by Alice Duncan
"We know our job, dammit."
"Pooh. And then there's Lawrence Allen, who was all over Gloria Lippincott last night after that stone thing fell. Sylvia Allen was livid. Have you checked Lawrence's alibi? And what about other men in Gloria Lippincott's life? According to gossip, she's after Dennis Bissel. Who else is she after? Could she have connived with one of her lovers to do away with her husband? And why? Did he have a big insurance policy on his life? There has to be a good reason for someone to murder someone else! It couldn't have been so she could marry Mr. Allen, because he's already married, and I can't see Sylvia giving him a divorce for Gloria's sake."
"Why?"
Drat. He would have to ask me that, wouldn't he? "I don't know! I don't know anything! But you should know! You should be finding out these things, instead of coming over here and harassing me!"
Sam put his big hands on the table and leaned over so that he was almost face-to-face with me, as I stood on the other side of the table. I kind of wanted to back up, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"I'm not here to harass you," he whispered savagely. "I'm here to ask you questions about various cast members of that operetta." He shot a peek at the kitchen door, and lowered his voice. "And to get a decent meal, dammit. Do you know what it's like to be a single man in the city? A home-cooked meal is like a Christmas present for a guy like me."
"Oh."
Sam straightened and fiddled with the silverware, which didn't need it.
"Um. Can you join a club? I guess they serve meals at clubs. At least they do at the one Dennis and Mr. L belonged to."
"A rich man's club, you mean? I don't think so, but thanks."
"Oh. Well, surely there are other single men on the police force. Can't you dine out with them from time to time?"
"Do you know how boring Chinese food gets after several days in a row? Anyhow, dining out all the time is expensive." The police department was within walking distance of the Crown Chop Suey Parlor on Fair Oaks Avenue, so I understood his reference to Chinese food.
"I know. I'm sorry, Sam. But you know you're welcome here any time, don't you?"
"Am I?" He gave me a searching look that made me want to squirm.
After several seconds, I told the truth, dropping my gaze to the table as I did so. "Yes. You are."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Sam huffed out a sigh and then said, "Is the table set to your satisfaction? May we retire to the living room so I can ask more questions about members of the Mikado cast?"
After surveying the table and finding it set to a T, I said, "Sure."
So we took ourselves to the living room, where I sat on the piano bench and Sam sat on a chair near it. I purposely avoided the sofa, because I didn't want to sit next to him on a piece of furniture and be discovered there by my parents or aunt. They might get the wrong idea. Or maybe it was the right idea. Whatever it was, I didn't want to think about it.
Spike jumped up onto Sam's lap. Traitor. On the other hand, the piano bench wasn't even comfortable for me to sit on, and Spike had his priorities straight. He didn't give a yip what anyone thought about him.
After absently petting Spike for a moment, Sam pulled a small notebook and pencil from his inside coat pocket. "All right. Let me see if I have this right. Mr. and Mrs. Van der Linden are the producers of the play, right?"
"The producers? I'd never thought about them as producers, but I suppose they are. It was all their idea, anyway."
"Right. So they're responsible for getting the operetta staged in town."
"Right."
"And they also act the parts of the two lovers in the play, right?"
I nodded. "Yes. Mr. Van der Linden is Nanki-Poo and Connie is Yum-Yum."
Sam's nose wrinkled. I saw it. "Crazy names."
"It's a comic opera."
"I guess. So that takes care of the Van der Lindens. Insofar as their relationship goes, I mean. They're married."
"Correct."
"Good. Harold is the Lord High Whatever he is, right?"
"Yes. He's the Lord High Executioner."
"Right. Then there's the Mikado. Who plays him?"
"Mr. George Finster. He's also in the choir."
"Right. And Mr. Floy Hostetter is..." Sam squinted at his list.
"Besides being our choir director, he's Pooh-Bah, the Lord High Everything Else. Except executioner. Harold's in charge of executions."
"Criminy. These names are crazy."
"Gilbert and Sullivan were two crazy fellas. They were what the press at the time called the kings of topsy-turvydom."
"If you say so. So then this Lawrence Allen guy is a noble lord named... Go-To?"
"That's right."
"Sheesh. Who are the three little maids?"
"Connie Van der Linden is one of them. She's Yum-Yum, and Yum-Yum is not only the heroine of the piece, but she's also one of the three little maids. The other two are Lucille Spinks and Gloria Lippincott, who's about as little maidish as Lucrezia Borgia."
"I see."
Sam had been writing names on his pad as fast as he could. "Anyone else I should know about?"
"I don't know! How should I know? I don't know what you're looking for. For pity's sake, Sam Rotondo—"
Sam held up one of his big hands, and I stopped hollering at him. "I just needed to get the names straight. So Dennis Bissel isn't in one of the starring roles?"
"No, and neither is Patsy, his wife. They're both in the chorus, along with just about everyone else in the church choir."
"Got it. Thanks, Daisy."
"You're welcome."
Sam frowned at his notebook for a moment or two. "Um... You said Dennis and Patsy and people from the choir are in the chorus. Are Dennis and Patsy members of your church?"
"Lord, no. They're rich. They go to St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Altadena, right across the street from Mrs. Bissel's house. I think if you're rich, you have to be either Episcopalian or Presbyterian."
Sam squinted at me. "Are you serious?"
I thought about it. "Sort of. I don't suppose there's any rule or law about it or anything, but most of the rich folks I know are either Episcopalians or Presbyterians. There are a few wealthy families in our Methodist Church, I reckon, but you don't find too many rich Baptists in Pasadena."
Still squinting, Sam said, "What about Roman Catholics?"
That's right. Sam, of Italian extraction, was probably a Roman Catholic. I'd never asked him about his religious beliefs before, and he'd showed up at our Methodist-Episcopal Church a few times. "I don't think there are too many wealthy Catholics in Pasadena, either. What about New York?" I was honestly curious.
"How the hell should I know?"
Darn him! "Well, you're Catholic, aren't you?"
"I was. I'm not much of anything now. And my family isn't rich."
"I thought your family owned a jewelry store in New York City."
"Yeah. But it's just a family business. We aren't railroad magnates or millionaire industrialists or anything like that."
"And you no longer consider yourself a Catholic?"
With a shrug, Sam said, "I don't really consider myself much of anything. Margaret went to the Congregational Church, so I attended there with her."
Margaret was Sam's late wife, who'd died of tuberculosis shortly after they'd moved to Pasadena. They'd hoped the move to a warmer climate would be good for her health, but tuberculosis evidently doesn't care what the weather's like. It kills you, no matter where you live. Which was a melancholy thought. So I changed the subject. In a way. "Weren't the Congregationalists big supporters of abolition and women's suffrage?"
"Yeah. But I went there anyway."
Trust Sam. "I think there's a Congregational Church in Pasadena."
"West Side Church," said he. "Margaret and I attended there while she still could. They've started uniting themselves with the Universalists."
It was all too much for me. "Why does the Christia
n Church have so many different offshoots?"
With a shrug, Sam said, "Human beings have never been able to get along with each other. Even when we claim to hold a common belief, we're always arguing. And fighting each other and everyone else, especially people of other faiths. Look at the Crusades and the Christians versus the Saracens. Killing for Christ."
"Sam Rotondo! That sounds awful," I said; then I thought about his words. "But I suppose you're right." I heaved a sigh.
He shrugged, and I thought a little bit more. "But it's not just Christians. Remember when those Turkish Moslems slaughtered all those Armenians in nineteen fifteen?"
"No, I don't remember that far back." He eyed me slantways. "And frankly, I'm surprised you do."
"Well," I admitted, "I don't really remember, but I read an article about it recently."
"The Turks probably thought the Armenians would defect to Russia, since Russia was a supposedly Christian nation, too, and Armenians are Christians as a culture, aren't they?"
"I think so."
"I thought you liked Turkey when you were there with Harold," said Sam.
"I did. And you were there, too, don't forget."
"How could I ever forget?"
"Harold shot a man for you."
"Thanks for reminding me. But all those young Turks must have over-reacted to a perceived threat, don't you think? After all, Russia bowed out of the war a couple of years later, didn't they?"
"Yes. In nineteen seventeen, but that's because the Tsar abdicated and the citizens were revolting."
"Aw, they're probably not that bad."
"Sam!"
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and then we both burst out laughing. I had to grab a hankie from my pocket and wipe my eyes.
With a small gasp, Sam said, "But enough philosophy for one day." He gave himself a little shake, kind of like the way Spike would shake himself every now and then. "What time does rehearsal begin tomorrow morning?" He stuck his notebook back into his pocket.
"Ten. Why?" I peered narrowly at him, not liking the question a whole lot.
"Good. I'll pick you up at a quarter of and take you there."
"You don't need—"
"I'm going to the damned rehearsal. All of my suspects will be there. So I might as well pick you up, since you're right on the way."
"Oh." That made sense, even though I didn't want it to. "All right then."
"All right then."
The chicken stew Vi served for our dinner that night was as wonderful as all the rest of her meals. I know Sam enjoyed it. Then he and Pa played gin rummy while Ma and I washed up the dinner dishes.
For some reason, I kept thinking about church people killing each other. Not comforting, I have to admit.
Chapter 15
Ambivalent pretty well describes my mood the next morning when Sam picked me up to go to rehearsal.
For one thing, I kept thinking about Sam's revelations of the night before, if they could be called that. He hadn't sounded precisely bitter about religion, but he'd made it perfectly clear he didn't care one way or another about going to church. I guess I could understand that, although my church meant a lot to me. Not only was it a means for me to remain respectable in spite of my equivocal profession, but it was also a big part of my social life. I entertained the dismal thought that poor Sam didn't have a social life.
Then there was his bachelorhood, if it could be called that. He was, in fact, a widower. But until yesterday, I hadn't truly understood how lonely the poor guy must be. True, he had his co-workers, and I'm sure he had friends among them, but that's not the same as having a family to call one's own. His family lived in New York City. He'd brought his late wife to Pasadena in the feeble hope the weather would allow her to live a longer, happier life. That hadn't happened, and Sam was all by himself out west.
Except for us. Thanks to Billy, Sam was practically a member of our family now. I guess we were his social life.
Worse, I didn't want to lose him. But did I want to marry him? Not any time soon, I didn't. Besides, if he wanted a wife who would welcome him home from a hard day's work with a scrumptious meal, he'd be flat out of luck if he married me. Also, I didn't want to give up my business, at which I'd worked darned hard in order to succeed. If Sam and I married, would he still allow me to work as a spiritualist-medium?
Darn it! How come husbands could dictate to their wives? We were supposed to be equal to men. We even—finally—got the vote. But did we get treated as the equals of men? Of course not!
"Men are dictatorial pigs," I muttered as Sam steered his Hudson north on Marengo Avenue.
He shot me a mystified glance, accompanied by a largish frown. "What brought that on? All I did was pick you up for rehearsal. I don't recall being dictatorial about it."
Bother. "I didn't mean you."
"Who did you mean? Your father? Billy? Your brother? Harold Kincaid? Captain Buckingham?" I believe I've mentioned that Johnny Buckingham, an old friend of Billy's and mine, was a captain in the Salvation Army.
"No!"
"Well, then. Who did you mean?"
Fiddlesticks. I wished I'd kept my fat mouth shut. "No one in particular. But even though women got the vote in nineteen twenty, men still dictate what we can and can't do."
"I haven't noticed you doing much of anything even faintly resembling obedience to any man's dictate. Ever."
"I'm different." Because I didn't want to hear a snide rejoinder to that remark, I hurried on to say, "I've had to be different, because the men in my family couldn't support us, due to their ill health. It's the women who earn the dough in my family."
"And quite a bit of it, too. Correct?"
I frowned at him. "Maybe, but it's still a man's world. For example, if Ma were a man, she'd earn twice as much money at her job as she does now. For doing the very same thing! If Aunt Vi were a man, they'd call her a chef and pay her boocoo bucks. Of course, she'd have to wear one of those silly white chef's hats, too, but she'd be making mazuma by the bucketfuls."
"I don't think a male spiritualist-medium would make any more money than you do."
After thinking about that for almost as long as it took us to get to the church, I admitted, "Probably not. But it's a good thing I made up my job when I did, or my family might have been in the suds. We didn't know Pa would have a heart attack or that Billy would be so badly injured in the war."
As he pulled the Hudson to a stop on the Marengo side of the church, Sam said, "Are you a pinko, Daisy Gumm Majesty?"
"No! I'm not a Communist. I only think women ought to get paid the same as men for doing the same jobs men do."
With a sigh, Sam about shocked me to death when he said, "Yeah. I think you're right."
I didn't have time to register my astonishment aloud, because he left the car and walked around to my side and opened the door for me. As he did so, he said, "Well, life's not fair. If anyone should know that by this time, it's you."
"Too true."
We walked together to the door to the choir room. Which was locked. So we hoofed it around to the front of the church and discovered the sanctuary door unlocked.
"Daisy! So happy to see you. Good morning, Detective Rotondo."
"Hey, Harold," I said, delighted to see him. He'd stationed himself right inside the sanctuary door, so I think he was anticipating my arrival.
"Kincaid," said Sam, not nearly as delighted as I.
"Why's the door to the choir room locked, Harold? Do you know?"
"Everyone's worried that some loony got in and dumped that rock on Gloria, so they decided to have only one door to the outside unlocked."
"I guess that makes sense."
Gazing at the chancel, I saw Patsy and Dennis Bissel holding hands, Sylvia and Lawrence Allen not holding hands but standing together, and a few other cast members milling about and gabbing. Gloria Lippincott was actually talking to a female in the form of Lucille Spinks. Goodness gracious. I'd have expected her to collar a ma
n by this time. Maybe she and Lucy were discussing their "Three Little Maids" song or something.
Then I noticed there seemed to be a serious conference taking place on the left side of chancel. That's house-left, not stage-left. Oh, never mind. "What's that about?" I asked Harold, nodding toward the chancel. I peered harder and saw Mr. Hostetter, Mr. Van der Linden and... "Heavens! Is that Pastor Smith up there with Mr. Hostetter and Max?"
"It is, indeed. Evidently, your minister doesn't appreciate his church being used as the site of an attempted murder. Hence the locked doors and serious conference."
"Huh. Don't much blame him," grumbled Sam.
"No. I don't, either. And I agree with him," I said.
"Maybe. But I hope we don't have to move the production," said Harold. "For one thing, I don't know where we could move it to. Plus, it would be a big hassle, and Connie doesn't feel well, poor thing."
"She didn't feel well on Thursday, either," I said, feeling sorry for Connie.
"True. She hasn't felt well a lot lately. Maybe there's something going around, because Mr. Finster has laryngitis, so we don't have a Mikado for this morning's rehearsal."
"That's too bad," I said, meaning it. After all, what was The Mikado without the Mikado? Actually, the Mikado doesn't show up much in the operetta, so we probably wouldn't miss him a whole lot, but... Then I bethought me of someone and turned slowly to Sam.
He knew what I was going to say before I said it. "Don't look at me like that. I'm here to investigate, not sing."
"But you'd be able to investigate more closely if you were part of the cast," I said, using my most ingenuous tone of voice.
"Don't give me that," said Sam, who was on to me, the rat.
"But the Mikado is in your voice range." I thought of something else that might actually persuade him. "Anyhow, you have a much better voice than Mr. Finster does."
"The hell—heck I do."
"You do," I told him. "I've heard you. Besides, you're one of the people who forced me to sing Katisha. This will be pay-back."
"Cripes," said Sam.
We were nearing the chancel via the center aisle by this time, and Harold spoke up. "Brilliant idea! Oh, Mr. Hostetter!" He raised his voice and darned near yodeled the last three words.
