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

by Alice Duncan

  "Them's the ones. I was walking to the bus stop when Mr. Merton was shot."

  Good heavens! Practically an eye witness! Had we struck gold or had we not struck gold?

  "Did you hear or see the killing?" asked Sam, who was quite poised. Guess he was used to this sort of thing, unlike yours truly.

  "I heard it," said Mrs. Akers.

  "We were told by another neighbor that an automobile drove down the street and slowed right before the shot was fired. Can you confirm that?"

  More silence. Mrs. Akers frowned at Sam. "I didn't see or hear an automobile on the street at the time that shot was fired."

  "You neither saw nor heard a car before you heard the shot?" Sam had stopped writing, and was pinning Mrs. Akers with an intense stare.

  She repeated, "I didn't see or hear an automobile on that street at the time that shot was fired. No, sir."

  Definite. She sounded absolutely definite.

  "So... you didn't see an automobile."

  "No, sir. There wasn't one. That there's a quiet street. You can hear cars when they drive up and back. I didn't hear an automobile when I walked down the street that day."

  So had Charlie Smith lied to us? Mercy sakes, what did this mean? Was he protecting his Klan kin? Or could he be the shooter? Oh, dear. I didn't like that idea at all, especially since Mr. Smith had been treated to my opinions about the Klan several times so far. If he was a mad gunman, what were my chances of eluding him? I felt a chill on my arms and rubbed them with my hands.

  "I see," said Sam, as composed as ever. "Do you work for anyone else on that street, and do you know which people there belong to the Klan."

  "Mr. Merton did," said Mrs. Akers. "And Mr. Smith, across the street from him, does. I don't work for anybody else on Madison, so I can't tell you about anyone else there. But I know a family called Petrie is in thick with the Klan. Not all of 'em, but a few of 'em."

  Aha! Miss Petrie was correct!

  "Petrie, you say?" Sam again.

  "Yes, sir. Petrie's the name. One of 'em's a policeman."

  Huh. Confirmation, if Sam needed it, which he didn't since Petrie himself had confessed. Or bragged.

  "Do you know the names of any other Klan members, Mrs. Akers?" Sam went on doggedly.

  "What about rich people?" I said, unable to keep quiet another second. "Do you know the names of any rich folks in Pasadena who belong to the Klan?"

  Mrs. Akers' gaze left Sam's face and settled on mine. Goodness, but she had an intimidating stare. I swallowed and fingered my juju before I realized what I was doing, and I dropped my hand to my lap instantly.

  "Rich folks? I don't work for no rich folks. Not like the Pinkertons, if that's what you mean. Not like Jackson does. I clean houses for some folks in Pasadena who like to have a lady come in for a few hours a week. In fact, I work for Mrs. Longnecker, near where you live, Mrs. Majesty."

  I swallowed again. "You know where I live?"

  "I work for Mrs. Longnecker. Thursday mornings. I've seen you several times. You live in that nice bungalow up the street two houses. You have that sausage dog."

  The mention of Spike relaxed me. "I don't know why I've never seen you, but isn't Spike a darling doggie?"

  "He's... cute," said Mrs. Akers. She didn't sound as though she were overwhelmingly fond of dogs, but what the heck.

  "I think so," I said.

  Sam cleared his throat rather loudly, and I shut my mouth. Shouldn't have opened it in the first place, I know.

  "So, do you know any other Klan members among those folks for whom you work, Mrs. Akers?"

  After a moment or two of silence—the woman seemed completely unaffected by spaces of silence in conversations, if this could be considered a conversation—she said, "Mr. Merton and Mr. Smith are the only two I can think of. And I know about that Petrie boy, because word gets around. Especially among us black folk when it comes to the police."

  Ow. That must have hurt Sam on his pride. I sneaked a peek at him, and didn't see him flinch. But then, the man might as well have been a marble monument as a human male when he was on the job. I guess that meant he was good at it.

  "I'm sorry if any of the officers in the Pasadena Police Department have given you grief, Mrs. Akers," Sam said woodenly. "All police officers who are known to belong to the Klan have been suspended."

  "Most of 'em," said she.

  Sam went so far as to tilt his head in interest. "Can you name any others?"

  "The names I know of in the police are Grubbs, Petrie, Bailey and Allen. Them's all last names. I don't know their first names."

  "How do you know their names at all?" asked Sam. Not unreasonably, I believe.

  "Because they stopped my friends for no reason. Lots of times."

  "For no reason?"

  "Not unless you think a Negro going to work or coming home from work is a good reason. You ain't black, Detective. If you was, you wouldn't be surprised. Mr. Akers, he works for Mr. Zane Grey as one of his gardeners. He was stopped every day for two weeks solid when he walked to the red-line stop from Mr. Grey's house, for no good reason. 'Less you think a black man working in Alta-falutin-dena's a crook for bein' there."

  "That's terrible," I said, thinking about how it would be if I, for example, were to be pulled over by the coppers every day for two weeks when I went about my business. And my business was fake! Poor Mr. Akers was gainfully employed as a gardener by an important man.

  To my surprise, Sam said, "Yes, it is. I'll look into the matter."

  "You will?" Clearly, Mrs. Akers was surprised, too.

  "Yes, I will," said Sam, closing his notebook. "But you can't think of any other names of Klan members?"

  After another silence, during which, I suppose, Mrs. Akers thought hard, she said, "No. Those are the only names I know of."

  "Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Akers."

  "I hope you find whoever shot Joseph Jackson," she said as she led us to the front door. "He's a good man, even if he isn't white."

  "Yes, he is," I concurred, feeling out of place and uncomfortable. Shoot, if I felt uncomfortable being a white woman in a Negro woman's house because she seemed to hold a legitimate grudge against some white people, I can't imagine what Pasadena's Negro population felt like every day of their lives, if they were harassed by the police for absolutely no reason at all.

  Sam and I didn't speak as we walked back to his Hudson.

  Chapter 16

  In fact, we didn't speak until we were almost back to the Gumm-Majesty residence on Marengo Avenue. Then it was I who broke the silence. How typical of me, huh?

  "Well, what do you think?"

  "About what?"

  If he'd been looking at me instead of the road, I'd have rolled my eyes, but it didn't seem worth the effort since he wasn't. "About the names Mrs. Akers gave you. Do you believe her about the policemen?"

  "Yeah. Except for Petrie, the others have all been suspended. And Petrie will be as soon as I tell the chief about him."

  "Good. What about the police stopping Mr. Akers every single day for two whole weeks when he was going home from work. And, oh, boy, I'd love to see that estate!"

  Sam heaved a gusty sigh. "Yeah, I expect that's true, too."

  "You mean you knew about stuff like that going on?"

  With a squint-eyed glance at me, Sam said, "Some of my fellow officers think they're doing the population of Pasadena a good deed when they stop what they consider to be suspicious characters walking the streets in the evening or at night."

  "Suspicious? What's suspicious about a man going to and from work?"

  "Nothing. Some of my fellow officers are dumb bozos, and some of them do stuff like that to make themselves feel like big eggs. Not all of them. Some of them. But every one of them who does stuff like that makes all of us look bad."

  Wow, that was the worst thing I'd ever heard Sam say about his co-coppers. "Yes. I suppose they do. That's not fair to the good guys."

  "Right. So I'm going to
see what I can do about it."

  "I'm so glad! Maybe we can find Jackson's harassers, the shooter, and the coppers who harass Negroes for no reason."

  "Ambitious plans you have for the department," said Sam with a wry edge to his voice.

  "Well, it would be nice if you could do all those things."

  But we were home, and Sam didn't seem inclined to talk anymore. He parked his Hudson in front of our house, walked around to open my door for me, and we toddled up the walkway to our house. As we did so, I scanned the yard, trying to decide where to put all the rosebushes I aimed to plant. I hadn't made up my mind when we got to the front door. We didn't need a knocker. Spike was making enough of a racket to raise the dead.

  Therefore, as soon as I was in the house, I knelt and allowed my poor abandoned hound to leap upon me and kiss my face. I returned the favor until I noticed an immovable object standing and looming over the two of us. Naturally, the object was Sam. I said, "Well, he missed me! I left him for almost the whole day today, and usually I'm home all day on Sunday after church."

  "I didn't say anything."

  "You were thinking something," I said.

  "Huh."

  Typical conversation between Sam Rotondo and my own personal self. I just hugged Spike another time or two and rose to my feet. I creaked again. Shoot, was this what happened when a person got old? But I was only twenty-three. That wasn't old. Was it?

  "So how'd it go, you two?" said Pa, joining us in the front entryway—well, the door led into the living room, but the furniture was to your left as you entered the house, the door itself being to the right of the room. The only thing in this vicinity was the book table and the hat stand. Pa had on his specs and was holding a Zane Grey novel, so I guess he'd been reading.

  "Oh! Pa, you'll never guess! Today Sam and I met two people who actually work for Mr. Zane Grey!"

  "Oh?" Pa blinked at me. "I thought you were on the trail of a gunman."

  "Well, we are, but—"

  "I'm interviewing folks who know Mr. Jackson, Joe," said Sam, stamping on my sentence. "She went with me to Mrs. Akers' house because I figured Mrs. Akers might talk to me more easily if I brought a friend of Jackson's along with me."

  "Makes sense," said Pa. "Who works for Zane Grey? That's kind of exciting."

  I shot Sam a so there glare and said, "Oh, it is! Mrs. Armistead, whom we met at the hospital—she'd brought Jackson a cinnamon cake because she said cinnamon cures all ills—"

  "Even gunshot wounds?" asked Pa. We were a lot alike, Pa and me.

  "That's what she said. Anyway, she cooks for the Greys, and then Mrs. Akers' husband helps tend the Greys' gardens. Oh, and the Akers have such a beautiful rose garden, Pa! I really want to plant a rose garden in our—"

  "I'd better be going now," Sam said, again interrupting me. Darn him, anyhow!

  "Want to stick around for a couple of hands of rummy?" asked Pa hopefully. Guess he was no more interested in roses than was Sam. Very well. Fine. I'd study roses on my own.

  "Better not. We've got a murder and a couple of attempted murders to solve, and I can't do that playing cards. Wish I could." Sam sounded wistful.

  Phooey on him. On the other hand, I felt as though I should, so I said, "Say, Sam, before you go, want a sandwich? I'm going to make one for myself. Leftover roast pork, which makes scrumptious sandwiches. And I have to eat my carrots, too, since I didn't have time to eat them before I went to the hospital to see Jackson."

  "You're going to eat cold carrots?" asked Sam, his mouth twisting in a grimace of distaste.

  "There's nothing wrong with cold carrots. They aren't as good as they are when you eat them hot and dripping with butter, but carrots are carrots."

  "Thanks. I'll take a sandwich. Think I'll pass on the carrots, though."

  "You need your vegetables, Sam Rotondo. Everyone needs their vegetables."

  "Maybe Sam could eat an apple with his sandwich," said Pa before all-out war could prevail. "I know apples aren't vegetables, but I'm sure he needs fruit, too."

  I sniffed, but said, "Good idea. Thanks Pa."

  "Very good idea," said Sam. "And I appreciate you making me a sandwich, Daisy."

  "You'd probably have gone to bed hungry if I didn't."

  "Well, I have crackers and cheese at home. And even some apples."

  Which made me think of something. "Where do you live, Sam? I've always wondered."

  "Little apartment on Los Robles. Actually, it's a tiny house in a court. You'd like my landlady. She believes in ghosts."

  I ignored the ghost snipe, since Sam knew good and well I didn't believe in ghosts, no matter my line of work. "Is the court on North Los Robles or South Los Robles."

  "South. Way south. Almost to San Marino."

  I'd taken the leftover roast, which Vi had thoughtfully sliced and wrapped in waxed paper, from the Frigidaire and set on the counter. As I reached into the breadbox to fetch a loaf of her wonderful bread, I remembered the last time I drove down Los Robles Avenue. Swinging around with the bread in one hand and the bread knife in the other, I said, "Do you live in that darling little court a little south of Glenarm? On the"—I had to think about whether right was west or east as one drove south on Los Robles—"on the east side of the street? The one with the ivy and the roses?"

  "Hey! Watch that knife!"

  I looked at the knife. Very well, so it was kind of pointed at Sam. He knew I wouldn't use it on him. "Don't be ridiculous, Sam Rotondo. I'm going to cut the bread with the knife." I thrust the bread at him, and he jumped back a little. I tutted. "Well? Is that the court where you live?"

  "Yeah. That's the one. The landlady takes care of the yards."

  "I remember. Each one of those little cottages has a tiny yard, doesn't it?"

  "Yes. I mow the back, which isn't very big, but Mrs. Johnson likes to care for the flowers herself. Good thing. If I had to do it, they'd all die. I don't have time to cultivate flowers."

  "You lead a hard life, Detective Rotondo," I said with mock sympathy. Then I turned, got out the cutting board and cut four slices of bread. I looked over my shoulder. "Want a sandwich, Pa?"

  "No, thanks. Your mother and I already had one. So did Vi."

  It was by that time around eight o'clock Sunday night, later by far than I generally took a meal. No wonder I was hungry. "All right. Just Sam and me then."

  "You might make Sam two of those things, Daisy. He's a big man."

  Hmmm. I glanced at Sam, who was trying to pull his stomach in. Not that Sam was fat or flabby. But Pa was right: he was a big man. "Don't want him to get too big," I said in order to rile him.

  "One sandwich will be plenty," said Sam, sounding a trifle grouchy.

  "There's devil's-food cake for dessert."

  "Oh, yum! Thanks, Pa."

  "You should thank Vi."

  "I would if she were here. Did she and Ma go to bed already?"

  "Yep. They have to be up early to go to work. I feel like a shirker."

  "Nuts. You do a lot of things for a lot of people, and you can't drive any longer, so just shush about that, Pa."

  "She's right, Joe," said Sam, for once agreeing with me.

  I slathered the bread with Vi's home-made mayonnaise and some mustard, plopped a couple of slices of pork on each bottom, topped each sandwich with another piece of bread, sliced each sandwich in half, making two triangles out of each, got out two plates, and put a sandwich on each plate. I added some cold buttered carrots to my plate and sliced an apple (I even cored it for the big galoot) and laid it out artistically on Sam's plate. I may not be able to cook-cook, but my presentation was quite pretty.

  Shoving the plates in Sam's direction, I said, "Here. Take these to the dining room table. I'll get napkins and silverware. Want a glass of milk?"

  "I think I can eat my sandwich and apple with my fingers," said Sam. "But I'll take a glass of milk. Thanks."

  "I need a fork for my carrots," I reminded him.

  "Huh."

&nbs
p; Still, we ate together amicably enough—and cold buttered carrots, while not quite as tasty as hot buttered carrots, are nothing to sneeze at—while Pa asked questions about the various interviews we'd conducted that day. Or Sam had conducted. According to him.

  "Do you think that lad's photographs will help you any?" asked Pa after Sam told him about Mrs. Armistead's son.

  "I don't know. Can't hurt. It was too dark by the time the police got there to take any decent photographs."

  "And Mrs. Armistead is the one who cooks for the Greys?"

  "Yes, and she looks like it, too. She's as big as a house, just about."

  "That's not kind, Daisy," said Pa in a reproving voice.

  "Well, I know it isn't, but she is large. She's at least as large as Mrs. Bissel. Isn't she, Sam?"

  Chewing on a bite of his sandwich, Sam only nodded.

  "Guess cooks have to sample their wares," said Pa.

  "Aunt Vi isn't very fat. She's just a wee bit plump."

  "Guess so," said Pa. "So do you have any idea who the fellows were who drove the automobile that almost ran down the Jackson children?"

  "I have a pretty good idea," I said after I swallowed a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a sip of milk. "But Sam says he needs evidence."

  "I do need evidence," snarled Sam.

  "Who do you think did it?" asked Pa. "And, yes, Sam does need evidence. He can make all the hunches he wants, but a court of law will demand proof."

  "I know it," said I after swallowing a couple of carrot slices. "But I think the driver of the machine was Todd Merton. And I think the man with him was a policeman named Roland Petrie." I shot Sam a peek to see if he was going to object, but he was crunching on his apple and only appeared resigned to listen to my theories. "I don't have a clue who shot Todd Merton, although I wouldn't put it past your friend Charlie Smith. Mrs. Akers said she heard no car on the street when Mr. Merton was killed, and she'd just left his house after cleaning it."

  "Charlie?" came, squeakily, from my father's mouth. "You think Charlie shot his neighbor?"

  "They were both Klan members. If Mr. Merton objected to the mean things the Klan's been doing in town, maybe Charlie shot him for his efforts."