by Alice Duncan
“Better not drop it then. I don’t think bamboo is good for dogs.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” I rose and put the chopsticks Keiji gave me into my handbag. “I really appreciate this, Keiji.”
“Not a problem, Mrs. Majesty.”
Only then did I sense the inequality of our stations, and it bothered me. “Please call me Daisy, Keiji.”
He squinted at me. “I thought your name was Desdemona.”
Borrowing a page from Sam Rotondo’s book, I rolled my eyes. “That’s my professional name. Everyone who knows me knows I’m really Daisy. But Desdemona sounds so much more . . . spiritual. Or something.”
We started walking toward the sunroom and the back door to Mrs. Bissel’s house.
“I’d vote for something,” Keiji said wryly. “Why’d you pick that name, anyhow? You might as well have called yourself Ophelia, except then you’d carry the weight of being named after a suicide instead of a murdered woman.”
My nose wrinkled of its own accord. The word suicide had that effect on me. “I chose it when I was ten years old. What can you expect from a kid?”
“Golly, you were a precocious kid, weren’t you? Knowing Shakespeare at that age.”
“Not really. If I’d been forced to read Othello before I chose the name, I’d have selected something different. Esmeralda, maybe.”
“Ha! Then you’d have had a hunchback fall in love with you and been murdered.”
“Gee whiz, Keiji, you really know your books, don’t you?”
“I like to read.”
We’d reached the back door, which he politely opened for me. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, because everyone thinks my name is Desdemona.”
“Desdemona Majesty.” He thought about it for a second while I grabbed my hat from the rack beside the door. “Well, it sounds good for your line of work, although I think your last name really makes it perfect.”
“Majesty?”
“Yeah.”
“That was my husband’s name.” I sighed, unable to help myself.
“Oh, jeez, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
Impulsively, I took his hand and squeezed it. “Nonsense. You didn’t make me feel bad. In fact, I think you’ve rescued me from a dire predicament.” I patted my handbag, where the chopsticks lay, waiting for me.
He grinned. “If you say so. Daisy.”
We parted on the best of terms.
CHAPTER NINE
* * *
I practiced with those darned chopsticks until I could pick up the tiniest of objects with them. I practiced until my fingers ached. I practiced all week long. By the time the Benjamins came for dinner on Friday, I almost wished I could use them on a real meal, but I didn’t want to lessen the impact of my proficiency during Saturday’s dinner at Miyaki’s. Besides, Sam came to dinner on Friday night, too.
Practicing with chopsticks was far from the only thing I did that week, however. On Monday afternoon, after I returned home from my long day, I greeted Spike, put the family’s books on the table near the door, and went to the kitchen. There I picked up the telephone receiver from where it hung on the kitchen wall and asked Medora Cox, an old high-school friend and an operator at the local telephone exchange, to connect me with the home of Mr. Stephen Hastings. She did so.
Naturally, the Hastings being wealthy, a servant picked up the instrument on the other end. “Hastings residence.” Whoever it was sounded snooty.
But that didn’t put me off. My occupation had accustomed me to snootiness in other people’s servants. “May I please speak with Mrs. Hastings? This is Mrs. Majesty.”
After a short hesitation, the snob on the other end of the wire said, “One moment, please. I’ll see if she’s available.”
What she meant was that she’d see if Mrs. Hastings wanted to speak to so puny a specimen of humankind as I. Well, nuts to her.
Anyhow, I heard the flurry of footsteps approaching the instrument, and Mrs. Hastings’ breathy voice came through loudish and clear. So there, Miss Snoot. “Mrs. Majesty? Oh, I’m so glad you telephoned. I’ve been wanting to speak with you since Saturday.”
“I’ve wanted to speak with you, too, Mrs. Hastings. I feel terrible about how upset you were after the séance, and I wanted to apologize and—”
“No!” She didn’t squeal quite as loudly as Mrs. Pinkerton was wont to do, but she gave a fair imitation of Mrs. Pinkerton in a tizzy. “No. What I want is to hire you to get in touch with Edward again and find out if he can tell us any more about his death and who killed him. I knew he didn’t kill himself!”
Not on her life. No way was I going to go through that experience again. Drat! Now I wished I hadn’t telephoned her until I’d thought of a way to avoid this very thing, which I should have anticipated.
“Um . . . I’ll be happy to visit with you. I’ll bring the Ouija board or perhaps the tarot cards—”
“I’d prefer you do another séance.”
Stupid, stupid Daisy. Of course she wanted me to do another séance. Bother! “Well . . .”
She paused before speaking again. When she did, she sounded concerned, and I felt like a big bully. “It was quite hard on you, wasn’t it?”
Lifting my eyes to the ceiling in a gesture people generally use as a plea to the Almighty, although I only saw the kitchen ceiling, I hedged. “Yes. Having a spirit speak through me is always trying. Last Saturday’s séance was particularly difficult because of the circumstances of your son’s death. I can honestly tell you that nothing like that has ever happened in one of my séances before. No one has ever had me call up a murdered relative”—I bethought me of the séance I’d conducted in a speakeasy for a murderous bootlegger and honesty compelled me to add—“unless, of course, they knew he was murdered ahead of time. Your son’s plea was a terrible shock for all of us. I’m sure it was harder on you than anyone else there.”
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry.”
“It certainly wasn’t your fault, Mrs. Hastings. I only hoped I could help you in some way. I . . . well, I’ve begun a little investigation into your son’s death on my own and would appreciate some information from you about him, his associates, his friends, his work, and that kind of thing.” I sucked in a breath and held it for about five seconds before saying what I said next. “I’m hoping to interest our family friend, a Pasadena Police detective, in investigating your son’s death more fully.”
“Oh, thank you! The police didn’t seem to care one bit that Eddie would never have killed himself.”
“No, it was probably easier for them to accept the obvious answer.” I mentally apologized to Sam Rotondo, who was a smart, dedicated, and hard-working fellow.
“Exactly!” Mrs. Hastings said with satisfaction. “But when can you visit me, Mrs. Majesty? I’d ask you to come this evening, but . . .”
“I’m awfully sorry,” I said at once. I already had one client who expected me to drop everything and come to her aid anytime she had a fit. Not that I equated Mrs. Hastings with Mrs. Pinkerton. The former seemed much more sensible and level-headed than the latter, although I didn’t aim to take any chances. “However, I am free tomorrow morning if you have some time.”
“Oh, thank you! Yes. Please come tomorrow. I’ll be free all morning, so you pick the time.”
So I said, “How about ten o’clock?” I probably could have been there earlier, but then I’d have had to hurry and skip Spike’s walk.
“Ten o’clock is perfect. Thank you so much! I’m sure you’ll be able to straighten out the police.”
Hmm. We’d see about that. I had grave doubts—so to speak—that Sam Rotondo would pay any attention to me about Eddie Hastings’ possible murder, no matter how much information I amassed on my own.
A shiver overtook me as I recalled the ghastly moment in the séance when something took over my will and my body and spoke through my mouth. As little as I believed in those of us alive on the earth being able to communicate with those who
’d died before us, I still couldn’t help but remember that particular incident and its accompanying sensations. And if discovering the truth—providing the truth was that Eddie Hastings was murdered—would ensure nothing like that ever happened to me again, I was willing to do it. Even if, in doing so, I rattled Sam Rotondo’s uneven temper.
“Very well. I’ll be at your home at ten o’clock tomorrow. Oh! I just remembered I don’t have your address.”
She gave me an address in the San Rafael area, an extremely isolated and posh district of Pasadena. Good. My visit might prove painful, but at least I’d carry it out in beautiful surroundings. I aimed to take my Ouija board, too, and see if we couldn’t communicate with Eddie via that. Provided, of course, we could communicate with him at all.
The very idea of an actual dead person communicating with me hit a raw nerve. Darn it, I didn’t believe in communication with the dead! And if such things were possible, why hadn’t Billy bothered to ring me up? I almost wouldn’t mind talking to him. At least he wasn’t in constant pain any longer.
Oh, bother.
After I hung the receiver on its cradle, I took Spike to my bedroom off the kitchen, removed my day dress and shoes, put my hat away, and lay on the bed. Spike and I were out like a couple of lights until we both heard Aunt Vi bustling in the kitchen, preparing our dinner. Then I rose, smoothed down my hair, put my day dress and shoes back on, and went to the kitchen to help.
Not that Vi ever let me near the foodstuffs. She knew better. But she did allow me to set the table and so forth. As I did my task, I listed the books I’d got at the library. Vi was pleased.
That night we dined on succulent roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots and peas, and more of Vi’s awe-inspiring dinner rolls. She’d even fixed an apple crisp for dessert. My aunt was wonderful.
After dinner, Ma and I washed up, and then I headed for the bedroom with Crome Yellow in hand and proceeded to read it. What an odd book. But entertaining. Funny in spots.
The following morning, after I’d washed the breakfast dishes and put them away and reached for Spike’s leash—which sent him into a frenzy of joy—the telephone rang.
I looked at Pa, who looked back at me. We both knew the call was for me. We both knew whom the call was from. Nobody except Mrs. Pinkerton in a fuss ever called that early in the morning. I heaved a sigh.
“You’re going to have to wait a minute, Spike. I need to answer the telephone.”
Spike wasn’t happy about it but, being the well-behaved dog he was, he sat and stayed as I answered the ’phone, his tail doing a remarkably good job at sweeping the floor around him.
“Gumm-Majesty residence, Mrs. Majesty—”
“Daisy!” came a wail from the other end of the wire.
Aw, nuts. I’d been right. I grimaced at Pa, who winked at me. “Good morning, Mrs. Pinkerton.” It was difficult, but I spoke in my soothing spiritualist’s voice. I knew better than to think anyone’s low voice or common sense would ever penetrate the woman’s self-absorption, but I did it anyway.
“Daisy!” she repeated in the same wail. “I need to see you! I must see you! As soon as possible.”
“Please calm down, Mrs. Pinkerton.” I don’t think I’d ever suggested she calm down before, primarily because I didn’t want to ruffle her feathers. However, since they were clearly already ruffled that morning, I figured a gentle command wouldn’t hurt.
She ceased wailing and commenced sobbing over the telephone wire.
“Please tell me what’s the matter, and we can set up an appointment. I won’t be able to see you until eleven-thirty this morning, I fear, because I have another imperative appointment earlier.” She wasn’t going to spoil my walk with Spike, by gad, or my appointment with poor, bereaved Mrs. Hastings.
“It’s Mr. Kincaid!” She’d commenced shrieking, but I was so shocked by her words that I didn’t tell her to shut up.
“Harold? Good heavens, what—”
“No, no, no! Mister Kincaid! Harold’s father.”
I pressed a hand to my heart, which had taken to thundering like a herd of rampaging hippopotami when I’d thought Harold had suffered some sort of accident. Blast this woman, anyhow!
I modulated my voice to its spiritualistic tone. “What about Mr. Kincaid?” As far as I knew, the villainous Mr. Kincaid, her first husband, was rotting away in a prison somewhere for fraud and theft.
“He’s escaped!”
Now there was a shock. “Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry to hear it.” If the man had a brain in his head, he wouldn’t set foot in Pasadena, but one never knew about these things. “How did he do that?”
“Nobody knows!” More sobbing and a wail or two. “He wasn’t in his cell yesterday morning. The prison administration has only just been in touch with the Pasadena Police Department, and that awful Detective Rotondo telephoned me to let me know.”
And why, wondered I, was she calling Sam awful? I felt proprietary about Sam. Darn it, I was the only one who could call him names! “Detective Rotondo was the man responsible for arresting Mr. Kincaid, if you’ll recall, Mrs. Pinkerton. And he was also instrumental in getting Stacy to rejoin the Salvation Army.”
Subdued whimpering. “I suppose you’re right. But—oh, Daisy! Whatever will I do?”
Beat me. “I’ll bring my board and cards to your house at eleven-thirty today, Mrs. Pinkerton. Are the police giving you any kind of protection?” Not that she’d need it. Probably.
“Protection? Oh, Daisy, do you think he’ll try to get me?”
“I don’t think so.” I sure wouldn’t if I were he. “But you never know. You might want to telephone the department and ask to have a policeman drive by your house every so often. Just to make sure.”
“Call them? Me?” Her voice had gone tiny. “Um . . . would you be willing to do that for me, dear? I’m just so upset!”
Lord, the woman was impossible. Not to mention incompetent. But needs must, so I capitulated. “Certainly. I’ll be happy to call them for you.” Liar, liar.
“Oh, thank you, Daisy!” And she rang off.
Looking down at my dog and then up at my father, I held up a finger. “One more little call, and we can go for our walk.”
I already knew the number of the police department, so I just dialed it up and asked to speak with Detective Rotondo when the officer at the desk answered.
“Rotondo,” a growly voice hit my ears a few seconds later.
“Sam, it’s Daisy.”
Silence. Then: “What do you want?”
“Darn you! I don’t want anything for myself. But Mrs. Pinkerton just called me in a dither.”
I heard Sam’s heavy sigh carry over the wire to my ear. “Yeah. Her ex just escaped from San Quentin. I called her a few minutes ago to tell her.”
The name of the prison shocked me. “He was in San Quentin?”
“Well, yeah. He was a thief, Daisy, not a mass murderer. They weren’t going to send him to Folsom. He worked in the library in San Quentin.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.” He sounded bored and not a little snide. “So what does she want?”
Deciding not to waste any more of his precious time, I said, “She asked me to call the police and request that an officer drive by her home every now and then. Sort of patrol the area. She’s afraid her ex-husband is going to get her.”
“Why’d he want her?”
Reasonable question. “I have no idea, but you know her.”
Another sigh. “Yeah, I know her. And I know she’s rich, and the chief tries to appease the big taxpayers.” This fact of life disgruntled Sam, although I’m sure the same held true the world over. The rich are different from the rest of us peons, and those in high places paid attention to them. “Very well, I’ll tell the duty sergeant to dispatch officers to patrol her neighborhood every hour or so.”
“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it. I have to go to see her today and work the Ouija board. I’m not sure w
hy. I sure can’t do anything about her problem.”
“Lucky you.”
“Right.”
“We still set for Saturday night at Miyaki’s?”
“You betcha. Say, why don’t you come to supper tomorrow? Pa needs to play rummy, and Spike misses you.”
Daisy Gumm Majesty! I couldn’t believe those words had come from my mouth!
“Spike misses me, eh?”
“Well . . . yes. And the rest of the family, too.”
“I see.” He sounded both disappointed and slightly exasperated. “All right. I’ll come over. Six, as usual?”
“Yes, that will be fine.”
“See you then.” He hung up.
I hoped Vi wouldn’t mind that I’d invited Sam to dinner without consulting her first. But no. She loved it when Sam came over. The whole family did. Except me. Well . . . maybe that wasn’t true any longer, but I didn’t want to think about it.
So Pa and I took a delighted Spike for a walk around the neighborhood until I had to get ready to pay a visit to Mrs. Hastings. Pa was fascinated to learn about the escape of the dastardly Mr. Kincaid from San Quentin, and we propounded so many possibilities to account for his success in the endeavor that we were both breathless with laughter by the time we got home again.
CHAPTER TEN
* * *
I chose my wardrobe carefully. As I contemplated my closet, which was stuffed full of clothes I’d made, I tried to decide how to present myself to a bereaved mother in a respectful yet encouraging way. I wanted my appearance, as well as my posture and voice, to be such that I could best wring personal details of her family’s life from her. Some folks were chary about revealing family secrets, although I sensed Mrs. Hastings would provide almost any information if it would help determine who had killed her son.
If, of course, her son had been murdered. For all I knew, he really had killed himself. Or died of natural causes. Or ptomaine. One young man I’d known had died of ptomaine poisoning a couple of years back. Made me sad at the time.
