by Alice Duncan
"Indeed, I have. Ever since Mr. Jackson told me about his mother's powdered doughnuts. I'm assuming that's what a beignet is." She lifted her eyebrows at me.
"Well, yes. Maybe a little flakier."
"Better and better," said Vi, with a dreamy look in her eyes.
I got a dreamy look in my eyes when I watched a Rudolph Valentino movie. Which just proves my point about imponderables, I guess.
Anyhow, I finished setting the table and took a detour to my room to check myself out in the cheval mirror, wishing I'd put on a more becoming frock since Sam was coming to dine with us.
But no. I wasn't going to primp for Sam Rotondo. This was especially true since I wanted to ask him about Roland Petrie's leg, and ask him if Petrie might have been the name the Jackson children heard called out that dismal day. That would probably make him really mad, so I'd wait to ask him about Charlie Smith's dead neighbor and Stephen Hastings running a real-estate swindle until I had more information. One temper fit at a time, I told myself.
Ma roamed into the dining room—she'd been napping, too—about the time Pa got home from his friend's house.
"Something smells good," said Pa, rubbing his hands together as if they were cold, which they probably were, the weather being a bit brisk.
"Chicken fricassee with biscuits," I told him promptly.
"Go and wash your hands, Joe," said Ma, frowning at my father's greasy hands. "You might want to use turpentine to get that muck off."
Pa kissed her on the cheek and headed to the back of the house, where he kept turpentine, gasoline and all his tools left over from his chauffeuring days. Hmm. Turpentine and gasoline. Both were extremely flammable. I wondered if either of those substances had been used to burn that cross or explode that mailbox. I added that to the list of questions I had for Sam.
Speaking of Sam, Spike announced his arrival promptly at the stroke of six o'clock, which is when we Gumms and the last remaining Majesty had our dinner. I opened the door for him. He still looked pretty rugged around the edges.
"I don't suppose you got any sleep today," I said in greeting.
"No. What with the Pinkertons getting their gatehouse machine-gunned and Todd Merton's murder, I've been kept busy. Thanks for your concern."
That was supposed to be sarcastic, but I didn't mind. I got grumpy when I didn't get enough sleep, too.
"Well, come on in and dine on chicken fricassee with us, and then you can go home and go to bed." I thought about his job for a second, then stopped and gazed up at him. "You can go home and go to bed after dinner, can't you?"
He heaved a massive sigh. "Yeah."
"That's good. It's not fair that you have to work day and night."
"It's my job," he grumbled, hanging his hat and overcoat on the tree beside the door and clumping to the dining room. "Good evening, all," he said to Vi and my parents in a much more civil tone than he'd used on me. I was accustomed to it.
"Merciful heavens, Sam Rotondo, you don't look as if you've had an easy day," said Ma, who was honestly concerned.
"My job," said Sam.
"He had to investigate the murder of Charlie Smith's neighbor and the Tommy-gunning of the Pinkertons' gatehouse, and he hasn't had any sleep since yesterday sometime," I informed my family.
"Murder!" Ma was shocked, although I don't know why she should have been. She knew what Sam's job was. We all did.
With a pretty darned mean scowl at me, Sam said, "We don't have to talk about it."
"Dear me, no," said Vi. "Poor Mrs. Pinkerton was in a state all day today. I don't know how Daisy manages to cope with her sometimes."
I didn't, either.
Sam said, "Huh."
Vi went on, "But Mrs. Pinkerton is always more at ease after Daisy does her magic, so I'm glad she's willing to do it."
"Thanks, Vi." I wrinkled my nose at Sam as a sort-of "so there" gesture. Childish, I know. I fingered my juju and hoped Sam would be willing to answer a couple of pertinent questions after dinner.
Good Lord, was I beginning to use that silly juju as a prayer wheel, or whatever those Tibetan monks use? As a talisman upon which to pray for help? Good thing the next day was Sunday. I think I needed a dose of normality and good, old religion.
Dinner was, of course, delicious. What's more, I discovered that a buttered biscuit laid in a bowl and then covered with chicken fricassee was every bit as delicious as chicken fricassee and dumplings. I think everything tasted even better because the chicken had been given us and not bought. We Gumms are a thrifty lot. Anyhow, Vi gave us apple crisp with vanilla ice cream for dessert, and we all left the table feeling liked stuffed Thanksgiving turkeys. At least I did.
I was cleaning the table and taking dishes to the kitchen sink when I heard Pa ask Sam, "Do you feel like a game of gin rummy tonight?"
"I'm sorry, Joe. I'm so beat, I'm going to have to go home and fall into bed." He turned to Aunt Vi. "If you hadn't fed me, Mrs. Gumm, I'd have gone to bed hungry as well. I'm all in."
Blast! As a rule, as soon as dinner is finished, I wash up the dishes and put them away and then join the family in the living room. But Sam didn't aim to stick around. Therefore, I heaped dishes in the sink and ran after him.
"I'll see you to your car, Sam," I said, smiling brightly at him.
"Good idea," said Pa.
"Wonderful idea," said Ma.
Vi only gave Sam and me a sweet smile, as if she knew a budding romance when she saw one. Ha. If she only knew.
Sam knew, though. He eyed me as he might eye a squishy bug crawling across his dinner plate. He didn't say anything until we stood beside the driver's side of his Hudson. "All right, what is it?" he asked, sounding about as weary as I'd ever heard him.
I prevaricated a trifle. "Mrs. Hastings called me this morning. She thinks her husband is at the head of a real-estate swindle." Maybe that was more of a big, fat lie. She hadn't told me what she thought her husband was involved with; I'd figured out the real-estate swindle part on my own, using information given to me by others.
"She what?"
"You heard me. She asked me to drop by on Monday morning, because she's worried and wants to talk to me about whatever it is her husband is doing."
Sam sagged a bit. "Why the devil is it that people call you instead of the police when they suspect others of wrongdoing?"
"We've been over this before, Sam," I told him—and I was being honest, too. "I'm nicer than the police, and the Mrs. Hastings and the Mrs. Pinkertons of the world don't want to get involved in police matters."
"Hell. So you're going to do some more snooping around Stephen Hastings, are you?"
"I'm not going to snoop!" I answered indignantly. "Mrs. Hastings asked me to go to her house so we could chat, and I'm going to go to her house and I'll chat with her. That's all. If I learn about anything illegal going on, I'll tell you, and I'll also try to find out if Hastings is the Klan's exalted cyclops, which I don't believe for a minute. I'm not merely snooping. I'm helping out a friend. Friends." Sort of.
"I just bet you are."
Oh, piddle on Sam Rotondo. However, since he seemed too exhausted to roar, I decided to go on to another sore subject. "And do you think Roland Petrie belongs to the Klan? His cousin, Miss Petrie at the library, thinks so."
It wasn't awfully bright out there on Marengo Avenue under all the pepper trees, but I saw Sam close his eyes and shake his head. "I don't know. I'll look in to the matter."
"Thank you. I think he's also involved in the real-estate swindle. That is to say, Miss Petrie thinks so."
"Christ."
"And it was a Petrie whom Mr. Henry Jackson saw murdering that guy in Tulsa."
"What?"
Very well, so that was a moderate roar. His eyes sure opened quickly. I nodded. "Mrs. Jackson told me so."
"Why the devil didn't someone tell me that when we were talking to the Jacksons at their house?" I opened my mouth to speak, but Sam didn't let me. "I know, I know. You're nicer than I am."
<
br /> I sniffed. "I actually don't think that's the reason they didn't tell you at the time. According to Mrs. Jackson, Henry is too kind to tell a tale on another person."
"Even if it involves a coldblooded murder?"
"Apparently. Anyhow, I don't imagine, if Roland Petrie belongs to the Klan, the Jacksons are too fond of the police. They're probably scared of retaliation if they name names. Heck, they're being retaliated against anyway. I don't blame them for keeping mum."
"God," muttered Sam, closing his eyes and bowing his head again. He sounded defeated, which made me feel kind of sorry for him, but not a whole lot.
Then I bethought me of something else. "What did Todd Merton look like?"
Sam lifted his head and opened his eyes enough to squint at me. "What the hell do you want to know that for?"
"It should be obvious to a police detective," I told him. "The driver of the Cadillac that almost ran down the Jackson children was fat and had gingery hair. Was Todd Merton fat, and did he have gingery hair? I wouldn't put it past Mr. Charlie Smith to get his neighbor to join the Klan and then lie like a rug about it. In fact," said I, having just had an intriguing thought, "it wouldn't surprise me to know that Charlie Smith is the exalted cyclops! He makes more sense to me in the role than Stephen Hastings."
Sam stared at me for what seemed like a little more than eternity, but probably wasn't. "Todd Merton was... plump and had brown hair. I don't know about his Klan affiliation, if he had one."
"Ha. And do you suppose he might have called out 'Petrie!' to his fellow passenger rather than feets or eats?" I had a brilliant idea. Or maybe not. Sometimes it takes a while to know if an idea is brilliant or not. "Maybe people call Petrie Pete!"
Another eternity or three passed. Then Sam said, "I'm going home. I'm too tired for this right now."
"But you'll think about all those things, won't you? I'll get Vi to make you some beignets, if you do." It was the strongest inducement I could think of at the moment.
Sam only said, "Whatever they are," and got into his car.
"I'll let you know what I learn!" I called after him.
His hand came out the window and he waved at me. Hmm. Well, I'd done my best.
So I went back indoors and washed the dishes and put them away.
Chapter 13
On Sunday, September reverted to its usual state of being, and the air was quite warm. Therefore, I dressed in a pretty sleeveless dress in a printed dark green I'd found on sale at Nash's Dry Goods and Department Store. It was a straight up-and-down number, with just a hint of a belt at about hip level. Before Billy died, I'd have had lots of unseemly lumps and bumps to spoil the tubular effect of the dress, but I was still slimmer than I'd been a year ago.
Lucille Spinks and I sang our little hearts out during our duet and did a smashing job during the fifth verse of "Amazing Grace." I even heard a couple of discreet "Amens" from the congregation after we were through singing. We Methodists don't go in for a lot of calling out or clapping during our church services. I've heard that the Baptists really go to town when it comes to that sort of thing.
Several people came up to Lucy and me after we'd taken off our choir robes and headed to the Fellowship Hall to tell us we'd sounded lovely. That made both of us happy.
Mr. Zollinger was waiting beside the coffee pot for Lucy, so she veered off in his direction and I looked for my family. When I spied them in the crowd, my heart gave a little lurch. For years and years on Sundays after church, Billy had been among them. Even before we were married, Billy and his family attended this same First Methodist-Episcopal Church. But there was no more Billy and no more of the rest of his family. My heart ached a little when I joined my own family.
"You girls sounded wonderful, Daisy," said my mother, giving me a peck on the cheek.
"Thanks, Ma. I think our voices blend pretty well together."
"They blend great together," said Pa.
"Indeed. Why, I had tears in my eyes after your duet," said Vi.
It was so nice to be appreciated.
Since Vi had a pork roast in the oven cooking away as we were in church, we didn't eat any cookies or have any coffee, but merely greeted our friends and left the church to walk home. When we hit the house, the telephone was ringing. Ominous, that. But I didn't run to answer it. Rather, as I greeted Spike, who was thrilled that his humans had returned, I silently prayed this particular telephone call wasn't from Mrs. Pinkerton.
Silly me. Of course it was from Mrs. Pinkerton.
"Oh, Daisy!" she wailed. I was used to it. "Some awful person shot Jackson!"
My jaw dropped and I stood there, speechless, for several moments, my mind trying to grapple with what I'd just heard.
"Daisy?" she said, as if she thought we'd been disconnected by some inept operator at the telephone exchange.
"I'm sorry," I said, my heart leaping about in my chest like one of those Mexican jumping beans you can find in downtown Los Angeles sometimes. "You say Jackson was shot? He isn't... he isn't... dead, is he?" No, no, no. Jackson couldn't be dead.
Actually, Jackson could be dead. My heart continued to pound like a drum.
"No. But he's in the hospital."
"Which hospital?" I asked, forgetting to sound like a spiritualist.
"The Castleton. But Daisy, I need you!"
She needed me! What about Jackson?
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Pinkerton, but I can't come over today. I can come over tomorrow in the late morning. Perhaps eleven thirty?" I hoped that would give me enough time for Mrs. Hastings. But what the heck. If I was late to Mrs. Pinkerton's, I didn't care. Someone had shot Jackson. I could scarcely take it in.
"You can't come today?" She sniffled pathetically.
"I'm awfully sorry, but I have family commitments today." And I aimed to visit Jackson in the hospital, too. And telephone Sam Rotondo.
"Very well," said Mrs. P in a woebegone voice. "Tomorrow at eleven thirty. Thank you, Daisy."
"Do you know where Jackson was shot? I mean, what body part? Is he badly hurt?" This entire Jackson situation was getting totally out of hand. Damn it, I was going to hunt Sam Rotondo down and force him to take action. Somehow. Oh, Lord. Poor Jackson.
"I don't know. I don't believe he's too seriously wounded, although he's going to be in the hospital for some time. Naturally, I'm paying for his care."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Pinkerton."
"Fiddlesticks," she said, sounding firm, for her. "This shooting and letter-writing nonsense has to stop. You'll tell your policeman friend about Jackson, won't you?"
"Yes. I certainly will."
"Thank you, Daisy."
"You're welcome." I hung the receiver on the hook in something of a daze. When I turned around, the whole family was staring at me.
"Jackson was shot?" Vi asked.
"Yes. He's at the Castleton. Mrs. Pinkerton is paying for his medical care."
"As well she should," said Vi somewhat belligerently. "After all, he's worked for her for years and years, and done a good job. Daisy, I think you should telephone Sam about this, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
"Is this more of that outrageous Klan's nonsense?" asked Ma.
"I suspect it is."
"I wonder if Charlie Smith is as innocent as he claims to be," said Pa, surprising me. I'd been wondering the same thing, but I figured Pa, who was so nice and loyal, would stick up for his friend come hell, high water, the Klan, or the devil himself. I should have known better. Pa's smarter than that.
"Me, too," I said, picking up the receiver once more. No one on our party line was speaking, so the line was clear. To be safe, I said, "If anyone else is on the wire, please hang up. I have an emergency." Very well, so it wasn't precisely my emergency. It got three clicks, so my fib was worth it.
Thinking Sam might have been called in already regarding the Jackson situation, I dialed the Pasadena Police Department. When the officer at the front desk answered, I said, "Detective Roto
ndo, please."
"He isn't here at the moment. May I help you?"
It was nice that he said "may" instead of "can", but it didn't help me. "This is Mrs. Majesty, and I'm telephoning about the shooting of a friend. Joseph Jackson. Do you know anything about that?"
A short spate of silence ensued, and I heard papers shuffling on the desk at the police station. At last the officer spoke again. "I have a note here from Detective Rotondo. It says he's at the Castleton Hospital regarding the Jackson matter."
"Thank you very much," said I, and I replaced the receiver on the hook.
"Sam wasn't there?" asked Vi, madly mashing potatoes and calling to me over her shoulder from the stove.
"He's already at the Castleton. I guess he's talking to Jackson and his kin about what happened."
"Well, before you go haring off to the hospital, eat some dinner," said Ma. "We don't want you wasting away again."
"Very well, but I'm not going to change clothes or anything. I hope you don't mind if I eat quickly."
"Tosh," said Vi. "Eat as fast as you like. In fact, you fix your plate from the stove before I dish up everything."
"We don't want you getting skinny again," added Ma.
"Yeah. You need to find out what's going on," said Pa. "I swear, if Charlie Smith is involved in any of this... Well, I just don't know."
I picked up a plate and headed stove-wards. "What made you rethink the Charlie situation, Pa? You were sure he was innocent as a newborn lamb the other day."
"I've just been thinking about him and the Klan and the bad things that have been happening. That's all. I don't buy his 'the Klan's a patriotic organization' reasoning."
I'd have guffawed if I hadn't been forking a piece of pork from the fragrant roast Vi had fixed for us. It was so tender, I didn't even have to use a knife, and I made sure to get a crusty piece. Then I scooped some potatoes and gravy onto my plate and asked, "Are the carrots ready yet?"
"No. You can eat your carrots when you come home."
"Good deal."
You see? There are many very good reasons I love my family so much. They had their priorities in the right place, unlike a lot of other people I could mention but won't.
