennel was. Following the sound of uproarious barking, I found her a minute later, talking to a man in work clothes and a cloth cap.
She saw me before he did, and her smile made me feel guilty. “Daisy! What's happened?”
I couldn't say “Nothing” again. Rather, I equivocated. “The emanations are coming closer, Mrs. Bissel. I believe I'm on the verge of discovering exactly what type of spirit or ghost is inhabiting your basement.”
“I'm so glad!” She remembered the man standing with her. He'd listened to my little speech with widening eyes. “Daisy Majesty, please let me introduce you to Robert Dembrowski. Robert keeps my kennels for me. I was afraid they'd flood during that awful rain yesterday, but they didn't.”
Good Lord. She'd hired a guy to take care of her dogs. It used to boggle my mind that so many rich people could afford to hire butlers and housemaids. But a man to take care of the dogs? It was hard to take it in. Nevertheless, I smiled at Robert Dembrowski and stuck out a hand. “How do you do, Mr. Dembrowski?”
He whipped his soft cap from his head and stammered, “I'm fine, Mrs. Majesty, and hope you are the same.” He took my hand and dropped it again almost instantly. I got the impression he was afraid of me. Obviously, he'd heard stories about me raising the dead during séances.
I got that reaction sometimes from people who were either afraid of what I did, or who considered it somehow unholy or eerie. With an internal sigh, I turned back to Mrs. Bissel, knowing I wasn't responsible for other people's opinions, even though they sometimes bothered me. “May I speak with you for a minute, Mrs. Bissel? I believe I'm at the point where more direct action needs to be taken.”
She gasped. Mr. Dembrowski took a step backward. I really didn't enjoy scaring people, although I guess it went with the territory. “It's nothing bad,” I said, trying to reassure both of them.
If people acted more like dogs, I decided on the spot, the world would be a better place. None of her dachshunds were afraid of me, and they were supposed to be the ones without big brains. In spite of my gray dress, I stooped to pet the dogs. I couldn't help myself.
This spontaneous show of affection for her dachshunds reassured Mrs. Bissel, who squatted beside me. Her joints made quite a racket, although the noise from the dogs was slightly louder.
“Do you wuv Miss Daisy-Wazey?” she asked the dogs in a silly, baby-talk voice. “Yes, you do-ums.”
I hate to admit it, but I talked that way, too. I'd singled out Billy's pup, and was holding him close, muddy paws and all. What the heck. I could always wash my dress when I got home. “Yes, and I wuv him back,” I cooed.
After several more minutes of that nonsense, although it didn't feel like nonsense at the time, I sighed, put the puppy back on the ground, and stood up, trying to brush the mud off my bodice, which didn't work very well. I'd forgotten all about Mr. Dembrowski. When I glanced at him, he didn't seem to have discerned anything out of the ordinary in my behavior. Apparently most people turned into blithering idiots around puppies.
He helped Mrs. Bissel to her feet, accompanied by barks from the dogs, creaks from her knee joints, and grunts from her mouth. Have I already mentioned that she was a very large woman? Rather like an overstuffed chair? Well, she was, and Mr. Dembrowski was plainly accustomed to assisting her in this way, even though he probably weighed half as much as she did.
“They're so adorable, Mrs. Bissel. I can't wait to take one home to Billy.”
“Why don't you take him today, dear? I'm sure I don't mind.”
Oh, boy, was that a temptation. However, in spite of Billy's opinion of my overall moral worth and character, I operated by a strict code of ethics, and I never accepted payment until the job was done and the customer was happy. “Not until I've fulfilled my obligations to your satisfaction, Mrs. Bissel, but I do thank you.”
“But Daisy, I don't mind. Truly. You're doing me such a favor.”
I hadn't done a thing so far except hang out in her basement for a couple of hours. I didn't point this out to her, but only said, “Thank you, but no. I never accept payment until I've done the job to the customer's satisfaction.” I was beginning to remind myself of an automobile salesman. Or a broken phonograph record.
As we walked back to her house, she continued to argue, and I continued to refuse. It wasn't a heated battle, and she gave it up as soon as we got to the patio.
The fog had lifted, but the air was chilly. A breeze had begun to blow, and I looked toward the San Gabriel Mountains, wondering if it would snow up there. It was pretty early in the season, but I always loved seeing the mountain peaks covered in white. We'd probably get winds instead; we usually did.
In November and December the “devil winds”, or Santa Anas, would blow, knocking over trees and power lines and fences and the occasional windmill that still remained in Pasadena or Altadena. Since we'd already experienced cold, rain, and fog, I figured it was time for the winds to wreak havoc in the vicinity. I supposed the winds were better than fire, famine, and a plague of locusts, but they made everyone itchy and bad-tempered. Since poor Billy was already both of those things most of the time, the notion of the Santa Anas arriving to aggravate his condition didn't appeal to me one little bit.
There was nothing I could do about the weather, so I forced myself to pay attention to Mrs. Bissel and my next step in the solution of her haunting problem. When we were both seated at the breakfast-room table (which, by the by, was larger than our own dining-room table on Marengo), I said, “I think it would be a good idea for me to stay overnight in the basement one of these nights.”
She paled visibly. I'd never seen anyone do that before, although I'd read about the phenomenon in novels. She slapped a hand over her gigantic bosom as she did it. “No!”
Mrs. Cummings, walking into the breakfast room with a tray in her hands, stopped in her tracks. “No, what?”
Mrs. Bissel turned to her housekeeper for support. “No, Daisy can't spend the night in the basement. It's far too dangerous.”
Staring at me as if I'd lost what was left of my mind, Mrs. Cummings snorted, regained her footing, and set a plate of iced cakes on the table between Mrs. Bissel and me. “You're daft, Daisy Majesty. There's no way on God's green earth that you'll be allowed to sleep in the basement. If the ghost don't get you, the damp and
chill will.”
Comforting thought. “I'm sure that's not so, Mrs. Cummings. I deal with the spirits all the time, don't forget.”
“Tush.” With the one pithy word, Mrs. Cummings set a flowery teapot and two flowery cups on the table so hard, I feared for their continued health. Nothing broke, and I breathed more easily.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Bissel, pouring tea into a cup and pushing it at me. “It would be the height of folly for you to remain belowstairs after dark. I don't care how much experience you've had in dealing with spirits.”
I'd been hoping for such a reaction, although I hid my delight. I was a mistress of my craft, as one of my friends had told me on more than one occasion. I pretended to be unhappy. “But how else can I exorcize the spirit? I need to be in your home when the spirit is active, Mrs. Bissel.” If neither woman brought up the kitchen, I aimed to do so. Darned if I'd sleep in her basement; the mere thought gave me the willies.
Mrs. Bissel shook her head so hard, her chins wobbled. “Nonsense. I won't allow you to do so risky a thing, Daisy. There has to be another way.”
“Absolutely.” Mrs. Cummings placed the cream pitcher and the bowl of sugar on the table more gently than she had the teacups. “Even thinking about spending the night down there is insane, and you'd be a blockhead to try it.”
I didn't enjoy being called a blockhead. It didn't go with my carefully constructed appearance and demeanor. I held my frown in check, but it was an effort. I did, however, say, “I don't believe that's the case, Mrs. Cummings. I deal with the--”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted gruffly. “I don't care how many spirits you talk to in your séances, this one's bad, and I won't let you do it.”
“Nor will I.”
I sipped my tea, pretending to contemplate the ladies' words. It was nice of them to worry about me. I guess Billy worried about me, too, but not like this. He mostly just resented me.
After several moments passed and it looked as if Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Cummings were becoming confused and unhappy, I said slowly, and as mysteriously as possible, “Perhaps there's another way.”
“There'd darned well better be,” muttered Mrs. Cummings. Evidently feeling that it was safe to leave me alone with Mrs. Bissel, she stomped back into the kitchen. “A night in the basement, my hind foot.”
“What other way is there, dear?” Mrs. Bissel asked, popping a piece of cake into her mouth and following it up with a sip of tea into which she'd dumped four lumps of sugar and half a cup of cream.
I bowed my head and tried to appear innocent and cryptic at the same time. “Perhaps I can stay overnight in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Bissel brightened up immediately. “Why, Daisy, that's a perfect solution! That way, you'll be close to the basement when the spirit or ghost is active, but you won't be directly in its path.”
“My thoughts exactly.” It occurred to me to ask how she expected me to get rid of her haunter if she wouldn't allow me to confront it directly, but I'd long since stopped trying to figure out how some people thought.
I left shortly after that, making a short detour into Hunnicutt's Market. In order to disguise the purpose of my visit, I bought a pound of peanut butter for Aunt Vi. Truth to tell, it was for me, too. Aunt Vi made the most delicious cookies with peanut butter; Mrs. Cummings' cookies had reminded me.
A stack of newspapers rested on the counter. As I rooted around in my handbag, I motioned at the top one. “It's too bad about that girl who disappeared, isn't it?”
Mr. Hunnicutt, scooping peanut butter out of the barrel and into a jar, nodded. “Probably buried in the foothills.”
“I thought exactly the same thing,” I said, wondering how many other people in the area read detective novels. “What a tragedy that would be.”
“Sure would.”
“I don't suppose you've seen her since she disappeared, have you?”
He gave me an odd look. “Nope. Can't say as I have.”
No one else there had seen anyone resembling Marianne Wagner either, as I discovered after a few more minutes of chit-chat. I got the impression Mr. Hunnicutt thought I was nuts, but at least I learned what I'd visited the store for. Then I tried to decide if I was disappointed or not, couldn't, caught a red car, and rode it down to Lake and Colorado, where I transferred to a car on an east-west route that let me off on the corner of Marengo and Colorado. It was only a short walk home, and, as I had expected, Billy was happy to see me.
“Hey, Daisy, Sam called and invited the whole family out to eat at the Crown Chop Suey Parlor and to a picture show afterwards tonight.”
He was more enthusiastic than I'd seen him in ages, so I put on a show of being pleased. Under the circumstances, I didn't want to be anywhere near Sam Rotondo. He was too darned smart, and I wouldn't put it past him to figure out that I expected to find Marianne Wagner in Mrs. Bissel's basement.
However, the prospect of dining out, and on Chinese food, which was my favorite (truth to tell, all kinds of food are my favorites), was a nice one. “Sounds good. What picture are we seeing?”
“Knickerbocker Buckaroo. It's got Marjorie Daw and Douglas Fairbanks in it.”
“Ah. Good.” I'd have preferred to see Anne of Green Gables, but I knew the men would have objected and called it a “girl's” movie. Anyhow, it was always a pleasure to see Douglas Fairbanks in anything. Or Mary Pickford. I envied her those blond ringlets. Redheads never got treated like fragile flowers the way blondes did. Of course, this particular redhead (me) didn't act much like a fragile flower, either, but that's another story entirely.
Chapter Seven
The picture was pretty good, but first I had to endure eating a Chinese dinner with Sam Rotondo. If it had been anything but Chinese, the meal would have been much more trying.
Even before we got to the restaurant on North Fair Oaks, driven there in his car, a closed-in Hudson that had given me a appreciation of Hudsons, I didn't like the way he looked at me. Piercing. That's what his eyes were that evening, and they made me nervous. I always got the feeling Sam Rotondo knew more than I wanted him to about my business.
With Sam's support, Billy walked into the restaurant. He couldn't walk very far, even with help, and he hated me to assist him. It galled me that he'd accept assistance from Sam, a man who considered me some kind of lower life form. Billy was probably afraid I'd drop him-and I might have, since his weight was difficult for me to balance, as small as I am. Sam was a big man. Maybe it was only sensible that he be the one to help Billy, but I still didn't like it.
In an effort to make Sam think I had nothing to hide--which I didn't, actually, since I had no idea if the Wagner girl was hiding in Mrs. Bissel's basement--I decided to strike the first blow instead of waiting for him to blind-side me. As the waiter led us to a table, I asked, “Have the Wagners had any results from the notice they placed in the newspapers?” I smiled as innocently as I was able.
I think the innocent smile was a mistake because Sam's eyes got squinty. “Why do you ask, Mrs. Majesty?” His own smile reminded me of a cobra about to strike. Not that cobras smile. Oh, you know what I mean.
I blinked, again innocently, since I couldn't think of anything else to do. “Why, because we're all worried about the poor girl and her parents.” My troublesome sense of honesty got the better of me, darn it, and I added, “At least I feel sorry for her mother.”
“I see.” He held a chair for my mother. I didn't wait for anyone to perform the gentlemanly gesture for me, but pulled out my own chair and plunked myself down on it. When I glanced up, I saw him eyeing me as if he'd like to haul me out back and take a blackjack to me until I confessed to something. Dog-gone him, anyhow.
“My goodness, yes,” said Vi, for whom Pa pulled out a chair. I was the only female present who didn't deserve masculine courtesy, I guess. “Her parents must be frantic.”
“They're upset, all right,” said Sam. “Can you blame them?” He stared at me as he said it, and took a seat across the table f
rom me. He would. The better to spy on me, I suppose.
Billy sat next to me at the table. I felt more comfortable with my husband at my side; don't ask me why. “No,” I said. “I can't blame them at all. It must be awful for them, not knowing if their child is alive or dead.”
“Daisy,” my mother said softly in a mildly reproving tone of voice. I guess she didn't want me talking about the possibility of death as concerned Marianne Wagner.
Oh, brother. We hadn't even been given menus yet, and already I'd disappointed my mother. Because I couldn't seem to win, I decided to remain mute unless forced to talk. It was going to be tough, because I'm not shy and I generally love to blab.
“I guess the police have to take such things as possible death or suicide into consideration when it comes to missing persons.”
This declaration of support came from the throat of my own husband, thereby shocking me for a change, instead of Ma.
“After all, people don't usually drop off the face of the earth as this Wagner girl seems to have done, unless they have help or they've run away. From what Daisy's told me about the girl, she's not the type to run away.”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling upon my husband.
“I suppose so.” After giving me one last long look, Sam glanced around the restaurant as if he expected to find Marianne hiding underneath a chair.
Upon a sudden and (I thought at the time) brilliant inspiration, I said, “Or maybe she committed suicide.” I knew the suggestion had been a mistake as soon as the word suicide hit the air. Everyone looked at me as if they'd been delivered of a brutal and communal blow from the Almighty.
“My goodness,” murmured Ma, her eyes as round as baseballs, “I hadn't considered the possibility of suicide. How awful.”
It sure was. I swallowed, for the first time thinking about what I'd said. It was a bad habit of mine to speak before thinking, I know. I sure hoped Marianne hadn't taken that way out.
