by Alice Duncan
"Yes. Yes, I wondered if you could come to my house some time soon. I need to speak to you about something that's... something that's been bothering me."
Oh, yeah? And precisely what was I? An alienist? I didn't think so. "You need my services as a spiritualist?" I asked, syrup fairly dripping from my words.
I heard a sigh whiz over the wire. "Well... not so much a spiritualist as a sensible woman who might be able to help me decide what to do about a... particular problem."
Oh. Well, that was nice of her. I mean, it was nice that she considered me a sensible woman, especially considering my line of work. "I'll be happy to do that, Mrs. Hastings," I fibbed. "When would you like me to come over?"
"Not today," she said.
I darned near heaved a sigh of my own in relief.
"Stephen is here today, and he's holding a meeting in the house this evening."
A meeting, eh? What the heck; I decided to ask. "What kind of meeting?" Not that it was technically any of my business.
"That's what I need to talk to you about, actually."
Great. I was probably wrong, and Sam was probably right, and Stephen Hastings probably was Pasadena's exalted cyclops, and Mrs. Hastings was probably going to ask me to persuade her husband to quit the Klan. As if Mr. Stephen Hastings, who had once banned me from his law offices on Colorado Boulevard, would ever listen to a word I said about anything at all.
"Very well. Shall I come over on Monday? I'm busy all day tomorrow." Thinking fast, I said, "Would ten thirty on Monday be all right with you?" I figured Mrs. Pinkerton was going to beg me to attend her every day until whoever was dogging Jackson's footsteps and her own gatehouse had been stopped, but perhaps I could at least set my own times for sessions with her. Sessions with Mrs. Pinkerton were always trying to my nerves.
"That would be perfect. Thank you so much, Daisy."
"Happy to help," I said, fibbing again.
Actually, it wasn't a big fib. I did want to understand what the allure, if there was one, of the Ku Klux Klan was to so big a wig in Pasadena society as Mr. Stephen Hastings, Esq. He was head of the most prestigious law firm in the city, even after the scandal that had erupted a few months prior, thanks to me. I hadn't intended to precipitate a scandal. Things had just worked out that way.
"You're such a kind person, Daisy."
"Nonsense. I'm only doing my job."
Which was the truth. But, as I said farewell to Mrs. Hastings and hung the receiver on the cradle, it did cross my mind that she might gift me with more orchids. She'd given me approximately a thousand orchid sprays the last time I'd visited her. They were not merely pretty, but they lasted a long, long time.
As I decided what to wear to Mrs. Pinkerton's, I wondered if orchids and chrysanthemums would look good together in a bouquet.
* * *
When I drove up to Mrs. Pinkerton's mansion at about ten twenty-five that day, I slammed on the Chevrolet's brakes and gaped at what had once been the intact gatehouse and the tall black iron gate. And the approximately sixty uniformed policemen gathered around it. Very well, that's an exaggeration, but there were a whole lot of coppers there.
Harold had called in workmen to repair damage from the bomb and the paint-throwing, but now bullet holes riddled the gatehouse. My heart almost stopped until Jackson stepped out from behind a bricked-up barricade to greet me.
"Jackson! I'm so glad you weren't shot! Are you all right? What in the name of God is going on here?"
"Wish I could tell you, Miss Daisy."
"Ma'am, please move along," said a uniform. "We're investigating this scene."
"Miss Daisy has a 'pointment with Mrs. Pinkerton, sir," said Jackson to the copper.
"Aw, crap. Is that you, Daisy?"
And Sam stomped up to my machine. The uniform frowned, but stepped away. I glanced at his badge to see what his name was. It wasn't anything that rhymed with eats or feets. I remembered him as one of the uniforms who'd exchanged what I now believe was a guilty glance with another uniform the day of the bomb. And I also remembered his name was Petrie, which reminded me I needed to go to the library.
"Good morning again to you, too, Detective Rotondo," I said, irked with Sam, which was entirely normal. "More Klan trouble, I see."
"You don't know it's Klan trouble," Sam growled.
"Huh." I craned my neck to see around Sam, who's an immovable object when he wants to be, to find Jackson. "Have you or your brother had any more trouble lately, Jackson?"
"No, ma'am, Miss Daisy. Thanks for askin'."
"I'm glad to hear it." I sniffed. "If you'll be kind enough to move, Detective, I can get to my appointment with Mrs. Pinkerton on time."
Sam rolled his eyes, which was also normal. "Go on." He stepped aside. I squinted at the other officers milling about, wishing I could see their badges clearly.
Featherstone led me to the drawing room after I'd clunked the knocker on the huge front door, and I was pleased to see Harold in the room, attempting to soothe his mother, which wasn't possible, but Harold was a good son.
"Good morning," I said to the both of them. Harold, bless him, held his mother in her seat on the sofa so she didn't run me down. He was a good friend as well as a good son.
"Not much good about it," said Harold. "You saw the bullet holes, I'm sure."
"Yes, I did."
"Oooooooh!" wailed Mrs. Pinkerton.
Harold winced. She'd screeched directly into his ear. "It's all right, Mother. Daisy is here now, and she'll soon set things to rights."
I would, would I? I didn't know how I was supposed to do that, but I gave it my best shot, using the Ouija board and the tarot cards.
Harold left the drawing room with me an hour or so later. He'd sat quietly in the room whilst I'd spewed fake spiritualistic nonsense for Mrs. Pinkerton. She claimed my efforts made her feel better, which made one of us.
"She's going crazy with everything that's been happening in and around the gatehouse," Harold muttered as we walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. "Which is bad, since she's not stable under the best circumstances."
"I guess that's true, but I don't blame her for being upset this time. What happened? That's a whole lot of bullet holes."
"They think whoever did it used a Thompson submachine gun."
"Good Lord! A Tommy gun?" I'd read about Tommy guns in the newspaper, but never in connection with my fair city of Pasadena, California. Things were getting really ugly around town, and I didn't approve. "Did the police already talk to her before I got here?"
"Oh, yes. They've been toddling around the property since around three thirty this morning, when the gunfire erupted."
"Good heavens! I'm so sorry. Of all the people in the world for this sort of thing to happen to... Well, I don't know why whoever's doing this is picking on your mother."
"They're not. They're picking on Jackson, poor fellow. Fortunately, the Klan doesn't seem to know about Del and me yet. At least I haven't received any threatening letters. Mother has, though." Harold's frown was a masterpiece that almost equaled one of Sam's. "She got another one today, after the police got here. The police have taken it into evidence."
"Oh, dear, I'm surprised she didn't cry to me about the letter."
"I think the gunfire put it out of her mind."
I could have said something about Mrs. Pinkerton being out of her mind in general, but I didn't. "I'm glad she had sense enough to give it to the police."
"She didn't. I did."
That came as no surprise. "Did this latest letter again recommend she get rid of Jackson?"
"No. It threatened her that if she didn't get rid of Jackson, more disasters would strike her. Poor Jackson offered to quit, but your buddy Rotondo wouldn't let him. I think the rest of the force would have been happy to see the back of Jackson, but not Sam."
"Well, he knows an injustice when he sees one," said I, hoping it was the truth.
"Either that, or he has sense enough not to let Jackson wander arou
nd loose. When he's here, the police can keep an eye on him."
"Wish they'd keep an eye on the rest of his family," I muttered, thinking the police were discriminatory in their surveillance tactics.
"We are keeping an eye on the rest of his family," a familiar voice growled from behind us.
I twirled around. "Sam!" Taking a better squint at him, I said," Have you been working all through the night? You look terrible."
My comment was only the truth, but I probably could have phrased it more tactfully. Sam gave me a glorious frown. "Yes, I've been working all night and, so far, all day. Christ, I was at Merton's place until almost midnight. I was still at the station when the call came in about the Pinkertons' place being shot up, and then you called and I went to your place, and now I'm here again."
"I'm sorry, Sam. You should go home and take a nap or something."
"Criminy. I'm a cop, Daisy. I can't just go home and take a nap."
"Oh. Well, I'm glad you talked Jackson into staying at his job, even if you didn't do it out of compassion."
"Cripes," muttered Sam.
For some reason, that reminded me of something. "Say, Sam, do you know any policemen named Keats or Dietz or... well, anything else that rhymes with feets or eats?"
"No," he said. I got the distinct impression he wouldn't say more about policemen's names if I tortured him.
"Why were you at Daisy's house?"
Since Sam didn't seem inclined to open his mouth, I answered Harold's question for him. "Oh, Harold, it was awful. The Klan killed my father's friend's neighbor. We think they did it because Sam went over there to talk to Pa's friend yesterday."
Both men eyed me strangely. Well, Harold did, anyway. Sam only scowled at me.
"You don't know who did the killing or why," Sam more or less growled.
"They murdered someone?"
I nodded. "Shot him when he was picking up the evening newspaper on his front lawn."
"You don't know who killed him or why," said Sam, repeating himself. I guess he had a point, although it wasn't one I bought.
"Who else could have done it?" I asked him.
"Anybody in the world."
"Hmm. Well, maybe, but my money's on the Klan."
"I know."
At that moment, we were interrupted by another policeman, who came running down the hallway after us. Sam turned and trained his scowl on the uniformed officer, who was the same Officer Doan I'd met before.
"Yes?" Sam snapped.
"It's Petrie," said Doan, panting slightly. "He was taking measurements on the guardhouse and fell off. I think he broke his leg. Andrews is using his police radio to call for an ambulance."
"Aw, shit," grumbled Sam, and he turned and followed Doan back to the front door. Before he got there, he turned to me once more, "And don't go telling me this was Klan-related!"
"Oh, for pity's sake, Sam Rotondo. If you aren't—" But he was gone out the front door. Featherstone, who had stood beside the door as Doan fetched Sam, shut it calmly behind the two coppers' retreating forms. Nothing ever ruffled Featherstone.
"Well," said Harold. "That's too bad."
Petrie had broken his leg, had he? Naturally, my mind had instantly reverted to Jackson's living room, and my mind's eye distinctly saw Mrs. Jackson stick that pin in that white-sheeted juju's leg.
I turned again to Harold. "Is the library open today, do you know?"
His mouth fell open for a second. Then he said, "The library?"
"Yes. I need to go there."
"Hell, Daisy, I don't know. You're the one who's always hanging out in the library."
"Oh, bother. Well, never mind. I'll go see if Vi is ready to come home, and then I'll find out if the library's open or not."
"Why do you have to go to the library all of a sudden?"
I pondered Harold's question for only a moment before I said only, "Research." No sense in having two men laugh at me just because I wanted to find out if my Miss Petrie was related to broken-legged policeman Petrie. Who might or might not belong to the Klan, and who might or might not have had some voodoo juju justice enacted upon him.
Our lovely Pasadena Public Library was open two Saturdays every month, but I couldn't offhand remember which two Saturdays those were. Harold and I continued on to the kitchen, and Vi was so happy to see us, she fed us lunch. She was also glad to have a ride home.
Chapter 11
I was in luck. The library was open from noon to six on that particular Saturday. I could have telephoned to find out if Miss Petrie was working that day, but I already knew from experience how little librarians enjoyed having the peace of their surroundings disturbed by ringing telephones, screaming children, etc. So I just left Vi at home, scooped up the books waiting on the table next to the front door to be returned to the library, and went back out to the Chevrolet. After, naturally, telling Spike what a wonderful boy he was. I could tell he didn't believe me when I left him again, because his big, brown doggie eyes called me names. I vowed I'd make it up to him when I got back from the library.
My luck held. I had no sooner walked through the sacred library doors when I saw Miss Petrie, sitting behind the check-out desk, reading a book. The library was almost empty that day. So, after putting my books on the return table, I walked over to Miss Petrie, who looked up from her book with reluctance. When she saw it was me, she smiled.
"Mrs. Majesty! You don't usually grace us with your presence on Saturday, but I have two books I've been holding for you."
"Thank you!" I really liked the books she picked out for my family and me.
"They're both British, and they're both wonderful. And we just got them in. Here's Whose Body, by a woman named Dorothy L. Sayers, and this is another book by Mrs. Christie."
"Oh, I loved The Mysterious Affair at Styles."
"I think you'll love this one, too. It's called Murder on the Links."
"Thank you!" I tried to refrain from grabbing the books out of her hands, but if you're as much of a reader as I am, you know how greedy one can get for good new books.
"You're most welcome. I like picking out books for you, because we share the same tastes."
"I know, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help." However, I was at the library on a mission not book-related that day, so I figured I'd best get to it. "Oh, say, Miss Petrie," said I, trying to sound as if I'd just that moment thought of what I wanted to ask her. "I recently met a policeman named Petrie, and I wondered if the two of you were related."
Her mouth pursed and her eyebrows lowered over her thick eyeglasses. Miss Petrie wasn't what you'd call a natural beauty. In truth, she was a rather plain woman, but until that moment, I didn't realize she could approximate the demeanor of a wicked witch. The effect startled me.
"That," said she, snarling slightly, "is my cousin Roland. As far as I'm concerned, he's a discredit to the family."
Interesting. "Because he's a policeman?"
"Good heavens, no. Law enforcement is an honorable profession. It's the things he gets up to in his off hours that have the family in a state."
They were in a state, were they? Promising start. "Golly, what kinds of things does he get up to in his off hours?"
"Well..." Miss Petrie stole a glance around the library as though she didn't want anyone else to hear what she was about to tell me. As we were alone as far as I could see, I didn't think she had anything to worry about. "He's begun joining so-called 'patriotic' organizations. I think they're a lot of hooey. And I can't vouch for his strength of character. I do believe he's become involved in some kind of shady dealings with a coterie of his so-called friends."
"My goodness." There were a couple of "so-called" things in Miss Petrie's explanation. I wanted specifics. "What kinds of patriotic organizations?" I asked, keeping my voice at a whisper.
Miss Petrie leaned forward over her desk and beckoned me to do likewise, so I did, only I had to bend a bit to achieve the position. "I truly believe he's violating a city or
dinance, but I'm almost certain he's joined that misspelled clan you did research on the other day, Mrs. Majesty, and I'm sick that his involvement will get out and disgrace the family name."
"Oh, dear," I said, since I could think of nothing more cogent to say.
"And I also know he's borrowed and invested some money in a real-estate scheme that sounds to me as though it's built on sinking sand."
Merciful heavens, I didn't know the woman could be so poetic. "Do you know anything else about the real-estate scheme?" While I couldn't quite feature Mr. Stephen Hastings as an exalted cyclops of the Ku Klux Klan, I could definitely see him finagling people out of their money via a phony real-estate deal.
"No. I wish I did. I'd tell somebody in a hurry, you can bet. All I know is that he intends to buy property with a bunch of other men in some southern state and build on it. I think the deal sounds mighty shaky. I also know that Roland borrowed the money from his mother and father, my aunt and uncle, and they can ill afford to lose it. But they've always given Roland anything he's ever wanted, which is probably why he's the way he is now. He's a leech on society, that boy."
"I'm so sorry," I said, meaning it. "It must be tough to have someone like that in the family, although I'm sure you're not alone. I was appalled when I learned that the Ku Klux Klan actually had a group in Pasadena, so there must be other people besides your cousin who have joined it."
Miss Petrie sniffed. "Well, you can be certain that if there's something rotten going on, Roland will be in the thick of it. I was surprised when he joined the police force, since police work seems such an honorable profession. In fact, I'd rather hoped he'd changed his wicked ways, but alas, it was not to be." Her lips flattened into a wrinkly line for a second before she burst out—if one can burst out in a whisper—"I'm tempted to telephone the police station and tell someone about Roland's affiliation. He's a blot on the family name."
"I think you should," I said. My back was beginning to ache from bending over, so I stood and stretched. I continued whispering, however, when I said, "If it'll make you feel any better, your cousin broke his leg this morning when he was investigating a Klan shooting."
