by Alice Duncan
“Surely,” I said, trying to pacify her with my gentlest tones, “you can tell me if he was old or young.”
“Middle-aged, I think.”
“Thank you. I’ll telephone the police right now.”
“Oh, thank you, Daisy! Do you think you can come over this afternoon? I’m so upset!”
My eye! “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Pinkerton, but my day is filled with appointments already.”
“Oh.” She’d begun crying. I wanted to scream. “What about tomorrow?”
“I sing in the church choir on Sundays, and then my family and I spend the day together.” Because I didn’t want to lose her patronage completely, I said, “I can visit you Monday morning. Will that be all right?”
She sniffled as she thought about it. “Oh . . . yes, I suppose it will have to be. Please bring the Ouija board. I truly need Rolly’s advice.”
Rolly would have advised her to call the police as soon as she got home if she didn’t have brains enough to drive to the station—which was practically right up the street from where the purported Mr. Kincaid had been—and have Jackson tell them what she’d just seen. The whole calling-the-police thing seemed pointless to me now. Whoever those two men were, they were assuredly long gone by this time.
“Very well. I’ll come over on Monday at ten thirty.” Darned if I’d skip walking my dog for her sake.
“Thank you, Daisy.” She hesitated for several seconds, and for a moment I thought she’d hung up on me, but she hadn’t. She said, “It was foolish of me not to telephone the police immediately, wasn’t it?” in a very small voice.
Darned if I was going to agree that she’d been foolish, although she had been. “You were rattled by what you’d seen,” I said, graciously letting her off the hook, but hoping the process of its removal stung at least a little bit.
“Thank you, Daisy.” She hung up.
I waited for three other clicks on the line, but only heard two. “Mrs. Barrow, please hang up your telephone.”
Another click sounded, louder than the rest. Stupid woman. Mrs. Barrow, not Mrs. Pinkerton, although Mrs. P was plenty stupid on her own.
So I called the Pasadena Police Department. When I asked for Sam, the policeman at the front desk told me he wasn’t working that day. So I told him Mrs. Pinkerton’s story, and he said he’d give the information to another detective who was, in his words, “working the case.”
Huh. Wish I could have all the information the police had on “the case.” At that point, I didn’t even know what “the case” entailed. Were they looking for Eddie Hastings’ killer or merely the operators of a drug ring? Or did they think both crimes pertained to each other? Nuts. If I thought Sam would give me an answer, I’d ask him over dinner, but I knew better.
The rest of that day passed peacefully enough. I had another turkey sandwich for lunch and made one for Pa. When Ma came home shortly after noon, I made one for her, too. After that I took a nap with Spike and then read for a while.
Then it was time to dress for dinner at Miyaki’s. Deciding I wanted to look my best—after all, Harold, Del, and Mr. Knowles would be there—I selected an ankle-length striped brown dress with a high round neckline and what the magazine from which I’d copied the pattern had called “bishop” sleeves, which were gathered into brown velvet cuffs that matched the draped buckled hip belt. I wore my brown felt cloche hat trimmed with two black pompoms I’d made out of yarn. I got my pointy-toed, low-heeled shoes with wide buttoned straps. They hurt my toes, but that couldn’t be helped. I could always slip them off under the table and nobody’d notice. It wasn’t as if I had to be on my toes—so to speak—as I had to be while conducting a séance or anything. Black jet beads and a black handbag completed my outfit, and I was pleased with the result after I’d bathed and put it all on.
The whole family looked great that evening. It was difficult to get my father into an evening suit, but he still fit into the ones he wore when he was a chauffeur, and he looked grand. Ma wore a lovely blue creation I’d made her for Christmas. It, too, was ankle-length, and she borrowed my pearls to go with it. Vi looked very nice in her sober black velvet gown, another Christmas present made by my very own hands—well, and my swell, side-pedal White sewing machine. She wore with it a brooch given to me by a grateful client some years ago. I’d always thought it looked too old for me, but it looked great on my aunt’s dinner gown.
As he’d promised, Sam picked us up in his big Hudson motorcar about 5:45 that evening. Even he looked as if he’d gone to some trouble with his toilette that evening. He was for once unrumpled, his black suit, vest, and tie were quite formal, and his hat, a black bowler, looked as if it had been cleaned and brushed. He’d even tamed his somewhat unruly curly black hair into submission.
After Spike had been subdued—since we were all in our fancy duds, none of us much wanted to cuddle him, but we did pet him—we trooped out to Sam’s motor.
“You all look swell this evening,” said Sam, holding the back door of his Hudson open.
Ma, Aunt Vi, Pa, and I all looked at each other, and then Ma got into the back seat, followed by Pa and then Aunt Vi. I sensed a conspiracy, but I didn’t say anything. I did give Sam a little mouth quirk when I sat in the front seat of his car. He only smiled benignly at me and walked around to the driver’s door, opened it, got in, and started the motor.
Miyaki’s was on South Los Robles Avenue, not really very far from where we lived, so we got there in plenty of time for our six-o’clock reservation. A black-robed—actually, I think they call those robes kimonos—woman led us to a table for five in the left side of the restaurant sort of in the middle. The place was already getting full. I glanced around, hoping to see Harold and Del, but evidently they hadn’t arrived yet.
The décor was amazing. There were silk hangings everywhere in beautiful blues and greens, reminding me of a peacock’s tail. I noticed that there were very short tables and regular-sized tables and wondered about that until I saw some folks sitting at a short table. Actually, they were sitting cross-legged on the floor. I still wasn’t sure what that was all about, but presumed it to be some sort of Japanese custom, although all the people were white. I told myself to remember to ask Harold about the differently sized tables next time I saw him—well, the next time after tonight, if he ever showed up. He’d better, darn it. I wanted to meet Lester Knowles, if only to assess what I could of his character. I know that sounds silly. After all, I couldn’t very well interrogate the man. But I could at least take his measure in some way. I hoped.
Naturally, my family maneuvered themselves so that Sam and I sat beside each other. I really didn’t mind, since I aimed to tell him about Mrs. Pinkerton’s telephone call to me that day.
When we were handed menus, we all stared at them with blank expressions on our faces. I know that for a fact, because I peeked. I didn’t know about Sam, but I knew none of us Gumms or Majestys knew what any of the foods mentioned on the menu were. Then I noticed something called “teriyaki” listed. Leaning a little closer to Sam, I pointed to the word. “Is that what your copper friends pick up with their fingers and dip into sauce?”
His brow furrowed, and with a frown on his face, he said, “Blamed if I know. I wish somebody’d come by and translate this menu for us.”
And then, as if by magic, Harold appeared! He, Del, a man I assumed to be Mr. Knowles, and a woman I assumed to be Adele Knowles were being seated at the table next to ours. I’d been happy to see Harold lots of times, but that night seemed particularly propitious. He spotted us and didn’t sit when his chair was pulled out for him, but strode a foot or two over to us.
Beaming at the whole family, and Sam, too, he said, “Good evening, all. How lucky to meet here, of all places.” He didn’t wink or anything that might have given away the fact that he and I had planned to meet at the restaurant.
“Harold. How nice to see you,” I said, beaming right back at him.
The rest of my family greeted him politely. Eve
n Sam nodded and said, “Evening.” I think it was meant to be a shortened version of “good evening.”
“Say, Harold, we don’t know what any of this stuff is,” I told him, whispering so as not to let the rest of the folks in the restaurant know we were middle-class people unused to restaurant dining—especially in Japanese restaurants.
“I’ll be more than happy to help. Let me bring the rest of my party over and make introductions.”
So he did. My family already knew Del, from him having come to Billy’s funeral, so Harold introduced the Knowles siblings. Lester was a nice-looking fellow who wore the hollow-eyed look of grief I’d seen on my own face after Billy’s death. I recognized it at once, and my heart hurt for the man. After all, no one gave a second thought to my grief, which was to be expected. But Lester had been in love with another man and, therefore, his anguish couldn’t be accounted for by the general population. I wanted to console him, but that was neither the time nor place.
Adele Knowles was a pretty girl, perhaps my age or a little older. She was clad in a smashing dinner gown with no hat, which made me wonder if hats for women in evening wear were going out of style. Time to check the Vogue magazine out of the library. I had to keep up with these things, after all. Anyhow, she had brown hair that was cut short and waved, either naturally or via a curling iron. If she were as rich as Harold, she probably had a maid to dress her and do her hair.
She possessed a sweet smile, and was a little pink when she said, “It’s so good to meet you at last, Mrs. Majesty. Harold is always talking about you. You certainly had a harrowing trip last summer together, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did. And Detective Rotondo here was with us at the time, too,” I said, nodding at Sam, who still frowned. He managed a civil greeting after I kicked his calf with one of my pointy-toed shoes.
“I don’t even like to think about that time,” Harold said with a theatrical shudder. He turned to his companions. “But you three go sit down. I want to chat with Daisy for only a minute or two.”
“Good to see you again,” said Del with one of his wonderful smiles. He reminded me of Billy. In fact, when I’d first seen him at one of Mrs. Pinkerton’s séances a few years back, my heart had almost stopped. He’d had his back to me, and he’d had on the uniform he’d worn during the war.
Mr. Knowles smiled politely, and guided his sister back to their table.
Harold leaned between Sam and me and pointed to the items on the menu. “I’d suggest a bowl of the miso soup, the teriyaki beef—or chicken, if you’d prefer—which comes with a delicious sauce. And I’d recommend you try the tempura.”
“Ah,” said Sam as if a light had just gone on in his brain. “It’s tempura that’s the fried vegetables you dip in the sauce, isn’t it?”
“Precisely,” said Harold. “I love the stuff. I’m sure it’s fattening.” He sighed and patted his rounded tummy. “They’ll serve you green tea, which I guess is a Japanese thing, and then they have different desserts, but you’ll know what those are.”
“Thanks, Harold. I appreciate the lesson.”
“Do they give you knives and forks if you ask for them?” my mother asked, rather shyly, peering down at the pair of chopsticks resting on a little bowl before her. I know she was intimidated. As a family, we didn’t dine in fancy restaurants, but the ones we did go to came complete with American-style silverware. I was more comfortable than the rest of my kin because I’d hung out with Harold for so long.
“Yes, they do. I always ask for a fork and knife because I can’t handle those little sticks.”
“Well, I’m going to use the chopsticks.”
“Oh, boy, I can’t wait to see that,” Sam muttered.
“You just wait,” said I. Smugly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
* * *
Harold went back to his table, and we chatted together while we waited for someone to come and take our orders.
“I think Sam ought to order for us all,” I said. “Since we don’t know what anything is, we might as well follow Harold’s advice.”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” said Pa.
“And me,” said Aunt Vi and Ma in chorus.
Sam said, “What did he say to order? I can’t remember it all.”
“Miso soup,” I recited, having a better memory than Sam, “Teriyaki and tempura. I guess everything comes with rice.”
“Yeah. The guys at the station mentioned getting rice with whatever they ordered,” said Sam.
Therefore, when another kimono-clad person, this one male, came to our table to take our orders, Sam did a good job ordering for all of us. I suppose I could have reminded him that we could select chicken or beef teriyaki, but I didn’t want to confuse the poor man.
“This is great,” I said, smiling at him and then at my family. “It’s like an adventure to another land, only we don’t have to leave Pasadena.”
“I suppose it is rather like that,” said my mother doubtfully.
“If you don’t care for the food, Peggy, we still have leftovers from yesterday’s dinner at home,” said Vi in an effort to sooth her.
“I’m looking forward to the grub,” said my father, who, like me, was happy to experience new cuisines.
“The people at the station who’ve eaten here have liked it,” said Sam.
“I can’t wait,” I said, hoping he wasn’t feeling defensive. Then I remembered Mrs. Pinkerton’s telephone call. “Oh, Sam, I have to tell you something.”
His gaze paid a visit to the ceiling and he sighed. “What now?” he asked, growling slightly.
“I got a call from Mrs. Pinkerton today. She claims she saw Mr. Kincaid and another man having an argument in an alleyway somewhere around Green Street and Marengo.”
He turned in his chair and gave me a hard stare. “And she called you?”
“She did. After she had Jackson drive her home.”
“With the police station within a couple of blocks from where she says she saw the man she claims to be frightened of?”
I shrugged. “You know Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know Mrs. Pinkerton. I hope you had the good sense to call the station.”
“I did. And I asked for you, but you weren’t there. So I told the man who answered the ’phone to relate the information to whomever might be interested, and he said he’d tell someone who was, in his words, ‘working the case.’ ”
“Good God.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
We didn’t get to talk much after that, because our waiter came with a pot of green tea and a bunch of tiny little cups with no handles. We all looked at the teapot for some moments, and then Ma said, “Um, Daisy, would you please pour the tea for us?”
“Sure.”
So I did. Shortly thereafter, our soup was served. There were no utensils handy, so Sam asked for forks, knives, and spoons. I, having been taught by Keiji Saito the proper way to drink Japanese soup, picked up my chopsticks, which were quite elegantly lacquered, settled them in my hand the way Keiji had taught me, and dipped a chunk of something from my soup bowl. I think Keiji said it was tofu, whatever that is.
When I glanced up, everyone at the table was staring at me as if I’d grown a second head. I smiled serenely back at them.
“You know how to use those things?” Sam asked.
“Daisy, you amaze me sometimes,” said Ma. She didn’t sound as if my amazing qualities were always to her liking.
“You’re so talented,” said Aunt Vi.
“Mrs. Bissel’s houseboy is Japanese,” I told my audience. “He taught me how to use chopsticks.” I’d sort of planned on keeping my struggle with the utensils a secret and surprise everyone, who would then think I’d just managed to conquer the skill at that very dinner table, but I couldn’t stop myself from blurting out the truth. “I’ve been practicing all week long.”
“Good work,” said Pa.
“Good God,” said Sam.
“My goo
dness,” said Ma.
Vi only smiled at me. It was nice to be appreciated by someone.
Our dinner was scrumptious. Ma’s eyebrows dipped when she saw me pick up my soup bowl and drink the remains of my soup, but I told her that’s how Keiji’d taught me.
“Hmph,” she said.
“It’s all right, Peggy,” said my father. “I’m sure dinner table manners differ the world round.”
“They do indeed,” I said, putting my soup bowl back on the table. “Why in Egypt, the Egyptians sit on the floor around a huge platter and only eat with their right hands. Or is it their left hands?” I glanced at Sam, hoping he’d remember which hand was used.
He only shook his head, dipped his spoon into his soup bowl, and said, “Beats me. I don’t remember seeing any Egyptians eat. I met you in Turkey, remember?”
“Sure, but they’re Moslems in Turkey, too.”
“Maybe the National Geographic will have an article about Arabic eating habits one of these days,” said Pa.
That seemed a good suggestion to me, and I considered writing to the magazine to suggest an article about the different ways people around the world take their food. Sounded interesting to me, but I suspect if I did write a letter, it would go into the nearest trash basket of whoever read it.
The waiter arrived with huge platters of food and set one in front of each of us. He noted I was holding the chopsticks and nodded his approval. I felt as though I’d conquered an Alp or something.
Anyhow, the food was delicious. Even Ma liked it. Pa raved. Aunt Vi instantly wondered if she could find a Japanese cooking book anywhere, and I told her I’d look at Grenville’s Books the next time I went downtown.
For dessert, we were each served a slice of pineapple that had been cleverly carved into wedges and then separated so we could spear little pieces of pineapple. Those Japanese were intelligent folks.
After we’d stuffed ourselves, Sam drove us all home and we marched into the house, greeted Spike, who was delighted to see us, and I went to my bedroom to take off my fancy duds and get into a comfortable housedress and shoes. Those toe-pinchers were all right to wear out to the occasional fancy dinner, but I was glad to see the last of them that evening.
