by Alice Duncan
"I went to see Jackson at the hospital, and Carl Simmons told me what you were up to," said Sam, sounding as if everything that had ever gone wrong in the City of Pasadena during his tenure at the police department was all my fault. He would.
"And this Enoch Petrie, who was calling himself Enoch Billingsgate, also tried to bilk a bunch of Pasadena residents out of their hard-earned money by selling them swampland in Florida and calling it development property," I said, hoping to distract everyone from my own actions of the day. In all fairness, perhaps I'd been a wee bit rash. But I couldn't have just walked away from those two women as they were being threatened with guns, could I? No, darn it. I couldn't.
"My goodness gracious," said Ma faintly.
"Mercy sakes," said Vi, also a trifle faint.
"You did a good job, Daisy," Pa said, and finally a member of my family smiled at me.
"Thanks, Pa."
"We were on our way," grumbled Sam.
"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" I snapped back.
The telephone rang. It was our ring. Everyone at the table looked at me. I slumped in my chair for a couple of seconds, but I knew where my duty—not to mention my livelihood—lay, so I excused myself and went to the kitchen, where the telephone hung on the far wall, making a racket.
After heaving a huge sigh, I plucked the receiver from the cradle. "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."
"Daisy!"
I pulled the ear piece away from my head in order to save my hearing. I heard a couple of clicks on the wire, signifying that a couple of our party-line neighbors had hung up.
"One moment, please, Mrs. Pinkerton," said I. "Mrs. Barrow, please hang up your receiver."
"Well, really!" said an irate New York accent. But the stupid woman hung up her receiver.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Pinkerton. Did you wish to speak to me?" Silly question, but oh, well.
"Oh, yes, Daisy! I'm so thankful that you managed to thwart those evil men! And I understand that Billingsgate person is in jail because of you! You're so brave!"
Gee, maybe I should get my family into the kitchen so they could listen to the woman gush my praises. "Thank you, Mrs. Pinkerton. But I really didn't do much." Huh.
"Oh, yes, you did. Harold told me all about it!"
"Harold told you?" How the heck did Harold learn about the incident at the Jacksons' home?
"Yes, he did! He went to the hospital to see Jackson, and all sorts of people where there singing your praises. You're a true heroine!"
"Um... thank you."
"And Mr. Pinkerton was right about that dreadful Billingsgate fellow. He's a low crook, and his name isn't even Billingsgate."
"No. It's Petrie."
"You simply must come to the party I'm holding next Tuesday! I want all my friends to learn about your bravery. Why, this is... what? The fourth or fifth time you've solved a vicious crime?"
"Well, I wouldn't put it precisely like that—"
"I would! You're simply too wonderful, Daisy! Do say you'll come on Tuesday. And bring that detective fellow with you. He can tell everyone about how you foiled the villains!"
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Mrs. Pinkerton. Detective Rotondo is a very busy man, and he doesn't always approve of my involvement in thwarting criminals."
"Nonsense! Tell him to come on Tuesday. Eight o'clock. We'll have dinner, and then you and that Rotund fellow can tell us all about the iniquitous behavior of that wretched Klan."
Feeling beleaguered—not an unaccustomed feeling when dealing with Mrs. Pinkerton—I said, "I'll be happy to come on Tuesday. And I'll try to get Detective Rotondo to go, too."
"Thank you, dear! Darling Del had just discovered that Florida consortium to be shady, and then you went and caught the culprits! This is so exciting!"
Exciting, was it? And darling Del? If Mrs. Pinkerton ever figured out the true relationship between Delray Farrington and her son, Harold Kincaid, I wondered how darling she'd consider Del. But never mind. This was the second time that Del had helped save Mrs. Pinkerton from financial disaster.
"Do you think you can visit me tomorrow, Daisy? Just to use the Ouija board?"
Darn her! I considered for a moment. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and I had other things I wanted to do with my Wednesday, not the least of which was to let Miss Petrie know that the Klan in Pasadena had been squashed. I hoped. But really, if the exalted cyclops was in prison for murder, surely it couldn't continue. Could it?
I'd learned long ago that the stupidity of people could be vast, so I guessed I'd better ask Sam about the Klan as it related to Pasadena.
"I won't be able to visit you tomorrow, Mrs. Pinkerton, but I'll come at ten on Thursday, and I'll be happy to attend your party next Tuesday."
"Oh, very well." She sounded disappointed. Too bad. "Thank you, dear. You're a true heroine."
"Thank you." And I replaced the receiver on its hook and went back to the dinner table.
Naturally, everyone gazed at me speculatively when I entered the room. I focused on Sam.
"Hey, Sam, want to go to a party at the Pinkertons' next Tuesday? They want to grill the two of us like little fishies about the Klan affair."
I didn't deserve the glare I got from Sam.
However, when he said, "Yeah. Why not?" I darned near fell over in a dead faint.
The End
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SPIRITS ONSTAGE
A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery
Book Eight
Excerpt from
Spirits Onstage
A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery
Book Eight
by
Alice Duncan
"Aha! Here are some other folks you know. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings."
Oh, dear. I did indeed know Mrs. Hastings. I'd never actually met Mr. Hastings, although he'd banned me from his law offices a year or so prior, when I was in pursuit of a murderer. Not that I pursue murderers on a regular basis, you understand. It just worked out that way.
"Mrs. Majesty! How lovely to see you this evening." Laura Hastings, whose only son had died several months before this—which was why I'd been in Mr. Hastings' law offices—was delighted to see me. I could tell.
"It's wonderful to see you, too," I said, trying to ignore her husband's glare.
"And here's Detective Sam Rotondo," said Harold, not mincing words this time.
I saw Mr. Hastings' lips writhe a little before he unbent. As well he should have. If not for Sam and me, he'd have been fleeced of a good deal of money and his son's murderer would never have been apprehended.
"How do you do, Mrs. Majesty. Detective Rotondo." His voice softened when he spoke Sam's name. "I appreciate the good work you people did in breaking up that land swindle."
"You're welcome," said Sam. Stolidly, I'm sure I needn't add. He shook hands with both of the Hastings.
"Oh, and there's Connie and Max Van der Linden!" Harold cried with glee.
He hauled me over to a younger couple. I resisted slightly, but only because the couple's last name sounded German to me, and I'd held a grudge against Germans ever since they all but murdered my Billy. Irrational, I know. But I'm just a lowly human, and humans are irrational creatures.
Harold, who knew me well, leaned close and whispered in my ear, "They're Dutch, so you're free to like them if you want to."
I poked him in the ribs, but didn't respond. Sam, the rat, smiled slightly. I saw him. Well, I guess it was better than his usual scowl.
Harold said effusively, "Connie and Max, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Majesty and Detective Sam Rotondo. Daisy's the one I told you about, Connie."
The Van der Lindens were an attractive couple. He was tall and lean, and she was a little taller than I am—I'm five feet, four inches—and also lean. They both look fresh-faced and as if they didn't strive to achieve boredom. I instantly liked them for it—and the fact they weren't German—an
d smiled.
"How do you do?" I asked them both together.
"I'm so very happy to meet you, Mrs. Majesty. Harold has told us all about you. I understand you sing!" Mrs. Van der Linden grabbed my hand and pumped it as if she expected water to gush from my mouth.
Her words startled me. "Sing? Me?" I glanced at Harold, puzzled, but he only grinned more broadly.
"She has a good voice," said Sam. That startled me, too. Sam wasn't given to complimenting people, especially me.
"Sing? Well . . . I sing in the choir at the First Methodist-Episcopal Church, but I'm only an alto."
"Can you sing contralto?" asked Mr. Van der Linden. He, too, appeared rather avid.
What was going on here? And what in the world was a contralto? I vaguely remembered reading about a contralto in a Sherlock Holmes story, but darned if I could remember which one.
"I... I don't know. What's a contralto?" Then I felt stupid.
But the Van der Lindens only laughed. The mister said, "I'm sorry. You must think we've gone 'round the bend. But you see, we're interested in putting together a little musical operetta company. We're thinking of staging light operas like The Merry Widow and perhaps some of Gilbert and Sullivan's works."
"What fun," I said, still confused. Did they want the lowly me to sing in their operettas? Actually... that did sound like fun. "I loved The Merry Widow, when I saw it at the Shakespeare Club."
"Daisy is a wonderful seamstress, too," said Harold, sounding coy.
Was he volunteering me for something? I slipped him a glance. He looked innocent. I considered this a very bad sign.
"Oh, how marvelous!" cried Ms. Van der Linden, clasping her hands to her more or less nonexistent bosom.
"But—"
Didn't work. Harold interrupted me. "I'm a marvelous baritone," said he with his customary modesty (I'm joking).
"Yes, you are," said Mrs. Van der Linden, giggling. On her a giggle sounded just about right.
"Do you sing, Inspector?" Mr. V asked Sam.
"Detective," said Sam. "Not really."
"I beg your pardon. Detective. You have a deep voice. I'd bet, if I were a betting man, that you'd sing bass."
"Maybe," said Sam, as voluble as ever.
"Let's discuss this more after dinner," Harold suggested. "I want to introduce Daisy and Sam to a couple of other people."
He tugged on my arm, and I lurched after him, bringing Sam along with me. "Harold Kincaid, is this why your mother has been in such a lather this past week? Did she want to get me to sing in some stupid operetta?"
"That would be telling," said Harold with a laugh.
I wasn't sure I approved of this nonsense, and I was certain Sam didn't. His scowl could have wilted roses.
Spirits Onstage
by
Alice Duncan
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Spirits Onstage
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Alice Duncan expressed her creative side by dancing and singing in an effort to avoid what she knew she should be doing with her life (writing sounded so hard). She belonged to two professional international folk-dance groups and participated in a Balkan women's choir where she sang the tenor drone. In her next life, she'd like to come back as a soprano.
Alice finally gave into writing in October of 1992 and sold her first title in January of 1994. That book, One Bright Morning, was published by HarperCollins in January of 1995 and won the HOLT Medallion for best first book.
In September of 1996, Alice and her herd of wild dachshunds moved from Pasadena, CA, to Roswell, NM, where her mother's family settled fifty years before the aliens crashed.
Alice's favorite part about writing is that she can portray the world the way it should be instead of the way it is. She hopes she can continue to write forever!
You can visit Alice at www.aliceduncan.net
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Excerpt from SPIRITS ONSTAGE (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 8)
Meet the Author
