Spirits Revived (Daisy Gumm Majesty)

by Alice Duncan

And I took my pile of books and headed off to the Periodical Room, wishing I’d asked someone the precise date of Edward Hastings’ death. I’d been too rattled at the time to do so. But Mrs. Bissel had mentioned “a couple of months,” so I decided to begin my search in March to give me some leeway.

  It turned out to be a good thing I started my search earlier than “a couple of months,” because I discovered an obituary for Hastings in the March 20, 1923, Pasadena Star News. It didn’t say much; only that Edward had been employed in the Hastings law firm and had died in his apartment on El Molino Avenue on March 18th. Didn’t mention the cause of death.

  Therefore, I plowed through the archives of the Pasadena Herald to see if they’d say more. They didn’t.

  Nuts. That left me to ferret information from Dr. Benjamin, Harold Kincaid, poor Mrs. Hastings herself, and anyone else she might mention. I was also going to have to tackle Sam Rotondo, too, but I aimed to put that off until I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I didn’t fancy being roared at any sooner than I had to be.

  So I checked out my books, along with Mind over Motor and The After House, by Mary Roberts Rinehart. Just because I’d loved it so much, I also snatched The Circular Staircase by Mrs. Rinehart. Rereading good books is kind of like visiting with old friends.

  And then I headed to the Salvation Army Headquarters, not because I needed spiritual guidance, but because I wanted to see Billy’s namesake, William Buckingham, Flossie and Johnny’s son, who was now eight months old and cute as a button. Flossie welcomed me with open arms and a big hug.

  “And you must stay to lunch, too, Daisy.”

  Flossie had lost almost all of the twangy New York accent she’d had when I’d first met her. She’d done so deliberately, and with great strength of purpose. Johnny loved her unreservedly, but Flossie, having been born on the wrong side of the tracks in a terrible section of New York City, and having grown up poor and then drifted into the arms of bootlegging gangsters as a very young woman, still didn’t believe she deserved Johnny or his love. She did, of course. Flossie was one of the kindest, sweetest people I’d ever met. But try telling her that.

  She’d certainly settled into marriage and motherhood with glee and vigor. She adored Johnny and little Billy. What’s more, she loved to cook! That anyone besides Aunt Vi not only liked to cook but could actually do so always astonished me. I was the world’s worst cook—and that’s even after I’d tried so very hard to learn at my aunt’s capable shoulder. My lack of cooking skills ranked as one of my most significant flaws, at least in my mind.

  Lunch was simple but delicious, featuring vegetable soup and cheese sandwiches. Johnny joined us, and so did little Billy, who sat in a high chair at the table with us and periodically banged on his wooden tray with a spoon.

  After praying over the food and us, Johnny and Flossie took turns spooning mashed muck into little Billy’s mouth. I watched with interest and some slight uneasiness. Billy and I had wanted children, but from where I sat, they looked like a whole lot of work. And mess. After Billy got tired of the squished banana he’d been eating, he spat it all over his high chair and his mother. Flossie only laughed, cementing her in my mind as a wonderful mother.

  “Too bad you and Billy never had a child, Daisy,” murmured Johnny, watching his son and his wife with adoration.

  My heart gave a tug, as it always did when I thought about my lost Billy, but I said, “I guess so, Johnny, but I wouldn’t want to rear a child all by myself.”

  “You wouldn’t be alone, Daisy,” Flossie told me, running a damp washcloth over her son’s messy mouth and hands after wiping banana muck off her own apron. “Your family will always be there for you, and so will Johnny and me. Always. You never have to feel alone.”

  “Amen,” Johnny intoned.

  I darned near cried, but restrained myself, thank God, because I didn’t want to distress my friends. “Thank you.” Then I bethought me of Sam Rotondo, who had claimed to love me almost a year ago, and wondered what kind of father he might have been. Or would be. Or . . . oh, never mind. Anyhow, Johnny spoke again and interrupted my profitless thoughts.

  “But in a way,” Johnny continued, “it’s probably just as well that you and Billy didn’t have any children. I doubt that, even with the love and distraction of a child, Billy would have been around much longer than he was.” He peered at me with meaning. “He was on the downhill slide when he opted out of life. You know that, Daisy. I hope you don’t feel guilty any longer about his passing.”

  When Billy first died, my guilt had been almost overwhelming. During the year since, I’d developed a better understanding of the reality that had been Billy’s life. Oh, heck, even before he finally did the deed, I’d noticed a change in his attitude and worried what it foretold. His death came as a wrenching loss, but it wasn’t unexpected.

  “Daisy?” Johnny said when I didn’t answer immediately.

  “Yes. I mean, no, I don’t feel as guilty as I used to. I wish I’d been able to help him more. I can’t stop feeling guilty about that.”

  “Oh, Daisy!” cried Flossie, throwing her dishcloth at the sink and turning to give me a huge hug. “You know good and well that it was the war that killed your Billy. There wasn’t anything more you could have done for him.”

  Very well, I sniffled—but I felt silly for it. “I could have been more understanding. More forbearing, if you know what I mean. I allowed his moods to affect mine, and I should have known better. Well, I did know better. But we used to have awful quarrels, and I know we wouldn’t have if I’d only been more understanding.”

  Johnny shook his head. “Daisy, as far as I know, only one perfect person has ever existed on this earth, and He was divine. As much as Flossie and I love you, we know you as a flawed human being, as we all are.”

  I heaved a largish sigh. “You’re right. But I can regret not being kinder to my husband, can’t I? Because I do.”

  “Billy loved you. You loved him. You both survived a Godawful ordeal, which neither of you deserved. I suspect you’ll beat yourself up forever that you weren’t perfect, but that’s totally illogical.” As I opened my mouth to retort, Johnny held up a hand. “Yes, I know. We’re all illogical. Just try to remember, when you’re flogging yourself like one of those old monks used to do in the Middle Ages, that you were the wife Billy chose, and he loved you.”

  After a second, I said, “I guess you’re right.” Then, remembering our childhood, I added, “Although sometimes it seemed to me that I corralled him and wouldn’t let him go.” I sobered again instantly. “But he’d still have joined up when he did whether we’d married or not. We both thought it was the patriotic thing to do. Stupid. We were both stupid.”

  “I was stupid, too, Daisy. I joined up, and you know what happened to me after that cursed conflict.”

  Yes. I did know. After the war, reeling from memories of blood and mud and lost comrades, Johnny had become a terrible drunkard. As shell-shocked and scarred as my darling Billy, only less grievously injured in body, he credited the Salvation Army for finally saving him from his degradation. That was why he joined the organization and led his flock every day onto the streets of Pasadena in an effort to save others who yet suffered from various calamities.

  Like, for instance, Flossie, whom I’d intentionally placed in his way when she’d come to me for help. I guess I’d helped her. In a way. Only I hadn’t been trying to change her life at the time; I’d been trying to get her out of mine. I’d never say that to either of these good people. And I felt guilty about that, too.

  “Oh, boy,” I said upon another sigh. “This old world just keeps turning, no matter what we idiots who live on it do, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  And, after chatting for another few minutes on happier topics, I left the Buckinghams’ cozy home, located behind the Salvation Army church, and drove the Chevrolet up Lake Avenue to Beverly Way in Altadena and to Dr. Benjamin’s office.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

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  Dr. Benjamin’s office hours were from one to five in the afternoons. His wife was his nurse and receptionist, and, like most doctors back then, he didn’t take appointments. If you or one of your loved ones was sick, he’d come to your home during the morning hours if called to do so. If you had another kind of problem that wasn’t urgent, you’d show up at his office in the afternoon and see him when the person in front of you was through with him.

  He was a man universally loved in Pasadena and Altadena, and he and his lovely wife had spent many a Christmas or Thanksgiving with us at our bungalow on Marengo. I’d gone to him many a time with my worries about Billy, and he’d come to our house probably hundreds of times to nurse him through bouts of illness, his lungs being prone to infection. As I’ve already mentioned, he’d even written the cause of Billy’s death on his death certificate as “natural.” He knew better, of course. We all did.

  As luck would have it, I was the first to enter his office’s portals that day. His wife greeted me with a warm smile.

  “Good afternoon, Daisy. Hope you’re not feeling ill.”

  “Actually, I’m not. I hope Doc won’t mind if I ask him a few questions, though.”

  “You know he never minds chatting with you, dear. Why don’t you come right this way?”

  So I followed Mrs. Benjamin into the doctor’s office. He’d opened the window facing Lake Avenue, so his constant smoking wouldn’t bother his patients too much. It was still kind of foggy in there, but tolerable.

  “Daisy!” he cried, giving every indication of being glad to see me. “To what do I owe this visit? Hope you’re not sick.”

  “Thanks, Doctor. No, I’m not sick.”

  “Good. You’re looking well.” He squinted hard at me. “I’m glad to see you no longer look like one of the ghosts you chat with for your clients. For a while there, I feared you were going to starve yourself to death or end up in a nursing home.”

  I felt myself blush. “No, I’ve gained weight again. Although,” I added honestly, “I almost wish I hadn’t.”

  He shook his head. “You looked depleted and totally unwell for a long time after Billy’s passing, child. You needed more pounds on you. During Victorian times, it was fashionable for ladies to go into a decline when anything bad happened to them, but I believed you were too sensible for that. Glad to see I was right.”

  “Well . . . truth to tell, food made me sick for several months after Billy died. I guess . . . I suppose I lost a little too much weight. But women are supposed to be skinny nowadays.”

  Dr. Benjamin snorted. “Stuff!” He lifted the lid of the cigarette box on his desk, claimed another fag, and lit it. “But please tell me why you’ve come today. I can see your health is blooming.”

  Blooming? If he said so. “I . . . just wanted to ask you a couple of questions.” Now that I was there, I felt silly about my mission and wasn’t sure how to begin my interrogation. Didn’t doctors have to abide by some kind of moral code decreeing they couldn’t talk about their patients with other people?

  Oh, bother. After taking as deep a breath as I dared, given the smoke-filled office, I plunged ahead anyway.

  “This is kind of an odd question, but it’s asked in aid of another person. You see, I performed a séance for Mrs. Stephen Hastings, last Saturday at Mrs. Bissel’s house.”

  “Ah. Trying to conjure her dead son, no doubt.”

  Dr. Benjamin never scolded me about my idiotic profession, but he didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits any more than I did. Or than I used to.

  “Yes.” I hesitated for a moment or two and decided not to tell him about the sudden eruption of young Hastings into the séance. He wouldn’t believe me any more than Pa did. Instead, I said, “Poor Mrs. Hastings is sure her son’s death was neither natural nor suicide. She’s convinced he was murdered. Do you know anything about his death—that you can tell me, I mean?” I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t lecture me about medical ethics or something.

  After he tutted once, he said, “Not really. I’ve treated the Hastings family for many years, but I don’t recall anything being especially wrong with young Hastings. He followed his father into the same legal firm, I believe. I didn’t handle the autopsy or anything like that—if there even was an autopsy, which I doubt. The police and medical professionals seemed to be happy with the verdict of suicide, if I recall. I can certainly understand why a loving mother wouldn’t accept that verdict, but I don’t know any different.”

  Nuts. “Oh. Well, do you have any suggestions about where I might go to learn more about what he died of? Or is that question improper. I don’t want to . . . break any rules or anything like that.”

  “I don’t know of any rule forbidding people to learn the cause of a person’s demise. If you’d like me to, I’ll be happy to telephone the coroner and see what he says.”

  “Thank you! I didn’t expect so much cooperation.” That didn’t sound right, so I hastened to correct myself. “I mean, I didn’t want to step on any medical toes or anything.” That sounded even worse.

  Fortunately, Dr. Benjamin only laughed at my fumbling attempts to extricate myself from verbal mire. “Don’t fret about it, Daisy. I don’t mind at all.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and my parents and Aunt Vi would like to invite you and Mrs. Benjamin to dinner one of these days.”

  “I’m always happy to partake of your aunt’s delicious meals, my dear. Did you have any particular day in mind?”

  “That’s really up to you. You’re more likely to have timing problems than we are. We all live dull, predictable lives.” Except, of course, when ghosts interrupted the séances I was conducting.

  “Set a date, and we’ll be there,” he said, smiling happily. Everyone who knew us knew Aunt Vi to be the best cook in the entire city of Pasadena, if not the world.

  “How about Friday, then? Vi always comes home early on Fridays, so maybe she can fix something really special. I brought her a cooking book from Turkey, and she’s made some delicious dishes from it.” Only then did I recall that Sam aimed to take my family out for a Japanese meal on Saturday. Oh, well. We’d just eat huge dinners two nights in a row. I hoped nobody would mind.

  Naw. We all loved our food.

  “Turkey! My, my. I’ve never eaten Turkish cuisine.”

  “I hadn’t either until last year. It’s really good.”

  So, after he’d called his wife into the office for a consultation, we fixed Friday as the day of our dinner party.

  What’s more, he was going to call the coroner! That was more cooperation than I’d anticipated. I wanted to help Mrs. Hastings as soon as possible. If I could. I still had doubts about my ability to do so.

  But, darn it, her son had invaded my entire physical and psychical being and spoken from my very mouth! He wouldn’t have done that for no reason, would he? I felt as though I needed to find the answer to the death of Edward Hastings if there were any way in the world to do so.

  Lord. Sometimes I set myself the most difficult tasks.

  However, there was something else I could accomplish, and I aimed to do it before next Saturday. From Dr. Benjamin’s office, I drove directly to Mrs. Bissel’s home on Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane in Altadena.

  I didn’t generally go to a client’s house without an appointment, but this time I didn’t even want to see Mrs. Bissel. In fact, it would suit my purpose better if she were away from home. I needed a lesson from Keiji on how to use chopsticks.

  Fortunately, Mrs. Bissel was away from home when I drove onto the huge circular driveway in her back yard. Also fortunately, it was Keiji himself who answered my ring at the doorbell.

  “Mrs. Majesty!” Keiji was clearly startled to see me. “I’m afraid Mrs. Bissel isn’t home at the moment.”

  “That’s fine with me. I wanted to see you. If you have a couple of minutes, I want you to teach me how to use chopsticks.”

  He broke into a huge grin and opened the door for me. “Step right this way,�
�� he said in the manner of a carnival barker. “One lesson in how to use chopsticks coming right up.”

  “Oh, goody! Do you have some here? Chopsticks, I mean?”

  “Sure. I always keep some handy. I’ll give you a pair so you can practice at home.”

  “Oh, my, you don’t need to do that, Keiji. That’s too much.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Mrs. Majesty, they’re a couple of pieces of bamboo. Trust me, they aren’t expensive. My uncle buys ’em by the score for the restaurant, and he’s given me about a dozen pairs.”

  “My goodness. Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  “I’m sure. Besides, you’ll need the practice.” He chuckled in a way that told me he meant what he said.

  Shoot. I hoped I hadn’t mouthed off at Sam and my family about learning to use chopsticks too soon. But no. Surely, since everyone in China and Japan used them, the skill couldn’t be all that difficult to conquer.

  Silly me.

  After I’d struggled for almost an hour, attempting to pick up everything from celery sticks to pieces of string, I was so frustrated, I wanted to stab Keiji with one of the blasted things. I told him so.

  He only laughed. “Just keep practicing. It’s easier to do if you learned as a child, but I have great faith in you.”

  “That makes one of us,” I grumbled.

  He laughed again and said, “But I really do have some work to do around here. Do you want to practice some more on your own?”

  I glanced around the huge kitchen in which he’d given me my first lesson. I’d been there before. In fact, I’d spent the better part of an entire night there when I cast the ghost from Mrs. Bissel’s basement. I’m joking. It wasn’t a ghost, although from that day on Mrs. Bissel believed it was. I tell you, my reputation was great.

  “No, thanks. I’ll just take these home, if you’re sure you don’t mind—”

  “Not in the least.”

  “Thank you, Keiji. I’ll practice more at home. Hope I don’t drop one of them. Spike would probably grab it and eat it.”