Spirits Onstage (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 8)

by Alice Duncan

  "You were wonderful, Daisy."

  "Thank you. So were you, Harold."

  "I honestly didn't know you could sing that well."

  I gave him an evil-eyed squint. "Then you lied to your friends."

  "Don't be nasty. I do believe you're taking this role to heart."

  "It's fun being unpleasant," I said. And I meant it. I'd never been cruel before.

  "I've always found it fun to be unkind," he said, smirking.

  "You said this operetta is for a good cause. What's the good cause?"

  "Besides giving the Van der Lindens a step up in their effort to establish a local operatic ensemble, the proceeds of this particular operetta will go to Belgian war orphans."

  "Hmm. I guess that's a good cause."

  "The best. Don't forget what those nasty Germans did to Belgium."

  I glowered my gloweriest glower at Harold. "How could I ever forget what those nasty Germans did to anyone, Harold Kincaid?"

  "Oops. Sorry, Daisy. I know the war's aftermath was hard on you."

  I humphed. "It was a lot harder on Billy."

  Harold cleared his throat, then said, "You're being a good sport, Daisy. But I want to talk to you about something. How about I buy you a sandwich and an ice-cream soda, and we can chat over luncheon at the counter at the Rexall."

  This time I gave him a real stink-eye. "What are you talking about, Harold Kincaid? If you've lured me into singing in this stupid operetta under false pretences, I'll... I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it."

  He grinned. "Nonsense. You know me better than that."

  "I don't, either. I don't trust you. You've tricked me before."

  "I have not."

  Casting my gaze to the ceiling, I thought about that. Had he tricked me before? He'd shot a man in Turkey in order to rescue Sam from some nasty kidnappers. I guess I still owed him for that.

  Nuts.

  "Oh, very well, but I'm not going to do anything else I don't want to do for you."

  "You won't have to. Come with me. We'll hit the drug store."

  "I'd rather not. Hit it, I mean."

  "Funny."

  I'd walked to the church for rehearsal, since it was only a few blocks north of where I lived, but Harold had his Stutz Bearcat with him, so we rode in that to the Rexall Drug Store on Colorado near Marengo. The day was a cold one, and he'd put the top up on his machine. I was still cold, however, when he found a place to park his car, and we got out and huddled in our coats and hats into the drug store.

  When we'd made it to the counter and sat, I said, "I'm too cold for ice cream. I want a cup of cocoa." I thought about food for a minute, looked at the sandwich menu chalked on the blackboard behind the counter then added, "And a chicken-and-almond sandwich."

  "Sounds good to me, although I think I'll take a roast beef sandwich with horseradish." When the soda jerk appeared, Harold said, "Two hot cocoas. Heavy on the whipped cream. One chicken-and-almond sandwich for the lady, and a roast-beef sandwich with horseradish for me."

  "Coming right up," said the counter boy, and he loped off to fill our orders.

  "Now, what's up that you need to talk to me about, Harold? I'm not sure I want to know."

  "Gloria Lippincott thinks somebody is trying to kill her."

  After goggling at Harold for at least thirty seconds, I said, "I knew I wouldn't want to know!"

  He only chuckled, the soda jerk set steaming mugs before us, and Harold began to explain. Evidently Mr. and Mrs. Lippincott didn't get along. Mr. Lippincott, according to his missus, had begun an affair with a married lady in the upper realms of Pasadena's society. Mrs. Lippincott claimed her husband didn't believe in divorce, and that he'd been trying to kill her through various despicable means. Clearly, he hadn't yet succeeded.

  "What about her? She's a definite flirt. Has she had any affairs?"

  "Darned if I know. I also don't know if it matters. She still claims someone is trying to kill her."

  Hmm. I'll admit here that I didn't much care for Mrs. Lippincott, mainly because she was pretending to be bored and languid and... well, not my type of person, but I thought murdering her might be an excessive reaction to a nominally unpleasant personality. I said, "Hmm." I sipped my cocoa thoughtfully, and had come to no firm conclusion about anything before the soda jerk reappeared and set our sandwiches before us.

  I ate as thoughtfully as I'd drunk my cocoa, and after a couple of bites I said, "What do you think I can do about Mrs. Lippincott's suspicions? I'm not a bodyguard, I'm not a policeman, and I'm not a private detective or a food taster. If she really thinks her estranged husband is out to get her, she should call on somebody else. Like the police. I'm only a phony spiritualist."

  "She doesn't want to call attention to her suspicions."

  "That's stupid."

  With a shrug, Harold said, "Maybe, but she still won't call the authorities or a private investigator. However, you're a keen observer."

  He was dead wrong about that. I never observed anything. "That's rubbish. Things can happen right in front of me, and I won't even notice." I shuddered, remembering an incident in which someone had leaned out of a car window and taken a potshot at me. I guess I'd observed him, but it was at the very last minute. If I'd been a split-second slower, I'd have been left bleeding on the sidewalk. "Anyhow, if he wants to get rid of her so badly he'd pay somebody to kill her, wouldn't divorce be cheaper?"

  "Probably not. Maybe he doesn't want to pay alimony or something. If she dies, he won't have to."

  "Hmm."

  Harold patted the hand not holding the sandwich. It was pretty darned good, that sandwich. I'd never have thought about mixing toasted, chopped almonds into a chicken sandwich filling on my own.

  "Anyhow, what about her? She doesn't seem like the innocent maiden to me. Maybe her husband doesn't want her infidelities to get out any more than he wants his to."

  With a shrug, Harold said, "I don't know. I doubt that Gloria is pure as the driven snow, but from what she's told me about her husband, he's a real poop."

  "Nuts. I don't want to do any snooping."

  "Dear Daisy. Don't fret. Just keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you see or hear anything you think is strange."

  "Heck, Harold, I think singing in an operetta is strange."

  He only laughed again. He should have known better.

  Chapter 6

  Pa and Spike were there to greet me when Harold dropped me off in front of our Marengo bungalow. I pretty much staggered into the house, more tired than I could remember being in a long, long time. Singing in an operetta takes a lot more out of a person than singing in a church choir does. And here I'd always thought of myself as a lowly alto, but I was actually a bona fide contralto. Would wonders never cease?

  As I knelt to greet my darling dog, my father smiled benevolently upon the both of us. "How'd rehearsal go? I expected you home before this time."

  I got creakily to my feet. "Harold took me to lunch at the Rexall drugstore. It's cold out there." I shivered.

  "That was nice of him. Both your aunt and your mother are taking naps. You look bushed, too, Daisy. I was going to ask if you want to take an s-t-r-o-l-l with the d-o-g, but I think you need your rest first."

  "I'd love to go for an s-t-r-o-l-l after I nap a bit, Pa." That wasn't much of a lie. At the moment, I wanted to fall down right where I was and sleep for a hundred years, but I knew my state of exhaustion wouldn't last. Heck, most of it was due to strain and not lack of sleep anyway. Doing new things—like singing a contralto role in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta—always takes more energy than one expects it to.

  So Spike and I headed for my bedroom, I removed my clothes, donned an old, worn-out day dress, and flopped onto the bed. Spike jumped up to join me, and the two of us snoozed contentedly for an hour and a half. My eyes opened at last, and when I looked at my bedside clock, I saw it was 3:30. Yawning, I decided that left time enough to go for a walk with Pa and Spike be
fore I had to set the table for dinner.

  So I put on heavy socks and shoes, pulled on an old, lumpy, stretched-out cardigan sweater, and grabbed my warmest coat and an old felt cloche hat that I could pull down to cover my ears, and grabbed my gloves. Spike and I exited the bedroom...

  And ran smack into Sam Rotondo chatting at the kitchen table with my father! And me, looking like a war refugee! Darn it all, anyhow!

  Pa and Sam glanced up, and I swear I saw Sam's lips twitch.

  "I see you're awake," said Pa mildly.

  "Yes," I said. Then, glaring at Sam, I demanded, "What are you doing here?"

  He stopped trying to hide his amusement and grinned at me. "Just wanted to find out how your first rehearsal went."

  "It was all right," I said, sounding sullen.

  But really. It wasn't that I wanted to look good for Sam. I only just wanted to look... not like I'd grabbed my outfit from a ragbag. If you know what I mean.

  Sam eyed my gloves and hat. "Going somewhere?"

  "Pa and I were going to take Spike for a—" I caught myself before I could say the word walk. Spike knew that word. "A ramble around the neighborhood."

  But Spike wasn't fooled. I think he caught on to the "take Spike for" part. He woofed, wagged, and raced over to where his leash hung from a hook on the service porch. Smart dog, Spike.

  "Mind if I tag along?" asked Sam, sounding deceptively pleasant.

  I squinted at him, but didn't detect any subterfuge. Then again, I've already admitted I'm not a keen observer. I said, "Sure. The more, the merrier."

  "Maybe I should just stay here today," said Pa.

  "No you don't!" I all but yelled at him. "You're the one who said you wanted to take Spike out in the first place!"

  My father held up his hands, as if in surrender. "Very well. Very well. Just... thought I'd see if you'd give me a reprieve from the cold, cruel world."

  "Nuts. It's not that cold out." Actually, it was, but I'd never admit it.

  So Sam and Pa and I and a deliriously happy Spike, who never minded what the weather was like, left our house via the side entrance, and walked down to Belvedere, around the block, and came back to our house. I don't know about the men and Spike, but I was darned near frozen by the time we got back home. And I was dressed for winter in Siberia, for Pete's sake.

  Naturally, Sam stayed for dinner that night. Sam very nearly always stayed to dinner when someone asked him to. This time it was Vi, who was up and about and preparing some kind of feast for our dining pleasure. We Gumms and Majestys—well, I was the only Majesty left by that time—always dined at six p.m. We weren't posh.

  Before I set the table, I hurried to my room and put on a more suitable day dress, stockings and low-heeled shoes. I even brushed my hair. I didn't mind walking around the neighborhood bundled to the teeth, but I didn't want Sam to think I dressed like that often. Not, of course, that I cared what he thought of me.

  Oh, very well, that's a flat-out lie. I did care what he thought of me. I just didn't want to.

  Dinner that night was delicious. Everything Vi makes is wonderful. That night we had roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

  "I love these mashed potatoes, Vi," I said, as I munched on a forkful of them contentedly. "They taste a little different tonight. Really, really good."

  "I put some cream cheese in with the butter and mashed everything up together with a clove of chopped garlic."

  I lifted my head and stared at my aunt, awe-stricken by her creativity. "Goodness gracious, Vi. You're a genius in the kitchen. I love everything you make."

  "I know you do, sweetie. How did your first rehearsal go?"

  "Oh, yes!" cried my mother, who worked half days on Saturdays at the Hotel Marengo. "Was it difficult for you to sing that part? Was it too low for you?" She frowned. "Or do I mean too high?"

  "The role of Katisha," said I, as if I knew what I was talking about, "traditionally is sung by a mezzo-soprano or a contralto. Mr. Van der Linden, our director, who plays the role of Nanki-Poo, the hero of the story, told me I could sing it as a contralto, which is lower than a soprano. So far it seems to be perfect for my voice range. According to Harold, contraltos and altos are basically the same."

  Ma blinked at me. Not the most imaginative woman in the world, my mother, but a dear soul. Plus, she was good at mathematics, which, in my book, makes her a certified brain. Algebra in high school had just about done me in. "Why do they call you an alto in church if you're a contralto?"

  "Beats me," I said in all honesty.

  "When's your next rehearsal?" asked Sam.

  "Tuesday evening. Seven to nine." Then I looked at him, suspicion clouding my mind. "Why?"

  "No reason. Just wondered, was all."

  Hmm. I wasn't sure I trusted this meek demeanor of his. Had he heard about the domestic trauma extant between the Lippincotts?

  "I was thinking, if I got off work early enough, I'd like to see a rehearsal or two," he added.

  "That would be fun!" exclaimed my mild-mannered mother, surprising me. "Perhaps we can all go."

  "I'd enjoy that," said Vi.

  "Me, too," said Pa.

  Aw, criminy. "I'd rather you wait a while. We're just learning our roles, and we don't have the blocking down yet." A feeling of panic began to gnaw at my innards. I didn't want Sam Rotondo to see me making a fool of myself, darn it!

  "What is blocking?" asked my mother. Good question.

  "Blocking is determining where everyone will stand on the stage, and where to move and when."

  "Oh." Ma shrugged. "Wonder why they call it blocking."

  "I have no earthly idea," I told her in all honesty.

  The telephone rang before I could think of any good reasons for my family and Sam not to watch our rehearsal on Tuesday night. Bother. Because the telephone was almost always for me, I got up from my roasted chicken and mashed potatoes (with cream cheese, butter and garlic, by golly) and gravy, walked into the kitchen, and picked up the receiver.

  "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."

  "Daisy, Gloria just called me. She's hysterical. She said somebody tried to run her down when she went to Nash's Department Store after rehearsal." Harold sounded quite rattled.

  I was silent for a couple of seconds, then said, "Why is she calling you about her problems? Are you bosom buddies or something?"

  "No! I scarcely know the woman! She just seems to have attached herself to me as a sounding board. And she just called to tell me someone tried to run her down!" I could almost see Harold wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

  Nuts.

  "And you're telling me this because... because... Why? What do you think I can do about it? For that matter, what does she think you can do about it? She should telephone the coppers if she thinks somebody tried to run her down, whether she wants to or not."

  "I know, I know." Now Harold sounded harried. Harold Kincaid didn't care for ructions in his routine. Can't say as I could fault him for that, especially if they were as idiotic as this one seemed to be. "But she begged me to help her."

  "Oh? And how do you aim to do that?" I'll admit my voice held a hint of acid.

  "I'm calling you," said Harold. Before I could point out the futility, not to mention the idiocy, of his action, he said, "Which is stupid, isn't it?"

  "Yes. It is."

  "Sorry, Daisy. I don't know why Gloria's got me so upset about her problems."

  "I don't, either."

  "You were probably eating dinner, weren't you?"

  "Yes. We dine early. We're peasants."

  Harold laughed and said, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I think I'm going to have to tell Gloria she needs to hire a private eye."

  "That's the best idea you've had in days, Harold Kincaid."

  "Don't be snide, Daisy. You're supposed to be a soothing spiritualist, remember?"

  "I remember." In my most syrupy voice, I repeated, "That's the best idea you've had in days, Harold Kincaid."

  Haro
ld gave another bark of laughter and hung up his receiver. I did the same at my end of the wire and went back to the dinner table. I must have looked annoyed, because Pa said, "Something wrong, sweetie?"

  With a sigh, I sat at my place and picked up my fork. "Not really. Just Harold. He... he wanted me to help him with something I can't help him with. If that makes any sense."

  "My goodness," said Vi. Harold was one of Vi's special pets. Kind of like Sam, actually, drat it. "What's the matter with the dear boy?"

  "Nothing's the matter with him," I said after swallowing. My mother scolds me if I talk with my mouth full.

  "Then why'd he call?" Sam. The detective. Rats.

  "To ask if I could help him with a problem. I can't."

  "What problem?"

  I eyed Sam without benevolence. "It's nothing, Sam. It concerns another person entirely, and I don't even know why Harold asked for my help to begin with. There's nothing I can do for the person in question."

  "My goodness. You sound very mysterious," said my mother.

  "I don't mean to be. But Harold said the other person doesn't want a lot of people to know about this problem."

  Ma sniffed. "It's not as if we're in daily contact with people like the Pinkertons. Well, you are, Daisy, but the rest of us sure aren't."

  "Ain't that the truth?" said Pa. In case you wondered, the only time he ever uses the word "ain't" is when he's making that particular comment.

  "Me, neither," said Vi. "I see Mrs. Pinkerton every now and then, and Harold more often, but they're the only rich folks I talk to on a regular basis."

  "True, but I promised Harold," I said, feeling beleaguered.

  Then I thought about what I'd just said. Had I promised Harold I wouldn't mention Gloria Lippincott's perceived problem to anyone? Pondering our conversations at the Rexall drug counter and recently on the telephone, I realized I hadn't promised him a darned thing. I'd told him I was unable to help him, why, and hadn't said anything about not telling anyone. So I decided what the heck and said, "Gloria Lippincott thinks her estranged husband is trying to kill her. That's what Harold's call was about. She thinks somebody tried to run her down outside Nash's Dry Goods and Department Store after rehearsal today."