by Alice Duncan
“Mr. Hastings called the chief. The chief called me. Thanks to our . . . other involvements, he knows I know you. He sent me here to shut you up.”
“Shut me up? But what if Mrs. Hastings is right? Darn it, Sam, I talked to his secretary. She’s an old friend of mine from school—”
“It figures,” he said.
“And Belinda said Eddie was a happy, charming gentleman who was kind and good, as opposed to his father. She characterized the older Mr. Hastings as a cruel beast who was on his son’s back all the time, hollering and yelling at him. I’ll bet it was his father who did him in!” Very well, so I’d just leapt to an unreasonable conclusion based on insufficient evidence. Sam could sue me if he wanted to.
Sam’s head came up, and his hands fell to the table with a splat. “You’re accusing the head of the most prestigious law firm in Pasadena of murdering his own son? Daisy, I swear you’re going to be the death of me!”
“Someone was the death of Eddie Hastings,” I said primly. “I should think you’d be interested in knowing who did it.”
“For God’s . . . listen to me, Daisy. I don’t know a single thing about the Hastings case. I came here because the chief got a call from the older Mr. Hastings, who was annoyed that some busybody—”
“I’m not a busybody!”
Sam raised his volume. “All right. He was annoyed because some nitwit came snooping around his law firm telling people his son was a murder victim. The lad’s been dead since March, his corpse has been laid to rest, and until you started poking around, nobody ever thought anything was the least bit wrong about his death. Do you blame the man for being peeved?”
That wasn’t true, about nobody ever thinking anything was wrong about Eddie Hastings’ death, but I knew Sam wouldn’t believe Eddie himself had crashed the séance to tell a bunch of rich women (and me) that he’d been killed. “I don’t care what Mr. Hastings thinks of me, but you can tell the chief on my behalf that I don’t aim to visit his stupid law firm again. Maybe that will make him happy.”
Oh, Lordy, I hoped the rest of the women who were at that séance didn’t start pestering Sam or his chief about finding Eddie’s killer.
But no. For the most part they didn’t have any use for the police, considering policemen on a par with laundresses and housemaids and other menial creatures placed on this earth to cater to their whims. Besides, most of them were too involved in their own lives to worry about other peoples’.
There I go, being mean again. In truth, I don’t suppose most of those women were any more self-involved than any other group of people in the world. Well . . . maybe a little more.
I had to talk to Harold again.
“The chief is never happy, but he’ll be glad to know you’re not going to snoop anymore.” He gave me a hard squint. “You’re not going to snoop anymore, are you?”
“No. I wasn’t snooping in the first place, curse it. I was carrying out the wishes of a grieving mother. And I aim to continue doing so, whether you like it or not, Sam. I just won’t do it at Mr. Hastings’ law firm again.” So there. I felt like sticking my tongue out at the irritating man, but didn’t.
“What do you expect to find out, anyway? The kid killed himself, damn it.”
“How do you know? Did you talk to the coroner? Read the death certificate? Look at the body yourself?”
“I already told you it wasn’t a homicide case! Of course I didn’t do any of those things! Dammit, there was no need—”
“How do you know that?” I demanded. “If you haven’t investigated the death, exactly how do you know the man wasn’t murdered?”
“If there had been any signs of foul play, my department would have been called in. Believe me, there was no need.”
“A likely story.”
“Oh, for God’s—what do you mean ‘a likely story’?”
“If a rich man’s son dies, whom are the police going to believe? A grieving mother who’s under the thumb of her overbearing husband or a rich father who tells them his son had been depressed—even though none of his friends thought so—and, therefore, took his own life? Answer me that, Sam Rotondo!”
Sam’s gaze lifted to the ceiling, as if seeking help from the Almighty. I knew from experience how much good that ever did.
“Well? I’m sure you recall that, at the request of a wealthy film producer, you yourself were seconded to a rich woman’s mansion to stand guard over a film set. Why is that so different from this?”
“There was no idle chitchat about murder in that case,” Sam muttered, his brow beetling in unhappy remembrance.
Sam had hated being posted to watch over a film being produced. I knew it for a rock-solid fact, because I’d been there, too, acting as “spiritual advisor” to a spoiled-rotten movie star. “This isn’t idle chitchat,” I said, peeved. “Mrs. Hastings is certain her son didn’t kill himself.”
Puffing out his cheeks and then whooshing out the air, Sam downed the rest of his orange juice and rose to his feet. “I’m sure Mrs. Hastings doesn’t want to believe her son killed himself. What mother would? Just stay away from the Hastings firm, all right, Daisy?”
“I promise to do just that, Detective Rotondo. I won’t promise not to keep asking questions, however.”
“Criminy.”
“You can ‘criminy’ all you want, but Doc Benjamin is going to talk to the coroner for me, and if he thinks there’s a possibility of murder in Eddie Hastings’ death, I expect the Pasadena Police Department to pay attention. I already know they won’t pay attention to me.”
“Oh, they pay attention to you, all right,” said Sam, heading for the front door. “Especially when a filthy-rich lawyer complains about you.”
“Huh. Well, that same man’s wife is the person who begged me to investigate.”
Shaking his head, Sam got down on his knees to say goodbye to Spike. “Just try to stay out of trouble, all right? For my sake? No, wait. You don’t give a rap about my sake. For the sake of the Pasadena Police Department. Please? Just this once?”
“For pity’s sake, Sam, you’d think I was a thorn in the PPD’s side. They gave me an award of merit a year or so ago, if you’ll remember.”
Standing to the sound of creaking knees, Sam muttered, “How could I ever forget? Holy crap, I thought for sure you were going to be tommy-gunned to hell and back.”
“Nonsense. I was never in danger.”
Very well, both Sam and I knew that was a lie. Therefore, I amended my statement.
“Well, I wasn’t in much danger, anyway. And it all turned out all right.”
“It turned out all right,” said Sam in a high-pitched imitation of my voice. “Good God.”
And he snatched his hat from the rack beside the door and left.
“See you at six tomorrow,” I said as he stomped down the porch steps.
“Huh,” he replied.
I looked down at Spike, who looked up at me.
“Bother, Spike.”
He wagged his tail.
“I hope Sam hates chicken curry, whatever it is,” I told my dog.
Spike only wagged some more, so I decided to finish carpet-sweeping the living room rugs, brush my hair, put on a less decrepit house dress, and take him for a walk.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
* * *
I didn’t mind eating lamb chops for two meals in a row. Dinner that evening was every bit as delicious as lunch had been.
The following morning, after breakfast, Pa and I took Spike for a walk, as was usual. Although I was tense all through breakfast and washing up, the telephone didn’t ring with Mrs. Pinkerton on the end of the wire, weeping into it. It was a relieved Daisy Majesty who fetched Spike’s leash, clipped it to his collar, and set out with my wonderful father for a good tramp.
As we walked Spike around the neighborhood, I made up my mind to give Harold Kincaid a telephone call. If I truly wanted to get to the bottom of how Eddie Hastings died, I needed to ask Harold more questions about Eddie a
nd his behavior right before his death. I’d have to wait until after dinner that night in order to chat with Harold, since he spent his days at the picture studio where he created costumes for various pictures.
Of course that meant I’d have to wait for Sam Rotondo to leave the house, since I’d invited him to dinner. Sometimes I wondered about my sanity. I also wondered why I hadn’t telephoned Harold on Wednesday, when I wouldn’t have had Sam to worry about.
But it couldn’t be helped. Sam was coming to dinner, and that was that. So after we got home from walking Spike, I decided to set the table in preparation for foodstuffs to come. I wasn’t sure if one ate chicken curry from a plate or from a bowl, but I set out plates. I could always exchange them later if necessary.
I also went into the garden and cut a whole bunch of roses. We had twenty rose bushes of differing varieties, and they bloomed steadily during the summer months and far into autumn. We also had anemones and ranunculus, but they were pretty much spent by mid-June. So I went with the roses and created a spectacular bouquet, which I set in the middle of the dining room table. So what if we couldn’t see each other over the flowers? Roses looked better than most of us did anyway. I spent the rest of the late morning and early afternoon with Spike on my lap, rereading The Circular Staircase. I love that book.
Vi got home around three-thirty and was impressed by my industry. “Oh, my, Daisy, the house looks beautiful, and you’ve already set the table! And look at that gorgeous bouquet. Are you trying to impress someone?” she asked slyly.
Ah, crumb. It had never occurred to me that Vi might think I’d cleaned house and picked roses in order to get on Sam’s good side. I decided to be honest with her.
“No. Wouldn’t work anyway, because he came over yesterday afternoon when I was in full housekeeper mode. Even had a scarf tied around my head. I wasn’t a pretty picture, believe me.”
“Oh, get along with you, Daisy. I don’t know why you won’t admit you like the man.”
“I admit I like him. But we’re forever butting heads. If you honestly believe there will ever be a romance between Sam and me, I think you’re deluded.”
“Bosh. But there’s no use arguing with you, and well I know it.” Vi took off her hat and trotted upstairs to change into more comfortable clothes before beginning dinner preparations.
I heaved a largish sigh and told Spike, “I wish Vi would stop trying to make a match between Sam and me. We have enough trouble getting along without crushing other people’s expectations along the way.”
While I’m sure Spike was sympathetic, he only wagged his tail. It was his usual form of communication. I sat back down in the overstuffed chair where I’d been reading, and Spike jumped into my lap to help me read. I loved that chair and Spike and reading, especially in a nice clean house I’d spiffed up myself.
A few minutes later, Vi surprised the heck out of me by coming into the living room and asking, “Want to help me fix dinner?”
“Me?” I pointed at my chest, astonished. “You want me to help you cook dinner? You know I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”
“I know cooking isn’t one of your more prominent talents.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“But I could use some help. There’s a lot of chopping involved in preparing the curry dish, and I only have two hands.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “I can chop with the best of ’em.” That probably wasn’t true, but Vi herself had taught me how to chop stuff when I’d been forced to teach that wretched cooking class at the Salvation Army a year or so ago.
“Just tuck your fingers under so you won’t accidentally cut one of them off.”
Gee whiz. You’d think I was particularly clumsy, and I’m not, darn it. Anyone who can waft as well as I can isn’t clumsy. Granted, my cooking skills stink, but still . . .
Vi was right about the chopping required for chicken curry. I had to peel and chop potatoes, carrots, onions, and even a couple of apples into a big mixing bowl. Then Vi dumped a bunch of raisins on top of all that. I eyed the pile of chopped foodstuffs askance. “Apples and raisins and onions? Along with potatoes and carrots and chicken?”
With a shrug, Vi said, “There’s no accounting for how people in foreign parts eat. You should know that better than anyone by this time.”
I guess she was right, but raisins? And apples? Along with onions and carrots? I wasn’t sure about this curry thing.
But Vi, mistress of the cooking arts that she was, went blithely along her way, plopping everything together in a big bowl and adding other stuff to the mix, including various chicken parts and a pungent spice that made me wrinkle my nose. Vi eyed me with amusement.
“This is Mr. Pinkerton’s favorite dish. Your mother, father, and I sampled many of your Turkish favorites. Give this Indian concoction a try.”
“Oh, I will, all right.” Couldn’t avoid it unless I aimed to skip dinner than night, and I didn’t. Still, it smelled unlike anything I’d ever smelled before.
“That aroma comes from the curry spices. Mrs. Pinkerton orders them premixed from Jorgenson’s, and I got myself a tin the last time I ordered from them. Just an experiment to see how the family likes the dish. If everyone hates it, I’ll just take the spice tin to the Pinkertons’ and use it there.”
“Interesting.” Jorgenson’s was where rich folks’ servants shopped. The grocery store carried all sorts of things none of the other stores in town stocked, ordinary folks like us Gumms and Majestys not being accustomed to vary our diets the way rich people were.
Vi continued to mystify me by pouring stock, milk, lemon juice, and some tomato paste into a saucepot into which she then dumped the chicken and vegetables. Then she further amazed me by opening the Frigidaire and removing a jar of a thick, milky substance.
“Is that yogurt?”
“It is, indeed.”
“I had yogurt in Turkey, but I didn’t know you could buy it here.”
“Jorgenson’s has everything,” Vi said.
“Wow. Maybe you could make some of that yogurt soup I had in Turkey. It was about the only thing I could eat for several days when I was so sick. It was delicious.”
“I think there’s a recipe for yogurt soup in that Turkish cooking book you gave me.”
Oh, yum. I hoped she was right.
Vi dusted her hands together in a satisfied gesture after she turned on a burner underneath the curry concoction. “There. We’ll just let that cook for a while, and then I’ll fix some rice to have with it, along with some of this flat bread I brought from the Pinkertons’.” She opened the bread box and lifted out a plate covered with a towel, which she removed to reveal several flat things that I presumed to be some kind of Indian bread. “Mr. Pinkerton calls this stuff naan. With two a’s in the middle.”
“Mercy.”
“No. Naan.” Vi giggled like a schoolgirl. “Mr. Pinkerton gave me the recipe for it.”
“The man’s amazing,” I said, meaning it. How many men do you know who carry recipes around with them?
“Not really. He just knows what he likes and can afford to have it made for him.”
“I guess.”
The front door opened just then, and Ma and Pa walked in together, holding hands. Another surprise. “Hey there. Have you been together all afternoon?” I’d wondered where Pa was when I’d been reading.
“Nope,” said Pa, letting go of Ma’s hand and hanging his hat on the rack beside the door. “We met in the front yard. I’ve been at Donald Parker’s place most of the day, helping him with his machine.”
Pa was an inveterate tinkerer with automobiles and their innards. I think I’ve already mentioned he used to chauffeur rich people around until he had a bad heart attack a few years ago.
“And I just got off work at the Marengo,” said Ma. She sniffed the air. “My goodness, what’s that smell?”
Vi and I exchanged a couple of glances. I answered my mother’s question. “Chicken curry. Vi says it’s an acquired t
aste.”
Ma removed her hat, too, and carried it toward her and Pa’s bedroom. “I think it’s an acquired smell, too.”
Vi, Pa, and I laughed, but I feared she might be right. The curry had a very pungent aroma.
Sam arrived promptly at six o’clock. One thing about Sam: he was never late to anything, especially a meal. In one of his large hands he clutched a Whitman’s Sampler, which he shoved at me.
“Here. I thought your family might like these for dessert.”
I grabbed the box before it hit my stomach. “Thanks, Sam. This is very nice of you.”
“Huh.”
Typical Sam.
Before I could scold him for his lack of manners, the telephone rang, and my mother called out, “Daisy! It’s sure to be for you!”
She was right about that. “Well, come in, Sam. Hang up your hat and come visit with the family. I have to get the ’phone.” I handed off the candy to my mother before I dashed into the kitchen to grab the telephone.
I heard her say, “Oh, how thoughtful! Thank you so much, Sam,” as I lifted the receiver. Huh. Thoughtful, my foot.
“Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking,” I said, as I always did.
“Daisy, this is Dr. Benjamin.”
“Dr. Benjamin! What a surprise!”
“Don’t know why my call’s a surprise. You asked me to call the coroner, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t think you’d telephone with the results. I figured you’d wait until Friday and tell me then. But I’m happy you called!” I bethought me of our party-line neighbors and added, “But wait until everyone else on the line hangs up, will you?”
We both heard a couple of clicks as folks on the party line hung up their receivers. When I didn’t hear a third one, I said in my most severe tone, “Mrs. Barrow, please hang up your telephone. This is a private conversation.”
At last, and after a perceptible pause, a third and decisive click came over the wire. Mrs. Barrow was such a nosy Parker.
Dr. Benjamin chuckled. “Forgot about the party line.”
