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

by Alice Duncan

  "Well... I wasn't sure who had spoken. I... I only heard one man call the other Jack."

  "You know, the doctor who pumped your stomach"—this time it was I who winced, when I recalled that pump and that tube—"had to tell the police what he found in your stomach's contents."

  She gaped at me. "You mean, he told the police?"

  "I imagine so."

  "Hmm. Well, that doesn't tell who made me take it, does it?"

  "No."

  "Then that's all right, then."

  Huh? "I see." I didn't see a blessed thing.

  That being the case, I only said, "Well, it's good to see you up and around again," and fled to the wings. Or to the choir room, which was one of the wings in this instance.

  Although I didn't really trust Gloria not to be acting a part as she acted the part—so to speak—of Pitti-Sing, she did seem to drag and be slightly listless. Finally she said she couldn't go on, wept and apologized profusely, and Flossie took her place. That was fine with me. It was a lot more fun for me when I had to interrupt the revels in the town of Titipu in my role as Katisha this time, mainly because Flossie had to cover her mouth to hide her giggles. Guess she'd never seen me be mean and nasty before.

  " 'Your revels cease! Assist me, all of you,' " I sang, using my most elaborate gestures to indicate the character of Katisha, which was black as onyx and hard as flint. Not, perhaps, unlike Gloria Lippincott.

  Have I mentioned how much I loved playing Katisha? Well, I did love it. For the first time in my entire life, I could be callous as a politician and not have anyone scold me for it. Bliss.

  Sam must have noticed my delight because as he drove me home, he said, "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you? Playing that witch-woman?"

  "Yes. It's more fun that I can remember ever having since I grew up." Only after I said the words, which were the truth, did I realize how sad they sounded. As an amendment, I said, "Well, except for when Billy and I were married. Our wedding was wonderful." And he'd been shipped overseas three weeks later.

  "Yeah. Weddings are fun."

  "You don't sound awfully convincing, Sam Rotondo."

  He wrinkled his brow and twisted his lips. "You've never been to an Italian wedding, have you?"

  "Can't say as I have."

  "Let me just say that there are so many traditions and folderol involved that it takes all the enjoyment out of the occasion, at least for the groom."

  "That doesn't sound right," I said, wrinkling my own brow.

  "Doesn't sound right to me, either, but it's the truth. My God, you have to have the proper food, the proper colors and follow the proper superstitions. Poor Margaret had to wear a green dress at our rehearsal dinner, and it made her skin look yellow." He shook his head. "And I had to carry a piece of iron rod in my pocket at the wedding to ward off bad luck. Margaret even had to make a little tear in her veil."

  "Those are all Italian traditions?" I asked, feeling slightly stunned. Heck, Billy had worn his uniform, and I'd worn a white dress and veil made by... well, me. And the word iron wasn't spoken at all, as nearly as I could remember. "Do your brides hold orange blossoms? I held orange blossoms. To this day, when I pass a blooming orange tree, I get all nostalgic."

  "No orange blossoms. As we walked out of the church, everyone yelled auguri at us."

  "That's pretty tame. They didn't throw anything?"

  "They just hollered auguri. It means best wishes, which is nice, I guess."

  "Huh. People threw rice at us when we walked out of the church. I guess that's one of our traditions, although, to be honest, I don't know which country it originated in."

  "Hmm. You probably didn't have pasta and prosecco at the reception dinner. And I'll bet you got served a big cake baked by your aunt."

  "We had ham and salads and Vi's wonderful dinner rolls, actually. And yes, we had a delicious cake." I sighed.

  "Good for you. We got candy-coated almonds."

  "Candy-coated almonds?"

  "Italian tradition. Called confetti."

  "Really? Is that where we get the word confetti? From Italian candy-coated almonds?"

  "I guess so. I'd rather have had cake."

  "Well," I hedged, "candy-coated almonds sound good."

  "Yeah. They are good. So were Margaret and me, for a couple of years."

  "Billy and I only had three weeks," I said, remembering.

  "Yeah, but both of our marriages ended the same way. More or less."

  "I suppose so. More or less."

  And if that wasn't a melancholy thought, I didn't know what was. I decided to change the subject. "So, you and Johnny were cloistered together during today's rehearsal. Is there anything else I need to know about Saturday's séance?"

  "Nope. We were just firming up our plans. I gave Buckingham a photograph of Michael Lippincott, so he could do the best he can with makeup in order to look like him. I told him you'd help him with the makeup. Hope you don't mind."

  "I don't mind, although it's difficult for me to imagine Johnny agreeing to this fell plot."

  "We're trying to capture a couple of murderers, don't forget. Buckingham is all in favor of capturing murderers. He'll gladly help someone who's down and out, but he's not so keen on assisting folks who kill other folks for their own gain."

  "True, true. Johnny is a good man."

  "Yes, he is. And so's his wife. A good woman, I mean." Sam shook his head. "I've got to admit that when I first met her, I didn't anticipate her transformation."

  I heaved a little sigh. "No. I didn't, either. And I still feel kind of guilty about foisting her on Johnny."

  Sam turned his head and gaped at me. "You feel guilty? You probably saved the poor woman's life."

  "Yes, I know. But I wasn't really doing a good deed at the time. I was trying to get rid of her, because she'd sort of attached herself to me. Why, she came to our house the morning after the raid on that first séance, beaten half to death."

  "I didn't know that."

  "No." Another sigh. "Nobody but Flossie and I know it. And now you. It's not something you normally advertise, I reckon. I hope that Jinx Jenkins character never gets out of the big house." Don't ask me why I called prison "the big house." I must have seen it at a motion picture or something.

  "He won't," said Sam.

  "How do you know that for sure?"

  "He got shanked."

  "He got what?"

  "Shanked. A shank in prison terminology is a homemade knife. He can't get out of the 'big house,' as you call it, because he's dead."

  "Goodness! I'm so glad!"

  Sam looked at me again.

  Feeling only slightly chagrinned, I said, "Well, I am. I was afraid he'd get out and come after Flossie."

  "Now you don't have to worry. Some other thug took care of the matter for you."

  "Good. What about the rest of Maggiori's gang?"

  With a shrug, Sam said, "Can't say as I know for sure. New York wanted Maggiori, so he got sent back there for trial. I don't know what happened, but he probably got off."

  "What do you mean, he got off? How can a murdering gangster get off."

  "Lots of ways. New York is relatively corrupt. He probably paid off a juror or a judge or something."

  "That's terrible," I said, unable to comprehend corruption on such a large scale. "Are you serious? You're not serious, are you? You're kidding me."

  Sam shook his head. "Nope. It's the bitter truth. That's another reason I'd rather be a policeman here in Pasadena than in New York City. Pasadena's a downright civilized place compared to New York. Hell, gangs used to run the city back there. Violent gangs."

  "How awful." Dismayed pretty well describes my reaction to this news. I still couldn't quite make myself believe Sam's story.

  "It was awful, all right. And the names those bozos gave themselves were stupid, too. The Dead Rabbits, the Whyos, the Five Points Gang."

  "My Lord! Flossie was born and reared in the Five Points area."

  "She's luc
ky she got out at all. Thanks to you and Buckingham, you really did save her life."

  "Good heavens."

  "Not a whole lot of heaven in New York these days, although the gang problems have changed. Now the Italian and Jewish bootleggers are taking over everything."

  "Italians and Jews? I don't think I ever heard of a Jewish gangster."

  "Yeah, well, they exist. Burns me up that the Italians are so big into bootlegging. Besmirches my heritage, you know?"

  "I guess so, but you're one of the good guys, so you shouldn't take it seriously."

  "Hard not to," grumbled Sam. "I'm pretty sure one of my sister's kids is in with a bootleg gang. Oh, and the Irish and Negros have their gangs, too. Harlem is a big bootleg area."

  "Good heavens."

  "Back to heaven, are we?"

  "I don't know. Pasadena sounds like heaven compared to New York City."

  "Trust me, it is."

  "I trust you. But how sad."

  "Yeah. I'm going to kill that kid if I ever get back to NYC."

  "Your sister's boy?"

  "That's the one, all right."

  "That'll help a whole lot," I said dryly.

  "It'll help my sister. She doesn't need that son of a... dog dragging the family name in the dirt."

  "And you think it would help her if you killed her child?"

  "He's headed straight to jail or getting shot down with a Tommy gun."

  "Oh, that's awful. But your poor sister. Wouldn't she be grieved by her son's death?"

  "Probably, but it would cause her less trouble in the long run if someone just did away with him now."

  "That's terrible, Sam."

  "Yeah, well, I don't know any Johnny Buckinghams back in New York City, so options are limited."

  He had a point there.

  Chapter 26

  Saturday morning's rehearsal of The Mikado went quite well. Again, Gloria wasn't well enough (she said) to endure the entire rehearsal. That was all right by me. Flossie, Lucy Spinks, and Connie sounded great together. I decided that Flossie made a better Pitti-Sing than Gloria, anyway, because she wasn't such a sophisticated snob. Or maybe that's only my imagination. About Flossie being a better Pitti-Sing, I mean. Gloria was still a sophisticated snob. And a murderous one, if Sam was correct, and I could think of no reason to doubt him.

  It just occurred to me that I didn't doubt him on the Gloria issue because I didn't like Gloria. If he'd told me Flossie was an evil murderess, I'd doubt him to the skies. Which just goes to show how much one's emotions have to do with one's common sense, I reckon.

  At any rate, rehearsal ended about one o'clock, and Sam treated me to lunch at a little soda fountain in Altadena at Webster's Pharmacy. I had a tuna-fish sandwich, and Sam had roast beef on pumpernickel. I didn't believe I'd ever seen pumpernickel bread before that day, and I told Sam so.

  With huge eyes, chewing, he stared at me. After he swallowed, he said, "Are you telling me the truth?"

  "Well... Yes. In fact, until you ordered that sandwich"—I pointed at same—"I'd never even heard of pumpernickel bread. It looks dark. Does it taste like... what's that other bread that we had at the Tea Cup Inn? Rye?"

  "You don't eat rye bread either?"

  "Well, only at the Tea Cup Inn when we ate there with Harold. We just eat Vi's bread at home," I told him. "She makes good bread."

  "And your family is from Massachusetts?"

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Nothing, I guess." He sighed. "You know, I don't much care for New York City, but you can get every kind of food known to man there. Rye, pumpernickel, white, whole wheat, pita–"

  "Pita? Is that a joke?"

  "It certainly is not. In fact, you had pita bread in Egypt and Turkey."

  I cast my mind back to my not-awfully-successful trip to Egypt and Turkey. "I don't remember," I told him.

  "Huh. You stayed at tourist hotels."

  "Yes, Sam. Harold took me, remember? Only the best for Harold Kincaid."

  "I remember." From the tone of his voice, he didn't like remembering, either. "You never had anything rolled up in a flat piece of bread? That's pita. The bread. Not the stuff inside it."

  "Nuts. Now I feel as though I missed something during that horrible trip. Is pita bread tasty?"

  "Tastes like bread. Chewy bread. The good stuff is inside it. My buddy Jamir used to invite me to his place for lunch, and his mother made us falafel sandwiches."

  "Ah. I think I remember you telling me about falafel once. What are they made of?"

  "Garbanzo beans, garlic. Stuff like that."

  "No meat?"

  "No meat. Although you can get lamb on a pita, too. That's delicious."

  My mouth watered, so I took a bite of my sandwich, which came complete with a pickle spear. I love dill pickles. I kept eyeing Sam's sandwich, however, and almost wished I'd been more daring.

  Sam must have noticed, because he took his knife, carved a corner off the sandwich half he hadn't yet bitten into and transferred it to my plate. "Try it. It's good. Got mustard."

  "Thanks, Sam!" Mustard wasn't my favorite food, but what the heck. I picked up the sandwich tidbit and popped it into my mouth. "Oh, my, this is good!" I exclaimed once I'd swallowed. But honestly. How was I supposed to know that roast beef and pumpernickel bread would go so well together? I was a Southern California girl, for Pete's sake.

  "Maybe your aunt can make pumpernickel. Or rye bread." He shrugged. "Can't be too difficult. All the Germans and Poles and Rumanians in New York make the stuff."

  "Rumanians?" The only thing I knew about Rumania was that it was near Hungary, and Count Dracula lived there, according to Mr. Bram Stoker. I loved that book, Dracula. It was really creepy.

  "I'd bet, if I were a betting man, which I'm not, that you can find someone of every country on this green earth somewhere in New York City. Oh, the Rumanians have this kind of cured meat called pastrami that's delicious. Pastrami on rye used to be my favorite."

  "Pastrami, eh? I think I'll have to go to New York City someday, just so I can stuff myself with new food."

  Sam grinned a little and said, "Maybe we can—Never mind."

  What had he been going to say? That maybe he and I could go there together someday? Did that mean he still loved me? Bother. I was too tired to think about deep stuff anymore that day, so I reverted to my normal self.

  "I'll go to the library and check out a cooking book for Vi," I said, feeling determined and more sorry than ever that I hadn't dared pumpernickel that very day. Or pastrami on rye. Not that Webster's carried such exotica as pastrami. Ah, well. Learn something new every day, is my motto. Actually, it isn't, but it seems appropriate regarding foodstuffs.

  So Sam took me home after our delicious lunches, and I lay down with Spike for a bit, in anticipation of the séance to come later on that day. I wanted to be fully fresh and alert so I could remember it all later and be able to tell Ma, Pa, and Vi precisely how the police and I thwarted two dirty crooks.

  * * *

  The séance was set to begin at eight-thirty, and I had to drive myself to Mrs. Bissel's house, because Sam would be there on professional duty, doing policemanly things. I could hardly wait to find out the identity of Gloria's evil assistant. Of those who were going to be present, I didn't feel inclined to choose one. I didn't want it to be Max. And, however much I loathed Lawrence Allen spurning his own wife in favor of Gloria Lippincott, he was merely a weak-minded male, after all. Gloria seemed adept at spinning her web. If Lawrence got caught in its sticky tendrils, he'd learn a hard lesson this evening. Whether Sylvia would forgive him or not was anyone's guess.

  I knew the cohort wasn't Dennis Bissel because he just wasn't the type. Whatever the type is. But I had yet to detect a malicious bone in his body. Not that I knew anything about his body; I'm only using a figure of speech.

  I drove into Mrs. Bissel's circular driveway in back of her house at about seven-thirty that evening. I figured that would give me lots o
f time to get any instructions Sam might want to impart. I wore one of my lovelier black ensembles. Feeling a little silly, but not awfully, I also wore my juju, which I tucked discreetly out of sight. The skirt reached my ankles, so I also wore black shoes with a Louis heel and carried my black bag. I'd stuck a couple of black feathers in my hair in lieu of a hat for a change.

  Keiji Saito, Mrs. Bissel's houseboy, met me at the back door. He'd taught me all sorts of stuff about his own Japanese culture and was at this time attempting to teach me a way of folding paper into interesting objects via an art form called origami. Keiji'd made me a charming origami crane. Just by folding paper! I wasn't great at it yet, but I was trying. My mother would say I'm very trying, but I think she means it as a joke. Ma isn't a great jokester as a rule, but I'd walked right into that one a time or two.

  "You look very nice this evening, Daisy," said Keiji.

  "Thank you," I said.

  "You look like a black crow," said Sam Rotondo, who stood right behind Keiji. "What are those feathers for?"

  Trust Sam. "Why, thank you very much, Sam. Say anything else rude, and I'll peck your stupid eyes out."

  Sam smiled, drat the man.

  Keiji tried not to laugh.

  "But you'd better come with me, and I'll show you what's going to happen when," said Sam.

  "Let me take your shawl and handbag, Daisy," said Keiji, doing same. At least he was nice to me.

  "Thanks, Keiji." I turned to my nemesis. "All right, Sam. What's going to happen when?"

  "Come here." He walked from the sunroom, where the back door was located, to the right, where sat the breakfast room. A suite of rooms leading from the breakfast room was where Mrs. Bissel's housekeeper/cook lived. Sam turned the knob and walked right in, from which I assumed he'd confiscated Mrs. Cummings' quarters for the evening. I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Cummings, the housekeeper/cook, but oh, well. The police had a job to do and so did I.

  "Buckingham will come out of this room at the appropriate time," Sam told me.

  "When's the appropriate time going to be?"

  "Whenever you get around to conjuring him."

  I frowned at him. "You're not very helpful, Sam. Can you give me a hint? What do you want me to say?"