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

by Alice Duncan

  I didn't do justice to Aunt Vi's delicious roast pork, but I gobbled it down as if I were starving. Then I kissed each remaining member of my family, including Spike, and headed out to the Chevrolet. I didn't break any land speed records, but I drove pretty fast down to the Castleton, which wasn't awfully far from our house.

  An elderly lady sat at the information table in the front lobby, so I asked her in which room Jackson had been housed. She shuffled through some papers on the table and then looked up to me, a surprised expression on her face. "Mr. Joseph Jackson?"

  "Yes. He's the one."

  "He's a Negro."

  "I know he is. He's also a dear friend of mine." I glared at the woman, and she swallowed and said, "Room two thirty-six. I believe there are some policemen with him at the moment."

  If she'd said that to make a point, it didn't work with me. "I'm sure there are policemen with him. Some idiots in the Ku Klux Klan shot the poor man!"

  "Oh, my!" I heard her whisper as I stumped off.

  The hospital didn't have an elevator for visitors, so I walked up the stairs to the second floor and didn't have any trouble finding room 236. A uniformed officer stood at attention outside the door. Huh. They were finally taking Jackson's problems seriously, were they? Well, it was past time.

  And who should the guard be but the ubiquitous Officer Doan. He saw me coming and frowned. He usually frowned when he saw me coming.

  I didn't even bother with a greeting. "Is Detective Rotondo in there?"

  "Yes, but you can't—"

  "Pooh. Jackson is my friend, and he'll be glad to see me." And I pushed right on past Officer Doan. I wouldn't have been surprised to learn he was a Klan member, too.

  Rotondo loomed over Jackson's bed, and Mrs. Jackson had more or less taken a throne at her son's bedside. Both of them looked toward the door and watched me enter, Rotondo with a scowl, and Mrs. Jackson with a smile. I fingered my juju for the heck of it, and felt Doan at my back.

  "How is he?" I asked without preliminary greetings.

  "He done been shot," said Mrs. Jackson.

  "He's going to be all right," said Sam. To Doan he said, "It's all right, Doan. Family friend."

  That was nice of him. And totally unexpected.

  "Is that Miss Daisy?" came a feeble voice from the bed.

  "Yes, it is, Mr. Jackson. How are you feeling?" I really had to come up with some better lines to use on people who are grieving or wounded.

  "Not too good. Thanks for comin' by."

  "You bet I came by." I turned to Sam. "So, what do you think, Detective? Will the police department finally do something about that vicious Klan now that two people have been shot?"

  Sam looked a little healthier that Sunday afternoon than he had the last time I'd seen him. I presume he got a good night's sleep after he left our house on Saturday evening. He sure didn't appear pleased to see me, however, no matter what he'd said to Officer Doan.

  "I'm here gathering information from Mr. Jackson, for God's sake. We need facts and information before we can arrest anyone. Even you should know that," barked Sam.

  "Don't you be gruff with the girl, Detective," said Mrs. Jackson. "You's the police. You need facts. The rest of us only need to use our common sense to know what's what."

  I wondered if I could adopt Mrs. Jackson as an honorary aunt or something. I walked to the bed and winced when I looked down upon poor Jackson, whose dark complexion had a distinct grayish cast to it. "Oh, Jackson, I'm so sorry this happened!" And darned if I didn't start to cry. I swear, sometimes I think I should be chained up somewhere. It always embarrasses me to cry in front of people. I snatched my hankie out of my handbag and wiped away my tears, feeling foolish.

  A huge hand descended on my shoulder, and when I looked to see whose it was, I was shocked to discover it belonged to Sam. Was he trying to comfort me or get rid of me?

  "The doctor was just here, Daisy. He really did say Mr. Jackson will be all right." He even sounded sympathetic. Good heavens.

  I sniffled. "I'm so glad. Where were you hit, Mr. Jackson?"

  "M'leg," said Jackson. "Hurts somethin' awful."

  "Can't they give you anything for the pain?" Sniffles vanished and I began to get indignant again.

  "They just give him some drugs," said Mrs. Jackson, who didn't sound as though she quite approved of this. "He'll feel better soon. But take a seat, gal, and sit by me."

  Easier said than done. There was another chair in the room, but it was on the other side of it, and Sam was in the way. To my shock, he lifted the chair, hoisted it over Jackson's form on the bed, and set it down beside Mrs. Jackson's chair. I said, "Thanks, Sam," and sat.

  Mrs. Jackson patted my hand. "It'll all be all right, girl. Joseph, he a strong man. And this here policeman seems to care what happens to him."

  "I care a lot," said Sam in a gruff voice. I believed him.

  "Did you see who did it?" I asked Jackson.

  "Daisy," said Sam, sounding as if his patience was nearing the end of its tether. "Why don't you just sit there and be still while I chat with Mr. Jackson about what happened."

  I felt a trifle mulish but decided it would do no good to argue, especially with Officer Doan standing outside ready and, I'm sure, more than willing to remove me should Sam request him to do so.

  "But did you see who shot you?" asked Sam of Jackson.

  "No, sir. It was goin' on toward night, and I was walkin' from the bus stop to get home. Corner of Lincoln and Washington, it was. A feller come out from behind a building and shot me, slam, in the leg. Then I fell down, and heard the feller come closer, but then other folks began runnin' up, and he took off."

  "Who came running up? Do you know if any of them saw the man?"

  "I don't know, Detective. I was in a lot of pain and tryin' not to shout or cry. Then somebody wrapped my leg in a towel and somebody else opened the door to an automobile, and two men hauled me into the car and drove me here. I think the one who owned the car was Carl Simmons. I know Carl was there, but by that time, I... well, I guess I was bleedin' a lot, 'cause I passed out. Next thing I know, I'm in this here room with my leg in a big bandage and Mama sittin' at my bedside."

  "Huh," said Jackson's mother. I don't know why.

  "Carl Simmons, you say?" Sam was diligently writing everything down in his little policeman's notebook.

  "Yes, sir. He the chauffeur for some rich folks in Altadena, but he live on Mentone close to our house."

  "Do you know the name of the people he works for?"

  "The Greys. You know that writer feller, Zane Grey? That's the one."

  Holy jumping cats. I knew Zane Grey, the famous writer of western fiction, owned a huge estate at the top of Lake Avenue in Altadena, but I didn't know anyone who'd actually met the man or his family. And Jackson knew his chauffeur! I felt kind of like I was visiting royalty, which was silly. I was only visiting a friend of a person who worked for royalty. If you know what I mean.

  "Zane Grey, eh?" Sam didn't appear noticeably gratified to learn this bit of information, perhaps because Altadena was in the county sheriff's venue, or perhaps because he didn't fancy getting involved with any more rich folks. I think the Pinkertons had cured him of any envy he might once have entertained in regard to having great wealth.

  "That's the one," said Jackson.

  We heard a scuffle outside in the hallway and turned toward the door to see a harassed-looking Doan trying to fend off a very large Negro woman, who held a box in her arms.

  "Vera!" exclaimed Mrs. Jackson.

  I think I heard Jackson moan a little.

  "This man won't let me come in, Mama Jackson. Tell him I needs to see Jackson!"

  Sam and I exchanged a quick glance. Sam sighed. "Let her come in, Doan. Might as well."

  So Vera came in, along with a delightful aroma of cinnamon, which I presumed emanated from something in the box she carried.

  As you might imagine, that hospital room was becoming really crowded. And hot. And st
uffy. But oh, well. The cinnamon scent helped a trifle.

  Chapter 14

  It turned out that Vera Armistead, the friend of Jackson's mama, worked as a cook for a family named Walsh. The Walshes were fabulously wealthy, having made their fortune manufacturing chewing gum, and they lived not far from the Pinkertons. It also turned out that Vera Armistead was a fount of information about darned near every rich family in Pasadena and Altadena.

  Not that she spent her time in the hospital room gossiping. Rather, after she maneuvered her bulk around Mrs. Jackson and me, she bent over Jackson's bed, gave him a big smack on the cheek, and said, "You take and eat this here cinnamon cake, Joseph Jackson. Cinnamon's good for what ails you."

  "Even a gunshot?" I asked, very softly. I wasn't arguing with the woman; I was honestly curious.

  Mrs. Armistead turned her head and gave me an appraising, not-awfully-friendly look. "Cinnamon cures everything, young woman. Who you be, anyhow?"

  "Vera," said Mrs. Jackson in her most regal tones, "this is Missus Majesty. Her and me, we share the gift."

  Mrs. Armistead's eyes grew huge. "You mean she be a mambo, too? But she's white!"

  "She a white mambo. They's different from us black mambos, but this one still has the gift."

  I definitely heard Sam grinding his teeth.

  "Glory be," said Mrs. Armistead. I think she'd have sunk onto a chair in shock, but there wasn't a vacant one handy.

  I leapt out of mine and said, "Here. Have a seat." Then I scooted over closer to Sam, just in case the woman fainted. I didn't want her to faint on me, because she'd probably have smothered me. She was even bigger than Mrs. Jackson.

  "All right, let's have a little order in here," said Sam, sounding extremely official. "Mrs. Armistead, did you happen to be in the vicinity when Mr. Jackson was shot?"

  "No. My son, Marshall, him and Carl Simmons is friends, and Carl come over and told us what happened."

  "Did he happen to mention who held the gun and shot Jackson?"

  "No, but he described that bad man, whose soul is cursed forever more."

  Mrs. Jackson nodded, and I believed them both.

  Sam brightened a trifle. "Can you remember what he said the man looked like?"

  "Plump. Not fat like me, but plump. Brown hair. He weren't wearin' a sheet, but he one of them Klan folks."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because he done shot Joseph!" said Mrs. Armistead as if Sam should already have known that. "Ain't no white men come around that part of town after the sun sets unless they be bent on mischief, and that man, he was bent on mischief."

  "He was bent on murder," muttered Mrs. Jackson.

  I noticed she'd taken out another juju from somewhere or other on her person, and she very deliberately broke one of its arms. I winced in spite of myself. I then told myself I didn't believe in voodoo mambos anymore than I believed in the fluff I spewed forth in my career, but I winced again anyway.

  "That he was. Marshall said Carl said that the man was walkin' up to Joseph and looked like he was goin' to finish the job, but folks rushed out, and he got scared and run off."

  "Wish somebody'd tackled him," mumbled Sam.

  So did I.

  "I done told Marshall that Carl was a fool not to of done just that," Mrs. Armistead said to Sam, "but Marshall told me Carl was more worried about gettin' Joseph to the hospital than in tacklin' no gun-totin' villain."

  Well, when she put it like that, I guess he'd been wise not to try to tackle the shooter.

  Mrs. Armistead continued, "Anyhow, when a couple of the fellows looked, the man was long gone. Don't know where he went, 'cause that street's a long one, and they's nothin' around except for some businesses, and they was closed for the night."

  Sam sighed and said, "Yes, I understand. Do you know the names of anyone else who might have seen the shooting or the shooter?"

  Mrs. Armistead tapped one or two of her chins as she thought. I began to wish I'd changed from my Sunday church shoes into more sensible walking shoes because my feet ached as I stood there. "You might want to talk to Georgia Akers. She works for a couple of families in Pasadena as a maid. Not an everyday maid, but a once-a-week maid. I think she knows which folks have joined that stupid Klan."

  "Georgia Akers, you say?"

  For the first time in a long time, Sam seemed happy about something. Probably because people were finally beginning to spill what they knew about local Klansmen. Past time, perhaps, but I understood the unwillingness of some of the Negro families in the city to talk to the local coppers. After all, several of the local coppers were members of the Klan. The Jacksons and their like were in one of those a damned-if-you-do and damned-if-you-don't predictions. I'd been in several of them myself, and I knew firsthand how uncomfortable they could be.

  "Georgia Akers. Yes. That's the one," agreed Mrs. Armistead.

  "Georgia, her and her husband and kids live near us on Mentone," added Mrs. Jackson.

  Sam, scribbling like crazy, asked, "Address?"

  So Mrs. Jackson gave the Akers' address, which sounded like it might be across the street from the Jacksons. I began to wonder if Mrs. Jackson wasn't so much a voodoo mambo as she was a collector of really fascinating gossip, with maybe a bit of magic thrown into the pot to make people pay attention. I fingered my own juju until I saw Mrs. Jackson smiling at me.

  "My son, Marshall," went on Mrs. Armistead, "he's a photographer. He takes pictures of most everything. Want he should take a picture of where Joseph got hisself shot? Too bad he wasn't there at the time, 'cause he'd've caught the villain with his Kodak."

  "In the dark?" There I went again, talking when I shouldn't.

  "T'weren't that dark," said Mrs. Armistead.

  "Oh," said I for want of anything more cogent so say. Jackson had said it was going on towards night, but I didn't want to argue.

  "He's a photographer, is he?" said Sam—loudly, in order to get our attention.

  "That he be," said the proud Mrs. Armistead.

  "It might be helpful if he could take pictures of where the shooting took place. By the time we were told about it at the police station, no one could tell us exactly where it happened, or we'd have sent our own photographers to take pictures."

  "Uh-huh," said Mrs. Armistead.

  "Yeah," said Mrs. Jackson.

  Poor Sam. His department really didn't have a very good reputation among the non-white population of Pasadena. I almost felt sorry for the poor lug, mainly because I knew Sam didn't harbor a prejudice against anyone in the world unless they committed crimes. And me. He had a prejudice against me, but I think that was based on personality and profession. Race didn't enter into the equation.

  "I'll get him to do that today," said Mrs. Armistead.

  "Thank you." He shuffled through his notebook for a few seconds. "Can you think of anyone else who might have seen the shooting?"

  I saw Jackson's head wag back and forth on his pillow. The poor man looked awfully tired. I'm sure he wished we'd all go away and let him alone.

  "It's time for us to leave my boy to hisself," said Mrs. Jackson, echoing my own thoughts. "The boy needs to rest." She shot a piercing glance at Sam. "You goin' to post a policeman at the door to his room so that white man can't come back and shoot him dead in the hospital?"

  Jackson uttered a pitiful squeak. I gasped.

  But it was sure something to think about. "I'll see what I can do," said Sam, sounding doubtful.

  Mrs. Jackson heaved herself to her feet. "Don't bother. I'll get some folks to guard my boy. He don' need no Klan policemen makin' his life uglier than it already is."

  "Mrs. Jackson—"

  But Sam didn't get to finish his sentence, because Mrs. Jackson stepped on his words and squashed them flat. "I know where us black folk stand in this here community, and it's at the bottom of the ladder. But we can take care of our own. So you don't need bother, Mr. Detective."

  "Very well." Sam both sounded and looked defeated. "That would pro
bably be a good idea. I'll make arrangements with the hospital staff so they'll know there will be people posted at Mr. Jackson's door."

  "Big black people," said Mrs. Jackson, giving Sam her most evil grin.

  "Heh," said Mrs. Armistead. She heaved herself up from her seat and said, "You eat every crumb of that there cake, Joseph Jackson. Cinnamon is good for what ails you, no matter what it is."

  I decided I'd search for books on medicinal uses for spices next time I went to the library. And that would be... Lordy, not tomorrow. Tomorrow I had to deal with two rich women, one of whom might have answers to some of my questions. Or not. I'd see.

  Mrs. Jackson bent to give her son a kiss on the cheek and told him to rest up. Then she and Mrs. Armistead left the hospital room. I went up to Jackson's bedside and said, "I'm so sorry this happened, Mr. Jackson, but you'll get better, and Sam really will find out who's doing these awful things." I took his hand and squeezed it, not too tightly since he was already in pain.

  "Thank you, Miss Daisy. You're a good girl."

  "Thanks for the information, Mr. Jackson," said Sam. He neither kissed the cheek of nor shook hands with Jackson, but said, "Daisy's right. We're taking this seriously, and we will catch whoever's responsible for this."

  "Thank you, Detective."

  I could tell Jackson was fading fast, because his eyes kept closing and his words to Sam were somewhat slurred. The drugs were kicking in, no doubt.

  Before he could escape, I grabbed Sam by his arm and hauled him to the door. There I whispered, "You're not going to leave Jackson unguarded until Mrs. Jackson's guards show up, are you?"

  Sam opened the door and shoved me out into the hall, then closed the door quietly after he left Jackson's room, too. "We don't have the manpower to post a guard at his door, Daisy. Cripes!"

  "Then I'll stay here until Jackson's guards show up," I said, feeling defiant and angry. They simply couldn't leave Jackson without a guard; not with someone out there, probably quite nearby, bound and determined to kill him. It was one thing—and a bad one—to burn a cross on the man's lawn, but to go so far as to shoot him... well, it was too much. Besides, the Klan would probably be swarming all over the hospital because Petrie was there with his stupid broken leg. Or he probably was. I should have asked at the front desk. Pooh.