by Alice Duncan
Trust my mother.
Pa said, "It's a seal in an automobile's engine. If you blow a gasket in a machine, it gets hot and steamy and doesn't run anymore."
"That's Sam, all right," I mumbled, heading for the stove, hoping Vi had fixed something for breakfast.
"I left some ham for you in the warming oven, Daisy," said Vi, answering my unasked question.
"Thanks, Vi. You're forever saving my life."
"Pooh," said Vi, although I could see she was pleased.
"So are you going to the hospital to talk to that woman?" asked Ma, pulling on her gloves in preparation for walking to her job as head bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo.
"I guess I will," said I, grabbing a dishtowel and hauling the plate holding the ham out of the oven. Toast and ham would make a good breakfast. I'd try to fry an egg, but I wasn't very good at frying eggs.
Vi, who knew all about my cooking skills—or lack thereof—nudged me out of the way. "You fix your toast. I'll fry you an egg."
With a deep and heartfelt sigh, I said, "Thanks, Vi. I really wish I weren't so clumsy in the kitchen."
"It's just that you don't pay attention, is all," said Vi.
She'd said that before, but I think my culinary failures went deeper than lack of attention. I think, by then, that I had developed some kind of complex about cooking. And don't ask me what a complex is, because I don't know. I only know that the rich people I consorted with back then were tossing the word around like confetti on New Year's Day, because the latest fad amongst the socialites for whom I worked was being "analyzed" by psychiatrists because of their various complexes. We plain folks couldn't afford to be analyzed. We had to struggle along as well as we could on our own, complexes or no complexes. That was all right by me.
Anyhow, thanks to Vi, I ate a good breakfast, then washed and dried the dishes, washed and dried myself, then studied the clothes in my closet for a minute or two. I didn't have to dress up in particular, since Gloria Lippincott probably wasn't going to judge me by my wardrobe that day. Nevertheless, I selected a nice dark green woolen suit I'd made a year or so earlier. The weather remained cold, so the wool would be welcome, mainly because I'd lined the suit with faux silk. I couldn't afford real silk, but used the fake stuff anyway because wool against my skin made me itch. Anyhow, nobody would see the lining.
When I emerged from my bedroom, it was to find Spike staring at me with a doleful expression on his doggy face. He knew, when I dressed up, it wasn't to take him for a walk. Instantly I felt guilty.
"Oh, Spike, I'm so sorry." I knelt in front of my pooch and held my arms out for him to leap into. He did, and I smothered him with affection for several moments. I know he'd rather have gone for a walk. So would I. I didn't want to talk to Gloria Lippincott. Or maybe I did. I sure wanted to know what had happened to her. Still, I liked Spike considerably better than I liked Gloria, so I'd rather have walked him than talk to her.
Fortunately for the both of us, Pa was on hand. "I'll take him out this morning, Daisy, and maybe you can go with us for another walk this afternoon."
Bless my father's soft heart! "Thanks, Pa. I really appreciate this."
"That's all right. I want to know what that woman has to tell you." He winked at me.
"If I can tell you, I will. If whatever she says involves the police..." My words trailed off, and I felt guilty again. Here I was, tempting my family with snippets of information only to tell them I might not be able to complete the puzzle. "I'll tell you," I said firmly. "If the police are involved or not." There. Sam could lump it if he didn't like it.
"Don't tell us if it'll annoy the police," said Pa with a grin.
"Phooey on the police. If Mrs. Lippincott wanted to talk to the police, she could do so. She wants to talk to me. And then I'll talk to you."
And with that and another quick Spike-pat, I sailed out the side door and into our zippy Chevrolet. I had to stop at a filling station along the way, but that was all right. My old school pal, Frank Bowers, filled my tank, washed my windows, and chatted with me as he did so. He even complimented me on how fancy I was looking. Maybe it was more like a tease. Whatever it was, I could tell he approved of my looks, which brightened a dull day a trifle.
The sky had actually begun to drip a little by the time I got to the Castleton Hospital. Fiddlesticks. And me with no umbrella. One didn't generally need an umbrella in Pasadena, but every now and then the weather could surprise one. I held my handbag over my head as I hurried to the hospital's doors.
When I stopped in the lobby to shake water droplets from my handbag and suit coat, a gruff voice greeted me.
"It's about time you got here."
Sam. Of course.
Frowning, I looked up to see him looming at the bottom of the staircase to the second floor.
Rather than blowing up at him, I said, "I got here as quickly as I could." Peering at him more closely, I said, "You look kind of like the wrath of God, Sam. Did you ever get anything to eat?"
"A sinker and a cup of Joe," he growled.
"That's not very nutritious," I said, and then felt stupid. "But I guess your choices were limited."
"You can say that again. Better hurry up now. They still don't know if the lady's going to make it. She's in and out of consciousness, but every time she has a lucid moment, she asks for you."
"I wonder why."
"Who the hell knows?" And Sam turned on his heel and lumbered up the staircase. I went after him, much more daintily.
A policeman stood guard at Gloria's door, I guess because no one was sure if she'd poisoned herself or been poisoned by someone else, and if she had been poisoned, they didn't want whoever'd poisoned her to come in and finish her off. I nodded to the officer, a dour specimen named Doan whom I'd met before, and quietly entered Gloria's room. Sam followed me in. I guess he was hoping she wouldn't notice him. Fat chance. He was big as a house.
I probably should say here that Sam Rotondo wasn't fat. He was big. He was tall and wide and built rather like one of those giant redwood trees they have in Northern California. He sure as anything couldn't hide behind me, if that's what he'd planned.
Gloria looked horrible. Her hair was matted, her skin was blotchy, and she seemed to be asleep. Unsure of what to do, I glanced at Sam.
He whispered, "Talk to her."
So I talked to her. "Gloria?" I whispered. "Mrs. Lippincott?"
Nothing. I again glanced over my shoulder at Sam.
He muttered a soft, "Damn," and went to the bedside. There he lifted Gloria's hand, which was lying limply on the white hospital sheet covering her. "She's got a pulse," he said. "Try again."
So I tried again. A bit louder than before, I said, "Gloria? Mrs. Lippincott?"
Gloria stirred a bit and muttered something incomprehensible. Encouraged—although I'm not sure why—I picked up her hand, which Sam had lowered to the bed covers once more. "Gloria? It's Mrs. Majesty. I understand you want to speak with me."
Her eyelids fluttered and her eyes opened slightly. "Mrs. Majesty?"
Merciful heavens, her voice was as hoarse as a frog's. I guess the doctor wasn't kidding when he'd said she'd have a sore throat after last night's procedure.
"Yes. It's Mrs. Majesty. Did you wish to speak with me?"
"No cops," she said, her eyes opening a bit wider. She scanned the room, and her attention landed on Sam. She repeated, "No cops."
"I'll wait outside," said Sam, sounding disgruntled.
I sat on the chair next to Gloria's bed, still holding her hand. When the door closed behind Sam, I told her, "We're alone. What did you wish to say to me?"
"Stop him," said Gloria.
If I was supposed to understand her meaning, I failed miserably. "Stop who? Whom? Whoever." Darn the English language, anyhow! "Stop him from doing what?"
She seemed to relapse into unconsciousness. I didn't know what to do, although I sure wished she hadn't sent Sam away. I let go of her hand, which was damp and clammy.
&nb
sp; After sitting in that chair for what seemed like eternity, I rose to my feet and headed softly to the door. Maybe she needed a doctor. Heck, maybe she was dead! That thought made me hurry, and I guess I made a noise, because Gloria's voice stopped me before I reached for the doorknob.
"Don't go. Please. Don't go."
Well, at least she hadn't died on me. I turned and stepped toward the chair again. "I was told you wanted to talk to me."
"Yes. I want you. Need to tell you something."
So why didn't she spit it out? So to speak. Recalling her telephone call to me the evening before, I wondered if she were playing some kind of game, making me draw the words out of her mouth one by one. Another glance at her, looking as close to being dead as made no matter, softened my opinion. Slightly. With a smallish huff, I went back to the chair and sat.
"Yes? What is it you wish to tell me?" I asked, attempting to sound mystical and spiritualistic, while, at the same time, disliking this woman a good deal.
"Poison," she whispered, somehow endowing the word with mystery.
"What about poison?" I regret to say my spiritualist's voice contained a trace of tartness.
"Poison. He poisoned me."
'Round and 'round she goes; where she stops, nobody knows, flitted through my brain. Don't ask me why, because I don't know, except that I sensed something amiss here.
Then I chided myself for being a mean-spirited cow. The poor woman had almost died. I supposed I should give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she really was confused and unable to form coherent sentences.
That being the case, I stood again. "Perhaps I should come back later, Gloria, when you're better able to express yourself. I fear I don't know what you're trying to tell me."
Darned if she didn't grab my hand! Her grip wasn't strong, but it surprised me into a tiny squeak.
"No! Need to tell you something," she croaked in her frog-voice. She sure didn't sound like one of the three little maids from school any longer.
Well, then do it, I wanted to scream at her. Instead, I said gently, "Yes? Please tell me what you need to tell me, then." And quit beating around the bush. I didn't add that last part.
"He did it."
"Who did what?"
"He poisoned me."
"Who poisoned you?"
"Jack."
"Jack?" Who the heck was Jack?
"Yes. Jack."
"I... don't know anyone named Jack, Mrs. Lippincott."
She shook her head in what looked to me like frustration. I knew how she felt.
"Jack," she repeated. "He poisoned me. He's poisoning Connie."
"Who is Jack?" I asked rather more sharply than I'd intended.
"Jack. He calls himself Max," she said, nearly startling the socks off me. "Max poisoned me. He's poisoning Connie. It's Max. Arrest him."
Chapter 22
You could have knocked me over with a dust mote when Gloria finally told me who Jack was. Max. Max? I sat, plump, onto the chair beside her bed again.
"He is? I mean, Jack is Max? Max is Jack? I mean... Max? Max Van der Linden? He's going around poisoning people?" I didn't believe it.
Or maybe I did.
But... Max? He seemed like such a nice, gentle man. And he had a spectacular voice.
Not, of course, that the quality of his voice mattered. I didn't like Gloria, and she had a spectacular voice, too.
"Max. Save Connie," Gloria whispered. "Arrest him."
"I can't arrest anyone. You need to be a policeman to arrest someone. You need to tell this to the police."
"No!" For a croak, the one small word came out with remarkable firmness.
"Why not? You're not making sense, Gloria. If Max is actually someone named Jack and he's going around poisoning people, you need to file a report against him. The police need to stop him. I can't do it. You certainly can't do it, lying in this hospital bed. And Connie seems to think he's the cat's pajamas, even if he does only want to feed her vitamin pills." Instead of taking her to a doctor, who might actually be able to diagnose whatever was wrong with her.
"No. Need you. Séance."
Oh, boy, we were back to the séance, were we? "What good will a séance do?" I asked more bluntly than was usual for me when dealing with nutty women.
"Michael will know."
I heaved a big sigh. "Michael will know what?"
"Who killed him."
"I thought you said Max did it."
She shook her head, which evidently hurt, because she groaned a little. "No. Another person. Max hired. Killed Michael. Michael will know."
Good old Michael. A fount of information from the grave. If I believed in this sort of thing, I might have had an ounce or two of sympathy to spare for Gloria. "Listen, Gloria, I will gladly set up a séance for you any time you want me to. But you need to get well and get out of the hospital. And if Max did this to you, you need to tell the police."
"No!"
Ow. That exclamation must have hurt, because it hurtled from her damaged throat almost as a yell. Then she pressed a hand to her neck and moaned some more.
"Gloria. I can set up a séance for you. Would you like that?"
She nodded, and I noticed a couple of tears had leaked out from her tightly closed eyelids. Either she was the world's best actress, or she was in distress. Maybe both.
"When would you like me to hold this séance?"
"Soon."
"At your house?"
"No." She shuddered, although I wasn't sure why.
"Perhaps Mrs. Bissel will allow me to hold a séance at her house. Would that do?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I'll telephone Mrs. Bissel and see if we can arrange a séance for... next Saturday night? Will you be well by then?"
"Yes."
"Very well."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I rose from the chair once more, but Gloria again caught my hand. What now?
"Daisy?"
Who did she think I was? Sweetly, I said, "Yes?"
"Don't tell cops."
"Nobody but the cops can arrest Max," I reminded her.
"Don't let Max know."
"Don't let him know what?" Darn the woman anyhow! Was I supposed to read her mind?
"Don't let him know we talked."
Well, that was easy enough to promise. "I won't."
"Don't tell cops."
"I can't promise you that," I said firmly but still sweetly.
"No. No, don't tell. Max will hurt Connie if you tell."
From what I'd gathered of this idiotic conversation so far, Max was already hurting Connie. I refused to lie to the woman. "We'll see," I said.
"Séance," she said. "Wait for séance."
Like heck I would. I only said, "I'll let you get some rest now, Gloria. Save your strength, and get well. We need you in The Mikado."
She smiled faintly, and I got the heck out of there.
Sam stood in the hall, his arms crossed over his chest, frowning as I exited Gloria's room. I held my finger to my lips so he wouldn't roar before we got out of hearing distance of the patient. Still frowning, Sam allowed me to lead him down the hall.
"What did she want?"
"She still wants me to hold a séance. And don't roll your eyes at me!" I told him as he rolled his eyes at me. "It's not my fault she's an idiot. She claims Max Van der Linden is actually somebody named Jack, and he poisoned her and is poisoning Connie, which I guess is why Connie's been so sick. If Gloria's telling the truth."
"Max Van der Linden is actually a man named Jack, and he's poisoning his wife and Mrs. Lippincott?"
"Yeah, I don't know if I believe her, but you'd better check the backgrounds on all these people. According to Gloria Lippincott, her husband lost all his money gambling. Have you checked into the Van der Lindens' backgrounds yet?"
"We're working on it."
"You're always working on it," I said bitterly. "And you want me to help, but you won't tell me what
you've learned. For all you know, I'm in danger from Max. Jack. Whoever he is."
"You might be," Sam said, frowning, his brow beetling. He even appeared slightly worried. "When's the next rehearsal?"
"Tomorrow night at the church."
"Don't go there alone. I'll take you."
"I don't think anyone will do anything to anyone at the church, Sam," I said. I saw his ironic expression and backtracked. "Oh, yeah. That paving stone."
"Yeah. That paving stone. Where was Van der Linden when that thing was pushed from the roof?"
"How should I know? I wasn't there. I was with you, remember?"
"Yeah. I'd better go over my notes."
Eyeing him critically, I said, "You'd better eat something and catch a nap. Come over for dinner tonight, and I'll let you know what I've set up as far as a séance goes."
"What do you need a séance for?"
"I don't need a séance for anything! Gloria Lippincott maintains I'll be able to get in touch with her late husband—her late estranged husband—and he'll be able to tell us who stole Dennis Bissel's Rolls and ran him down."
"Oh, brother."
"Right."
We both stood there in the hospital corridor, studying the dingy carpeting at our feet, for a moment or two. Then Sam looked up, narrowed his eyes, and said in a musing tone of voice, "Hmm. Maybe that's not a bad idea."
I squinted up at him. "Maybe what's not a bad idea?"
"Holding a séance. Maybe we can get some answers there."
"From whom? The late Michael Lippincott?"
"No. But I just thought of something."
"What did you just think of?"
"I'll tell you later. Let me walk you to your machine. I've got to get something to eat and take a nap."
"You're actually going to take a suggestion from me?" I asked in feigned astonishment.
"No. I'd already planned to do both of those things."
"You're a beast, Sam Rotondo."
"Yeah, I know." He grinned, the beast.
Then he walked me out to the family's Chevrolet, and I tootled home so I could telephone Mrs. Bissel and ask her if we could hold a séance in her breakfast room in order to get to the bottom of Michael Lippincott's death. I wouldn't tell her about the possible poisoning of Connie Van der Linden and Gloria Lippincott, since I couldn't make heads or tails out of that mystery. If there was one. I also wouldn't tell her that Max Van der Linden, according to Gloria Lippincott, was actually a fellow named Jack, and that he was a vicious poisoner and perhaps paving stone-thrower.
