Dark Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 7)

by Alice Duncan

  "And cleansing it of immigrants, Negroes, Catholics, Chinamen, Gypsies, and everyone else who isn't a white Protestant man or woman?"

  Very well, I know I should have kept my fat mouth shut. I have a deplorable tendency to speak when I shouldn't. Naturally, Charlie Smith stiffened up like a setter on point and frowned at me. I was used to receiving frowns from the males in my life, so I only smiled sweetly at him.

  "And just what do you know about the Klan, young woman?" demanded Charlie.

  "A lot. I've studied all about it at the Pasadena Public Library," said I smartly.

  Sam elbowed me in the ribs like the fiend he was. Nuts.

  "Listen, Charlie, we didn't come here to argue." Pa shot me a shut-up-and-be-still look, so I decided I'd better do it. I really hadn't meant to start an argument. Well... maybe I had, but I shouldn't have.

  "I'm sure you didn't, Joe," said Charlie, sending me a look much like the looks my mother gave me when I misbehaved.

  "But I think it's important that you and Detective Rotondo have a chat," Pa went on. "Because he has some information you might find important. And we'd like to learn if you know anything about some recent incidents in Pasadena that might relate to the Klan."

  "The Ku Klux Klan is a benevolent organization created to promote patriotism," said Charlie in a sententious voice.

  I could hardly believe my ears. Because Pa and Sam both shot me looks this time, I didn't protest this blatant and ridiculous misrepresentation of the Klan's purpose in life.

  We sat again. Then Mrs. Smith came in with a tray, and we all stood once more. I tell you, social rules are really silly sometimes.

  "Here are some nice ginger snaps and some lovely tea. There's milk and sugar if you want it," said Marge.

  "Thank you very much," said I, trying to redeem myself. It didn't work. Sam and Pa both gave me another look. Sometimes—quite often, in fact—I can't win.

  She left the room, and we all sat again. I took a ginger snap and a cup of tea in order to keep my mouth busy. The ginger snaps were nowhere near as good as Vi's, and I felt somehow vindicated, although I have no idea why.

  "All right," said Sam after Marge had left the room once more and the four of us were huddled in a circle, "will you please tell us about your Klan affiliation? What are you required to do?"

  "Well, I go to meetings."

  "Did you have to buy a white sheet?" I asked. Darn me, anyway!

  "Of course. That's one of the requirements. And the initiation fee is ten dollars."

  Whew! That was a lot of money. "Out of curiosity, how much did the sheet cost you?" I know. I should have just shut up, but I was fascinated by this whole Klan culture. One of the articles I'd read at the Pasadena Public Library said that a sheet-maker in Atlanta, Georgia, had reignited the Klan for business purposes and was raking in the lettuce by selling sheets to the idiots who wanted to join the "patriotic" Ku Klux Klan.

  Charlie Smith added his frown to those of Pa and Sam, but I was still curious. "The official Klan sheet cost six dollars and fifty cents."

  Holy jumping cats, as my Uncle Ernie used to say! If I wouldn't have hated myself for it, I could have made a mint on my own by selling cheaper sheets to those Klan idiots. Nevertheless, I decided to be still and let Sam continue his interrogation of Mr. Smith.

  "How long have you been a member of the Klan, Mr. Smith?" asked Sam politely.

  "Only a couple of months. I've been to six meetings so far." Shooting me a glower, he said, "And we've discussed nothing except keeping America up to the standards our founding fathers expected of us."

  "The founding fathers, all of whom were born in other countries, if I'm not mistaken." Very well, so I wasn't still for long.

  "The English are a far cry from the Irish and Greek and Italians that are cluttering up the streets these days!" cried Mr. Smith indignantly.

  I smiled sweetly at Sam, who, I think, would have liked to slap some tape over my mouth. "Detective Rotondo's of Italian descent," said I.

  "Well, I didn't say they're all dirty immigrants," muttered Smith.

  "That's not the point," said Sam stolidly. "We need to know who's causing mischief at the Pinkerton home."

  Charles Smith appeared positively shocked. "Pinkerton? Isn't he that rich fellow who lives on Orange Grove?"

  "Yes, that's the one. His wife has been getting threatening letters, and someone planted a bomb in their mailbox. Their gate keeper is a Negro fellow, and some people burned a cross on his lawn last Monday."

  Mr. Smith's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. Then he said, "Th-that's terrible. That's not what the Klan is all about."

  I pressed my lips together so as not to blurt out anything else of an incendiary nature.

  "The letters addressed to Mrs. Pinkerton told her to get rid of Jackson unless she wanted to face dire consequences. There was a Klan symbol at the bottom of the letter. Naturally, there was no name appended thereto." Sam's voice was as bland as custard, but his face was set like concrete.

  "Also, Mr. Smith, you work for the City of Pasadena, don't you?"

  Charlie, who appeared a trifle beleaguered, said, "Yes. The water department. That's why I only work half days on Fridays, because I have to work Saturday afternoons. What does that have to do with anything?"

  I was about to enlighten him, but Sam, after (naturally) shooting me a fierce look, said, "Any city employee who belongs to the Ku Klux Klan is in direct violation of a city ordinance, and can lose his job."

  "What?" Charlie's startlement seemed unfeigned.

  Sam handed him a sheet of paper upon which was a lot of typewriting. "Here's a copy of the ordinance. The Klan's caused major problems in several states, and California is attempting to nip the problem in the bud."

  Glancing from the paper to Sam and back again, Charlie said, "But... but I don't understand. What problems are you talking about? I swear to you, we've never discussed anything except how to be a good American at the Klan meetings I've attended."

  I scrutinized his face carefully and could detect no hint of prevarication. On the other hand, I'm not good at reading faces, so what did I know?

  "Aside from the burning cross, the mailbox bombing, and the threatening letters, red paint was splashed on the Pinkertons' ruined mailbox last night."

  "Oh, my goodness," Charlie said, clearly appalled.

  No longer able to help myself, I said, "Goodness has nothing to do with it. Aren't you a second-generation German? I'm surprised the Klan allowed you through their hallowed doors, given the feeling folks have about Germans these days, myself included. Germans killed my husband, you know."

  In novels, people are always reported as going deathly pale when they hear something they don't want to hear. I've never seen that phenomenon myself, but Charlie Smith definitely narrowed his eyes and flattened his mouth after my speech.

  "I-I-I," he stammered. "I-I don't think I ever mentioned my heritage at the meetings. Which is Swiss, by the way, not German."

  "Swiss or German, you'd better not mention it, if you don't want a cross burned on your front lawn or your mailbox bombed." Me again. Told you I couldn't hold my tongue.

  "Daisy," said Pa.

  But I was fed up. "Darn it, Pa, it's the truth! If those Klansmen knew Charlie's parents were from Switzerland, they'd probably burn him and forget the cross entirely. Or lynch him."

  "L-lynch?" stammered Charlie in something of a whisper.

  "So far there have been no lynchings in Pasadena, Mr. Smith," said Sam, giving me the fish-eye. "But some Klan members are creating mischief, and the chief of police is not happy about it. Six members of the Pasadena Police Department who joined the Klan have been suspended. If anyone learns about your Klan affiliation, I have no doubt you'll be suspended, too, if not dismissed permanently."

  "Good God."

  "As nearly as I can tell," said I, irking all three men, "God has nothing to do with anything the Klan does."

  "But we believe in God!" cried Charlie in a l
ast-ditch effort to redeem an unredeemable cause. "We love God and our country. We're all good Christian men!"

  "Tell that to Jackson," I said. "He was born in the United States, and his family has lived here for generations. As slaves, of course." Very well, I sneered. Sometimes there's no doing anything with me.

  "But those blacks, they cause trouble." Still trying to turn a sow's ear into a silk purse, our Charlie.

  "Nonsense. The only trouble Jackson and his family have had has been caused by your beloved Ku Klux Klan. Why, did you know that the Klan burned down an entire Negro district in Tulsa, Oklahoma, two years ago? And that the governor has had to declare martial law because the Klan is perpetrating so much violence? That's why Mr. Jackson's brother had to move to Pasadena."

  "But-but that's only because those jigaboos want our white women."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake!" I said, totally disgusted. "Jigaboo is a disparaging, belittling term for people who are just like us except for being of a darker complexion. Anyhow, if you believe that, I expect you'll believe the moon is made of green cheese and that the cow actually did jump over it."

  "Daisy," said Pa again.

  He had a point. Charlie Smith was old enough to be my father, and I was being disrespectful. Therefore, I apologized. Sort of. Jigaboo, my left hind leg. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith. However, I recommend you visit the Pasadena Public Library and do some research on the organization you claim is benevolent, patriotic and good-natured. There are hundreds of relatives of lynched persons who would disagree with you."

  "Daisy," Sam said through clenched teeth.

  I huffed.

  "However," Sam said before I could do anything else, "Mrs. Majesty has a point. Not only are you violating the city ordinance against city employees belonging to the KKK, but at its roots, the clan promotes violence and even murder. So far, we haven't had that kind of trouble in Pasadena, and I aim to see that we never do."

  Charlie buried his head in his hands. I didn't feel sorry for him. Perhaps if he'd only been a Klansman or had a German name, I might have. The combination was too much for me, however, and I wanted the man to suffer. Mean of me, I suppose, but there you go.

  "I don't know what to say," said Charlie. "I honestly didn't know all that stuff about the Klan. I believed the kleagle—"

  "The what?" Me again.

  Frowning at me, Charlie said, "The kleagle. He's a representative from Klan headquarters who goes around the country recruiting people."

  "Ah," said I. First an exalted cyclops and now a kleagle. Could this organization come up with any more ridiculous names for its various positions? I didn't ask the question aloud.

  "Anyhow," Charlie continued, "I believed what the kleagle said about the Klan being a patriotic organization." He looked up with a pleading expression on his face. "We're against bootlegging," he said, as if that made a particle of difference to anything.

  "So am I," said Sam, "but I'm willing to live and let live. However, that's neither here nor there. The point is that you're violating the city ordinance and can be fired from your job."

  "I don't want that," muttered Charlie.

  "None of us wants that," said Pa. Untruthfully. I didn't give a rap if this nitwit lost his job or not.

  "Very well. You don't want to lose your job. That makes sense to me. So that means you can quit the Klan—"

  "I can't do that!" cried Charlie, suddenly looking frightened. Past time, if you asked me.

  "Why not?" asked Pa.

  "They-they don't like people to quit the Klan. They... well, I understand that can be quite... um, nasty to people who quit the organization."

  "How patriotic of them." I swear, sometimes I can't keep my trap shut for anything.

  Giving me a frown, albeit not as mean a one as his priors, Charlie licked his lips and said, "Well, maybe they're not as benevolent as the kleagle said they were."

  I'd have rolled my eyes if I hadn't already caused so much trouble.

  "That being the case," said Sam, "I have a proposition to set before you."

  I swiveled my head to stare at him. Good heavens, he wasn't going to allow this man to continue in his evil ways, was he?

  As it turned out, he was. But Charlie Smith wasn't out of the woods yet.

  Chapter 7

  "Actually," I said after thinking about Sam's proposal to Charlie Smith for several silent moments as Sam, Pa and I went back out to Sam's black Hudson, "that's not a bad idea."

  "So glad you approve," said Sam as he opened the back door for my father and the front door for me.

  "Don't be snide," I advised him. As if he'd ever take advice from me.

  "You were quite intrusive in there, Daisy," my father told me, making my heart squish painfully. "Although you did impart some useful information." That made me feel a trifle better, although not much.

  "I'm sorry I butted in so much," I said, feeling like two cents.

  "Actually," said Sam in a thoughtful tone of voice, "although I was peeved at the time, you do know more than the rest of us about the Klan, so maybe it's good that you did interrupt."

  I goggled at Sam. Sam Rotondo, who disapproved of nearly everything I did, had just paid me a compliment. Kind of. "Oh," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else to say.

  "I just hope I haven't put the guy in danger," said Sam, still musing aloud.

  "Do you really think he might be in danger?" asked Pa.

  "Maybe. Those Klan folks play for keeps, and they aren't nice people. If they ever find out your friend is a spy for the PPD, they're apt to do anything."

  "Jeepers, Sam, do you honestly think they might hurt Mr. Smith?" I wasn't altogether sorry to hear it, which means I'm definitely at least a semi-bad person if not a totally bad one.

  Sam shrugged. Then he said, "On the level. This character, Smith, might think his fellow Klansmen are patriotic gentlemen, but someone in that organization is causing trouble, and I'm hoping Smith will help us find out who it is."

  "Who's the exalted cyclops? I mean, what's his name?" I asked. Not that I expected either Sam or my father to answer me.

  They both surprised me, and a duet of masculine voices said, "Stephen Hastings."

  "For crying out loud!" I more or less bellowed. "The very man whose own son was murdered last year?" And who had been of Harold's ilk, something I'm sure the KKK would frown upon as much as they frowned on Negroes, Jews and American Indians.

  "That's the one, all right," said Sam, sounding glum. "He's a high muckety-muck in lots of civic organizations. Guess he considers the Klan one of them."

  "The man's a gorgon," said I, having had dealings with people who knew him. "I feel sorry for his wife. Again. Still, actually."

  "Yeah, well, he's rich and we're not, so we're going to have to tread carefully."

  "Why? Wouldn't the good citizens of Pasadena rise up and refuse to use his legal services if his Klan affiliation were known?"

  Both Sam and Pa looked at me as if I'd grown a second head, and I heaved a sigh. "Right. You're right. Of course they wouldn't." I sat silent for a few minutes, which I'm sure was a relief to Sam and Pa, as I muddled through this latest mess to intrude upon our lives. Finally, after thinking the matter over thoroughly, I said, "I don't believe it."

  "You don't believe what?" asked Sam, irked.

  "I don't believe Stephen Hastings is the exalted cyclops."

  "Why not?" said Pa.

  "I... I don't know. It just doesn't sound like him. He doesn't strike me as the type who'd hide under a sheet. I imagine he has dirty dealings all over the place, but he's probably fixed them so that they look legal. And he's certainly no shrinking violet. Besides, if he were the Klan leader, he'd have to mingle with the peasants. You know, like us. Well, not like us, because we wouldn't join the Klan, but... oh, heck, you know what I mean."

  Sam said, "Well..."

  Pa said, "I don't know. Maybe she has a point."

  "Maybe," admitted Sam, although he didn't sound as if he meant i
t.

  Nuts to him. In fact, nuts to everyone. I was downright sick of the human race, and I burst out, "Why can't people be like dogs?"

  "Run in packs and kill each other?" said Sam. He would. "That's pretty much what the Klan's doing, isn't it?"

  "Applesauce. Dogs only run in packs and kill each other if they have to. People join the Ku Klux Klan because they want to. There's a huge difference."

  "If you say so."

  That pretty much killed the conversational theme for the rest of that drive. After promising to come by for dinner at six—he and I would then go to Jackson's house to interview him and his family—Sam dropped Pa and me off at home, and he returned to his office at the police department, probably to write up his interview with Charlie Smith and detail the plans he intended for Smith to follow.

  Pa and I walked into the house and were ecstatically greeted by Spike.

  The rest of Friday passed pleasantly enough. I'd already visited Mrs. Pinkerton, so I didn't expect to hear from her again unless something else related to Klan activities intruded upon her serene existence.

  Stephen Hastings. The name always made me cringe a bit, mainly because everything I'd learned about him when I was investigating his son's death had led me to believe he was an overbearing son of a she-dog. His wife was a lovely woman who cultivated orchids, and she deserved better than he. Then again, lots of women did. There weren't many specimens of manly wonderfulness wandering around loose, especially in those days after the Great War. I've always felt fortunate that my mother and father had found and married each other, because they were both swell. In fact, my father is one of the world's best people. So few people were as fortunate as I.

  Well, except for having lost my husband when he was only twenty-four. He'd been a good man, too, until the Kaiser's men got hold of him. But never mind that.

  It still boggled my mind that Stephen Hastings might don a white sheet and terrorize people. Especially if he had to do it amongst common folks like Pa's friend and Pasadena coppers. I wondered if Mr. Pinkerton might have been mistaken. After all, Mr. P surely wasn't the sharpest nail in the barrel. He'd married Mrs. Pinkerton, hadn't he? That alone told me, if it didn't tell Sam or Pa, that he wasn't precisely a genius.