by Alice Duncan
I didn't even get through the whole "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking" speech before Mrs. Pinkerton started wailing at me.
"Daisy! Someone splashed paint all over what's left of the gatehouse!"
I waited until I'd swallowed my wrath, much as I'd swallowed my sausage, before I asked mildly, "And you called the police, right?"
"The-the police?"
I allowed my shoulders to droop and my head to fall back. When I saw my relations still staring at me, I straightened and managed to speak gently into the receiver. "Yes, Mrs. Pinkerton. It's against the law for anyone to deface anyone else's property. That's called vandalism. You need to telephone the police." Sanity struck, and I amended my last statement. "That is to say, have Featherstone call the Pasadena Police station. Ask for Detective Rotondo. If he's not there, talk to whoever's on duty. I mean have Featherstone talk to whoever's on duty."
A big gulp sped from Mrs. P's end of the wire to my ear. "Oh. Of course. Of course, I can do that."
"Excellent." My heart lifted for a split-second, which was silly of it, since I knew Mrs. Pinkerton of old. It plummeted when she spoke again.
"Oh, but Daisy, can you come over today? Please? I need to speak to Rolly through the Ouija board. This morning?"
I considered my morning's plans for a moment before answering her. Realizing I didn't really have any (plans, I mean), I said, "I can be at your house at ten thirty, Mrs. Pinkerton. I'll have to leave before noon, because I have an appointment at one."
"Ten thirty?" She sounded sorry, as if she thought I should drop everything and rush to her side. Phooey.
"Yes." I said the word firmly.
"Very well. I'll see you at ten thirty. Harold said he wants to talk to you, too."
"He does?" Her message surprised me. Harold was always telephoning me; why hadn't he conveyed his interest in talking to me via the telephone wires? Well, mine was not to wonder why, as some poet or other said once upon a time.
"Yes. He told me it's important. I think he wants to talk to you about what's been going on with that wretched Klan."
Puzzled, I said merely, "Very well. I'll be happy to talk to Harold." That was true. I loved talking to Harold. He was a great guy.
"I'll see you at ten thirty then, dear."
"Yes. I'll be there on the dot." Whatever that means. There are a whole lot of idiomatic expressions in the English language that don't make a particle of sense to me.
After I hung the receiver in its cradle, I turned to find my family staring at me with great intensity. I shrugged. "Somebody splashed paint on the Pinkertons' gate house and gate. I suspect the Klan again."
"My goodness!" said my startled mother.
"Good heavens," said Aunt Vi.
"The police really need to catch whoever's doing that stuff," said Pa.
I agreed with all of them. Then I finished my breakfast, washed and put up the dishes—there was no reason to leave them for later since I'd already received Mrs. P's telephone call—and went with my father to take Spike for a walk.
* * *
As I'd suspected she would be, Mrs. Pinkerton was in a lather as, at the stroke of ten thirty, Featherstone let me in to the drawing room. She saw me, leaped to hear feet, and would have run me down had not Harold stopped her.
"Let Daisy come in and sit down, Mother. There's no need to bowl her over every time she comes at your call."
I blinked at Harold, who didn't generally speak to his mother in such sharp tones or with such pungent words. They worked, however, and Mrs. P plunked herself back down onto the sofa from which she'd only seconds earlier risen. I walked over to her and held out a hand. My hands are well manicured and soft. Mind you, I did a lot of the gardening around our Marengo home, but I always wore gardening gloves and slathered on cream every time I washed them. My hands, not the gloves.
"I'm so sorry you've had more trouble, Mrs. Pinkerton," I said in a voice as smooth as my hands. I meant what I'd said, too. I'd seen the ugly red splashes against what was left of the formerly white gatehouse and the black iron fence next to it, although both were mainly rubble at the moment. Workmen had already arrived, however, to fix the fence and resurrect the gatehouse.
Taking my hand in hers, Mrs. P proceeded to bury her face in them—my one hand and her two. I glanced at Harold, who rolled his eyes. I felt like doing the same thing. I didn't appreciate having my hand wept upon.
That being the case, I gently removed it from her grip and said, "Let me set out the Ouija board, Mrs. Pinkerton, and we can consult with Rolly."
"Oh, yes! Yes. Thank you, dear."
"You're most welcome. Did you have Featherstone call the police?"
"I called the police," said Harold in a voice a good deal gruffer than his normal, happy-go-lucky tones. "And I told them about the paint. This has gone far enough."
"It's gone too far, if you ask me," I told him.
"Oh, yes! It has," agreed Mrs. Pinkerton. "But I won't fire Jackson."
Her voice was so firm, it startled me. I've come to expect lots of things from Mrs. Pinkerton, but seldom firmness of purpose. I shot Harold a glance, and he nodded. Aha. That explained it. Harold was always a good influence on people. Well, except his sister. No one seemed able to affect her behavior, with the one exception of Captain Johnny Buckingham of the Salvation Army and, after listening to Stacy the day before, I even had my doubts about Johnny.
"Excellent," I said. "Jackson is not at fault here. I suspect the Klan has taken against him, and all this mischief is their doing."
"I'm sure you're right. Do you suppose Detective Rotondo will come himself today?" asked Harold.
Again, I turned to Harold. Something was clearly wrong in his life, and I doubted it was his mother's troubles. Then I thought about the Klan, and about how they hated everyone who was in any way different from a so-called "normal" white Protestant person, and I sucked in a quart or so of air. Good Lord! Could the Klan be after Harold because he and Del were...?
Harold must have seen the speculation and appalledness (if that's a word) in my eyes because he gave his head a short shake and said, "But I want to speak with you after you deal with Mother."
"Of course," said I, my heart pounding out funereal dirges in my breast. It kept beating out: not Harold, not Harold, not Harold. Or maybe I'm just being dramatic. That's what it felt like, though.
However, my curiosity would have to wait. I sat in a chair across from Mrs. Pinkerton, and together we plied the planchette. Rolly told her not to worry (stupid advice, given the recipient, but I couldn't help myself), and that the police would solve the crimes committed against her property and her gatekeeper soon. I prayed I was right about that and that neither the Pinkertons nor Jackson and his family nor, heaven forbid, Harold, would run afoul of the Klan again.
Unfortunately, after Rolly was through assuring Mrs. P she had nothing to worry about and that others were scurrying around behind the scenes to make sure she wouldn't be bothered again, she wanted me to read the tarot cards for her. Blast the woman. I wanted to talk to Harold, darn it.
I dealt out a Celtic cross pattern. The cards told Mrs. Pinkerton precisely what Rolly had told her. Mind you, the cards aren't as easy to manipulate as the Ouija board, because when you shuffle those things, you never know what you'll uncover when you lay out your pattern. Oddly enough, however, that day they worked out precisely the way I wanted them to. Would that the rest of life would follow suit.
As soon as I'd finished interpreting the cards for Mrs. Pinkerton, I stuffed them and my Ouija board into the pretty carrying cases I'd sewn for them and rose. Mrs. Pinkerton's face took on a tragic demeanor.
"Oh, Daisy, do you have to leave now?"
"I'm afraid I do, Mrs. Pinkerton. My day is full. I only had a short space of time in which to visit you. But I'll be happy to come again soon."
"Tomorrow!" she said instantly. She would.
I had to pause and try to think what day tomorrow would be. Saturday. Blast. I
wanted to separate irises and pick oranges on Saturday. And then read the rest of the day away. Fiddlesticks. Maybe I could squeeze an hour out of my not-too-strenuous schedule to do another Rolly reading for Mrs. P. After all, she's been my best client for more than half my life, and she truly did have something to complain about at the moment. Generally speaking, while she was always in a dither about something, her somethings didn't seem all that awful to me. The Klan, however, was another kettle of fish. A stinky one, at that.
So I mentally fumbled through the hours of the day and finally said, "I'll be happy to visit you tomorrow at eleven o'clock, Mrs. Pinkerton. Unfortunately, I can only give you an hour." Actually, I'd sell her an hour, but there was no point in quibbling over wording.
"That will be so sweet of you, Daisy. I know what a busy life you lead."
She did, did she? I doubted it. But I smiled serenely at her and said, "It will be my pleasure." Very well, I'd just lied. Sue me.
Harold followed me out of the drawing room, and shut the door as soon as we hit the hall. I turned abruptly. "Don't tell me you and Del have been getting—"
"No," he interrupted me. "But I'm afraid someone might catch on to our relationship, and then we'll be in the soup. Rotondo's got to stop those bastards before they tear our family apart!"
"Oh, dear." Laying a hand on Harold's arm, I said, "I'm so sorry, Harold. Sam and I are going to visit a Klansman today, and maybe we can ferret out some information from him about this whole situation. We're also aiming to visit Jackson and his family, so I hope we can put an end to this rash of vandalism before you and Del become involved."
"If those sons of bitches hate Jackson just because he's a Negro, can you imagine what they might do to Del and me?" Harold took his handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his perspiring brow. Harold was usually the jolliest of fellows, so I know he was truly worried.
"They're evil," I said, although I don't know why. We already knew that.
"Would you like my help with anything? Rotondo probably wouldn't like it, but I'm offering myself as a sacrifice for the police if they need me."
He meant it. He'd proved himself in battle, so to speak, before now. "I hope you won't need to become involved, Harold. Pa and I are going to visit a friend of his who's in the Klan right now... well, after lunch, and then maybe I'll know more."
"Your father knows a Klan member?"
"Yes. Maybe more than one. Actually, so does your stepfather. In fact, your stepfather knows the exalted cyclops of Pasadena's chapter of the Klan."
Although I hadn't planned it, the title of the Klan's leader jolted Harold out of his worry. "The exalted what?"
I heaved a sigh. "The exalted cyclops. He's the head of Pasadena's chapter."
"Good God."
"Indeed."
"Do you know who he is?"
"No, curse it. Sam didn't tell me, and neither did Pa."
"Well, I guess I don't blame them. They don't want to get you involved."
"Not you, too!" I fear I lost my temper a bit. "I'm so sick of the men in my life thinking I'm an idiot, Harold Kincaid! I didn't know you were among them!"
"I don't think you're an idiot," said Harold hotly. "But I don't want you getting hurt!"
"I won't get hurt!"
"You don't know those people."
"You don't, either," I pointed out.
"Yeah, but I'm a man."
I only stared at him. After several seconds of that, we both burst out laughing. I know, I know. There wasn't much to laugh about, but my comment hit us both on our funny bones. You can sue me for that, too, if you want to.
Chapter 6
By the time both Harold and I had dried our eyes, we decided to visit Aunt Vi and see if we could scrape up something for lunch. As I might have expected, Vi lavished food upon us. Therefore, when Harold and Vi and I finally parted that Friday, it was a stuffed Daisy Gumm Majesty who drove the Chevrolet back to our home on South Marengo Avenue.
Sam Rotondo had already arrived at our house when I drove the machine into our driveway and came to a stop next to the side porch. I heard Spike barking with joy even before I exited the car. It was so nice to come home to a being that always appreciated me, even when I was in bad with the rest of the world. I think dogs are Mother Nature's perfect gift to us poor, flawed human beings.
When I opened the door and knelt to embrace my wriggling pooch, I felt a presence looming over the both of us. Sure enough, when I glanced up, there was Sam, fists planted firmly on his hips, frowning at Spike and me.
Irked, I said, "What? I'm right on time!"
"I didn't say you weren't," said the exasperating man.
With one last stroke for my best buddy, I rose to my feet with something of a grunt. Shoot, I never used to grunt when I got up from the floor. Maybe I'd better walk more briskly on my daily toddle around the neighborhood. It had been more than a year since I'd had to wrestle with Billy in his wheelchair, and I guess I'd lost muscle tone. Perhaps I should check out a book on Swedish exercises next time I went to the library.
"Well, then, stop frowning at me," I snapped at Sam.
I noticed my father, who stood behind Sam and who smiled at the both of us. Well, the three of us, if you count Spike. Nuts. I don't know why everyone thought it was "cute" when Sam and I sparred. I sure didn't.
But never mind that. "Are you two ready to go? I'm all set." And it was only a quarter to one; so there.
"All set," said Pa. "I think Sam will drive us."
"Yeah," said Sam. "My Hudson's out front."
"I saw it," said I with something of a sniff.
So we all trooped out to Sam's automobile, leaving a disconsolate Spike behind. We sometimes took him with us on auto trips, but this day was reserved for Charles Smith/Schmidt. Sam opened the back door and Pa instantly scrambled in, leaving me to sit next to Sam on the front seat. Fine. If this was a ploy on Pa's part to drive Sam and me into each other's arms, it wasn't going to work.
Perhaps I was a teensy bit defensive that day.
Anyhow, we arrived at Charlie Smith's place, which was on a street called Madison Avenue. Madison Avenue was nothing like New York City's Madison Avenue, if what Sam had told us was correct, and for once I saw no reason to doubt him. Rather, our Madison Avenue was a residential street much like Marengo Avenue, where middle-class folks like the Gumms and Majestys lived.
Charlie Smith's house was kind of like ours, in that it was a bungalow. There were scads of bungalows in Pasadena. I do believe the architects Charles and Henry Greene were responsible for a whole bunch of our bungalows. The Greene brothers' bungalows, however, were much fancier than our little bungalows. Other architects had built the houses that now belonged to us plebeians. Not that our houses weren't nice, but they weren't massive and wildly expensive, like most of the Greene brothers' homes. Still, I liked them.
But that's not the point. Sam parked his Hudson in front of Charlie Smith's neighbor's house, because someone had already parked in front of Mr. Smith's place on Madison Avenue, and Sam actually got out of the auto on his side and walked to my side to open my door before I could do it for myself, thereby proving that he could behave in a gentlemanly manner every once in a while, even if he did maintain his scowl as he did so.
"Cute house," I said, just because I thought I should say something. "Kind of like ours, only smaller."
"Right," said Pa.
"I like the flowers," said Sam, surprising me. For some reason, every time Sam propounded a sentiment of any kind, he surprised me.
"Yes. 'Tis the season for chrysanthemums, all right. I like those bronze-colored ones." Mind you, the chrysanthemums at our house were prettier and more plentiful, but still, at least someone in the Smith household cared about making his home look good.
"Is that what those are? Chrysanthemums?" asked Sam.
I refrained from rolling my eyes at him, but only said, "Yes. Aren't they pretty, all blooming together like that?"
"Yeah."
&nb
sp; Well, what can you expect from a fellow who grew up in New York City, where, I'm sure, nobody's seen a chrysanthemum grow for a hundred years or more? On the other hand, what I know about New York City could be written with a wide fountain pen on the head of a sewing pin, so I may be wronging the city.
We all walked together, I in the middle, up to Charlie Smith's front door, and Pa gave the doorbell a twist. We waited for a very few minutes before the door was answered by a plump woman in a house dress and apron, who invited us in with a smile. Luscious smells emanating from the kitchen announced an apple pie was baking. Bet it wouldn't be as good as one of Aunt Vi's.
Oh, dear, now I was maligning a woman I don't even know, right after I'd maligned New York City. I really ought to be more kindly disposed toward the rest of the world.
"Good day to you, Joe. And is this Daisy? Why, I haven't seen you since you were knee high to a grasshopper, young lady." Yet another odd idiomatic expression. "And this must be Detective Rotondo. Please come into the living room and have a seat. I'll get Charlie."
"Thanks, Marge," said Pa.
"And I'll bring a little snack and some tea, too," said Marge. For a Klansman's wife, she was certainly hospitable. My judgmental nature suffered a slight dent.
"Joe!" a man who was at least as plump as Marge, bellowed, walking into the living room and making Pa and Sam rise from the chairs they'd just taken. I rose, too, not because it was expected of a woman, but because I didn't want to meet the enemy sitting down.
Whoops. That dent just got fixed in a hurry, didn't it?
"Hey there, Charlie. I want you to meet my daughter, Daisy, and Detective Sam Rotondo, from the Pasadena Police Department."
Charlie shook my hand and Sam's, although he appeared a trifle belligerent when he took Sam's. "Glad to meet you both," said he. I don't think he meant it about Sam.
"Thank you for allowing us to come over and talk to you about the Klan, Mr. Smith," said Sam formally.
"There's nothing wrong with the Klan," said Charlie Smith. "It's a patriotic organization dedicated to purifying America."
