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

by Alice Duncan

  "Oh, my Lord. And to think of these things happening in Pasadena."

  "My sentiments exactly."

  Li brought in the tea and cookies just then, and I pondered the Klan problem as Mrs. Hastings poured tea and asked if I wanted lemon or milk.

  "I'll take a little milk, thank you. Um, Mrs. Hastings, I don't want to alarm you, but Mr. Hastings' name has been mentioned in connection with Pasadena's branch of the Klan."

  "Mr. Hastings! Good Lord, Daisy, Stephen would never belong to such an organization! In fact, he deplores the fact that they even exist. He's told me so more than once. He was frightfully offended when he read in the newspaper that some policemen were members of that ghastly Klan. I didn't realize those were Pasadena policemen." She handed me my cup, frowning up a storm. "In fact, I can't imagine who could have told you Stephen is involved in so evil an organization. My husband may be many things, some of which I don't much like, but he's never discriminated against a person because of his color. None of us do. We learned that much in China. A person's skin color has nothing to do with his character."

  Ha. I'd thought as much. So much for Mr. Pinkerton's belief in Stephen Hastings as the exalted cyclops.

  "Perhaps Mr. Pinkerton was mistaken when he told Detective Rotondo he believed Mr. Hastings to be the Klan's leader in Pasadena." I didn't want to go through the exalted cyclops nonsense again. The title was just too stupid.

  "Mr. Pinkerton told Detective Rotondo that?" Clearly shocked, Mrs. Hastings' hand shook, and she carefully set her cup and saucer on the table between us. It was a pretty little table, with curly wrought-iron legs and a glass top. "I can assure you, Daisy, that he was mistaken. For all of Stephen's faults, he'd never belong to, much less lead, a chapter of the Ku Klux Klan."

  I believed her. At least I believed she believed what she said. I was interested to see her eyebrows tilt until they made a frowning V over her eyes. "But I wouldn't put such a dastardly thing past Mr. Enoch Billingsgate. If that's his name. I'm sure there's something wrong with that man, Daisy. He's just too... too... slimy."

  Hmm. Interesting. My brain began sorting through various threads and trying to tie them together. "What does Mr. Billingsgate look like, Mrs. Hastings?"

  "Oh, call me Laura, please. He's fat. And he has red hair. And he smiles and smiles. And you know what Shakespeare said about people like him."

  "Yes. A man might 'smile and smile and be a villain.'"

  "Precisely. And I swear to you that Enoch Billingsgate is a villain. Only I don't know how to prove it."

  One of the thought-strings in my head tied itself into a neat little bow. "I think I know how to find out. Mr. Harold Kincaid—Mrs. Pinkerton's son by that awful first husband of hers—has a good friend who's a banker in the Kincaids' bank. In fact, I think he runs the place. If anyone can get the goods on a phony financial scheme, it's Del Farrington."

  I could almost see the burden of worry lift from Mrs. Hastings' shoulders. "Oh, would you ask him to check into it, Daisy? I'd so appreciate it. If Enoch Billingsgate is a legitimate businessman, I'll eat my hat."

  She wasn't wearing one, but I didn't point it out to her. "I'll be happy to do it, Mrs.—er, Laura."

  "I feel better already. I'm not going to tell Stephen we had this chat."

  "Thank you. He's probably still angry with me for invading his offices last June."

  She gave me the friendliest smile I'd ever yet seen on her face. "Yes, he is. But I'm so grateful to you, I don't even know how to thank you."

  "You've already thanked me," I told her sincerely. She's also given me a heap of money, bless the woman.

  "Not enough. But perhaps you'll take some sprays of orchids. I'm afraid I can't give you any of the oncidiums yet, because there's only the one spray beginning to bloom, but I have several pretty cymbidiums and cattleyas and dendrobiums that are blooming up a storm."

  "Thank you!"

  So I left the Hastings home armed not merely with interesting information and a new name to investigate, but an entire car seat full of spectacular orchid blossoms.

  Chapter 18

  Because my visit with Mrs. Hastings hadn't taken very long, I had time to go home and put the orchid blossoms into various vases and pots before I left to see Mrs. Pinkerton. Pa was most impressed with the orchids.

  "Holy cats, Daisy, where'd you get all those flowers?"

  "They're orchids from Mrs. Stephen Hastings' conservatory. She cultivates them."

  "I remember you brought home a bundle of them the last time you did business with Mrs. Hastings."

  He was right about that, bless the woman as a flowery saint. By the time I'd found containers for all the orchid sprays, and even had a lovely bouquet of yellow and white ones for my own personal bedroom, I was ready to wash my hands, powder my nose, and pay my next call of the day.

  I hied myself to Mrs. Pinkerton's house, armed with a name and a request for Harold, whom I hoped would be there. He often was, although he also often wasn't, since he did have a legitimate job as a costumier for a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles.

  Workmen had made rapid and splendid repairs to the black iron gate and the gatehouse, which was back to being in one piece and gleaming with new white paint. The gate stood open, baring the twin rows of deodars lining the drive for all to see from the street. I presume the gate hadn't been latched because Mr. Jackson was still recuperating from his gunshot wound, poor man. "Oh, Harold, please be there," I whispered as I parked the Chevrolet in the circular drive in front of the Pinkertons' gigantic front porch.

  I was in luck. In fact, when I whacked the knocker growing out of the lion's head on the massive double front door, it was Harold himself who opened the door to me.

  "Harold!" cried I. "I'm so glad to see you! I have some detective work for you and Del. It involves a phony financial scheme your stepfather is involved with and may very well also involve a man who might—or might not—be the head of the Ku Klux Klan in Pasadena."

  Blinking a bit at my flood of words, Harold swung wide the door and let me into the house.

  "I've already got Del investigating the Florida baloney. The development is supposed to be in Dade County, which, I presume, is in Florida. Somewhere. My stepfather is a really nice guy, but he's got feathers in his head sometimes. Kind of like my mother, actually."

  "Have you and Del already looked into a man named Enoch Billingsgate?"

  "No, is that the shyster who's in charge of the scheme?"

  "Yes, it is. Mrs. Hastings doesn't trust him. Also, Mr. Pinkerton told Sam that Mr. Hastings was the Pasadena Klan's exalted cyclops, but I don't believe it, and Mrs. Hastings just told me he definitely isn't. So maybe Billingsgate is."

  Shaking his head, Harold muttered, "The names these guys give themselves continue to amaze me."

  "You and me both. The person who goes out and recruits for the Klan is called a kleagle."

  "Good God."

  "Precisely."

  We were almost to the drawing room, so I tugged on Harold's arm and whispered urgently, "Please have Del check out Enoch Billingsgate, the Florida scheme, and anything else he can learn. I'll ask Sam to find out if Enoch Billingsgate even exists, or if this fellow annexed the name in order to fool folks." Of course, Sam might pay no attention to my pleas, but I'd oerleap—to continue the Shakespearean theme—that problem when I came to it.

  "Will do. But you'd better prepare yourself. Mother is in a state." He emphasized the word state.

  "Oh, boy. Well, I don't suppose this state is any worse than the others I've seen her in."

  "It might be. Stacy was here earlier, and now Mother's all atwitter because Stacy told her Jackson's getting shot was her fault."

  I squinted at him. "How can it be her fault? It was a man who shot him."

  "You know Stacy," said Harold with unsubtle emphasis. "And Mother."

  "Yes," I said, heaving a sigh. "I do know the both of them. I sometimes wish your sister would go on a missionary trip to the wilds of Africa a
nd get herself eaten by cannibals."

  "You and me both," said Stacy's brother. We were of a single mind, Harold and me, about his stinky sister.

  Sure enough, when I entered the drawing room—I guess Harold had taken enough from his mother for one morning, because he didn't join me—she was mopping her tears with a soggy hankie. She looked up as I walked in and straightened a trifle in her chair. "Daisy!" she said in a choked and water-soaked voice. "Thank you so much for coming. I... well, I just don't know. Stacy was just here, and... well, I'm upset."

  "I can see that," I said in my mellifluous spiritualist's voice. "And I'm so sorry. Harold told me Stacy believes you're responsible for what happened to Jackson, and I can tell you truthfully that you're not. Not in any way whatsoever." I walked over to her and took the chair next to hers. I thought about taking her hand, but feared it might be as soggy as her handkerchief, so I didn't.

  "You don't think it's my fault that Jackson got shot?" Her red-rimmed, drippy eyes sought me over her hankie.

  "I certainly do not. Mr. Jackson was shot by some evil man by the evil man's own volition. You've been only kind to Jackson. If you recall, Stacy also wanted you to fire the poor man because other people were harassing him. You're not responsible for any of Jackson's problems. If you'd followed Stacy's advice, you'd have done him a great disservice."

  She sniffled pathetically. "Thank you, Daisy. You're always such a comfort for me."

  "Happy to help," I fibbed. Well, it wasn't much of a fib. Anyhow, as long as I was in her good graces, I figured it wouldn't hurt to ask her something else. "Is Mr. Pinkerton here, by any chance?"

  "Algie? No, I think he's at his club." She gave her eyes one last good swipe, patted her now-powderless cheeks, squished her handkerchief into her two hands, which she then laid in her lap. "Do you need to talk to him?"

  "Not really. But I kept an appointment with Mrs. Stephen Hastings earlier today—"

  "Is she why you couldn't come to me earlier?" she demanded.

  Oh, dear. "She called me several days ago to make the appointment." I tried to sound apologetic. "My meeting with her was set up before you called. I came to you as soon as I could." I didn't want Mrs. P to get annoyed with me. She was, after all, my best client. Heck, she'd all but supported my family for a couple of years when things were really bad after Pa had his heart attack and Billy came home from that cursed war. "I try to treat all my clients fairly, Mrs. Pinkerton, but you'll always be my main priority."

  With another sniffle, she said, "Thank you, dear. I don't mean to sound selfish."

  "Not at all," said I. Where had I been before she'd interrupted me? Oh, yes. I remembered. "But Mrs. Hastings is very worried about a Florida real-estate scheme both Mr. Pinkerton and Mr. Hastings are involved with."

  "Florida? Why would...? Oh. Yes, I do believe Laura asked me about that. I don't know anything about Algie's business dealings. She told me she doesn't trust some fellow whose name I can't remember, and who's in charge of the financial... whatever you call those things. A consortium?"

  "I guess that's the right word." I didn't know any more about financial matters than did Mrs. Pinkerton. Dismal thought.

  "Yes. Laura said she doesn't trust that man." She shrugged. "I've never met him, and Algie never talks about business at home."

  "I believe his name is Enoch Billingsgate," I muttered, thinking I'd wasted my time, and that Mrs. Pinkerton wasn't going to be able to give me any information at all.

  But Mrs. Pinkerton's nose wrinkled, and she surprised me. "That man! Algie invited him to dine with us last Thursday. I thought he was a most unpleasant fellow. Whether he's a villain or not, I can't say."

  Hmmm. It was unusual for Mrs. Pinkerton to take a dislike to a person. Heck, she still loved her horrible daughter. Curious, I asked, "Why didn't you care for him, Mrs. Pinkerton?"

  She thought for a moment, then said, "I'm not sure."

  Typical.

  "You can't pinpoint any particular thing about him that struck you as being unpleasant?"

  "Oh, I can pinpoint many things. He dressed like a fellow in a vaudeville show, he smiled too much, he wore stinky hair oil, and he was fat."

  Mrs. P herself was... well, plump. But she was none of those other things. "I see. I'm surprised Mr. Pinkerton and Mr. Hastings seem so enthralled with his Florida scheme. Mrs. Hastings is sure it's a fake business deal, but it's difficult to imagine both Mr. Pinkerton and Mr. Hastings being drawn into a fraudulent scheme."

  "Ha! That, my dear, is not difficult to imagine at all. Why, just look at that ex-partner of Mr. Hastings. Why, he and Eustace"—Eustace was Mrs. Pinkerton's first, and evil, husband—"actually killed Laura's son. And Algie himself, while having a first-class financial mind, is rather less than brilliant about people and has lost money on phony financial schemes before now. Men. Always so sure of themselves."

  "Oh, dear. Well, I hope either the Florida thing is legitimate or that Del Farrington will sort it all out before anyone loses any money."

  "Darling Del," said Mrs. P upon a deep and heartfelt sigh. "Such a fine young man. Why, he's the one who saved the bank after Eustace stole all those bearer bonds, you know."

  "Yes, indeed. He worked very hard to get the bank up and running again."

  "Yes, he did. And none of the bank's customers lost a dime. The man's a saint."

  I wondered if she'd think Del was a saint if she knew he was Harold's lover. Naturally I didn't ask. "He's definitely that."

  "Oh, but Daisy, did you bring your board? I need to talk to Rolly. I'm just so upset about Jackson and all the awful things that have been happening lately. And then Stacy told me it's all my own fault. Well, I just don't know!"

  Before she could get to wailing again—Mrs. P was a first-class wailer—I hurriedly removed the Ouija board from its splendid star-dappled wrapper (sewn by my very own hands and the White side-pedal sewing machine I gave to Ma one year) and set it on the table next to Mrs. Pinkerton's chair. I pulled up one of the beautiful Louis-the-Whateverth chairs in the room and sat across from her, and we began conversing, via the board, with good old Rolly.

  Rolly told Mrs. Pinkerton everything she wanted to hear, bless his nonexistent heart, and Mrs. Pinkerton was in a much better mood when I left her than when I'd arrived. I managed to scram out of her drawing room not too long after twelve thirty or thereabouts. I looked around for Harold for a few minutes, but didn't see him. Deducing from this that he was either gone or in the kitchen, wheedling my aunt out of food, I walked to the kitchen, where I saw neither Harold nor Aunt Vi. Huh. Although I wondered where Vi was—she was generally firmly ensconced in Mrs. P's kitchen—I didn't bother looking for her, but left the house in something of a dilemma.

  As I drove down Mrs. P's drive toward the open gate, I pondered whether or not to visit the police station and see if Sam was there. He might not be. Or he might be. Whether he was or wasn't, he might not want to hear anything about anyone named Enoch Billingsgate.

  And besides all that, I was starving to death. Not literally, but it was my lunch time, and I was hungry. But what the heck. I owed both Mrs. Hastings and Mrs. Pinkerton a good deal, and I didn't mind martyring myself in a good cause. So I drove to the police station on Fair Oaks and Union, parked, and pushed through the double swing doors. The uniformed officer sitting behind the reception desk was a fellow I recognized, although I didn't know his name.

  "I need to speak with Detective Sam Rotondo if he's here," I said in my most formal voice. I'd kind of created a scene a couple of months prior in this very room, so I wore my dignity around me rather like a cloak for this visit. The man didn't snicker, so I guess my pose worked.

  "He's here," said the policeman, whose name tag said he was Officer Crabtree. Boy, I wouldn't want to be named Crabtree. Gumm had been hard enough on me as I was growing up. "Do you want to just go to his room?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  So the officer rose from his chair, walked to the door leading to the various offic
es in the police station, and unlocked the door. I walked in, went up the staircase and headed for Sam's room. When I opened the door, Sam was there along with two of his fellow detectives. They all turned to look at me, which they always did, and which always embarrassed me. Naturally, Sam scowled.

  I walked to his desk and sat in the chair beside it. "Good afternoon, Sam."

  "What's good about it?" he asked, which was typical of him.

  "For one thing, I have the name of a crook I think you need to investigate. According to my sources, he's in charge of a fake financial consortium dealing with real estate in Dade County, Florida."

  Sam just stared at me for a second or three. It felt like eternity. Then he said, "Florida?"

  "Florida."

  "Criminy."

  "Yes, precisely. He might—or he might not—also be in the Klan." Nobody'd said word one about Mr. Billingsgate and the Klan, but there couldn't be that many fat, red-headed villains running around Pasadena. Could there? It would be nice if he were a crook and a cyclops, because then Sam could arrest him and kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.

  He suddenly rose from his chair, which skreaked across the floor. "Let's go to lunch. You can explain it all to me over noodles at the chop suey place."

  Sounded like a good idea to me. My stomach, which growled loudly at that moment, appreciated it as well. So I rose, too, and we both headed to the door. Sam called to his cohorts over his shoulder, "Out to lunch. Back soon." He spoke like a sign hanging on a doorknob. But at least he seemed willing to listen to me. He grabbed his coat from the stand beside the door, plopped his hat on his head, and shrugged into his coat as we descended the stairs.

  It was a short walk to the Crown Chop Suey Parlor on Fair Oaks Avenue. Sam and I had dined there several times before. The place had good food, and I was more than ready for it.

  When we were inside the restaurant, Sam greeted several other men, some uniformed and some not, who sat at various tables. I gathered the place was regularly populated by lunching policemen. It was close to the station, so that made sense.