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

by Alice Duncan

  "Yes, he was," she said, sounding indignant. I didn't blame her for that.

  "But he doesn't know who followed him?"

  "No, but he thinks that Billingsgate creature had one of his minions follow him."

  The man had minions, did he? I envied him a little. "I see. Um... how many people does Mr. Billingsgate have in his employ? Do you know?"

  After taking a moment or two to think over my question, Mrs. P said, "Well... I'm not sure they're actually employed by him. I do believe they're Pasadena men who are investing in the Florida plan. Only they're... not wealthy. In fact, they might be as unsuspecting as some of the other men in the group, although how anyone with half a brain can look at Mr. Billingsgate and not know him as a villain amazes me."

  "I see. I think I understand." Billingsgate had himself a couple of henchmen who were too stupid to realize he was a crook and who did his bidding, probably believing they were performing good deeds. I wondered if one of his minions had shot at me that morning. But no. I think this morning's to-do had to do with the Klan. And the Klan might or might not have anything to do with Enoch Billingsgate. The fact that he said he was from a southern state made me lean toward the Klan side of the equation as far as he went, but that was complete supposition on my part. It wasn't evidence, as Sam so delighted in pointing out to me.

  "Do you think Algie is in any danger? What with all the horrid things going on around here lately, I'm not sure what to think, myself."

  "I... don't know. It's difficult to believe anyone would wish Mr. Pinkerton harm. He's so..." I searched my occasionally agile brain for a good word to describe Mr. P. Innocuous? Jolly? Bland? Innocent? Stupid? I didn't think Mrs. P would appreciate any of those. Anyhow, Mr. P clearly wasn't stupid, or he couldn't have helped save the bank when his help was needed. "He's so nice. I can't imagine anyone wanting to harm him." Very well, so nice wasn't a great word. He was nice.

  "Yes," said Mrs. Pinkerton. "But Jackson is nice, too, and he's in the hospital nursing a gunshot wound."

  "True. But Mr. Pinkerton isn't a Negro. It was probably a member of the KKK who shot Jackson." Then again, I wasn't a Negro, either, and someone had shot at me. I just hated what was going on in my beautiful home town!

  "I wouldn't put it past Mr. Billingsgate to belong to that awful Klan," said Mrs. P in as stern a voice as I'd ever heard issue from her mouth.

  "I was thinking the same thing," I told her because it was the truth. "If he's truly from Florida, he might just belong to the Klan." Being from a southern state didn't account for the Pasadenans who were stupid enough to join the Klan, but why bother with reason? Mrs. P and I agreed on the Klan issue, and I appreciated her for it.

  "I'm going to visit Jackson after I leave your house," I said, figuring it wouldn't hurt to mention my benevolence. Which reminded me I probably ought to take something to Jackson and not show up in his room empty-handed. Well, I'd think about that later.

  "That's kind of you, Daisy. I haven't been to see him, but Quincy Applewood has."

  Quincy Applewood, who worked for Mr. P in his stables, was married to my good friend Edie, who worked as Mrs. P's lady's maid.

  "That's nice of Quincy."

  "Yes. He's a good boy. I don't know what we'd do without Quincy and Edie."

  That was good to hear.

  I took my leave of Mrs. Pinkerton then, and walked down the hall, through the servants' door, and into the kitchen, where my aunt reigned supreme. "Hey, Aunt Vi!" I said to her back. She was stirring something on the range when I entered her kingdom.

  "Daisy!" she cried, turning and beaming at me. I did love my aunt. "Are you going to be visiting Jackson any time soon?"

  Slightly taken aback, I said, "Why, yes. I aimed to visit him right after I stop by the Salvation Army to see Flossie and Johnny."

  "Oh, good. I made some cookies for you to take to him in the hospital. Scotch shortbread. I already know he loves my Scotch shortbread."

  "Who doesn't?" I asked, my mouth beginning to water. But really. If you've never tasted my aunt's Scotch shortbread, your life isn't yet complete.

  "Yes, yes, I made some for the family, too," said Vi, laughing at me. "Here. You can have one of the family's batch now. But don't eat any of Jackson's."

  "Thanks, Vi! I promise I won't eat any of Jackson's cookies."

  And I didn't. I was extremely cautious as I drove south on Fair Oaks to the Salvation Army, searching for and not finding the automobile that had crept past me that morning. I parked the Chevrolet on the street directly in front of the Salvation Army's front door and raced thereto, looking in all directions as I did so. No sinister car, thank God.

  Unfortunately for me, all that running and looking didn't help me a single bit. Flossie and Johnny and, I presume, their baby, William, weren't there. They were undoubtedly on a Pasadena street corner, playing "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and trying to recruit sinners into their benevolent fold.

  Nuts. I raced back to the car, still searching for evildoers and finding none. Then I drove to the Castleton Hospital. I positioned the sign Sam had given me on the dashboard of the Chevrolet, and parked as close to the hospital's front door as I could get. Then, holding the plate of shortbread to my chest, I ran like a bunny to the hospital's doors. The lady at the reception desk peered at me oddly, but I tried not to let her expression bother me.

  Since I already knew the number of Jackson's room, I walked up the stairs and went directly there. Carl Simmons sat in a chair outside Jackson's room. When he saw me, he rose from his chair and smiled at me. "Mornin', Mrs. Majesty. Joseph'll be might pleased to see you."

  "Good morning, Mr. Simmons. I brought him some of my aunt's shortbread cookies. Aunt Vi baked them especially for Mr. Jackson."

  "That's mighty kind of the both of you."

  "Jackson's been my friend for a long time, Mr. Simmons. It's awful, what those wicked people did to him."

  "Yes, ma'am. I agree with you on that one."

  When I walked into Jackson's room, I was surprised not to see Mrs. Jackson ruling it. Rather, a thin black man with huge glasses sat on a chair next to Jackson's bed. He rose when I entered the room and stared at me through the thick lenses of his spectacles. It looked to me as though Jackson was asleep.

  "Good morning," I whispered to the stranger. "I'm Mrs. Majesty, and I came to see how Mr. Jackson's doing."

  "Good morning, ma'am," the young man said. "I'm Marshall Armistead, a friend of the Jackson family."

  "Oh! You're the one who took the pictures!"

  He appeared pleased that I knew even that much about him. "Yes, ma'am. Photography is my hobby. I aim to turn it into my life's work."

  "Oh, my. How do you do plan on doing that?" Perhaps that wasn't altogether polite, but I wanted to know.

  "Have a seat, Mrs. Majesty," said Mr. Armistead.

  So I did, carefully setting the plate of cookies, covered with waxed paper, on the table next to Jackson's bed. "I'm really curious, Mr. Armistead. How do you go about making a career out of photography?"

  "I'm putting together a portfolio of my photographs. Then I'll send photographs to various venues. Lots of magazines and newspapers are using photographs these days. I'm hoping my color won't be a topic of concern, since they won't even know what I look like."

  His calm statement regarding the color of his skin and people's prejudices hit me in the heart. How awful it was for people to judge a person's character by the color of his skin. But Mr. Armistead was correct. If anyone knew he was a black man, his chances for employment at a good magazine were probably zero.

  "Oh, my, I'm sorry you have to go through that. It's not fair."

  He shrugged. "It's the way the world works. I'm just going to try to circumvent some of the problems by showing my work to folks without showing them my face, too. If they like my work, maybe they won't care that I'm a Negro."

  "Best of luck," I told him sincerely. "The photographs you took of the scene where Mr. Jackson was shot have been of tremendous
help to the Pasadena Police Department. I know, because I went through them myself with Detective Rotondo, and he put together a sensible pattern of how the events occurred by studying them."

  I got a smile from the serious Mr. Armistead for that. "Thanks for telling me."

  "I think I even know who the shooter was, but Sam—that's Detective Rotondo—requires proof. He doesn't think my guess, even though I believe it's a valid one, is enough evidence."

  With a chuckle, Mr. Armistead said, "Yeah, the police are like that."

  Conversation sort of stalled at that point. Mr. Armistead and I smiled at each other, but neither of us knew what to say. Well, I didn't, anyway. Not sure about him, but if he thought of anything to say, he didn't say it.

  Eventually, I said, "I'm surprised Mrs. Jackson isn't here. I expected to find her with her son."

  "Everyone expected her to be here," said Mr. Armistead, his countenance taking on a worried mien. "My mother went up to the Jacksons' place to see if she's all right."

  Alarmed, I said, "Does your mother think Mrs. Jackson may be ill?" Oh, dear. I suppose having one's son nearly murdered might cause any number of heart palpitations or whatever in a fond mother's bosom.

  "I think she's more worried about the Klan, to tell you the truth." No more smiles from Mr. Armistead. He was dead serious.

  That word, dead, gave me the shivers.

  "Oh, dear. I can't believe that awful organization has actually gained a foothold in Pasadena, California, of all places."

  He shrugged. "The Klan drove some of the Jackson family out of Tulsa, Oklahoma."

  "I know." I sighed, hating the knowledge.

  "Some folks are strange, I reckon."

  "I reckon."

  Mr. Armistead and I ceased speaking at that point, and I sat there, contemplating the Klan and the Jacksons. It was most unlike the Mrs. Jackson I'd sort of come to know not to be at her wounded son's bedside.

  "How long ago did your mother go to the Jacksons' place?" I asked after a space of silence.

  Shaking up his long sleeve and looking at his wristwatch, Mr. Armistead frowned. "An hour and a half. She should be back by now." He stood. "Maybe I'd better go and check."

  I stood, too. "No, I'll go. I need to get a recipe from Mrs. Jackson anyway, and I think it would be better if you're here when Mr. Jackson's wakes up." Don't ask me why I said that, because I didn't know, but a creepy feeling that something was wrong had begun slithering up my spine, and I didn't want this nice young man anywhere near the Jackson home if all wasn't right there.

  "Are you sure, Mrs. Majesty?" he asked, looking uncertain.

  "I'm sure. I need to visit her again anyway."

  "You'll be kind of conspicuous in that neighborhood," he said candidly.

  "Maybe, but I know Mrs. Jackson. In fact, we're in the same profession."

  His eyes widened behind his spectacle's lenses. "You're a voodoo mambo?"

  I grinned. "Your mother and Mrs. Jackson call me a white mambo."

  And then Mr. Armistead gave me an eye-roll that reminded me so much of Sam Rotondo, I nearly laughed. However, the circumstances didn't seem to call for humor, so I only pulled out the juju Mrs. Jackson had given me, and said, "Don't worry. I have my luck always with me."

  "I expect Joseph was wearing one of those things when he got shot, too. Better not depend on it too much." Mr. Armistead's voice was as dry as alum.

  "You're right. I won't. It was good to meet you. Best of luck in your chosen career."

  "Thank you."

  We shook hands across the sleeping Jackson, and I departed his room. I bade Mr. Simmons farewell, too, and decided it wouldn't hurt if he knew where I was going. You know; in case I never came back.

  "Be careful," he advised me.

  "I will be," I assured him.

  I left the hospital's double fronted glass doors at a dead run and got to my Chevrolet so fast, I'd probably have won a race had anyone been running with me.

  Then I made my way across California Boulevard, where the hospital was located, turned north on Lincoln Avenue, and tootled my way up to Mentone. I was still gazing around for big, black, slow-moving automobiles, but it wasn't until I found the Jacksons' house that I noticed, parked right smack in front of it, the very same machine from which someone had taken a shot at me only a few hours earlier.

  Chapter 24

  If anyone had been walking on Mentone, I'm sure he or she would have heard my cry of alarm. Fortunately for me, the street was deserted. Made sense. Most everyone in this neighborhood worked away from home during the day. Later, after my heart stopped trying to leap out of my chest, I realized how different life was for the black people in Pasadena from the lives of most of the rest of us. Except for us Gumms and Majestys. Most white women stayed home during the day to do their housework and cooking. The black population of my fair city didn't have that option. Life was totally unfair. But I'd known that for years.

  However, at that moment in time, I thought not of fairness. I thought of gunmen. And I thought I knew where they were. If there was more than one, and I thought there must be since the fellow who shot at me hadn't been the same fellow driving the automobile from which he (the shooter) fired.

  Good God. What to do now?

  Well, for one thing, I got myself out of there. I drove past the Jacksons' house without pause, and turned right at the corner of the street where Mentone ended, which was called Zanja. I pulled over and stopped the Chevrolet, and allowed myself to panic for several minutes.

  What to do?

  Drive to the police department?

  Would Sam listen to me?

  But that was the car from which I'd been shot at!

  Same question: would Sam listen to me? I, who hadn't bothered to look at the number plate on the automobile as it cruised past Spike and me?

  If I went to the police department, would I be deserting Mrs. Jackson and/or Mrs. Armistead?

  Well... yeah. I would be.

  Very well. I, a white woman, was an outsider in this neighborhood and might perhaps be a trifle conspicuous walking on Mentone Avenue if I went to the Jacksons' home to see what was going on in there.

  On the other hand, as mentioned above, most of the residents of Mentone were at work elsewhere that late September morning.

  And I could sneak. At least I thought I could.

  Taking my courage in both hands—which didn't leave a whole lot of fingers left over with which to touch my juju, although I managed—I exited the Chevrolet and very quietly shut the door. Then I assessed my options. I was, darn it, on the wrong side of the street to sneak up to the back of the Jackson home. I'd have to cross Mentone to do that, and what if those awful men saw me? I'd be one dead Daisy.

  I should have turned left on Zanja, but my brain had been sending off alarm bells when I got to the end of Mentone, and my thought patterns had scrambled. Should I turn the Chevrolet around and park on the other side of Zanja where it crossed Mentone?

  That would make a lot of noise.

  On the other hand, it would get me to the correct side of the street from which to spy.

  I commanded my brain to stop whirling and think. My brain didn't pay any more attention to my commands than Sam generally did, curse it. I reminded myself that I'd thwarted a vicious criminal a month or so ago by sticking him up with a pair of chopsticks. That had been ingenious, hadn't it?

  Well, yes, but only until the crook whacked my arm and I dropped the chopsticks.

  But then I ran like a streak and managed to foil not merely that villain but two others, cracking a drug-smuggling ring and solving a murder in the process.

  That particular villain hadn't been armed with anything more lethal than his fists. The guys who might or might not be in the Jacksons' house had already shot Jackson and Mr. Merton, tried to shoot me, and had probably smothered Officer Petrie. Mind you, Officer Petrie might have deserved his grisly fate, but neither Jackson nor I did. And neither did either Mrs. Jackson or Mrs. Armistead
, whom I expected were in the Jackson house.

  Bother.

  I don't know how long I stood there, debating my choices of various evils, but I finally decided to attempt to sneak up to the Jacksons' house from the rear—which entailed crossing Mentone in full view of God and anyone else who might be watching—and see if I could figure out what was going on in there. If I saw a crime happening, I could... what? Run to the Chevrolet and drive hell for leather to the police department? Bang on a neighbor's door and ask to use the telephone? A glance upward told me that nobody on that section of Mentone had telephone service. Shoot. I mean shucks. The notion of shooting didn't appeal at that moment.

  Very well. I was going to be a brave Daisy Gumm Majesty and see if I could affect a rescue, should one be required. If I peeked through a window and saw Mrs. Jackson and Mrs. Armistead dead in a welter of their own blood, I'd faint.

  No, I wouldn't! Darn it, I'd help them! Unarmed. Against men with guns. Or at least one man with a gun.

  I decided it would be best if I'd just stop thinking entirely and walk across Mentone and see if I could access an alleyway that would lead me past the rear of the Jacksons' house. So I did. Walk across Mentone, I mean. However, once I got (in one piece) to the other side of the street and scooted as fast as I could past the first house on the corner of Mentone and Zanja, I found no handy alleyway.

  Blast! That meant I'd have to tromp through people's back yards. I hoped none of the Jacksons' neighbors had any vicious dogs chained up outside. Or any vicious residents, for that matter.

  But never mind all that. I shoved my way through hedges and bushes—fortunately, nobody'd bothered to build fences around their properties—and made my sticky way to the back of the Jacksons' house. I knew it was their house, because I'd actually managed to count houses, in spite of my state of terror.

  So. There I was, at the very back of the Jacksons' property. Now what?

  Bearing in mind that someone with a firearm might be looking out the windows, checking for snoopy people, I decided I'd just have to sacrifice my beautiful imitation Worth creation, and crawled from the very back of the Jacksons' yard to the back porch. I could feel beads snagging on bushes as I crawled, and I cursed the man or men in that house holding Mrs. Jackson and/or Mrs. Armistead hostage. If they were there. By that time, I prayed they were so I wouldn't have sacrificed my gorgeous gown in vain.