Spirits Revived (Daisy Gumm Majesty)

by Alice Duncan

  “I go there a lot after work. I’m glad they’re open until nine on Fridays.”

  “What do you like to read?”

  He shrugged. “Biographies and history mainly.” He gave me a squinty-eyed look. “I expect you enjoy detective books.”

  I sniffed imperiously. “You already know I do. You’ve seen me reading enough of them.”

  “True. And they’ve given you ideas about police work that are stupid, too.”

  “They have not!”

  He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Not stupid. Uh . . . inaccurate, I suppose might be a better word.”

  With another sniff, I conceded the point. “Especially the ones set in England.”

  “Right,” he said, a sardonic edge to his voice. “Especially those.”

  Aside from that slight skirmish, lunch was a pleasant affair, and we walked back to the Pasadena Police Station in amiable converse. Sam even opened the driver’s-side door of the Chevrolet for me, which was more gentlemanliness than I’d expected of him.

  “Have fun at the library,” he said before he turned to go back to work.

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  He lifted his hand, his back to me, and I felt a pang, although I don’t know why.

  My visit to the library was pleasant, although Miss Petrie wasn’t working that day. The library opened on Saturdays twice a month, so the librarians who worked on Saturday took another day off during the week instead of Saturday. I turned in the books my family had read and came away with several others, which we’d devour in their turn.

  By the time I got home it was almost four o’clock, and the house already smelled like Thanksgiving. Good thing I’d had a substantial lunch or I’d have been famished. As it was, I put the library books on the table beside the front door and walked to the kitchen with Spike, who gamboled at my feet. Naturally, I’d given him a hearty pet when I first entered the house.

  Aunt Vi was industriously snapping and stringing beans as I entered the kitchen. She’d probably started working on our dinner as soon as she’d come home from working at the Pinkertons’ place.

  She glanced up and smiled at me. It beat me how anyone could be happy after having cooked all day for one family and now had to cook for another. But Vi claimed to love her work, and I believed her. I was also intensely glad of her enjoyment, from which the entire family benefitted.

  “Good afternoon, Daisy. Where have you been all day?”

  “Oh, here and there. I had to take something to Sam at the police station—”

  “Good Lord, now what?” she demanded, pressing a bean-green hand to her aproned bosom.

  “Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid. Mrs. Hastings found a strange note in her home. She gave it to me to give to the police.”

  “Why didn’t the woman give it to them herself?”

  I tilted my head and gave my aunt a cynical glance. “You know better than that, Vi.”

  She heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose I do. Not for the high and mighty to consort with the likes of policemen and so forth.”

  “Precisely. But Mrs. Hastings also gave me all the beautiful orchids you see scattered around the house.”

  “I wondered where they came from.”

  “She grows ’em herself.”

  Vi blinked at me, as if surprised that a wealthy woman chose to do anything more or less useful with her time.

  “Then I went to the library, and now I’m home. May I chop anything for you? The house smells wonderful, by the way.”

  “Thank you, dear. Yes, you can chop the celery and onion for the stuffing if you will, and then peel those potatoes I put on the sink. Just a cup each of the celery and onion will do. I didn’t get a huge turkey since we’re dining out tomorrow, and we don’t want too many leftovers.”

  “I do,” I assured her.

  She only laughed, and I grabbed my own apron from the hook on the kitchen wall. I set about industriously chopping onions and celery. Because of the chopping lessons that Vi had given me when I’d had to teach that lousy cooking class at the Salvation Army, my piles of chopped vegetables looked very respectable and evenly diced when I was through with them. None of your oddly shaped pieces of celery or onion for Daisy Gumm Majesty—not anymore, at all odds. Then I peeled the potatoes.

  “Thank you, dear. I’ll just plop these into a pot of salted water and boil them a little later.”

  I don’t know how she coordinated everything so it came out all right at just the appropriate times, but she always did. Not only was she plugging away at the main course and the side dishes, but I saw an apple pie sitting on the windowsill. Oh, my, what a feast we would have that night! I could hardly wait—and this, after a big lunch at the Chop Suey Parlor. Maybe I’d gain all my lost weight back eventually if I kept eating like this.

  The Benjamins arrived promptly at six p.m. I hardly recognized Mrs. Benjamin without her nurse’s apron and cap, but Mr. Benjamin looked his same dapper self. A rather short man, and whip thin, he always wore a black suit and vest, but he varied his ties. This evening he wore a nice tie with blue and red stripes running diagonally across it. Spike and I welcomed them at the door, and I took their hats and coats and hung them on the coat tree.

  “Your home always smells so delicious when I come over, Daisy,” said Mrs. Benjamin, smiling at me and handing me a box that had clearly come from Jorgenson’s.

  “That’s because Aunt Vi does the cooking,” I assured her. “Doc can tell you it doesn’t always smell like this.” A twinge of pain assailed my heart as memories of Dr. Benjamin’s many visits to Billy tumbled through my mind.

  The good doctor patted me on the shoulder. “I know it’s not a comfort, but you’re not the only family so grievously wounded by that damn—”

  “Richard!” Mrs. Benjamin said in a stern voice.

  He swallowed the end of the word and said, “By that miserable war.”

  “I know it,” I said, smiling at the both of them. They were a very kind couple of people, and I liked them enormously.

  By that time Ma and Pa had arrived at the front door and were greeting the doctor and his wife. I held the box and wondered what to do with it. I guess Mrs. Benjamin saw my confusion, because she said, “It’s just some chocolates I picked up. They aren’t for tonight, but for whenever you or your family feels the need for a pick-me-up, dear.”

  “How very nice of you. I’ll just put them—” I glanced down at my dog and amended my first plan, which had been to put the box of chocolates on a short table in the living room. “On the shelf of the dining room hutch.” The hutch was built into the wall of the room, making the hutch extremely convenient and very pretty. That’s where we kept the few display pieces we owned along with some miscellaneous chinaware that had survived various generations of Gumms and Majestys.

  Dinner was a rousing success. Luckily for me, I sat next to Dr. Benjamin, so we managed to chat a little about Eddie Hastings.

  “I truly doubt the boy did himself in, Daisy. There were no signs of drug use on his body.”

  “Really? How can a doctor tell if a person uses heroin on a . . . what would you call it? A regular basis?”

  “Injection marks, generally on the inside of the arm, along the vein. If a fellow is in a very bad way and has been using the drug for years, he might have what they call tracks on both arms and even his legs.”

  I’m sure my nose wrinkled, because he smiled at me. “Not a pleasant habit to think about, is it?”

  “No, and I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do such a thing to himself.”

  “Or herself.”

  I think I stared at him, because my mother said, “Daisy, what on earth is the matter with you?”

  Gathering my wits together, I said, “Nothing, Ma. Something that Dr. Benjamin just said . . . surprised me, is all.”

  She opened her mouth to ask what could have accounted for my astonishment, but Mrs. Benjamin, I think stirred into action by a quick move on her husband
’s part, asked her a question, and she gave up on me.

  Dr. Benjamin said, “Yes, women use drugs, too. Of course, they’re more apt to become addicted to laudanum, which comes in a syrup form, than to inject heroin, but I’ve seen cases.”

  I gulped. “That’s . . . so sad.”

  “Yes. It is. I fear addiction to opiates has increased greatly since the war. Well, you saw it in your own home, sweetheart, with your Billy. Those poor boys can’t help it.”

  Boy, how depressing this conversation had become. “Yes, of course.”

  “I apologize, Daisy. I didn’t mean to make you sad. I only wanted you to know that I now agree with Mrs. Hastings. I don’t believe her son killed himself. Especially since no syringe was found in the poor boy’s apartment. Unless he was with another person, there should have been a means to administer the drug evident at the scene. And if another person was present . . . well . . .”

  “Yes. Whoever was there with him must have injected Mr. Hastings himself.” I cast a despairing glance at Dr. Benjamin. “Or herself.”

  He gave me a faint smile. “I believe we can acquit any ladies of his acquaintance of doing the deed. As far as I’ve been able to determine, Mr. Hastings was a young man of steady habits. I don’t believe he had a lady friend in his life.”

  “No, I guess he didn’t. Harold Kincaid told me he expected Mr. Hastings to marry a young woman named Adele Knowles one day, but not any time soon.”

  “Ah, yes. They would have made a nice couple. I know the Knowles family.”

  With a soft chuckle, I said, “You know everyone in Pasadena and Altadena, practically.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Now what are you two laughing about?” asked my mother. I think she didn’t approve of me hogging the doctor’s attention.

  “Daisy was quizzing me on how many families we know in common.”

  “Oh, my, that’s probably a lot of them,” said Ma. “Daisy gets around to places the rest of us never see.” She didn’t sound sorry about it.

  “That’s the truth,” said Pa. “Our Daisy travels in distinguished circles.”

  They were embarrassing me.

  I suspect Dr. Benjamin noticed my discomfiture, because he said, “Believe me, the only thing that separates most of those so-called distinguished families from yours is more money than they can use wisely.”

  “Precisely,” I said. “Just think about Stacy Kincaid if you doubt Dr. Benjamin’s words.”

  “I don’t doubt them for a minute,” said Aunt Vi.

  “That’s the sad truth,” Mrs. Benjamin plopped into the conversation. “Why, I’ve never seen so many women who don’t have enough to do so they invent medical problems for themselves.” She shook her head. “You don’t find that sort of thing in normal families that have good, honest work to do in order to put food on the table.”

  “True, true,” said her husband. “Speaking of food, this is the best meal we’ve had in ages, isn’t it, Dorothy?” Dorothy being Mrs. Benjamin’s first name.

  “My goodness, yes,” she concurred. “No one else I know can match Viola Gumm when it comes to fixing delicious meals.”

  “Pshaw,” said Vi, although I could tell she was pleased.

  After that, dinner passed peacefully enough. Even though we all said we were too full for dessert, we ate apple pie and cheese anyway. What a feast! And it was a real treat to have a Thanksgiving meal in the middle of the year, although the house did get sort of warm. We fixed that by opening the windows, and soon a soft breeze cooled us off.

  I knew Ma and I were going to have to do the washing up, but we didn’t want to rush the Benjamins, so we all sat on chairs on the front porch and jawed until almost nine o’clock. Spike enjoyed the attention of everyone at different times, and I threw his ball for him until my arm ached.

  All in all, the evening had been a great success. What’s more, Dr. Benjamin had confirmed what Eddie Hastings himself had told me—along with every living soul present at that awful séance. Someone had murdered him.

  Now all I had to do was find out who’d done the evil deed. Well, I suppose Sam might help, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  * * *

  When the Benjamins finally left, I sent Ma off to bed, since she had to work a half day at the Hotel Marengo on Saturday, and I washed and dried all the dishes myself and put them all away. It took forever, even with Aunt Vi having stored the leftover food in the Frigidaire first.

  At any rate, I slept late the next morning, but I didn’t feel guilty. In truth, I felt rather virtuous for having spared my mother an hour’s worth of work and a late night.

  Pa and I took Spike for a walk after I had a turkey sandwich for breakfast, Vi not having left any delightful surprises for breakfast that morning. Then, since I sing alto in the church choir, and wanted to be sure of my part, I sat on the piano bench in the living room and, while Pa read a book, I practiced the alto part of “Oh, for a Thousand Tongues to Sing,” which is always the first hymn in a Methodist hymnal. I don’t know why.

  Since we aimed to go out to dinner that night at Miyaki’s, after I had my part down pat, I retired to my room with Spike and commenced practicing with the chopsticks Keiji had given me. I was darned good at wielding them by that time, and I made myself grin as I thought about how astonished my family would be that evening when I scooped fried vegetables and whatever else Keiji’s uncle planned to serve us with chopsticks, while everyone else had to use their forks and knives.

  Keiji had told me that it was not considered impolite to pick up, say, a fried shrimp, hold it between the sticks, and take bites out of it. Using the manners my mother taught me, I’d ordinarily cut a fried shrimp into pieces first. I hoped she wouldn’t scold. If she did, I’d just tell her I’d been taught how to use the chopsticks and was therefore using Japanese table manners. She probably wouldn’t buy my excuse, but oh, well.

  When the telephone rang, I was so involved in picking up pieces of paper with my chopsticks, I dropped one of the darned things on the floor. Spike, ever on the alert, bounced to retrieve it, but I snagged it before it could become decorated with doggie tooth marks.

  My father got to the ’phone before I did, but the call was for me. The calls at that house were almost always for me—and generally presaged an hysterical fit by Mrs. Pinkerton. I held my breath and prayed as I took the receiver from Pa. In my sweet, soothing spiritualist’s voice, I said, “Yes?”

  “Daisy!”

  Drat. It was Mrs. Pinkerton, all right, and she was as close to hysterical as made no never mind, as my father sometimes said.

  Suppressing my annoyance, I said gently, “Yes, Mrs. Pinker-ton?”

  “It was Mr. Kincaid! I know it was! I saw him!”

  I blinked a time or two, trying to sort out this ranting declaration in the chopstick-induced fuzz in my brain. “Ah . . .” She wasn’t going to tell me he’d killed someone else, was she?

  “I did, Daisy! I saw him! He was with another man, and they were arguing!”

  “Ah.” Not another murder, but a sighting. After shaking my head, trying to rid it of irrelevancies, I said, “Where did you see this? And you’re sure it was your husband—”

  “No! It was my ex-husband.”

  Criminy. “Yes, of course. Your ex-husband. You’re sure it was he? Where was this?”

  “I’d just come from a committee meeting for the Women’s Hospital. We were driving west on Green Street”—Jackson not only served as Mrs. Pinkerton’s gatekeeper, but also as her chauffeur when she deigned to leave her home to go anywhere—“when I saw him. He and the other man were arguing.”

  “They were arguing on Green Street?”

  “Well, they were sort of tucked away in an alley off Green. Near Marengo. I’m not sure of the address.”

  “Why didn’t you telephone the police?” I asked, still straining to be polite. “Or you could have driven to the police station in less time than it took Jackson to drive you home.
You could have told the police, and they could have scooted down to Green and Marengo and caught him right there and then.”

  “I?” she asked, clearly astonished. “You think I should go into that tawdry police station and speak to a policeman?”

  Lord, give me patience. “You could have had Jackson run inside and tell the police, Mrs. Pinkerton. That makes more sense than having him drive you home so you can call me. Do you expect me to drive to Green and Marengo and arrest Mr. Kincaid and his crony?” All right, so I’d slipped from pleasantry to sarcasm. I couldn’t help it.

  “Oh, no, of course you can’t do that,” said she, sounding shocked.

  “But you want me to call the police for you? You realize both men will be long gone by this time, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Daisy!You don’t think Eustace will come here, do you?”

  Not if he had a brain in his head. “I have no idea. All I know is that you lost a brilliant opportunity to get him re-arrested.”

  “Oh. Do you really think so?”

  “Yes, I really do.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “And it’s Saturday, so Detective Rotondo won’t be at work today.” Actually, I didn’t know that. For all I knew Sam worked every day of the week. “But I’ll call and tell whoever’s on duty what you believe you saw.”

  “I did!” she cried. “I did see him!”

  “Do you have any idea who the other man was?”

  “No . . . I don’t believe so.”

  I shut my eyes and counted to ten. “Mrs. Pinkerton, you either recognized the other fellow or you didn’t. Which was it?”

  “I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Was he young? Old? Middle-aged?”

  “Um . . . oh, I don’t know!” Now she was whining. Pretty soon she’d start weeping piteously, and I didn’t want to stick around for that.