by Alice Duncan
* * *
I rolled out of bed about sevenish the following morning. I didn't want to rise. I wanted to curl up, pull the quilt over my head, and hide out for a year or so.
But I'd promised Mrs. Bissel I'd go to see her, and the poor woman was so upset, I couldn't in conscience break my word. Therefore, I forced myself to leave the nice, warm bed. Spike, I noticed, was long gone. He'd probably got down from the bed the minute Aunt Vi or Pa had walked into the kitchen. Spike was no fool. And I always made sure the hinges on my bedroom door were oiled so it wouldn't squeak when anyone opened it to allow Spike out.
After thinking about getting dressed for approximately thirty seconds, I decided I'd save big decisions until after breakfast, so I put my ratty old robe on over my ratty old nightgown, stuffed my feet into my ratty old slippers, and staggered out to the kitchen.
"Morning, sunshine," said Pa, grinning at me from the kitchen table.
"Uhhh. Morning, Pa." I shuffled over to the stove, where Vi had left a pot of coffee on the warming plate. I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured coffee into it. Then I went back to the table, where Pa was reading the morning Star News. Spike sat at his feet, looking up at him as if he expected a bite of food to appear miraculously, although he did turn his head and wag at me. I loved my dog. He was always happy to see me, even when I looked like the wrath of God.
"I see here where it says there was some excitement at church last night," said Pa, peering at me over the paper, which he'd crunched down.
I sipped the bitter brew. I really don't care for coffee, but it perks one up in the morning. Tea does, too, but you have to boil water and measure tea and heat the pot and so forth, and the coffee was already made, thanks to Aunt Vi.
After swallowing, I said, "You have no idea."
"It says here that a stone fell from the church roof and almost injured a member of the cast of The Mikado."
"It didn't fall. Someone threw—or maybe shoved—it from the roof. It almost hit Gloria Lippincott. She thinks somebody is trying to kill her."
"Lippincott? Isn't that the name of the man who was run down the other day?"
"Yes. She's his wife. Widow, I guess, at this point. They were estranged, whatever that means. I guess they'd lived apart for a couple of years. He wanted a divorce, but she wouldn't give him one. Or the other way around. I can't remember. Oh, and the police arrested Dennis Bissel, Mrs. Bissel's son, for murdering him. Gloria's husband. Late husband, I mean. Late estranged husband. Oh, bother. Anyhow, I don't believe for a single second that he did it. Dennis, I mean. He didn't kill Mr. Lippincott." I yawned and rubbed my gritty eyes. "What a mess."
Silence greeted my explanation. Opening my eyes wider, I saw Pa staring at me, an odd expression on his face.
"What?" I asked. "What's the matter?"
"Mrs. Bissel's son was arrested for murdering the husband of a woman who was almost killed last night at the church? Our church?"
Oh, dear. Perhaps I should have taken more care with my words. I sighed. "Yes. Our church. Bet the worship committee isn't going to like this one little bit."
"I'm on the worship committee, and I don't like it," said Pa, rather tartly for him. "Nor will Pastor Smith, I imagine." Pastor Merle Negley Smith had been the preacher in charge of the First Methodist-Episcopal Church for several years by that time.
Dismayed, I gazed at him for a couple of seconds, worried that he aimed to blame me for something. "It wasn't my idea to sing in The Mikado," I said, a plea in my voice. "And I had no idea Mr. Hostetter would agree to stage it at the church." I added lamely, "It's for a good cause."
Folding his newspaper and laying it on the table, Pa reached for the hand that wasn't clutching my coffee mug for dear life. "I know that, Daisy. None of that was your fault. But you do seem to get caught up in the most alarming circumstances sometimes."
"You sound like Sam," I told him bitterly.
He grinned. "Sorry, sweetheart. I just hate that such terrible things seem to happen around you." He shook his head.
I understood his concern. Things did seem to happen around me. I didn't like it, either. "Well, Sam was here when Mrs. Bissel telephoned last night, and he told her he'd look into the matter of Dennis running down Michael Lippincott. Which I'm sure he didn't." I groaned softly. "But I promised Mrs. Bissel I'd take Rolly up to her house and have him chat with her."
Pa squinted at me for a moment or two and then said, "Hmm. Maybe that's it."
"Maybe what's what?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
"Maybe your odd line of work attracts the strange things that seem to occur around you."
"You're not going to tell me you suddenly believe in ghosts, Pa!"
He chuckled. "No, no, no. But you have to admit that holding séances and pretending to talk to dead people isn't an average job for an average woman."
"Of course, it isn't. But I'm good at it, and I make a lot of money doing it."
"I know, sweetheart. But maybe... Oh, I don't know. I'm probably wrong, but you have an unusual profession, and unusual things seem to crop up in your vicinity. Quite often."
"I guess." But I didn't want to talk about it any longer. "Did Vi make anything for breakfast?" I grabbed an orange from the bowl on the table and began peeling it. It was of the navel variety and easy to peel.
"She fried up some cornmeal mush. I think she left a plate for you in the oven."
"Bless her heart." I grunted when I rose from my seat. I really had to get more exercise. I was turning into a marshmallow. However, that didn't prevent me from enjoying the fried mush and bacon my wonderful aunt had so thoughtfully left for me.
Speaking of my wonderful aunt, she appeared in the kitchen just then, along with my wonderful mother. Both of them were dressed for work. I felt like a slacker.
"Daisy, were you there when that stone fell on that woman?" Vi asked.
"That's terrible!" said my mother. "And at our church, too!"
Fudge. Why hadn't I just stayed in bed as I'd wanted to? Too late now. I smiled at the two most important women in my life and said, "Someone shoved a big paving stone off the roof of the church, but it didn't hit anyone. It sure rattled everybody, though. I wasn't there when it happened. Sam had just dropped me off at home, and we both drove back to the church after Harold called to tell me about it." I was pretty sure even my unimaginative mother could follow that speech.
Ma shook her head. "I'm not sure I approve of such goings-on at our church."
"I don't approve of such goings-on anywhere," I replied, meaning it sincerely. "That stone might have killed someone if it had hit him or her."
"Says here it was aimed at that lady whose husband was killed the other day," said Pa, pointing to the paper.
I sighed. "Well, it didn't hit her."
"I'm glad of that," said Ma. "But still..." She shook her head. "At our church."
"Pa's going to take it up with the worship committee," I told her.
"I expect Pastor Smith will have something to say about the matter, too," said Ma.
Oh, dear. I hated that my church was involved in an attempted crime. Well, the church itself wasn't, but... Oh, you know what I mean. Darn Mr. Floy Hostetter and Harold Kincaid both!
And, as if on cue, the telephone rang. I sagged slightly in my chair, but I knew where my duty lay, so I got up from the table and walked to the 'phone. It was early, dang it. Too early for people to be telephoning me. Not that the time of day had ever stopped anyone before.
I sucked in a gigantic breath and picked up the receiver. "Gumm-Majesty Res—"
"Dennis Bissel wasn't arrested."
Sam.
"He wasn't?"
"No. He was brought to the station for questioning last night. It's almost certain that Bissel's machine was used to run down Michael Lippincott. There's paint on Lippincott's body and a dent in Bissel's auto with what looks like a piece of Lippincott's coat stuck in it."
My comprehension skills weren't at their peak yet that morn
ing. I stared at the cradle where the receiver had lately been and said, "Huh?"
"That's why Dennis Bissel was taken in to be questioned." Sam sounded annoyed. "Because his car was used to kill a man. And for all anyone knows at this point, Bissel was driving it at the time."
"But... But..."
"Don't ask me. I don't know any more than that."
"But did Dennis even know Michael Lippincott?"
"How the hell should I know? Bissel's car killed the man. That's all I know."
"Are they sure about this?"
"Of course, they're sure! We don't go around picking up people to question for the hell of it."
"Good Lord."
"Yeah, I guess so. An arrest may follow, depending on circumstances and if Bissel can prove where he was the night of the murder." And he hung up.
I stood there, staring at the receiver in my hand, for what seemed like infinity. I jumped when Pa said, "Daisy? Are you all right?" and gently put the receiver back into the cradle.
But I was far from all right. "That was Sam," I said. "He said it's been proved that Dennis Bissel's car was the one that ran down Michael Lippincott." I stared at my family, who all stared back at me, aghast. Except for Spike, of course, who was never aghast.
"Mrs. Bissel's son?" asked Ma, who liked to make sure everything was clear and precise before taking it as the truth.
"That's the one, all right," I said. "But I don't believe he did it. Someone must have borrowed his car, or stolen it. Or something like that. Dennis Bissel wouldn't hurt a fly. At least, I don't think he would."
Maybe I was wrong. What the heck did I know? At that point, nothing. Nuts.
"I've got to get dressed and go to Mrs. Bissel's house." I started for my bedroom, but Pa stopped me.
"You'd better telephone her first, to see if she's home. She might be down at the police station, trying to bail out her son or something."
I turned to stare at my father. "Oh, Lord. You're right." What a dismal thought.
Although, after I thought about the matter for a moment or two, it was better to have Mrs. Bissel mixed up in a mess than Mrs. Pinkerton. Mrs. Bissel was sure to be upset by these goings-on, but she didn't get irrational and wail at me.
Small comfort.
I decided to dress before using the telephone. After all, Sam had called me at an indecently early hour, but that didn't mean I had to be rude, too. So, after seeing my mother and aunt out the door with good wishes for them both, I went into our bathroom and took a bubble bath. What the heck. I needed soothing.
Then I approached my closet. I'd removed Billy's clothes from it, although they still sat in our basement, folded up in boxes, because I couldn't quite bear to get rid of them yet. Selfish, I guess. I should take his duds down to Johnny Buckingham, Captain in the Salvation Army, to use. He always had a bunch of down-and-out poor folks who could use them.
But I wasn't ready to lose of the last of my Billy yet.
The closet revealed a host of costumes, made by my own clever hands. I sneered at them all, then walked to the door of the outside deck Pa had built for Billy and me to use when we wanted to be private outdoors, to check the weather.
Nippy. Good. That gave me something to start with. I toddled back to the closet.
After some fumbling around—I really didn't want to go to Mrs. Bissel's house that day—I decided a sober brown suit would be appropriate. It wasn't a doleful dark brown, but a rusty-brown color that kind of matched my hair. The suit had a three-quarter length unfitted jacket with a wide collar, around which I'd cleverly sewn a dark brown edging. The straight skirt came to my mid-calf. With it I wore a white blouse and a man's tie with a brown-and-rust stripe. I wore my black low-heeled shoes, black gloves and plopped my brown cloche hat on my head. There. Serious but not despondent. Spike wagged at me, so I guess he approved.
I walked from my room to the kitchen, where Pa still sat at the table, cracking walnuts, probably for Aunt Vi to use when she baked something scrumptious. He liked to help around the house when he could, bless his heart. He looked up as I entered the room, and his eyebrows lifted in approval.
"You look swell," said he.
"Thanks," said I. "I'm trying to be serious but not dismal."
"I think you've pulled it off quite well."
"Thanks, Pa." Then I sighed and walked to the telephone, lifted the receiver, found none of our party-line neighbors on the wire, and dialed Mrs. Bissel's number.
She was home, darn it.
Chapter 13
At least I knew I looked all right as I drove up Lake Avenue to Foothill Boulevard and turned right. Mrs. Bissel owned all the property from the corner of Maiden Lane on the east to Lake Avenue on the west. It was a huge estate, but I'd heard rumblings from her about how she might just sell some of her land now that her children had married and left the nest, and she only had her daughters' two horses to roam the vast acreage.
Must be nice to have property to sell off.
On the other hand, none of my kin owned automobiles that had been used to murder anyone. At least I hoped like mad they didn't.
I parked on the circular driveway in the back of the house and walked across the lovely paved courtyard to the back door. During the summer, the Daphne hedge lining the courtyard smelled heavenly. However, summer was gone and now everything was merely bleak and cold. I rang the bell, and Keiji Saito, who seemed to have been waiting for me, opened the door and let me in.
"Good morning, Keiji," I said, which was probably a stupid thing to say under the circumstances.
"You wouldn't know it from the mood around this place," said Keiji, confirming me in the notion that my comment had been inapt.
"Is Mrs. Bissel all right? I mean, I know she's worried and everything, but—"
"All things considered, she's doing okay. Dennis and Patsy are with her in the living room right now." Keiji's voice was soft, probably because we were in the sun room, and the living room was straight ahead of us.
I heaved a sigh, took a breath for courage, said, "Thanks, Keiji," and walked onto the field of battle—which was an almost-appropriate word when I saw that the room held only wounded people.
Very well; they weren't physically wounded, but I'd never seen a gloomier family gathering in my life... with the possible exception of the one at my house after Billy's funeral.
Dennis and Patsy sat together on a sofa, holding hands. Mrs. Bissel sat in a chair near the sofa, petting a couple of dachshunds. Everyone glanced at me as I entered the room. The dogs—I do believe they were Lucille and Lancelot, Spike's parents—bounded from Mrs. Bissel's lap in order to race over and say hello to me. They brightened my mood a bit as I stooped to pet them.
"Lucille!" cried Mrs. Bissel, confirming my suspicions about which of her billions of dachshunds had just vacated her lap. "Lancelot! Come here!"
Lucille and Lancelot, unlike their son, Spike, had never been to obedience school, I reckon, because they continued to frolic at my feet for several seconds until Mrs. Bissel clapped her hands. I could swear both dogs sighed as they trotted back to their mistress, jumped back onto the chair and snuggled their way onto her lap.
"Thank you so much for coming today, Daisy," said Mrs. Bissel.
"Yes," Patsy said in a voice thick with leftover tears. "Thank you, Mrs. Majesty."
Dennis stared at me with eyes that appeared to have sunk into his face. He wore an expression of befuddled misery. "I don't know how anyone used my machine to kill that man. I didn't even know him."
I walked over and took a chair near the family group. "Detective Rotondo is working on the case," I said, trying to sound as if Sam's interest in Dennis and his automobile were benign. For all I knew, Sam truly believed Dennis had deliberately set out to murder Mr. Lippincott.
"But who would have taken my machine to kill a man?" Dennis wailed softly.
I shook my head. "What kind of automobile do you own?"
"It's a Silver Ghost. 1922. Got it last year when Patsy and I
were married."
Mercy sakes. He owned a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. His mother had a Daimler and a chauffeur to drive it for her. I asked, "Do you have a chauffeur, or do you drive it yourself?" I considered my family fortunate to own a 1921 self-starting Chevrolet instead of the old 1909 Ford Model-T we'd had since... well, 1909. And we couldn't even have been able to afford that old Ford if not for one of Pa's old clients—he used to be a chauffeur for rich folks—who'd given it to us.
"No, I don't have a chauffeur. I drive it myself, although I didn't drive it that night. I was at the club, and took a cab there from work."
I perked up slightly. "Your club? Where's your club?"
"North El Molino, near Colorado," said Dennis.
Aha. The same club—perhaps—where Michael Lippincott held a membership. "I understand Mr. Lippincott was run down in front of his own club, which is on El Molino," I said.
Dennis's mouth fell open. "I-I-I... I don't know what to say. I didn't know the man."
"Do you know how many members belong to your club?"
Shaking his head, Dennis said, "A lot, I guess, although I don't know. There are many men I don't know who go there to play cards or pool or whatever. I just went there for a meal, because Patsy was attending a charity thing at church."
"A charity thing?" I asked, hoping for clarification.
"We sew and knit clothing for orphans of the Great War," Patsy said with another sniffle. "At St. Mark's."
"That's right across the street, isn't it?"
"Yes. Mother Bissel and I go every Wednesday evening. There were so many orphans left to fend for themselves after that awful conflict. We send at least one box of knitted or hand-sewn children's clothing every month to Belgium or France or Russia."
"I see. That's very good of you." Of course, there were orphans in the good old U.S. of A. thanks to that blasted war, too, but I didn't think it would be appropriate to say so. Both Mrs. Bissels meant their work kindly.
"Did you drive your automobile to St. Mark's?" I asked Patsy.
She looked at me as if she thought I was nuts. "Drive? Me? I don't drive. Henry picked me up with Mother Bissel, and drove us both to St. Mark's." Henry was Mrs. Bissel's chauffeur.
