by Alice Duncan
The meal was delicious. I was especially fond of the spareribs they served.
After we'd all eaten more than we should have, and finished off several pots of tea and a dozen or more almond cookies, we went to the Crown Theater. There, as mentioned before, we saw Douglas Fairbanks and Marjorie Daw in Knickerbocker Buckaroo. A one-reel comedy accompanied the featured picture. I wasn't actually in the mood for a slapstick comedy, mainly because my mind kept dwelling on how I was going to tell Billy I aimed to spend the following night away from him. It wasn't going to be easy. I'd never done anything like it before.
I think what was really bothering me was the thought of suicide. Ever since I'd spoken the word in connection with Marianne Wagner, I'd been thinking of it in connection with Billy himself.
He'd never commit suicide, would he? I couldn't imagine it, although I knew he was unhappy and in terrible pain. The truth was that he wouldn't have been the first shell-shocked veteran of the Great War to kill himself. What an abysmal legacy from an atrocious conflict. Even during the picture, I couldn't drive away the notion of my Billy taking his own life. It kept spinning in my head until I wanted to cover my ears and scream in order to drive it out.
As Sam ushered us all into his automobile-he had supported Billy into the theater, as he'd done into the restaurant-I knew I should be grateful to him. After all, it was a real pleasure for Billy when we got to go out. Since it was so difficult for him to get around, when we went to the pictures we usually visited the two motion-picture theaters that were within walking distance of our house, and I'd push him in his wheelchair. This outing must have been like an exciting adventure to poor Billy.
Which brought my stubborn mind back to the subject of suicide, exactly as I didn't want it to. Because I couldn't stand it and hoped to divert myself, I said, “Anybody want to go back to our house and have some cocoa and cookies?” We always had cookies, thanks to Aunt Vi.
“We can do better than cookies,” said Vi, bless her heart. “I brought half of a chocolate layer cake home from Mrs. Kincaid's house today, since she and Mr. Pinkerton are going to be away for a few days.”
“Sounds great to me,” said Sam.
“Me, too,” said Billy.
Pa, Ma, Aunt Vi, and I all agreed to it, so we traipsed back to our house on Marengo. The hot cocoa was comforting on that cold fall evening, and Aunt Vi's chocolate layer cake couldn't be beat.
After downing a cup of cocoa and a thin sliver of cake, I slumped back against our old sofa and sighed, feeling sleepy and tired and better than I'd felt during the rest of our evening out. There was something about chocolate layer cake and cocoa that could drive even worries about suicide away. I savored the feeling, because I knew it would only last for however long I could keep from telling Billy my plans regarding Mrs. Bissel's kitchen.
It was Sam who brought up the sore subject of Marianne Wagner's disappearance again. He did it in a roundabout way that was more disconcerting than if he'd come right out and asked me if I suspected her of hiding out in Mrs. Bissel's basement. I should have expected it. Sam never did anything I wanted him to, and he was forever doing things I didn't want him to do.
With a resumption of his squinty-eyed stare, he said, “So, Mrs. Majesty, have you managed to remove the ghost from that lady's house?”
I heaved a huge sigh and steeled my nerves. “Not yet.” Hoping to divert him-which never worked, but I couldn't not try-I asked generally, “Anybody want more cocoa?”
Nobody did, blast them.
“She keeps going up to her house, though,” Billy said. His tone was light, but I sensed the disapproval in it. I suppressed another sigh.
“Do you really think something's living in her basement?”
Sam had asked the question, and it sounded innocent on the surface, but I knew better. Nothing about Sam Rotondo was innocent. When I glanced around our living room, I saw all eyes fixed upon me. With as much nonchalance as I could summon, I said, “Sure, there's something there. I think it's probably a stray cat. Or maybe an opossum. I meant to bring a trap with me today, but I forgot it.”
“You're going into the extermination business?” Sam again.
Nuts to him. “Who said anything about exterminating it? If it is a wild creature living down there, I don't aim to kill it. I'll trap it and then figure out how to move it from Mrs. Bissel's basement to the foothills. Or something.” I felt like sticking my tongue out at him, which pretty much shows the effect he had on me. I reverted to behaving like a three-year-old every time I was in his company.
“If it's a skunk, I doubt that you'll want to drive it up to the foothills,” Billy said.
Glad for this diversion, I laughed and lied, “Golly, I hadn't even thought about skunks. You're right, though. It would probably object, and when a skunk gets mad at you, you don't want to linger in its vicinity.”
Everybody laughed except Sam, who was still looking at me with his piercing brown eyes. Darn it, what did he think, anyhow? That I'd spirited Marianne Wagner out of her parents' home and into Mrs. Bissel's basement all by myself? Probably. He was like that, and he always suspected me of wrongdoing. I'd managed to work myself into a pretty good self-righteous state of annoyance when the irritating man finally rose to leave.
Just as I was congratulating myself on enduring another session with Sam without the two of us coming to physical blows, he asked, “May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Majesty?”
I'd joined Ma and Aunt Vi in picking up plates and cups, and I darned near dropped my favorite teacup when I heard the question. Swirling around, I stared at the detective, feeling guilty. Darn it, I hated that. Knowing I was, as yet, innocent of keeping anything at all from the police, I mentally smacked myself and told myself to calm down. “Sure,” I said. “How come?”
“I just have a question or two about Miss Wagner.”
“But I don't even know her.”
He smiled, and I decided I'd best just let him ask his questions. Maybe it's because of how we met, but I always felt like a criminal around Sam in those days, even when I had nothing to be condemned for, which was the case in that instance.
Feeling mistreated as well as misunderstood, I left Ma and Aunt Vi to finish cleaning up and walked out to the front porch with the detective. “What do you want to ask me?” I said, adopting a faintly hostile attitude, which I deemed appropriate.
He didn't beat around the bush. “Do you have any reason to suspect that Marianne Wagner is living in Mrs. Bissel's house?”
I managed to look shocked. I was shocked, although for a reason I wasn't about to admit to Sam. I hadn't expected him to jump to the conclusion I'd jumped to, much less come right out and voice my suspicions aloud. “What? Why should I believe that, for Pete's sake?”
He eyed me without speaking for several seconds. It was darned cold out there on the front porch, and I hadn't bothered to put on a sweater. “Well?” I demanded. “What makes you think Marianne's in Mrs. Bissel's house? Do you know something I don't know? Anyhow, it doesn't make any sense. Why should she be there? Is Mrs. Bissel a friend of the Wagners?”
After several heartbeats, Sam said, “I don't know. I just think the timing is awfully coincidental.”
“The timing?” I hugged myself hard, hoping to warm up some. “What about the timing? What do you mean by timing?”
“She disappeared, and all of a sudden one of your clients has a ghost in her basement. The two events strike me as too strangely coincidental to be unrelated.”
“Shoot, Detective Rotondo, you've been working too hard. You're beginning to see suspicious things everywhere.”
He grunted. “Maybe. But if you know anything-anything at all-about the disappearance of Marianne Wagner, you could be arrested for obstructing justice if you don't tell the police about it.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake! I don't even know the girl, and I'm certainly not keeping anything from the police.” That was the truth, as far as it went, and I was grateful to be able to exhibit hon
est indignation. “How come you always think I'm doing something wrong, anyhow?”
His mouth screwed up into a moue of frustration. “I don't always think that. I'm only concerned about the Wagner girl. And I know you to be a woman with somewhat-shall we say flexible?-ethics.”
“No, we shall not! I am not a woman of flexible morals!” Now I was really angry. “That's not fair! My morals are not flexible at all!”
He looked up into a tree in supercilious disbelief, and I had a hard time not shouting at him. “What I do for a living helps people. Anyhow, my business is none of your business!”
He grunted again. I wished I really was a hardened criminal so I could kick him.
“I apologize,” he said unapologetically. “I'm sure you're a woman of the highest moral caliber.” I could tell he didn't mean a word of it.
“Darn you! I don't know why Billy likes you so much. You treat me like dirt!”
“Your husband is a good man, Mrs. Majesty.”
“Yes, he is. And so am I. A good woman, I mean.”
“Hmmm. At any rate, the police are very concerned about Miss Wagner's welfare. So are her parents. You can understand that, can't you?”
I didn't buy the part about her parents being concerned about her. Not her father, at any rate. I'm sure her mother was frantic. “Well, I don't know anything about her, so you can stop worrying on my behalf. Anyhow, if you think she's in Mrs. Bissel's house, why don't you go up there and search the place for yourself? Get a search warrant or whatever they call it.” I might lose a dachshund pup if he did, but who knew? Maybe they wouldn't be able to lure Marianne out of hiding any better than I could. If she was there at all, and I didn't know that.
“We have no reason to do so.”
“Then why are you accusing me of concealing her?”
“I'm not accusing you of anything.”
“You are, too!”
“Huh.”
“Huh, yourself.”
He sucked in a deep breath, and I could tell he was irked. He'd probably have liked to strangle me, which was fair, since I'd have liked to strangle him, too. “If you do hear or see anything, you'll tell me?”
“Of course, I will!” I tried to keep my voice down, but it was difficult, mainly because I was cold and furious and beginning to feel a trifle panicky. I mean, gee whiz, I didn't want to be arrested for obstructing justice. That sounded dreadful.
But I was jumping the gun. For all I knew, Marianne Wagner was alive and living in Paris, France, with a husband nobody knew about. Or she might have been murdered and buried in the foothills. It was a terrible thought, but it wasn't the first time I'd had it.
“Very well,” Sam said, overtly unsatisfied.
“Thanks for the dinner and the picture,” I said stiffly. I didn't want to thank him for anything.
He slapped his hat on his head. “You're welcome.”
Even though it was cold and I was about to freeze solid, I watched him walk to his car and drive away. Darn him. I turned and stormed back into the house. Ma and Aunt Vi had already washed up the plates and cups, so I kissed them both good-night and went to the bedroom, still fuming.
The evening had already been stressful, so I decided to postpone what was surely going to be a disturbing scene with Billy until Saturday morning.
# # #
I was right about the scene. Billy was so angry when I told him about staying overnight at Mrs. Bissel's house, I feared for his blood pressure.
Pa had built a ramp from the back porch to the back yard, and we were there at the time. I was picking up the oranges that had blown down during the night and piling them into a bushel basket. Billy, unable to be of much help, was fuming in his wheelchair as he carried branches and twigs to the trash barrel next to the garage. I knew it was hard on Billy to be so helpless, and I tried always to remember that. Sometimes when he was being particularly unreasonable, as he was that day, I forgot myself and got mad at him.
“What do you mean, you're going to spend the night in Mrs. Bissel's kitchen?” he roared.
Ma only worked a half-day on Saturday, and Pa had taken our old, cranky horse, Brownie, out for a walk. Aunt Vi had the day off because her employer was away for a few days. She had taken a red car into downtown Los Angeles to do some shopping with two of her friends, so Billy and I were alone at the time of our scene.
He never roared when there were others at home with us, and I regretted having slept late that morning. But I'd had a hard time falling asleep the night before because thoughts of Marianne Wagner, Sam, and the obstruction of justice kept plaguing me.
And then, after I'd finally dropped off to sleep, the wind had awakened me, howling like a banshee around our house, rattling the windows, and ripping branches from trees. Every time I was about to drift off, I'd hear a tremendous crackling and rending sound, and my eyes would pop open as I imagined the big oak tree in the front yard toppling over and crushing us all as it smashed our house flat.
My skin itched, my nerves jumped, my head ached, and I knew we were in for it. The Santa Anas were blowing again, and life would be even crazier than usual for however long they lasted.
“It's only for the one night, Billy. I've got to trap whatever's living there when it's moving around, and it only moves at night.”
“That's nonsense.”
“It isn't, either. It's the only way I'm going to earn any money from this job!”
After a trip to the trash barrel, he wheeled himself closer to the orange tree. “You have no business pretending you're exorcizing a spirit if it's a 'possum. You have no business pretending to deal with spirits at all. You're earning money by lying to people, and it's a wicked thing to do.”
I'd picked up the bushel basket, but at that, I slammed it back down. “If you hate it so much, why don't you divorce me?”
Never, in spite of the anguish we put each other through every day, had either one of us ever mentioned divorce. Nobody in my family had ever been divorced for as far back as anyone could remember. The same held true for Billy's family. Therefore, when the ugly word popped out of my mouth, it shocked me as much as it did Billy. I remember that I even slapped a hand over my mouth.
Billy slowly turned his wheelchair around. His face was white and pinched. I knew he'd had a restless night, because I'd had one, too. As I looked at him that Saturday morning, I wished I'd ripped my tongue from my head before I'd said what I'd said.
“Is that what you want, Daisy?”
My throat was so tight, I couldn't talk, so I shook my head, my hand still pressed over my mouth. I was horrified to have said something so vicious to the only man I'd ever loved, even if our life together hadn't been exactly blissful. It sure bore no resemblance whatever to the average fairy-tale happily-ever-after marriage. But the fact was that even if I'd ever considered divorcing my husband, I couldn't have done it. I'd loved Billy my whole life. I'd sooner die than divorce him and leave him alone in the world.
“I'm no kind of husband to you,” he said. “You could do better. You could have a real marriage with another man.”
My hand fell away from my face and I swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the huge, painful lump in my throat. I shook my head again and managed to say, “Stop it.”
He cocked his head, and an ironic grin twisted his lips. “Stop what, Daisy?”
I felt something snap. I guess it was my restraint, because I flung myself at my husband, sobbing. “Stop talking like that! Oh, Billy, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it!”
His arms closed around me. My shoulders were heaving so hard, I knew I was probably hurting his legs, but I couldn't let go of him. “I love you so much, Billy! I hate fighting all the time!”
“I do too, Daisy.”
My nose began to run, and I managed to pull away from him as I dug in a pocket for a handkerchief. I know I looked a fright as I mopped my face and blew my nose. “Then let's not fight, Billy. Let's be nice to each other.”
He sighed. It wasn't a big sigh, becaus
e his lungs had been ruined by the Kaiser's mustard gas. I felt so guilty, I wrapped my arms around him again. “I'm so sorry, Billy. I don't know why I said that.”
“I do,” he said.
My heart sank. I knew he thought I wanted out of our marriage, but I didn't. “No, you don't. I love you, Billy. I'd never, ever leave you.”
“Huh.”
“But I get so angry when you carp at me about my job. It's not fair, Billy. I do what I have to do in order to earn money for us to live. I think you're unfair to me.”
Silence.
“It's not evil, what I do,” I said, becoming desperate and defensive. “It helps people cope with their problems and losses.”
More silence. It was almost like I was back in Mrs. Bissel's basement, trying to lure Marianne Wagner out into the open.
“It's the truth, Billy.” I wondered if I was protesting too much. But in spite of all evidence pointing to the fact that he would remain steadfast in his opposition to my spiritualistic career no matter how much good sense I used on him, I persevered. “People need to know that their loved ones are content on the other side of life, and that the ones they left behind aren't forgotten.”
“Christ, Daisy, do you know how loony that sounds?”
I withdrew from him and wiped away more tears. “I don't want to argue, Billy. I think you're unfair. I'm using the only skill I have to support us, and it's a better living than I could make as a sales clerk or a typist.”
He looked at me for a long time, his face expressionless. Only his eyes held a world of pain, and I almost broke down again. “I should be the one supporting us,” he said at last.
