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

by Alice Duncan

  "So your machine was home alone," I said, musing, and sounding as if they'd abandoned a child to its fate that Wednesday night. I didn't mean to sound that way.

  "Yes. It was parked in the drive. Well, you know where we live, don't you? Just down the street from Mother," said Dennis.

  "A little east of here, right?"

  "Yes. Next door to the Dearings."

  "Ah. I see." Dr. Dearing and his family lived directly across Maiden Lane from Mrs. Bissel. They had a grand home, too, although it didn't have acres and acres of land around it. I was familiar with Foothill Boulevard, which ran east-west through Altadena until it took a dive south into Pasadena a little way past Allen Avenue. I couldn't quite visualize the home where Dennis and Patsy lived, but I knew for a rock-solid certainty that it was as huge an abode as Mrs. Bissel's. Probably without so much land circling it. "That's a large property for a young couple," I mentioned just for the heck of it.

  Patsy's face bloomed red. "Well, we want to start a family soon."

  "Of course." I thought for a second. "Is your property fenced off? I mean, do you have to open a gate or anything to get to the drive?"

  "No," said Dennis.

  "Out of curiosity, why didn't you take your automobile to work that day?" I asked him, feeling quite detectival as I did so.

  With a shrug, he said, "I knew Patsy wouldn't be home after I left work and that I'd dine at the club. There's not a lot of parking space available at the club, so I took a cab to work."

  Sounded reasonable to me. But something else didn't. "Do you have any idea at all who would play such a trick on you? I mean, to steal your automobile in order to murder a man is terrible thing to do."

  Dennis and Patsy looked at each other, and it appeared to me as if their handhold tightened. I couldn't see Gloria Lippincott prying a wedge between those two, although stranger things have happened, I suppose. After staring at each other for an appreciable time, they both turned to look at me.

  Dennis said, "No."

  So did Patsy.

  I hadn't been paying attention to Mrs. Bissel during my inquisition of poor Dennis, but when she burst out with, "I do!" I jumped. I think Patsy and Dennis did, too. We turned as one to stare at her.

  Dennis said, "You do?"

  "Yes, I do! It's that awful woman who's been trying to get you away from Patsy! That's who did it!"

  Both her son and his wife assumed blank expressions. Dennis said, "Um..."

  Patsy said, "Er..."

  I guess Mrs. Bissel was frustrated beyond bearing because she lifted a magazine—the latest Saturday Evening Post, from the looks of it, and slammed it on the table beside the sofa. Lancelot and Lucille both yipped and skedaddled out of the room as if someone had set fire to their tails.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake! Don't tell me neither one of you have noticed that Lippincott creature has had her eye on you for months now, Dennis Bissel!"

  An exchange of glances took place between Dennis and Patsy. Whatever Mrs. Bissel thought, it looked to me as if they not only hadn't noticed Mrs. Lippincott's intentions, but were at a loss to explain Mrs. Bissel's declaration.

  "Mrs. Lippincott?" said Dennis, his eyebrows dipping above his nose. "Who's—? Oh. You mean that murdered man's wife. Widow, I guess I mean."

  "Dennis Bissel, if you aren't the most innocent... Well, I just don't know what to say." Mrs. Bissel turned to Patsy. "And you! Don't tell me you never noticed that woman sidling up to your husband and insinuating herself into his company every time she has a chance."

  Patsy opened her mouth, but it didn't seem to contain any words, because she shut it again.

  "Mother," said Dennis, his dignity high. "I believe you must be mistaken."

  "I'm not mistaken!" declared Mrs. Bissel. "I've seen her. Every time you enter a room, her claws come out, her whiskers twitch, and she tracks you like a cat stalking a mouse."

  Impressed by her imaginative description, I still felt impelled to add my coin to the conversation. "Um... I'm not saying you're wrong about this, Mrs. Bissel, but at rehearsal last night, she seemed to have her claws firmly implanted in Lawrence Allen. I don't think she paid much attention to you, Dennis. Did she?"

  "Lawrence Allen?" Dennis said. "But he's married!"

  Dennis's mother rolled her eyes. I felt like doing the same thing.

  Patsy frowned. "Sylvia Allen did look rather upset, if I recall correctly."

  "I believe that was because Mrs. Lippincott had latched onto Mr. Allen after that rock was pushed off the church roof," I explained.

  "Oh, now, I don't believe for one minute that—" Dennis stopped speaking abruptly and turned a sort of magenta color.

  "Yes?" I asked, honey dripping from the word.

  "I told you so," said Mrs. Bissel, sounding bitter.

  "But..." Patsy evidently couldn't think of anything to follow the one word.

  "I-I... Well, I think you're all maligning a perfectly decent woman. Gloria is—"

  "You call her Gloria?" Patsy.

  "That's her name, isn't it?" Dennis.

  "I had no idea the two of you were on a first-name basis." Patsy.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake. She's never given me any indication that she favors me particularly. In fact... In fact, she's been nothing but pleasant to me on the few occasions we've met at parties and so forth."

  "Pleasant, my foot," said his mother.

  Patsy tilted her head. "Hmm. Yes. Now that you mention it, Mother Bissel, I've noticed that she seems to... well, add herself to any group Dennis is a part of on social occasions. That is to say Gloria does."

  "But..." Dennis appeared positively shocked.

  "Told you so," said Mrs. Bissel. "You're too young and innocent to understand the wiles of a woman like that."

  In order to forestall a family argument, I said, "She might be a seductress at heart, but it wasn't she who stole your Rolls and ran down her husband. The police have proved that she was playing bridge at Mrs. Hastings' house that night."

  Silence fell over the room like a blanket.

  "There. I told you she didn't have anything to do with it," said Dennis at last, seeming smug about it.

  Patsy said, "Hmph."

  "However," I went on, "she may well be in collaboration with someone, and that someone might have stolen—or borrowed—your automobile for the fell purpose of killing her estranged husband and implicating you."

  "How... What do you mean?" Dennis demanded, sounding angry. "Why would she do that, anyway?"

  "Why would anyone?" I asked back.

  Dennis pursed his lips.

  Mrs. Bissel said, "Good question."

  I shrugged. "I don't know why your auto was chosen as the murder weapon, but Gloria Lippincott might well be in complicity with another person, although I don't know who, to do away with her husband."

  "Not Lawrence Allen," said Patsy, clearly aghast and agog. "He's such a nice man!"

  "He was snuggling with Mrs. Lippincott after the rock incident," I said, perhaps too acidly.

  "But the woman had nearly been killed!" cried Dennis. "It was natural for a man to comfort her."

  My cynical antennae began to buzz, but I didn't let on. Women need men to comfort them sort of like they need cobras with which to snuggle up at night.

  "As long as it wasn't you," said Patsy with more spirit than I'd given her credit for up to this time.

  "Of course, it wasn't me!" said Dennis, outraged, if I were to guess.

  "Hmm. Well, say what you will about Mrs. Lippincott, I know Sylvia Allen was upset by Lawrence's attentions to her last night," said Patsy. Then she sniffed.

  Oh, dear. The two lovebirds' hands unclasped. I hadn't meant cause a rift between them. And I wasn't even a seductress.

  "Stuff and nonsense!" said Mrs. Bissel, bringing the discussion to a close. "I've seen the woman in action, Dennis, and I know she's trying to get you away from Patsy. And you," she said, glaring at Patsy, "aren't doing yourself or Dennis any favors by hiding your head in th
e sand. Keep an eye on my boy, and don't let him stray."

  "Mother!" Dennis's indignation was so high, it nearly hit the ceiling.

  Patsy drew herself up straight and said, "Very well. I'll be observant and see that she doesn't... doesn't... take Dennis away from me." The young woman sounded more resolute than I'd have imagined she could sound, had I not heard her for myself.

  "I can take care of myself!" cried Dennis.

  "Stuff," said Mrs. Bissel.

  "Come with me," said Patsy, and she grabbed her husband's hand and led him out of the room. He left under protest, but he left.

  "I swear," said Mrs. Bissel. "I didn't realize I'd reared such a naïve son until this minute."

  "Enlightening conversation. But would you like me to consult Rolly for you now, Mrs. Bissel?" I wasn't keen on more family drama.

  "Thank you, dear. I'm sorry you have to be involved in this mess."

  "I'm not involved," I told her, perhaps a shade too forcefully.

  Mrs. Bissel, however, knew better. I could tell.

  With a sigh, I withdrew my Ouija board from its cloth bag and placed it on the table in front of the sofa.

  Rolly didn't have a whole lot to tell Mrs. Bissel, although she claimed our Ouija-board session helped calm her nerves.

  "I'm so glad Rolly and I could help, Mrs. Bissel. I'm sure the police will discover the real culprit soon."

  With a sniff, she said, "I don't know. Dennis's car was used to do the evil deed. Do you really think they'll look farther than Dennis?"

  "I..." Oh, heck, I didn't know.

  "But you will help, won't you, dear?" she said, giving me a speaking look. What that look said was, "You'll find the killer and make sure the police don't pin this ghastly crime on Dennis, won't you?"

  I wanted to shriek at her that I was a phony spiritualist-medium, not a dratted detective, and to go away and leave me alone. Since I couldn't say that, I answered Mrs. Bissel's question to the best of my ability. "I don't know what I can do, Mrs. Bissel." It was the truth.

  "But you can keep an eye on things, can't you?"

  "Keep an eye on what things?"

  "At rehearsals for The Mikado!" she said, as if I were a ninny for asking. "You can observe everyone, especially that Lippincott female, and make sure she doesn't snatch Dennis from Patsy."

  "Um..."

  "And don't forget that detective friend of yours."

  I also wanted to scream at her that Sam Rotondo wasn't my friend, but a friend of my late husband's. But I knew that wasn't the truth any longer.

  Oh, boy. But I needed my job, so I said without a whole lot of energy, "I suppose I can do that." As long as Sam Rotondo didn't catch me "observing". I didn't add that last part.

  Chapter 14

  After I left Mrs. Bissel's house, I drove past the younger Bissels' home. There it was: huge and not particularly inviting; a giant of a house, waiting, if Patsy were to be believed, to be filled with happy, smiling children with rich parents and a proud grandma. Well, and I presume they'd have proud grandparents on their mother's side, too. Good luck to it, said I to myself. And to the Bissels.

  I didn't see Dennis's Rolls-Royce in the drive. I suspected it was in police custody still. Depressing thought. How in the world could anyone prove that Dennis Bissel hadn't used his own automobile to run down Michael Lippincott? Evidently both Dennis and Michael had been at the self-same club at the time of the murder. Were there any witnesses to testify to the fact that Dennis and Michael didn't leave the club at the same time? Or that Dennis hadn't driven his machine to the club that day?

  Fudge. Those were questions to which the police needed to find answers; I just hoped they'd bother to ask them.

  I drove myself home after that, feeling drained. I felt sorry for Mrs. Bissel. I felt sorry for Patsy and Dennis Bissel, and I didn't for a second believe he'd had anything to do with the death of Michael Lippincott. But how to prove it?

  Find the real murderer, of course. But how did one go about doing that? And if the one in question were me, did she even want to get involved in attempting to track down a vicious killer? The answer to that question was simple: heck, no.

  For once, I found myself hoping Sam would come to dinner at our house that Friday night. I'd grill him like a leg of lamb over an open flame—I'd seen that done in Turkey, and the results had been truly delectable—and hope he wouldn't holler at me.

  I was in luck, if you can call it that. Sam did come over for dinner that night. He showed up at about five o'clock, ostensibly to ask me questions about members of the The Mikado's cast. I suspected he only wanted a good meal cooked by Aunt Vi.

  As I was in the process of setting the table for dinner, I roped Sam into helping me as I answered his questions.

  "What do you know about Lawrence and Sylvia Allen?"

  "Nothing. Only that they're married, not that you'd know it from the way Lawrence carried on with Gloria Lippincott last night."

  "What about the Van der Lindens? What do you know about them?"

  "You're supposed to put the fork on the left side of the plate, Sam. The knife and spoon go on the right." Before he could do more than frown at me, I said, "I don't know even more about the Van der Lindens than I don't know about the Allens. Why? Do you think Lawrence or Max shoved that paving stone off the roof?"

  Changing the placement of the silverware, Sam said, "I'm the one asking questions here."

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. But I still don't know anything about either couple. Harold Kincaid introduced me to the Van der Lindens. I'd met the Allens at other gatherings. At Mrs. Pinkerton's house, I think, although they may have been to a party at Mrs. Bissel's house. They aren't pals of mine, if that's what you mean."

  "Huh."

  I handed him some soup bowls.

  "What do I do with these?"

  "Put them on top of the dinner plates. Vi said we're having chicken stew for dinner, so we'll eat it out of bowls, and put our bread on the plates beside the bowls." I'm sure that wasn't how my wealthy clients dealt with chicken stew, but we weren't they. We were the Gumms and the one remaining Majesty. So phooey on them.

  "Sounds good," said Sam.

  "You know it'll be good. Aunt Vi's fixing it."

  Vi, who had come home about an hour earlier, appeared at the door between the kitchen and the dining room. "Did I hear my name taken in vain?"

  "Nope. I just told Sam I knew the chicken stew would be good because you're making it."

  With a smile and a shake of her head, Vi said, "You're such a caution, Daisy."

  Whatever that meant. Vi was full of odd expressions.

  "Anything you cook is bound to be delicious, Mrs. Gumm," said Sam, slathering on the flattery. Not that he needed to. Everyone in the entire household loved Sam, with the possible exception of me, and I wasn't sure about me any longer. As soon as that thought hit me, I decided I'd best not think much for the rest of the evening.

  However, my vow not to think didn't exclude the desire to learn the answers to several questions.

  "I talked to Dennis Bissel today," I told Sam.

  Naturally, he glowered at me. "Why the hell did you do that?"

  "Don't swear at me. Especially in front of my aunt."

  Sam's head snapped up and he glanced at the door to the kitchen. Vi was gone. I smirked. Not kind of me, but there you go.

  "He was at his mother's house when I took my Ouija board up there. She asked me to come," I added before Sam could explode or anything. "Dennis and Patsy were there with Mrs. Bissel when we arrived. It was only natural that we discuss the murder of Michael Lippincott, since Dennis is a suspect in his death."

  "Aw, cripes."

  "Don't 'aw, cripes' me, Sam Rotondo. Dennis was at his club, which I think is the same one Michael Lippincott belonged to, the same evening that Mr. Lippincott was killed. Have you discussed both men with the club's members or management?"

  "Yes," he said. "We know our job, Daisy."

  "Just want to make sure.
What did you find out?"

  "What I found out is a police matter."

  I darned nearly slammed the salt cellar onto the table. I'm glad I didn't, because I not only would probably have broken the salt cellar, which was a cute blue thing with curlicues around its top, but salt would have gone everywhere. "That's not fair! Here you come asking me all sorts of questions, to which I'm supposed to give honest answers, yet you won't tell me what's going on! I know Dennis Bissel didn't kill that harpy's husband! I want to know what you're doing to prove it, Sam Rotondo."

  Sam's mouth opened, I'm sure in order to give me a piece of his mind, but I ran over anything he'd been going to say not unlike a freight train running over a cow. Erk. Don't know what made me think about a dead cow.

  "For instance, I'll bet you anything that Gloria Lippincott is in cahoots with the man who stole Dennis's car and ran down Mr. Lippincott and then returned the machine to Dennis's driveway. I drove past the junior Bissels' house after I left Mrs. Bissel, and there's no fence or gate or anything. Naturally, the auto wasn't in the drive, because—"

  "The forensics people still have it."

  "Precisely. But it would be dead easy for someone to have taken it that Wednesday evening. Patsy and Mrs. B were at St. Mark's knitting or sewing stuff for orphans in Europe, and Dennis had taken a taxicab to work because he knew he'd be dining at his club that night."

  "So he says."

  "I believe him. He said parking is difficult to find near his club, so it's easier to take a cab."

  From the frown on Sam's face, I concluded I'd introduced a salient point. Therefore, I pounded on it for a bit. "And that's something you can check in to without bestirring yourself. You can telephone the stupid club from your stupid office and find out if Dennis's story is true. And don't the men who belong to the club have to sign in and out or something? Betcha they have a record of who was there when on that fatal night."

  "We're looking into—"

  "And while you're at it, you can check with the taxicab company, can't you? Don't they have records of whom they take where?"