by Alice Duncan
"Why not?" I asked her.
"Sam is a guest, and guests don't have to clean up after themselves."
Aw, nuts. Sam was about as much of a guest in that house by that time as I was. And I wasn't. "If you say so, Ma."
Sam grinned at me and rose from his place.
"I'll help," said Ma.
"I'd probably better get going," said Sam.
"No you don't!" Very well, my voice was a trifle loud. But I didn't want him getting away from me before I'd told him what Lucy'd seen. "I have to talk to you," I said in a more moderate tone.
I wondered if Gloria Lippincott kept a score card on the men she seduced, and if she chalked up another check mark every time a male succumbed to her wiles.
With a huff, Sam said, "All right. I'll sit in the living room with your father. But I have paperwork to catch up on, so don't be long."
Well, I liked that! He'd helped create the mess Ma and I were getting ready to clean up, but he wanted me to hurry so he could do paperwork. Huh.
"A policeman's lot is not a happy one," I quoted from (I think) The Pirates of Penzance.
"If you say so," muttered Sam. "I don't mind investigating. It's the paperwork that bogs me down."
At any rate, Ma and I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I washed and she dried, so I could leave the kitchen sooner than she. After I'd scrubbed the last pot, I all but ran out to the living room. Where Sam was nowhere to be seen.
I whirled on my father. "You let him get away!"
Poor Pa jumped in his chair, and I only then realized he'd been snoozing. "Wh-what?"
"Where's Sam?"
"Sam? I think he took Spike for a walk."
"Oh." Very well, so that had been a nice thing for Sam to do. "I think I'll try to find them. I have to tell Sam something I learned today."
"About that man's murder?"
"That's just it. I don't know if it's important or not."
"I swear, Daisy, you get into more pickles than anyone else I know."
I didn't point out to him that his assessment was not merely unfair, but outrageous. I love my father, and I'd never holler at him. Sam was another kettle of fish entirely.
Therefore, I dashed to my room, pulled on a warm woolen cloche and gloves, grabbed my coat from the closet, and raced to the door. As soon as I stepped out onto the porch, I saw Spike and Sam returning to the house.
Good. I could corner him on the front porch.
Sam, not Spike.
Chapter 18
It was darned cold outside as we settled onto the porch steps, and the sky was darkening fast. During the Great War, the government had implemented what it called Daylight Saving Time, mainly so that people who farmed would have more daylight hours in which to work. Daylight Saving Time had ended the prior week, so even though it was actually only around four o'clock by the time we sat on the steps, the clocks all said it was five. Wars create more problems than they're worth, if you ask me.
I took the leash off Spike and allowed him to chase leaves around the yard. We folks who live in Pasadena don't have gorgeously colored fall leaves that folks back east have, but some leaves on some trees do turn brown and fall off. Fortunately for Spike, the Wilsons' cat, Samson, put in an appearance, so he got to chase the cat. I swear, everything Spike did, he did with vigor and enthusiasm. Wish I were more like him.
"All right," said Sam, sounding resigned to his fate. "What is this momentous thing that lady saw yesterday at rehearsal."
That lady. I swear. I'd introduced Sam to Lucille Spinks about a dozen times by that evening, and he still couldn't remember her name.
"Lucy Spinks," I reminded him. "Engaged to Albert Zollinger."
"Whatever you say."
I wanted to whack him on the arm, but I resisted the impulse. "Lucy saw James Warden and Gloria Lippincott in a compromising situation yesterday during rehearsal."
"A 'compromising situation'? What does that mean?"
Bother the man. "She said they were cuddled up together."
It was dark out there, and I couldn't really see Sam well, but I felt him shrug. "She's a man-eater, isn't she? Isn't that what she does?"
Nerts. "But don't you see? Gloria has her claws into Dennis Bissel, Lawrence Allen and now James Warden. According to Lucy, Lawrence Allen and Gloria exchanged a wink while she was getting cozy with Mr. Warden."
"A wink? Anyway, so what? What difference would that make?"
"Darn you, Sam Rotondo! I don't know! But that wink bothered me more than knowing she was getting chummy with Mr. Warden. Maybe she and Lawrence are actually in cahoots together, and she's grabbing all the men in sight to throw the police off the track. What if she's got her heart set on Max Van der Linden next?"
"What if she does?"
"Well... I don't know! But don't you think it's odd that she and Lawrence Allen exchanged a wink when she was cuddled up with James Warden? I do. And it worries me to think that she might have her sights set on Max Van der Linden, and is using all the others as a ruse."
"A ruse?"
"Yes, darn it. A ruse."
"Why?"
Bother. He asked the most annoying questions. After thinking about it for about a second and a half, I said slowly, "It occurred to me that perhaps Max and Gloria are involved in a love affair, but they don't want anyone to know about it. If that were so, and if one of them is actually poisoning Connie, they could get together after they succeed in bumping off Connie!"
After a significant pause, Sam said, "Let me get this straight. Mrs. Lippincott was getting cozy with yet another man at yesterday's rehearsal. Mr. Allen strolled by and winked at her."
"They exchanged winks!" I said, trying to straighten out his thought processes.
"I see. They exchanged winks while she was cuddling with another man. And Max Van der Linden was nowhere in sight as this took place. That doesn't sound much like a recipe for murder to me."
Put that way, it didn't to me, either. "Well, I still think someone is making Connie sick, and whoever it is might be using poison to accomplish her end. Connie's definitely sick, and Gloria's a man-crazy vamp. She might have her sights set on Max Van der Linden, even if he doesn't want Connie dead. It's possible!"
"Vaguely possible, I suppose, if highly unlikely."
Oh, bother the man. "I'm going to the library tomorrow, and I'm going to look up poisons and see if I can find one that creates the symptoms Connie has."
Sam huffed a breath that even in the semi-darkness came out frosty and white. "What are her symptoms?"
"She said she has a headache all the time, she's exhausted all the time, and her stomach hurts all the time."
"Huh. Is her hair falling out?"
I squinted at him. Didn't do any good; still couldn't see him well enough to determine if he was teasing me. "I don't think so. She'd probably have mentioned it. Why?"
He shrugged again. "Classic symptoms of arsenical poisoning."
"Good Lord! Are you serious?"
"Well, I doubt the woman's being poisoned, but yes, those are symptoms of arsenical poisoning. They're also symptoms of influenza, tuberculosis, and malaria. Has she ever been anyplace where she might have contracted malaria? Once you get it, it doesn't ever go away entirely, but comes and goes, you know. If it's malaria, quinine will fix her up until the next time it rears its ugly head."
"How should I know if she's ever been to a place where there's malaria?"
"Don't know. It's pretty much endemic in the southern states where there are swamps and bayous and mires of muddy water. Malaria's spread by mosquitoes in those areas."
"Oh. I didn't know that. I'll ask her."
"Good idea. And let me know if her symptoms continue. Do you have any idea why her husband might want to poison her?"
"Money. Harold said Connie's got heaps of money."
Sam pondered that silently too long for my comfort.
Therefore, I added, "And Gloria Lippincott," although I decided to give malaria some more thought.
&
nbsp; "Couldn't he just divorce her?"
"Probably. Oh, I don't know! There's just so much stupid stuff going on. Someone stole Dennis Bissel's automobile in order to kill Mr. Lippincott, and now Mrs. Van der Linden is sick. Maybe Mr. V will inherit a bunch of money if she dies. He wouldn't get anything if they divorced, would he?"
"I have no idea what arrangements the Van der Lindens might have made in case either of them dies or they get divorced."
"Hmph. Might be worth looking in to. If Harold's right and Connie has a lot of money, Max will probably inherit it if she dies."
"He won't get anything if we pin her murder on him."
"Hmm. I suppose you're right about that. You can at least look into their assorted backgrounds, can't you?"
"We're already doing that. We actually know how to do our job, Daisy. We don't need you to solve our cases for us."
"Huh." Maybe he was right about that, too, but I still thought he ought to pay more attention to my suggestions.
"We're still trying to figure out who could have borrowed Bissel's machine in order to run down Lippincott."
"Aha! So you don't think Dennis Bissel is a coldblooded murderer."
"Never did. But we need to find out who is."
Spike set up a racket just then, and I jumped to my feet. "Bet he's chased Samson up a tree. I hate when he does that, because he'll sit under the tree and bark until the cows come home if I don't go fetch him."
"I thought you'd taken him to obedience school."
"You know I did. He came in first in his class."
"Well, then, why don't you call him?"
"His obedience training didn't cover cats."
I hurried to the yard next door and, sure enough, there was Spike, gleefully wagging his tail, staring up into the Wilsons' pepper tree—Marengo Avenue was lined on both sides with huge pepper trees—and barking his fool head off. "Spike!" I said in my sternest master's voice. "Stop that."
Spike gave one last bark, looked at me as though I'd just deprived him of his greatest joy in life, and agreed to walk with me back to the house. Poor dog.
Sam left shortly after that. He gave me a big hug before he got into his Hudson and tootled on down the road. I have to admit that I was beginning to enjoy Sam's hugs and kisses, which sounds terrible, but there you go.
By the time I got Spike into the house, the telephone had begun to ring.
"Who the heck is that?" I grumbled as I headed for the telephone. Whoever was on the other end of the wire, I was pretty sure the intended party on this end was me. I snatched the receiver from the cradle and forced myself to sound pleasant when I gave my traditional greeting. "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"M-Mrs. Majesty?" a shaky voice on the other end of the wire said.
"Yes. This is she." Hadn't I just said so? I didn't recognize the voice.
"It's Gloria Lippincott," the wobbly voice said.
Well, goodness gracious sakes alive, as some of the old ladies at church are fond of saying. "Good evening, Mrs. Lippincott," I said, still sounding spiritual. "May I help you with anything?"
"Yes. Yes, you can. Oh, please say you can hold a séance and get in touch with Michael. Please! I need to know who killed him, because I think whoever it was is trying to kill me!"
She'd told me that before. Anyhow, she'd done it herself, hadn't she? Or at least hired someone to do it? Oh, well. I didn't believe I should say so to the woman. She did seem upset. "I can certainly conduct a séance for you, Mrs. Lippincott, but you sound... rattled. Has something happened?"
"Yes, yes, yes! I'm sick."
"You're sick?"
"Deathly ill."
What the heck did she want me to do about it? Conduct a séance? Why? Could Michael Lippincott, who had evidently not cared a whole lot for his wife in life, tell her from his grave why she was sick? But I couldn't say that, either. "Um... What are your symptoms?"
"I'm sick!" she repeated.
Oh, brother. "I understand that. What are your specific symptoms?"
"I have a terrible headache. And my stomach hurts so much, I can hardly stand it." She began to cry softly. Shoot.
"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Lippincott, but I'm not a doctor. I think you need to see a doctor."
"But I think I know what's the matter! That's why I need you!"
Huh? "If you know what's the matter, what do you need me for?" I tried not to sound sarcastic. "Do you expect your late husband to be able to cure you?" After the words left my mouth, I hoped she wouldn't take them amiss.
"Yes! No. Oh, I don't know."
I hated having to drag information out of people. Holding on to my patience with great effort, I said, "You don't sound too sure of yourself. With regard to the séance, I mean."
"But... But Michael would know!"
See what I mean? If the woman wanted me to do something for her, don't you think it would have been wise of her to be specific? However, human beings are often irrational. I know it for a certified fact, because I made my living taking advantage of the trait. People being irrational, I mean.
"He'd know what?" I asked sweetly.
"What I should do."
God give me patience. Quickly, please. "Do about what?"
"About what's happening to me!"
"You're sick, you said. Perhaps you have what Connie Van der Linden has," I said, attempting to sound practical and not as though I wanted to wring her neck.
"But that's just it!" she cried, further muddying the conversational waters.
"What's just it?"
"I know why I'm sick, and I think it's a criminal matter." By golly, she got out that whole sentence without once breaking down or chopping it into little pieces for me to drag out by asking various questions.
"Well, then, you should call the police."
"The... the police?"
"Yes."
"But I can't do that." Her voice had sunk to a whisper.
"Why not? The police are investigating your husband's death. If you think someone killed him and has now deliberately... What? Poisoned you?" Hmm. Maybe my poisoning idea wasn't so daft after all. "You should call the police."
"No! I can't! It's... It's too complicated to explain."
All right. That was it for me. "I see. Well, I'll be happy to arrange a séance for you, but you really need to telephone the police if you suspect criminal activity."
She whimpered. "But what should I do?"
I'd just told her what to do, for Pete's sake! "Call a doctor and then call the police," I repeated. And my voice was still sweet and spiritualistic, too.
"But... But I don't think the police like me."
I prayed for patience again but, again, my prayer was not granted. So I sucked in a deep breath and used it to say, "The police are there to protect and serve all the citizens of Pasadena. They investigate crimes, no matter against whom they're perpetrated. And if you truly believe someone is out to get you, you need to call the police. I'm sure they don't dislike you in particular."
"What about that detective friend of yours?"
Aha. Perhaps this was the real reason of this idiotic telephone call. She wanted to seduce Sam. Huh. "Detective Rotondo? He works primarily on murder investigations, and I don't believe he's at the station at the moment. If someone really is trying to kill you, he won't be of any help until after you're dead."
"What? No! That's a terrible thing to say!"
I kind of liked it myself. I didn't say so. "What you need to do is telephone the police department and report what happened to the officer who answers the telephone. The appropriate people will be sent to your residence to collect evidence and... do whatever needs to be done."
"Oh, but... Oh, Mrs. Majesty, can you come here and be with me when they come? I'm so afraid!"
"Of the police?"
"No. Not the police, exactly. It's just that so many horrible things are happening to me and the people around me, and I'm frightened."
If I didn't think she had collaborate
d with someone to do away with her husband and was now perhaps collaborating with that same person to kill Connie Van der Linden, I probably wouldn't have faulted her for being afraid. It occurred to me to tell her Harold Kincaid had a gun and knew how to use it and suggest she call him, but I didn't. I'd be sure to tell Harold about my restraint, because he'd appreciate my thoughtfulness. Maybe he'd even treat me to another luncheon.
After contemplating Gloria's bizarre request for several seconds, I said, "I'm sorry. I can't come to your house right now. I have family matters to attend to." Very well, I'd just lied to a frightened woman. A perhaps-frightened woman. Please scold me later.
"You can't?" she said pleadingly. "Then what should I do?"
Back to that, were we? "Um, well, don't you have any other women friends who can come over and stay with you until the police leave?"
"W-women friends?" She sounded as if she didn't know what a woman friend was, which was probably true for her.
"Yes." An idea struck me then, kind of like a baseball to the head. "What about Mrs. Warden? Or Mrs. Van der Linden? You and Connie are close, aren't you? And you both seem to have the same symptoms. Maybe you can come up with a solution between you."
"Faith? Connie?" she squealed. "I-I don't know. Yes, I've known Faith and James and Connie and Max for a long time, but..." Her voice trailed off.
"Well, isn't one of them a good-enough friend that you could call her?" Was I a sleuth, or was I not a sleuth? It's probably better if you don't answer that question.
"But Connie's been sick lately."
"Yes," I said, purring a bit. "She has been sick, hasn't she? And now you claim you're sick, too. Do you have any idea what's the matter with the two of you?"
"I? How should I know?"
"I thought you just said you did know."
"Well... I don't. Really. It was just a... a thought."
"Then why not ask Connie to visit? You're friends with the Van der Lindens. You said so yourself." Then, greatly daring, I added, "Or perhaps you should call Sylvia Allen. You and Lawrence were pretty cozy at rehearsal yesterday." They'd winked at each other, according to Lucy. Oh, well.
"Lawrence and me? Whatever are you talking about? Lawrence and Sylvia are dear friends. I don't know what you mean about Lawrence and me being cozy together. In fact, that sounds like slander."
