by Alice Duncan
If you ever want to stop a conversation dead in its tracks, drop a comment like that before the assembled guests. Everyone at the table sat as if suddenly turned to marble, forks, knives or spoons suspended, and stared at me.
I stared back and smiled at them all.
Then I ate more chicken.
Chapter 7
Because I knew he'd make me if I didn't offer on my own, I walked Sam out to his big old Hudson after he and Pa played a few rounds of gin rummy while Ma and I cleaned up the dinner dishes. Vi didn't have to clean up, since she was the cook.
"Damnation, why do people always go to you with their problems?" Sam demanded furiously. Before I could answer, he held up a hand. "I know. I know. Because you're nicer than I am."
"Precisely. However, I told Harold I couldn't do a darned thing for Mrs. Lippincott, and I don't aim to get involved in her problems, so you needn't lecture me, Sam."
"For once," he grumbled.
"Unfair, Sam Rotondo."
"Huh. You always involve yourself in things that are none of your business."
"I have never," I said sternly, "become involved in anything that didn't directly concern me, and you know it!"
"Huh."
"Oh, nuts to you!" I whirled around, but was thwarted in my intent to storm back into the house—it was cold out there, darn it—by a pair of big hands clamping down on my shoulders and spinning me around again.
"I mean it, Daisy. If you see anything at all that looks as if this Lippincott dame might really be in trouble, I want you to tell me about it. All right?"
Although I wasn't pleased to have been manhandled, I agreed with Sam's sentiment on this subject. "All right with me."
"Promise?"
"Promise. I already told Harold she should call the police."
And to my utter astonishment, Sam Rotondo bent down and gave me a quick kiss. On the lips. It felt good.
I stood there, stunned, my fingers pressed to my mouth as his Hudson roared to life. Then Sam tootled on down the street, turned left at the next corner, and, I'm sure, aimed to turn right on Los Robles Avenue. He lived in an adorable little row of courts on Los Robles.
Sam had kissed me.
Sam had kissed me.
Goodness gracious sakes alive, as Vi sometimes said. I more or less floated back to the house.
* * *
On Wednesday morning, I had an appointment for a Ouija-board session with Mrs. Bissel, probably my second-best client, and one of my favorites because she'd given me Spike. Mrs. Bissel lived in a big house on many acres of land in Altadena, a little townlet just north of Pasadena, smack up against the San Gabriel foothills. Her mansion sat more or less on the corner of Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane.
Mrs. Bissel breeds and "shows" dachshunds. That means she takes one or more of the dogs she breeds and enters them into dog shows in various places. The height of her ambition is someday to have one of her hounds entered into the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in New York City, which is evidently the cat's pajamas of dog shows. To each her own. The height of my ambition was to continue making a decent living for my family and me.
Mrs. Bissel's houseboy, Keiji Saito, greeted me at the back door. Mind you, Mrs. Bissel wouldn't have minded if I'd come to the front door, but in order to do that I'd have had to park on Foothill Boulevard and walk the approximately half-mile from Foothill to her house, up the terraced lawn. It was easier to park in her gigantic circular driveway in the back of her house. A big monkey-puzzle tree sat in the middle of the circle. I don't know if you're familiar with monkey-puzzle trees, but they're odd-looking specimens, and their leaves are spiky and hurt like the devil if you accidently step on one. Their bark looks kind of like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, which I guess is how they got their name.
"Good morning, Keiji," I greeted him warmly. I liked Keiji a lot. He'd taught me how to use chopsticks a few months before, and I'd awed my family when we'd gone to dine at Miyako's Japanese Restaurant once.
"Good morning, Mrs. Majesty," said he in his turn.
"Daisy," I reminded him. Heck, if he was Keiji to me, I could be Daisy to him. It was only fair.
He grinned. "Daisy."
"Is Mrs. Bissel ready for me?" I stripped off my gloves and stuffed them into a pocket of my heavy woolen coat, which I'd sewn myself from a bolt end I'd found at Maxime's Fabrics on Colorado Boulevard. After I'd made the coat, I'd decided I'd make a really crummy sheep, because the wool itched like mad. However, the coat was warm, so I used it. But that's beside the point. I handed my coat and hat to Keiji, and he took care of them for me.
"She certainly is. She's in her sitting room upstairs."
"All right. Thanks."
I loved Mrs. Bissel's house. In truth, I enjoyed most of the glorious homes my clients owned. While I lived in a modest bungalow on South Marengo Avenue, which was a nice little house in a friendly neighborhood and perfect for my family, my clients lived in palaces. Mrs. Bissel's personal palace had suites of rooms upstairs, each one complete with a bedroom or two, a bathroom, a dressing room, a sitting room, and maybe a couple of other rooms. Oh, and a huge closet. Heck, the place even had a suite of rooms off the kitchen for the cook and her husband to use.
Must be nice. On the other hand, it must be expensive to maintain. On the whole, I was happy with our bungalow.
Mrs. Bissel wasn't as nervy and excitable as Mrs. Pinkerton. Perhaps that's because she had a bunch of dachshunds to keep her company. I didn't hear any barks coming from upstairs, so I presumed the dogs were in their kennels out back near the stable-turned-garage. The kennel, if anyone is interested, is heated. I swear... But never mind.
I climbed the stairs and knocked lightly on the open door of Mrs. B's sitting room. It was a pleasant room, with a fireplace in full roar on this raw October day, and built-in bookcases lining the walls. The mantelpiece held pictures of Mrs. Bissel's late husband and her grown children and lots and lots of dachshunds. Some of them looked like Spike, and I smiled.
"Good morning, Daisy!" said Mrs. Bissel, coming forward to greet me. She never attempted to run me down, as Mrs. Pinkerton did. Well, Mrs. Pinkerton didn't mean to run me down. It's only that she's a large woman and generally in thrall to some emotion or other.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bissel. It's cold out there. Your fireplace is lovely and welcome today."
"Thank you, dear. Please, have a seat over here." She gestured to a card table someone, probably Keiji, had set up at the window-end of her sitting room, which overlooked her rolling front lawn. Two chairs had been placed on either side of the table.
I gazed out the windows at her yard for a moment before saying, "Your grounds are beautiful, Mrs. Bissel." Generally, I entered Mrs. Bissel's house via the back door, so I didn't get to see her front yard—or front acreage—very often.
"Thank you, dear. They aren't as extensive as some, but I do enjoy the bird of paradise plants in front of the porch when they bloom."
"Yes, indeed. That bird of paradise you gave us is thriving."
"I'm so glad to hear it. How's Spike doing?"
I turned and smiled broadly at the dear woman. "He's perfect. I've never had such a wonderful dog. And he's so smart, too! Why, did you know that my father and I have taught him math?"
Her eyes widened. "You've what?"
Laughing, I said, "Not really. But Spike will learn any trick if there's food at the end of the trick."
"Ah, yes. You have to watch their weight, you know."
"Yes, I do know. Dachshunds love to eat, but you have to be strict with them because too much weight is a strain on their long backs. You and Mrs. Hanratty taught me that."
"They'll eat until they just about pop if you don't watch them."
"I know." Actually, I kind of did the same thing, but I didn't mention it.
Pulling my Ouija board out of its cloth bag (I'd made the bag several years earlier), I set it and the wooden planchette on the card table. "Do you have anything specific you'd like to as
k Rolly today, Mrs. Bissel?"
An expression of worry crossed the dear woman's face. Mrs. Bissel didn't possess the dramatic personality of Mrs. Pinkerton. Generally a serene person, it took a good deal to worry her. She'd been terrified about two years previous to this, when she'd believed her basement had been invaded by a ghost or a spirit, but I'd solved that problem for her. In another instance, an honest-to-God ghost had manifested itself during a séance at Mrs. B's house, but I was the only one who'd suffered from that invasion. Thank goodness nothing like that has ever happened since.
"Well, it's not specifically my problem," she began. She must have seen me open my mouth to speak, because she hurried to explain, "I know you can't help anyone other than the person on the other side of the planchette."
"Right." Darned right, in fact. Mrs. Pinkerton was forever forgetting that. I was glad to know Mrs. Bissel had remembered.
"But I'm afraid my Dennis is in trouble, and that makes me worry." Dennis was Mrs. Bissel's son.
"Dennis? Rolly can't help—"
She held up a hand. "I know. I know. But perhaps Rolly can advise me. I don't know whether to stick my two cents into Dennis's business, or just remain silent. I don't like to see him getting caught up in a vile woman's clutches." She frowned majestically. Heck, I'm a Majesty, and I can't do that. Probably happens when you're born to money.
"A vile woman's clutches?" I asked. "But isn't Dennis married? I thought he and his wife were happy together."
"They are. Or they were," said she, still frowning. "But there's a woman who's trying to break them up. I know she is, although Dennis claims it's all my imagination. And Patsy doesn't even seem to notice what's going on." Patsy was Dennis's wife.
"Hmm. Well, I honestly don't know what Rolly can do to help you, but let's give it a go." I sat in the chair closer to the window. Heck, Mrs. B could look at her rolling lawn any old day. I figured I'd grab the opportunity when it presented itself.
"Thank you, Daisy. You're so sweet to all of us little old ladies."
"Nonsense," I said, laughing. They might be old, but precious few of them were little. Mrs. Bissel, for instance, was a trifle bigger than Mrs. Pinkerton, who was not a small woman. But never mind that. It was nice to know my clients appreciated me.
So the two of us sat at opposite sides of the table, put our fingers lightly on the planchette, and our session began.
"Why don't you begin by asking a question," I suggested. "Try to make it about you and not Dennis."
"Very well." She sat and thought for a minute or two while the planchette perched there on the board, unmoving. Then she said, "Rolly, I'm worried about my son Dennis and his wife. I'm worried that a woman is trying to seduce him away from Patsy."
Goodness! I wasn't accustomed to such plain-speaking from my clients. But what the heck, at least the woman was honest.
Thinking fast, I had the planchette circle the board slowly. Then I aimed it at the double rows of letters comprising the alphabet. I was so accustomed to performing my craft by this time that I could read upside down as well as I could right-side up.
Eventually—spelling everything out on the Ouija board takes time, even if you're not pretending to be a dead Scot who couldn't spell well—I had Rolly tell her that she was a good mother for being concerned about her children, but that they were adults and had to make their own choices.
"Should I talk to Dennis about my suspicions?"
Oh, dear. It was in situations like this when my job became kind of tricky. Being careful, I had Rolly spell out, "Only if you can be discreet and not accusatory."
"Oh, of course!" Mrs. B cried, as if she'd never thought to accuse her son of anything. "I don't think Dennis has any ulterior ideas. It's another woman I'm afraid might weasel her way into his affections."
Hmm. "You need to be careful how you speak to your son. You don't want him to think you're interfering in his life. And you don't want to make him think that you think he can't take care of himself. Is his wife worried about this other woman?"
"I... I don't know. I hope not. I... I don't think she suspects anything."
"Why do you suspect this other woman of going after your son?" asked Rolly, getting to the point.
"I've watched her." Mrs. Bissel's voice was grim. "She insinuates herself into every conversation I see Dennis having at parties, and she always tries to sit next to him. Close to him."
"And his wife hasn't noticed this?"
"I don't think so. Patsy is such a sweet girl, and she's so trusting."
Very well. Maybe Rolly should do some plain speaking here. Or plain writing. Well, you know what I mean. "Is Dennis worthy of her trust?"
"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bissel as if she were offended by the question. Nuts.
"Then why are you worrying?" asked Rolly, and quite sensibly, too, I think.
"Because this woman has caused trouble in other people's marriages," said Mrs. Bissel. "Even marriages everyone thought were solid."
"She's some sort of a succubus, is she?"
"A what?"
"A devil in female form who seduces men." Never mind that succubae generally seduce men in their sleep. I liked the word, so I had Rolly use it, even though he was an uneducated ex-soldier, and they probably didn't have succubae in Scotland in the 1000s. And even they did, Rolly wouldn't be able to spell the word. But nobody ever called me on these inconsistencies for some reason unknown to me.
"I... I don't know." When I glanced from the board to Mrs. Bissel's face, she appeared thoughtful.
"You might have a friendly chat with your son and gently tell him your fears," suggested Rolly. "Is he easy for you to talk to?"
"Dennis? Oh, yes. He's a sweet young man. That's one of the reasons I'm so worried. He's not used to women like that."
"It might be appropriate to hint that this other woman is up to no good," Rolly suggested.
"Hmm. Yes. Yes, that might be a good thing to do. I don't think Dennis suspects a thing. In fact, he usually seems surprised when the harpy sidles up to him at parties and so forth."
"You probably shouldn't talk to his wife. That might just upset her," said Rolly.
"Oh, no! I'd never tell Patsy. She's so sweet and... and... well, sheltered, if you know what I mean."
I knew what she meant. So did Rolly.
Then I thought of another question Rolly could ask that might actually be pertinent, and had him ask it. "What is this other woman's name?"
After a disdainful sniff, Mrs. Bissel said, "Gloria. Gloria Lippincott."
I darned near dropped my spiritualist pose.
Chapter 8
Gloria Lippincott! Only instead of being a damsel in distress, she was the one doing the distressing. At least she'd distressed Mrs. Bissel, who was worried about her son's marriage.
I'd met Dennis Bissel once or twice, and had met his wife slightly more often. They both had roles in The Mikado, and they were both as innocent as baby lambs, if I were any judge. Mrs. Bissel might well be right. If Mrs. Lippincott fixed her eyes upon Dennis and planned a seduction of him, he'd probably fall right into her snare.
Oh, dear. Oh, dear. What should a caring spiritualist do?
Well, for one thing, I could call Harold Kincaid. I'd have to wait until the evening, however, since he worked at a picture studio in Los Angeles during the day. So all I could do was drive the Chevrolet back down Lake Avenue to Colorado, turn right, drive to Marengo, turn left, and go home. And fret. I fretted all the way home.
Spike, naturally, awaited me with happiness and glee. And loud barking and a wagging tail. Spike was such a terrific companion. Spike never groused at me. Spike never had woman troubles. Spike never wailed at me or told me his problems or expected me to save his son's marriage.
Unfortunately, before I was finished thoroughly loving my dog, the blasted telephone rang.
"Bother, Spike. I'd better get that. It's probably for me, anyway."
Spike didn't object. I noticed he was alone in the house. My father had
probably gone out to visit with a friend or six. My father is one of those people of whom it is said, "He never met a stranger." He loved everyone. I loved my dog. And my family. I wasn't so sure about the rest of the world.
Nevertheless, I went to the kitchen and to the telephone on the wall, took a deep breath in case it was an hysterical Mrs. Pinkerton, and began speaking. "Gumm-Majesty—"
That's as far as I got, because Harold Kincaid all but shouted into the receiver, "Gloria Lippincott's husband was murdered last night!"
It took me an instant to organize my thoughts. They didn't want to be organized. I guess Harold got tired of me trying to think, because he hollered, "Did you hear me?"
Well, I could at least answer that question. "Yes. I heard you. What was his name?"
"What do you mean, what was his name? It was Lippincott! I just told you that."
I sighed. "I mean his first name. What was his first name, Harold?"
"What difference does that make? For God's sake, stick to the matter at hand, will you?"
"You mean his murder?"
"Of course, I mean his murder!"
"Oh. All right."
"Well, what can you do?"
"What can I do? I can't do anything! It's up to the police now, for heaven's sake, Harold. Good Lord, what do you expect me to do?" My voice was sharp, but that's only because I was shocked and his question had been so stupid.
"Oh, God. Oh, God," said Harold, sounding a teensy bit like his addlebrained mother. "I know you can't do anything. Really, I do. But God, Daisy, do you know what this is going to do to the production?"
For a second or two, I didn't know what he was talking about. Then it hit me like a brick upside the head. "The production? Is that all you can think about at a time like this? For Pete's sake, Harold Kincaid, a man's been murdered!"
Just then a heavy knock came at the door, and Spike went into his "Oh, goody, a friend is coming to call" frenzy. Aw, shoot.
"You're right. I know you're right. I'm sorry, Daisy, I—"
