by Alice Duncan
Pa and Sam set up the card table, and I played the piano for a while. Ma and Aunt Vi sat on the sofa and rested. I’d played “April Showers” and “Carolina in the Morning” when the telephone rang. Everything sort of halted in the house, and we all looked at each other. It was past nine o’clock by that time, and nobody, not even Mrs. Pinkerton, ever called us at that late hour.
Figuring that, whoever was on the end of the wire, the call would be for me, I trotted to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Gumm-Majesty residence, Mrs. Majesty speaking,” I said. It was my usual telephonic greeting.
“Daisy?” a woman whispered.
“Yes?”
“It’s Belinda Young. Do you have a minute?”
Why was she whispering? I didn’t like this. I said, “Sure, but just a minute. We have a party line, and I want to be sure no one else is listening to our conversation. Mrs. Barrow?”
I heard a click that sounded downright angry and a couple of other clicks that just sounded normal. Then I said, “What is it, Belinda? Why are you whispering?”
“To tell you the truth,” she said in a more normal voice, “I’m not sure. But something very strange happened at the office today, and I wasn’t sure, but I thought I should tell you about it.” She hesitated for a second or two and I was about to say something, but she suddenly started speaking again. “I may be way off base about this, but it was all so . . . strange. It may have absolutely nothing to do with Eddie’s death, but . . . well, you were interested, so I thought I’d telephone you and see what you think.”
Merciful heavens! “I’m glad you did, Belinda. Are you at home now?” I sure didn’t want her telephoning from the office if odd and possibly dangerous things were going on there.
“Yes. I live at home with my mother and aunt.”
Would it be nosy to ask where her father was? I didn’t have to think about it because Belinda enlightened me the next time she spoke.
“My father died last Christmas, and Mother is still quite cut up about his passing. Well, we all are, but I’m closest to home and unmarried, so . . .” Her explanation petered out.
“So you’re the one who brings home the bacon? And comforts your mother?”
“Well, Dad left her enough money to get by on, but she likes me to be here. I don’t mind. I have a gentleman friend who takes me out occasionally, and Mother likes him, so it all works out. My mother and aunt do all of the cooking.” She paused to sigh. “I really should learn to cook, since I expect Jerry and I will marry one of these days.”
Good luck to her. I’d never yet learned to cook, in spite of Aunt Vi’s tutelage.
“It’s good of you to take care of your mother,” I said, thinking my own mother would be inconsolable if Pa died. So would I, for that matter. But back to business. “Do you work half days on Saturday?”
“Not always, but I had to type a brief for Mr. Grover, so I went in today. But then Mr. Millette and a stranger showed up, and they had a terrible row. They walked right past my room, and since the door was shut and I’d just taken a sheet of paper out of the typewriter, I don’t think they knew I was there. They went to Mr. Millette’s office, but I could hear them. I didn’t dare begin typing again because the machine is so loud, and I didn’t want them to find me there.”
“That was very wise of you.” My heart palpitated at the notion of Mr. Millette and—could it be Mr. Kincaid?—discovering Belinda when they thought they were alone in that huge, empty building.
“I was scared. I didn’t dare make any noise.”
“Makes sense to me. What were they rowing about?”
“I couldn’t make out all the words, but I distinctly heard the name ‘Kincaid.’ Isn’t that the name of that fellow who robbed his own bank and went to jail a couple of years ago?”
I was right! “That’s the one, all right.”
“Anyhow, after a good deal of yelling, they quieted down. Mr. Millette must have used the telephone—I didn’t even know he knew how to dial a telephone for himself,” she added with something of a sniff. “That old bag of a secretary, Mrs. Larkin, does everything for him. He probably can’t even brush his own teeth.”
I entertained—if that’s the right word—a vision of Mrs. Larkin brushing Mr. Millette’s teeth for him, and my nose wrinkled.
“How do you know he telephoned anyone?” I asked, believing it to be a reasonable question.
“Because Mr. Grover showed up about twenty minutes later. He must have forgotten I was working today, because he almost jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and saw me sitting at the desk in my room. He said, ‘What are you doing here?’ And I told him I was typing the Cushing brief. He tried to pretend my presence hadn’t startled him, but he was rattled. I could tell. Then Mr. Millette yelled at him to go to his office—Mr. Millette’s office, I mean—and Mr. Grover left and did as Mr. Millette ordered. First, though, he said, “Well, go on home now. You can finish that brief on Monday morning.” He looked frightened, Daisy. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it one little bit.”
“No. I don’t blame you.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Good question, and one I had to think about. “Well, I don’t think you should do anything to tip the men off that you thought anything strange was going on. Go to work as usual on Monday. I have a policeman friend who’s looking into the case—”
“You mean they changed their minds and think it was murder and not suicide? I knew Eddie wouldn’t kill himself!”
Oh, dear. “Please don’t tell anyone else about this, Belinda. There’s a lot more involved than murder, and my friend, who’s a Pasadena Police detective, would kill me if he thought I’d told anyone there’s an investigation going on.”
“Very well. I’ll keep mum. Did I do the right thing in ’phoning you?” She sounded worried, and I hurried to reassure her.
“You did the precisely right thing, Belinda. In fact, you might have helped solve the case.” As soon as the words slipped out, I wished they hadn’t. “But be sure not to tell anyone about it.”
“Well . . . since I don’t know anything, I guess I can’t, can I?”
“Good point. Thank you, Belinda. I’m going to tell my detective friend right now what you just told me.”
“You mean he’s there? At your house?” She sounded more titillated than shocked.
Rather repressively, I said, “He was my late husband’s best friend. He and my family all went out to dine at Miyaki’s tonight.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that’s a lovely place.”
“It’s not only lovely. It’s also delicious. I heartily recommend it.”
“Thank you, Daisy. I promise I won’t say a word. To tell the truth, I’m kind of scared, so I wouldn’t dare say anything to anyone else.”
Thank God for that! “That’s good, Belinda. I’ll be in touch if I need to know anything more, or . . . well, nothing, I guess. I’ll just be in touch if I learn anything.”
“Thanks, Daisy. Sorry for telephoning so late, but I called earlier and no one was at home, so . . .”
“Think nothing of it. I’m glad you called.”
“All right. Well . . . good night.”
“Good night.”
After I hung the receiver on its hook, I stood in the kitchen, pondering the telephone, and wondering if Mr. Eustace Kincaid and the elderly Mr. Millette had been in cahoots for years in the drug trade, and if they’d roped the timid, bland Mr. Grover into the business with them.
Deciding thinking about it did no good, I went back to the living room. Everyone in it looked up at me expectantly. I’d kind of hoped they’d have gone back to reading and playing cards so I could take Sam aside and speak to him privately, but the telephone call at that hour was so unusual, I reckon they were interested. I heaved a small sigh and walked over to Sam. Hauling the piano bench closer to the card table, I sat on the bench.
Deciding there was no use trying to be private now that everyon
e had taken up staring at the two of us, I just blurted it all out. “That was Belinda Young. She works at the Hastings law firm. She used to be Eddie Hastings’ and Mr. Grover’s secretary. Now I guess she only works for Mr. Grover.”
Sam laid his card hand face down on the table and swiveled to glare at me. It figured. He blamed me for everything, whether it was my fault or not.
I frowned back at him. “It’s not my fault she called. She said she was typing a brief—whatever that is—for Mr. Grover today when Mr. Millette and another man came into the firm, went to Mr. Millette’s office, and started yelling at each other. She couldn’t hear what they said, but she heard the name ‘Kincaid’ a time or two.”
Sam closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Good God.”
“Then Mr. Millette must have telephoned Mr. Grover, because he groveled in about twenty minutes later. He was shocked to see Belinda, who doesn’t ordinarily work on Saturdays. But she was there because—”
“She had to type a legal brief,” said Sam, interrupting me in the annoying way he had.
“Yes,” I said, snapping the word out. “Mr. Grover told her to go home, and she doesn’t know what happened after that, because she went home.”
“And she called you because . . . ?”
“Because she knows I’m interested in Eddie Hastings’ murder.”
“If it was a murder,” said Sam, clearly grouchy now.
“It had to be a murder if he was injected with heroin and no syringe was found,” I reminded him.
“My goodness!” cried my mother, who hadn’t been privy to all the juicy details of the Hastings case, mainly because I was trying to keep my family out of it. “Daisy, have you been prying into one of Sam’s cases again?”
“No!” I cried in my turn, feeling put upon and abused. “There wasn’t a case until—uh . . .” There was no way on God’s green earth I’d tell my family that the ghost of Eddie Hastings had crashed my séance. I’d already told Pa, and he’d thought I was crazy.
“There’s been a change of opinion about the Hastings case,” said Sam. “And Daisy is supposed to stay out of it.”
“I’m not in it! Can I help it if people prefer to talk to me than to the police? Darn it, you’re not being fair!”
Pa patted my hand. “There, there, Daisy. I’m sure Sam isn’t blaming you for anything.”
“Of course I’m not,” said Sam, clearly straining to remain calm. “But this information has put an end to our evening, I’m afraid. I’d better get to the station and let the rest of the men in on this latest bit of news provided by Daisy.”
“I had nothing to do with it!”
Made no difference. Sam was Sam, and that was that. He did ask me to walk out to his car with him, so I got a sweater from my room and did so, hoping to heaven he wouldn’t lecture or scold me.
Oddly enough, he didn’t. We both walked to his Hudson in silence. Then he turned to me and said, “I hope you enjoyed dinner at Miyaki’s tonight.”
I didn’t dare relax quite yet, but I decided his comment had been benign. Heck, it was even nice. “I loved it. Thank you very much, Sam. I think even Ma enjoyed our evening out.”
“I’m glad. And I’m sorry I barked at you in there.”
I gaped at him for a minute, trying to recall another time Sam had ever apologized to me for anything. Nothing occurred to me, so I just shrugged and said, “That’s all right. I’m used to it.”
He put his hand on my cheek, surprising the crud out of me. “I don’t want you to hate me, Daisy. I just worry when you get involved in cases that might be dangerous to you.”
Putting my hand over his—which felt surprisingly warm and good resting on my cheek—I said, “I know that, Sam. But it really isn’t my fault that people are inclined to telephone me instead of the police. Most folks don’t want to get involved with the police.”
He heaved a large-sized sigh. “Don’t I know it. Well, thanks for coming out with me tonight. Good night.” And darned if he didn’t lean over and kiss the cheek his hand wasn’t resting on.
I honestly think I’d have kissed him back if he hadn’t instantly dropped his hand, turned around as if he were being chased by wild beasts, and climbed into his huge automobile. I stood on the sidewalk, watching as his motor started with a roar and disappeared down Marengo. It occurred to me for the first time to wonder where Sam lived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
* * *
I didn’t sleep very well on Saturday night. Maybe the unusual food we’d eaten didn’t sit well . . . no. I think I’m avoiding the truth. The truth was that Belinda’s telephone call had disturbed me, but what had disturbed me even more was Sam’s gentle leave-taking out on the street next to his Hudson.
Sam Rotondo. Being gentle. And me reciprocating. I couldn’t be falling for the big lug. That was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
Yes. It definitely was. I did appreciate his friendship a whole lot, though, even though he was mean to me an awful darned lot.
After trying to figure it all out for far too long, I finally fell asleep, awaking Sunday morning with a slight headache and a bad mood. I tried to hide my lousy attitude from my family, none of whom would appreciate it. Besides, my rotten frame of mind wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own.
The choir had practiced “God of the Ages,” a pretty, albeit rather martial, hymn with a nice alto part. Lucille Spinks and I were scheduled to sing a duet on the last verse. Our choir director, Mr. Floy Hostetter, had wanted us to sing the third verse, but I always started crying while I sang it (you can probably see why): “From war’s alarms, from deadly pestilence; be thy strong arm our ever sure defense; thy true religion in our hearts increase; thy bounteous goodness nourish us in peace.” So he’d settled on us singing the last verse instead.
I know that, as a good Christian girl, I was supposed to trust in God and believe there was a reason for Billy’s tragic life and death. I was supposed to believe that Billy was in heaven, strumming on a harp—not that he’d been particularly musical in life.
And no, he wasn’t an angel. I don’t know why everyone thinks that when people die they become angels. They don’t. The angels exist in a finite number and were there at the beginning. You can’t become one, no matter how perfect a life you’ve led. One of the original angels, Lucifer, had fallen out of favor with God and had been sent to hell, even. Anyhow, at that point I wasn’t sure if I even believed in God any longer. I also know that’s a shocking thing to say, but I can’t help it. You may judge me if you wish, but if you believe in God, you’ll leave the judgment part of things to Him. Or Her. My heart had been so battered of late, I didn’t care who was in charge of us poor earthlings. Whoever it was seemed to be doing a crummy job of it.
But enough of that. Aunt Vi, as was her wont on Sundays, put a roast in the oven before we all walked to church. When we got there, I veered off to the choir room to don my robe and greet my friends. Lucille appeared particularly happy that morning. When she flashed her left hand in front of my face and I saw the gleam of a solitaire diamond, I understood.
“Lucy! He proposed!”
As I gave her a huge hug, she teared up and said, “Yes. I’m going to be Mrs. Zollinger before the end of the year!”
“I’m so glad for you,” I told her. And I was. Really. Just because I thought Mr. Zollinger was too old for her and not particularly attractive didn’t mean he and Lucy wouldn’t be happy together. I knew for a fact that Lucy had been yearning for marriage and children for a long time. I hoped Mr. Zollinger would be a blessing in her life, and she in his.
See? I’m not totally evil.
The church service went well, and Lucy and I sang our duet with particular fervor, probably because we were both pleased with her new status as an engaged-to-be-married woman. The congregation smiled a lot as we sang, so I guess they liked our duet, too.
When we got home, I changed out of my church clothes and went to the kitchen to set the table as Aunt Vi got Sunda
y dinner together. She’d made fresh dinner rolls the night before and had put them in the Frigidaire to be popped into the oven the moment we returned home from church. The house smelled heavenly. Does that make up for my earlier comments?
We were just finishing up dessert—apple pie with cheese—when the telephone rang. We all looked at each other. Mind you, the telephone sometimes rang on a Sunday, mainly when my brother or sister decided to call, but such occasions were rare.
Ma said, “It’s probably for you, Daisy. You’d better answer it.”
“You’re probably right,” said I, not happy about it.
Nevertheless, I made my way to the kitchen and to the telephone on the wall. I picked up the receiver and gave my usual greeting.
“Daisy, this is Belinda Young. I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to talk to you.”
For goodness’ sake. Whatever could she want to talk about now? I hoped it wasn’t bad, whatever it was.
“I don’t mind at all. But let me make sure the line is clear.” Two clicks sounded in my ear. I said sternly, “Mrs. Barrow, please hang up your telephone.” A second or two passed, and then Belinda and I heard another click. Devious woman. Mrs. Barrow, not Belinda. I wish we could afford a line to ourselves. Ah, well.
“All right. We’re private now. What’s the matter, Belinda?”
“Nothing’s the matter, really. But . . . Oh, Daisy, I don’t think I can carry it off!” She sounded mightily distressed.
“Carry what off?” I asked, confused.
“Behaving as though nothing happened at the office yesterday. I’m a secretary, not an actress, and I’m worried that Mr. Millette and Mr. Grover and that other man were arguing about something to do with Eddie Hastings’ death. I’m . . . well, I’m afraid.”
Oh, dear. Sometimes I forgot that not everyone in the world is as accustomed to trickery as I was.
