by Alice Duncan
Featherstone, Mrs. Pinkerton's incredibly correct butler, answered my knock almost as soon as I dropped the knocker.
"Good morning, Featherstone. I expect Mrs. P is in a frenzy."
Featherstone would no more answer me in kind than he would fly to the moon. Rather, in his superb butlerish way, he said, "Please come this way, Mrs. Majesty."
He always said that. No matter that I could have found my way blindfold to what Mrs. Pinkerton called her drawing room and the rest of us mere mortals on this earth would have called a living room. Featherstone always, always led me there. So I followed.
I have to admit to a wave of aghastness, if that's a word, when I entered the room to encounter not merely a weeping Mrs. Pinkerton, but her son (and one of my best friends) Harold, as well as Mrs. P's horrid daughter, in attendance. Anastasia "Stacy" Kincaid had been a thorn in my side for more than a decade at that point in time. She wasn't as much of a weasel as she had been a year or so ago when she'd been aspiring to become one of F. Scott Fitzgerald's "flaming youths", but she was still plenty awful.
Evidently there had been a family discussion in progress because Mrs. Pinkerton, her overstuffed self huddled in an overstuffed chair, wailed, "But I simply can't! He's been with me for years!" Mrs. Pinkerton is probably the world's best wailer.
"Besides," Harold said, frowning at his sister. "This isn't his fault."
Stacy threw her arms in the air in a gesture of frustration. "If he weren't here, all the problems would stop!" She wore her uniform as a Salvation Army maiden. I don't know what her rank was, but she was definitely rank. One of my dear friends, Johnny Buckingham, had drawn her into his fold when she got picked up in a raid on a speakeasy and proceeded to batter a couple of coppers. I remained friends with Johnny and his wife, Flossie, in spite of their kindness to Stacy.
From the comments flying around the room, I presumed Stacy had suggested her mother fire Jackson. To test my theory, I first cleared my throat in order to gain everyone's attention. It worked like a charm.
Mrs. Pinkerton squealed, surged to her feet and aimed herself toward me at a dead run. I braced myself against a sturdy piece of carved wooden furniture so I wouldn't topple over when she hit. I admit to staggering slightly, but shoot. The woman was twice my size.
"Daisy! Oh, Daisy! I'm so glad you're here!"
"Me, too," said Harold. His gaze paid a trip to the ceiling, and I could tell he was about at the end of his patience.
"I don't know what you can do," said Stacy. Nastily, of course.
I managed to free myself from Mrs. Pinkerton's embrace and as I led her to the chair from which she'd just risen, I said to Stacy, "I suppose you suggested your mother get rid of Jackson?"
"Well, yes! Of course I did! Nothing like this would have happened if he didn't work here!"
See? Told you she was a pill.
"Jackson has worked here for years and years, Stacy. It's not his fault some misguided people have decided he's not human because his skin is dark."
"True," said Harold. What a pal that man was. "He's been in Mother's employ longer than you've been alive, Stacy. And he's contributed considerably more to Mother's tranquility than you have, too."
I wanted to stick my tongue out at Stacy like a schoolkid, but I didn't.
"Harold!" wailed Harold's mother.
"He only spoke the truth, Mrs. Pinkerton," I said, giving Stacy a quelling look. She remained unquelled. She would. "Jackson has never caused you a moment's trouble, has he?"
"What do you call an exploded mailbox?" screeched Stacy.
"A crime. And one for which Jackson isn't responsible." Sometimes I had the truly evil wish that someone would drive a stake through Stacy's heart and give the rest of the world a break.
"And Mother's received two threatening letters!" Stacy told me.
"I'm sure neither of them was penned by Jackson," said Harold, who was rational under almost all conditions.
"Your mother and I talked about the letters yesterday. From what I've gathered through news reports and in talking with Detective Rotondo," I said, "the Ku Klux Klan has invaded Pasadena. I'm sure the Klan is responsible for the letters and the damage to your mother's property."
"Well, then? If you got rid of Jackson, those horrid Klan people would leave you alone. Don't you see that, Mother?"
I was fed up to the back teeth with Stacy Kincaid. Mind you, this wasn't anything new or unusual, but I didn't generally call her on her meanness. I lost my temper that day. "For someone who purports to be a good Christian girl, Stacy Kincaid, you certainly don't sound like one at the moment. You're honestly advocating Jackson's dismissal because some heathens don't want him around? He's lived in Pasadena, California, for years and years. Ever since he moved here from New Orleans in the late eighteen hundreds, for heaven's sake!"
"How do you know that?" Stacy demanded.
"Because he told me so. Jackson is a friend of mine. His family was originally from the Caribbean, then they moved to New Orleans. Well, I expect they were slaves at some point, but... oh, never mind." I don't know why I tended to babble when I was upset, but I did.
"He's from New Orleans?" Harold said, sounding fascinated. "That's where Del's from. I'd love to go there one day."
Very well, I suppose this is as good a time as any to tell you about Harold Kincaid and Delray Farrington. Del was Harold's... oh, bother. I don't know what to call him. The two men were lovers. There. I said it. They lived together in San Marino, and they were two of the nicest folks I knew. Many people believe men like Harold and Del to be somehow evil—I'm sure the Klan did so, and would dearly love to lynch them—but I called them good friends. Also, near as I can figure, neither of them had ever had a choice in the matter of which sex attracted him.
Besides all that, it was Mr. Del Farrington who saved Harold's father's bank when Harold's father, the wretched Mr. Eustace Kincaid, stole a bunch of bearer bonds and headed to Mexico with them. If he hadn't been caught, and if Del hadn't worked so hard to repair the damage Mr. Kincaid had done, the bank would have folded and hundreds of people would have lost their life's savings. So say what you will about people of Harold and Del's stamp; if you dislike them because of their inclination, you're just wrong.
Boy, I'm not usually so forceful. But by that morning, I'd had my fill of bigots.
"And this only started because Mr. Jackson's brother moved here from Oklahoma. I believe, from what Mr. Jackson has told me, that members of the KKK followed his brother to Pasadena and are determined to ruin him, if not outright kill him."
Everyone in the room goggled at me for a moment. Then Harold said, "Really? I didn't know you knew the guy so well."
"Yes, well, I do. And Jackson's been awfully worried lately. I don't know why the Klan is after his brother, but it is. Did you know that some of those idiots actually burned a cross on Jackson's front lawn on Monday night?"
"Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Pinkerton. "Perhaps I should let him go." She turned frightened eyes upon me and instantly said, "I mean, perhaps I should give him a leave of absence. In order to sort out his problems at home, I mean."
I knew what she meant. And I didn't intend to let her get away with it. "Mrs. Pinkerton, do you value my services and advice?"
Stacy made a rude noise.
"You know I do," Mrs. P said, grabbing my hand as if to keep me from running away.
"Then please don't let Jackson go. Don't even give him a leave of absence. If you give in to those awful people, they'll have won. You need to be an example to the rest of the good people in Pasadena. Don't you see that?"
"She's right, Mother," said Harold, bless his heart.
"Gawd," said Stacy.
I turned on her. "Speaking of God, it wouldn't hurt you to ask for His advice before you advocate people turning other people out of their employment for the sins of other people." I hope she understood that. I was rather upset when I said it. "And it also wouldn't hurt you to talk to Captain Buckingham about this. I'm sure h
e'll be of guidance to you, since your own humanity doesn't seem to be working very well these days."
Harold grinned at me. Mrs. Pinkerton gulped audibly. Stacy stamped her Salvation-Army-sanctioned shoe. The carpet was so thick, her stamp didn't make much noise.
And then Featherstone appeared at the door to the drawing room and announced in a voice that would have done the Grim Reaper proud, "Detective Rotondo to see you, madam."
Mrs. Pinkerton groaned.
Harold heaved a sigh of relief. He and Sam knew each other of old. Neither much cared for the other, but they respected each other. Heck, Harold once shot a man who'd helped kidnap Sam. He'd fainted immediately thereafter, but Sam owed Harold a good deal.
Stacy, naturally, made an ugly face and said, "Well, I'm not going to stick around here if I'm not wanted."
"Good riddance," said Harold.
"Wait a minute, please, Miss Kincaid," said Sam. "I want to take statements from everyone before you go."
"Why me?" Stacy said with a whine. "I didn't see or do anything."
"Routine," growled Sam, his voice as full of menace as I'd ever heard it.
For once, Stacy obeyed another person and sat as if Sam had pushed her. Inwardly, I applauded Sam. Outwardly, I said, "Good morning, Detective Rotondo."
If we were in any place other than Mrs. Pinkerton's grand drawing room, I'm sure Sam would have asked what was good about it, but he only nodded at me and turned to a subordinate. I'd met the other copper before. His name was Officer Doan, and I don't believe I'd ever seen the man smile. Then again, I suppose police work isn't awash in gay abandon and frivolity, so he'd probably earned his dour expression. He had his notebook out and his pencil poised.
"Please be seated, gentlemen," said Harold. "And you, too, Daisy. Come here and sit by me." He patted the place next to him on a sofa. The room was enormous and full of chairs, so Sam and Officer Doan each pulled up a medallion-backed chair and got to work.
After about an hour or so, he was finished with all of us. Turned out nobody knew anything worthwhile, which I could have told him in less than a minute, but the man had to do his job after all.
I was the one who told Sam Stacy had begged her mother to fire Jackson. Stacy flounced in her chair—bet you didn't know people could do that, but you don't know Stacy. Sam's scowl deepened. "That's not a good idea, Mrs. Pinkerton. We need to keep an eye on Jackson, and the best way to do that is to have him go about his daily routine in as normal a fashion as possible. From what he told us, and from what we've learned from other sources, this bomb was probably planted by a member or members of the Ku Klux Klan, which has recently made inroads into Pasadena."
"Rotten organization, the Klan," I said because I couldn't help myself.
"Yes, well, we intend to capture and jail the perpetrators of this crime. We don't approve of people planting bombs in Pasadena," said Sam, frowning at me, for heaven's sake!
"Don't forget the threatening letters," said Stacy.
I'm probably the only one in the room who noticed Sam's slight sag. He straightened instantly. Then he drew in a deep breath and used it to say, "You've received threatening letters? You should have telephoned the police department, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"Oooooh," said Mrs. Pinkerton, sobbing into her already-damp handkerchief.
Sam, who knew a lost cause when he saw one, turned to Harold. "Do you know what these letters said, Mr. Kincaid?"
"I didn't see them. Mother burned them, but I believe they threatened her with bodily harm if she continued to employ Jackson." He looked as if he wanted to add something else, but he shut his mouth with a click of teeth and didn't.
"Huh," said Stacy, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Is that the gist of them, Mrs. Pinkerton?" asked Sam.
Mrs. P nodded, still sobbing.
"Why didn't you keep them, Mrs. Pinkerton? The police could have possibly garnered clues from them." I don't know why I asked her that question; truly, I knew better. Mrs. Pinkerton was the silliest woman on the face of the earth.
"I-I didn't know," she wailed softly.
Sam and Harold and I exchanged a few looks. Harold shrugged. Sam shook his head. Which looked to me as if it was overdue for a haircut. Sam is of Italian extraction, has olive skin, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, has to shave and cut his hair a lot. We went to the same barber, although we didn't know that until we met there one day.
"If you get any more letters, please keep them, Mrs. Pinkerton. And please also telephone the police department." Because he knew Mrs. Pinkerton well, he said, "Or ask Featherstone to call the department. Or Daisy."
It galled Sam that so many people were more apt to call me with their problems than they were to call the police department. I'd told him, in truth, that it was because I'm nicer than he is, but he still doesn't like it.
"I will," promised Mrs. Pinkerton in a shaky voice. "I will. I'm sorry I threw the other letters away."
"Is it all right for Mother to call workmen in to repair the fence and replace the mailbox?" asked Harold, who kept to the point, bless him.
"Yes. We've taken enough photographs and talked to Jackson and Featherstone and most of the family. I suppose I ought to speak with the rest of the staff. Is that all right with you, Mrs. Pinkerton?"
"Of course. Of course," she said.
"What about Mr. Pinkerton?" asked Sam. "Do you think he knows anything more about these happenings than you do?"
"I don't think so," said Mrs. Pinkerton.
"Hmm." Sam frowned again. "I'd still like to speak with him. Do you know when he'll return to the house?"
"Algie?" said Mrs. Pinkerton, as if she had more than one husband. "He should be back home this evening. He's at the stables now."
Mr. Algernon Pinkerton, Algie to Mrs. Pinkerton and their friends, had two grown sons from his first marriage, and they both played polo. Guess Mr. P still liked horses, although he was round as a rubber ball by then and probably couldn't have mounted one if he'd wanted to.
"Is it all right with you if I come round this evening to speak with him?" asked Sam politely (for him).
"Of course. I don't think he'll be able to help you, but you never know."
"Thank you. I'll speak with Featherstone and ask him to round up the rest of the staff." Sam rose, Officer Doan closed his notebook, the two men bobbed their heads in a sort of farewell gesture and aimed themselves at the drawing room door.
I was about to toddle after them when Mrs. Pinkerton turned pleading eyes upon me. "Oh, Daisy, please stay with me when the police are questioning everyone. Please! I need you to call upon Rolly for me."
Rats. I wanted to be with Sam when he questioned the staff. But I knew my duty. Besides, Aunt Vi would reveal all that evening at our own dinner table at home.
Sam, as I'd expected him to do, turned to give me gave an irritated eye-roll before he exited the room.
Harold winked at me.
Stacy said, "Well!" and left, which was about the only good thing to happen that entire day.
Chapter 4
"Goodness," said Aunt Vi as we dug into the pork chops, fried cabbage, potatoes and carrots she'd cooked for our delectation, "I do feel sorry for Mrs. Pinkerton. She's such a... a..."
"Nitwit?" I asked. Not kind of me, I know.
My mother said, "Daisy!"
Sam, who had, at Vi's invitation, come to dinner that night, said, "Nitwit about covers it. Ineffectual describes her pretty well, too."
"Well," said Ma, who didn't like to hear people insult other people, "I suppose she may be a rather ineffective parent, but she's still your best client, Daisy, so I don't think you should be talking about her like that."
"Sorry, Ma. You're right."
"Say, Daisy, you're pals with Jackson, right?" said Sam.
I looked up from my plate and eyed him across the table. "You know I am. Why?"
"I want to talk to the rest of his family, but I don't want to take another policeman with me." His lips tightened as if h
e didn't want to say what he said next. "I'm afraid they'll all clam up if a bunch of uniformed officers come to call."
I sniffed meaningfully and took another bite of my carrots.
"Anyhow, I thought you might be willing to come with me. Jackson knows you, and the two of you seem to be friendly."
I straightened in my chair as if someone had shot a bolt of electricity through me. "Oh, Sam! Do you mean it? Of course, I'll come with you! I'd love to. In fact... oh, bother. Tonight's choir practice." I sang alto in the choir of the Methodist-Episcopal Church, North, on the corner of Marengo and Colorado Boulevard, and we met every Thursday evening for rehearsal.
"What time does choir practice begin?" asked Sam.
"Seven. We meet from seven to nine."
"Hmm." Sam looked at his newfangled wristwatch. "It's six now. I don't suppose that would give us enough time to visit with Jackson and his family before practice."
"I could go with you tomorrow evening," I said brightly, hoping he'd go for it. He more often than not didn't want me anywhere near his cases, so this was a definite departure for him.
Scowling, Sam carved a piece of pork chop, stuck it in his mouth and chewed. As soon as he swallowed, he said, "I guess that'll be all right. The sooner, the better. Anyhow, I have to go back to the Pinkertons' place this evening to talk to Mr. Pinkerton."
"That's fine with me," said I, happy to be included. Besides, I'd like to see where Jackson and his family lived. He'd told me his mother had moved to Pasadena from New Orleans a couple of years prior, so I'd get to meet her and his brother and his brother's family, too. I was always happy to broaden my horizons. Which reminds me of the time I told Billy I wanted to broaden my horizons, and he told me my horizons were already broad enough. That was in the good old days, when he was still whole and happy and I weighed a tiny bit too much. Ah, memories. Bittersweet, they were.
"By the way, Sam, Pa knows someone who belongs to the Klan," I said.
Everyone at the table stopped chewing and stared at me. I felt as if I'd just burped or something.
