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

by Alice Duncan

  None of that mattered, though, because Pickett tackled him, and Lawrence Allen—or the man who called himself Lawrence Allen—went flying face first on the hardwood flooring. He missed the rug and made quite a thump, yelled "Ow!" and I was glad. Officer Pickett leaped upon his back, yanked his arms behind his back and clinked the cuffs on him, too.

  So the bad guys had been caught. And we didn't even need a séance to accomplish their capture. Although I'd recently been frightened almost out of my mind, I was now a trifle disgruntled that I'd played so paltry a part in the denouement of the action. Well, maybe not precisely a paltry part. If whoever Lawrence Allen was had caught up with me, I'd have been a dead Daisy.

  "What's all the uproar going on out here?" And at that very moment, Johnny Buckingham, who, I guess, had become bored and wondered what the excitement was about, put in an appearance through the walkway from the breakfast room to the gigantic hallway where the staircase ended.

  Sylvia Allen screamed and fainted. No one was nearby to catch her.

  Griselda Bissel screamed and fainted, but Keiji, gallant lad that he was, absorbed her weight. Mrs. Cummings (she screamed, too, but she didn't faint) helped him lay her out on the hall carpeting.

  Connie Van der Linden, who had been held tightly in her husband's arms, forewent the scream and merely fainted.

  Gazing at Johnny, I had to admit I'd done an admirable job in turning him into a ghoul. He looked like a demon from hell.

  I was darned proud of myself!

  Not only that, but I recalled in that very instant that Sam Rotondo had a simply superb bass voice.

  Heh, heh, heh.

  Chapter 28

  Doan and Pickett took the pseudo Gloria Lippincott and the pseudo Lawrence Allen down to the Pasadena Police Station. I probably should mention here that Altadena, where Mrs. Bissel lived, operated under the jurisdiction of the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department but, as Sam once snidely put it to me: "We cooperate." So I guess the Altadena Sheriff was happy to be rid of the dastardly duo.

  Keiji had the presence of mind to telephone Dr. Dearing, who lived across Maiden Lane from Mrs. Bissel, and the kind doctor trotted over to see to the fainting victims and, most especially, to Connie Van der Linden.

  "Poison? Good Lord, what kind of poison?" he asked as he listened to her heart with this stethoscope. We had gathered in Mrs. Bissel's gigantic living room by that time.

  Max Van der Linden, who didn't seem to want to leave his wife's side, said, "I don't know. I hope to heaven Gloria and Lawrence—or whatever their names are—will tell us."

  "I can't believe they wanted to murder me," whimpered Connie, who'd begun to look sickly again. At present she lay on one of Mrs. Bissel's sofas. There were a bunch of them in that huge room.

  "According to what I heard," I said before Sam could tell me to be quiet, "Gloria aimed to get her clutches into Max after they'd managed to do you in. They said you have a lot of money."

  "How horrid!" whispered Mrs. Bissel, who, at Dr. Dearing's insistence, was sipping a restorative glass of brandy. It was all right to drink alcohol for medicinal purposes during Prohibition. I have a feeling many doctors prescribed strong drink to a lot of their patients back then, if only to keep them from finding more accommodating physicians. But Dr. Dearing wasn't one of that breed. At least, I don't think he was.

  Standing up again, Dr. Dearing said, "Well, my dear, according to the symptoms you described to me, I think you'll be all right. Sounds as if you've been given several small doses of arsenic."

  "Arsenic!" cried Max. He leaped to his feet. "Dammit, I will kill those two!"

  Sam put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him down. "Don't bother about that. We'll kill them for you, in all probability. The electric chair is good for solving just such problems as those two."

  Connie had begun crying weakly. "No wonder I've felt so horrid for so long."

  "Indeed," said Dr. Dearing in a voice meant to cheer. "The Victorians used to call arsenic 'inheritance powder' because it was so hard to trace back then. Testing methods have improved considerably since the eighteen hundreds, and we'll be able to tell for certain if arsenic, which is what I suspect, was used. We'll have you right as rain pretty soon." He glanced at Mrs. Bissel. "May we have some bicarbonate of soda in some water, Mrs. Bissel? That should ease any existing cramping."

  "Oh," said Mrs. Bissel, getting to her feet but sounding and looking confused.

  Keiji, who had his wits about him, said, "I'll get some right now."

  "Oh. Thank you," said Mrs. Bissel, who seemed to be catching on, although I'm not entirely sure about that. She sat again and sipped some more brandy.

  "Then, my dear," Dr. Dearing said, smiling at Connie, "be sure to drink lots of milk."

  "Milk?"

  "Yes. It helps to counteract the effects of the poison." He squinted at first Connie and then Max. "Do you have any idea how the villains were giving her the arsenic?"

  "Drinks, I guess," said Max. "Gloria was always pressing Connie to take some kind of thing she called an elixir."

  "It tasted horrid, but I felt so bad, I drank it anyway, thinking it might do me some good. How stupid of me!"

  "Nuts," I said bracingly. "How could you know what was in the stuff?"

  "I gave her lots of vitamins," said Max, sounding as if he felt his treatment might have been a tad lame. I agreed with him, but I acquitted him of wanting to harm his wife.

  "I... I can't believe Lawrence did those dreadful things," whispered Sylvia Allen, who had also been given a glass of brandy. She appeared pale and wan, too, but not from poison. I suspected her condition was caused by shock. "I... Well, I knew he wasn't a nice man, and he'd been carrying on with that... Oh, my Lord! Is Gloria really his sister? They couldn't have been—" She stopped speaking abruptly and gulped. It was all right. We knew what she'd been thinking. "Could they?" she asked finally in a pathetic whisper.

  "No," said Sam, who seemed to have no qualms about much of anything. "They were only pretending to be having an affair so they could throw people off the mark. They wanted Mrs. Van der Linden out of the way, and then the female of the pair would sink her teeth into Mr. Van der Linden."

  "Do you know what their names really are?" I asked of Sam.

  "I think so, but I'm waiting for a call from the station. Chief Kelley."

  "The chief himself is involved?" I said, startled.

  "Yes, indeed. These two crooks have committed at least three murders, and they're wanted in New York, Missouri, and now in California. Kelley wants first dibs on them."

  "Th-three murders?" Connie moaned. "Oh, my land."

  "No!" cried Sylvia Allen. "It can't be true!" Poor thing. I felt sorry for her. She whispered, "We moved from Kansas City two years ago."

  Huh. About the same time Gloria and Michael Lippincott moved to Pasadena from the same place. Coincidence? I think not.

  The telephone rang, and I swear every person in that room, including Sam and Dr. Dearing, jumped a yard in the air. Keiji was the first to recover his equilibrium, and he dashed to the 'phone room under the staircase to answer the call. A second or two later he returned.

  "Detective Rotondo, the call is for you."

  "Ah. Good. Maybe I'll be able to give you some answers now." Sam marched to the telephone room.

  Silence prevailed in the room for the first few minutes as we waited for Sam to get through with his telephone call. I glanced around at the assembled company. Johnny was there, no longer looking ghoulish. He'd apologized for scaring everyone and told us he'd forgotten all about his makeup when he heard the ruckus in the hall. I took him back to the dressing room in Mrs. Cummings' quarters, gave him some cold cream, and made him wipe off the makeup and wash his face. He looked fine now. We all forgave him because, as everyone now knew, he'd been prepared to perform an act of... well, acting, for the sake of truth and justice.

  At the moment, he sat next to Sylvia Allen, trying to offer her support and comfort, two qualities he poss
essed in abundance and gave freely. I'm not sure if Sylvia appreciated his efforts. She kept saying things like, "I don't believe it," and so forth, although I got the strong impression she really did believe it.

  After five minutes or so, the natives began to get restless.

  Mrs. Bissel said, "What's taking him so long?"

  Her son said, "It can't take this much time for someone to tell him the names of the crooks."

  Patsy, clinging tightly to his arm, nodded with vigor.

  "I'm sure the chief is telling Detective Rotondo much more than their names," I said in peevish defense of my... whatever he was to me. "They're investigating more than one crime, don't forget, and in more than one state."

  "I'm sure you're right, Daisy," said Mrs. Bissel. "It's just so... awful. And terrifying. And to think those monsters used my son's machine to kill a man and they aimed to pin the crime on some poor innocent soul! Why, it passes all understanding!"

  "Noooo!" wailed Sylvia. "It can't be true!"

  Oh, boy. She was in for a hard time of it. I felt sorry for her, but I felt sorrier for the people her miserable husband had killed. However, it must be difficult to comprehend having been married to a monster for however many years they'd been hooked up. From what I'd eavesdropped upon in that upstairs bathroom, her husband hadn't valued her or loved her. She'd almost certainly be better off without him, stigma or no stigma. And there definitely would be a stigma. One didn't overlook other people's foibles in those days as they do in these loose times. Heck, poor Sylvia would probably not be invited to anyone's parties any longer, and not for anything she'd done, but because she'd had the bad luck to marry a disgusting man.

  It was probably a good thing she had Johnny with her. Maybe he'd bring her into the Salvation Army fold. They never turned up their noses at anyone.

  We were all on edge and fidgety when Sam finally returned to the living room. Instantly, I asked, "So who are they really?"

  "They're originally from New York City. They were part of their parents' Vaudeville act for years, then their father was gunned down—"

  "By Gloria," I said, interrupting him. Impolite, I know. "She said so."

  "When?"

  "I don't know when. She just said she shot him. She didn't give a date."

  "No," said Sam with a frown. "When did she tell you this?"

  "She didn't tell me anything. When I was in the upstairs bathroom listening to her and her brother talk about their foul careers, she said she shot their father because he was mean to their mother. And them, too, probably. Oh, and she also pulled on a rope attached to the paving stone that nearly brained her. Evidently Lawrence—or whoever he is—got to her first, untied the rope, and stuck it in his pocket. Then they pretended to be lovey-dovey to throw everyone off the scent." I frowned. "Or something like that."

  "Good God," said Sam. Then he shook his head and went on. "Their birth names are Johannes and Ingeborg Niederhauser."

  I leaped to my feet. "They're Germans!" Oh, boy. My list of reasons to hate Germans just grew longer by two names. Never mind that people are people the world over, and there's nothing inherently wrong with most Germans. They'd killed my husband, damn them all! I sat down again, feeling kind of silly for my outburst.

  "Their parents were from Germany," said Sam, as if he didn't want to admit as much. "They had a singing and dancing act and used their kids as little singers and dancers. I guess the father had a drinking problem."

  "Ah," I said. "No wonder they can both sing well. I guess their parents trained them."

  "Probably."

  "So you're going to arrest them and stick them in jail, and eventually they'll pay for their crimes, right? I mean, I heard them both confess to murder and attempted murder."

  Sitting down and taking his notebook from his coat pocket, Sam opened it and gazed at it for a moment or two before answering my question. "We need hard evidence, Daisy. What you heard is just that: hearsay."

  "What?" I cried.

  "No need to holler," said Sam. "We have fingerprint evidence on Mr. Bissel's Rolls-Royce, and right now there's a search being made of both Mrs. Lippincott's house and Mr. Allen's home."

  "The police are searching my home?" squealed Mrs. Allen. Or Mrs. Niederhauser. "They can't do that! Can they?" She'd taken to wringing her hands. I didn't know people really did that until then.

  "We got a judge to sign a warrant, Mrs. Allen," said Sam, clearing up the last-name issue, at least for the time being. "We're talking about several murders here. I know you don't want to believe your husband is involved in the crimes, but evidence points to him and to the woman who called herself Gloria Lippincott. The chief has a preliminary report on an arsenic bottle found in your husband's pocket. It has his fingerprints on it. His fingerprints are also all over Mrs. Lippincott's house."

  "She was mad at him for giving her so much of whatever kind of drug she took when she went to the hospital," I told everyone. "She said so. He said her condition had to look real, and she said she almost died, and she was angry about it."

  "Can't say as I blame her," said Sam. "But evidently the police are finding good, solid evidence at the two residences." He gazed at Sylvia. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Allen. This must be very hard for you."

  See? Sam could be nice sometimes.

  Sylvia began crying quietly, and Connie, who still looked sick, went over to her. "I'm so sorry, Sylvia. I know you had nothing to do with what the two of them were doing."

  That was more than I knew, although I had a feeling Connie was correct. Sylvia seemed too distraught to be part of her husband and sister-in-law's cruel schemes, unless she was a much better actress than I believed her to be.

  Sam gave us some more information regarding the crimes the deadly duo was believed to have committed in New York City and Kansas City. He ended with, "If they're tried and found guilty in Pasadena, they will probably have to face charges in Kansas City and New York, too. They'll be extradited to those states unless the court here decides on the death penalty. Then they'll probably end up in our electric chair and save the time and money to ship them elsewhere."

  Sylvia Allen uttered a ghastly moan and crumpled to the floor.

  Sam could also be a trifle blunt sometimes. Although I felt sorry for Sylvia, I couldn't really fault him for telling the truth.

  Mrs. Bissel downed the last of her brandy and held out her glass for a refill. Keiji obliged.

  Chapter 29

  As you've probably figured out by this time, I didn't hold a séance that night. I ended up driving home shortly after Sam had delivered his news. Pa, Ma, Aunt Vi, and perhaps even Spike, were surprised to see me so early in the evening.

  So we gathered in the dining room, sat in the various chairs, and I told them what had happened. Shocked gasps and exclamations ensued.

  "Now all I have to do is try to figure out how to get Sam to play Go-To, a noble lord of Titipu, since Lawrence Allen—I mean Johannes Niederhauser—is in the clink. Flossie can play Pitti-Sing."

  "Will he have enough time to prepare for the part?" asked Pa.

  It was a good question, and one to which I didn't really have an answer. I shrugged and said, "He'd better. I don't know anybody else in Pasadena who can sing a bass role like he can."

  A knock sounded on the front door. We all looked at each other. As I walked to the door, Spike by my side in happy, tail-wagging, greeting mode, I heard Pa said, "Guess we'll find out soon." Although, in my opinion, this was no laughing matter—after all, I'd been practically forced, kicking and screaming, into playing Katisha—they all laughed.

  Sure enough, Sam stood at the front door, his hat pulled down because the night was cold, and his overcoat buttoned up. I stepped aside, and he entered. Knowing where his duty lay, he instantly knelt to give Spike a healthy greeting. He creaked when he rose from the floor.

  As he hung his hat and coat on the stand, I said, "We were just talking about you, Sam."

  He eyed me warily. "Yeah? Why?"

  "Because I t
hink you're the only one who can play the part Lawrence Allen—I mean Johannes Niederhauser—was going to sing in The Mikado."

  He scowled hideously as he walked into the dining room to greet my folks, who were gathered around the table where we'd been yakking. "Oh, no, you don't. I'm not going to sing in that blasted operetta."

  "You'll have to, because you arrested Go-To, the noble lord of Titipu. If you don't sing his part, we won't have a Go-To. And we need a Go-To."

  "I'll fix some tea," said Vi, grinning as she went to the kitchen to do so.

  "What about Buckingham? He can sing, can't he?" He still scowled, but he added, "Thanks, Mrs. Gumm. I could use a strong cup of tea." He'd probably rather have had a glass of brandy, but we didn't have a helpful prescribing physician nearby to authorize one for him.

  "Johnny's a tenor. Go-To requires a bass. The only other bass is playing the Mikado."

  "You've got to have other basses in your choir," said Sam, beginning to whine and sound churlish.

  "You have the best bass voice. If you won't sing the role when I ask you, you're going to have Mr. Hostetter and the rest of the cast hounding you until you agree."

  "This isn't fair," said Sam, sounding a wee bit like me, actually.

  "It wasn't fair when everyone forced me into playing Katisha, either, but I'm doing it."

  "I have enough to do with my job."

  "So do I."

  We continued to argue even after Vi brought out a pot of tea, some teacups and saucers and a plate of oatmeal cookies, and we hadn't reached a satisfactory conclusion—a satisfactory conclusion being Sam agreeing to play Go-To—when Sam stifled a huge yawn and said, "I have to get home. It's been a hellish couple of days."