by Alice Duncan
Emmaline had been seated at the beautifully set table, complete with a gorgeous flower arrangement in its middle, with her elbow on the table and her palm supporting her chin when we entered. As soon as the door opened, she got to her feet and headed to me with both her hands out.
"Daisy, it's so good to see you again," said she, beaming at me.
That was nice. "It's good to see you again, too, Emmaline." I beamed back at her. What the heck.
Harold rubbed his hands together. "What's on the menu today?" he said.
Del bumped him with a shoulder in a funning gesture one wouldn't necessarily expect from the extremely sober and proper Delray Farrington, who hailed from a fabulously wealthy family from New Orleans.
Which is kind of funny, because Mrs. Pinkerton's gatekeeper, Jackson, is also from New Orleans, only his family is black, so they probably were either owned by or waited on the Farringtons back in the day.
Oh, pooh. Forget I said that. Life isn't fair, never has been, and never will be, so it's almost not worth making note of the fact.
"But Daisy, I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Franbold," said Emmaline, taking my arm and leading Harold, Del and me to the table. "Was she really poisoned? At a communion service?"
To say I was surprised by this introduction to the luncheon table's conversation would be a major understatement.
Chapter 8
Before I could say anything, which was a good thing since words seemed to have fled from my brain, Emmaline gave some instructions to the dignified man in black, who bowed to her and left the room. By the time the door shut behind him, my words had returned. All I had to do then was put them in some kind of coherent order.
"You knew Mrs. Franbold?" I asked, surprised. I didn't know Mrs. Franbold had toddled around in such exalted company.
Emmaline cocked her head in seeming surprise. "Her granddaughter, Vivian Daltry's daughter Glenda, is a good friend of mine. She's engaged to marry Barrett Underhill. Vivian's husband, Ralph, is one of Grover Underhill's partners in their fertilizer company."
My face must have shown my opinion of Grover Underhill, because Emmaline laughed. "Yes, I know. Mr. Underhill is a horrible person, but Glenda and Barrett are very nice, and poor Glenda was most cut up about her grandmother's death."
"Yes, we all were. I mean the congregation of the First United Methodist-Episcopal Church were. Was. Whatever the correct tense is. Mrs. Franbold was a sweet woman." Then, because I couldn't stop myself, I blurted out, "Do you know that when Mrs. Franbold fell over at church, rather than try to catch her, Mr. Underhill actually jumped out of the way? He bumped into a bunch of other people, too. In fact," I said because I'd just then thought of it, "I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one who knocked Betsy Powell's tray over and made her spill communion grape juice all over the church carpeting."
"Communion grape juice?" Del asked, as if he couldn't help himself either.
"Yeah. We Methodists don't drink wine. And don't ask me why, because I don't know. Probably because alcohol used to cause so many problems when the Wesley brothers were around."
"It still does," said Harold, with a wry grin. "In fact, now that we're in the midst of Prohibition, alcohol is causing more problems than ever."
"Yes," I said. "Those bootleggers are killing each other—and lots of other people, too—right and left." Something occurred to me then and I asked Del, "Say, Del, do you Roman Catholics still use wine in your communion services?"
"Yes. It's communion wine."
"They got a special dispensation from the Pope," said Harold, his voice snide.
"I doubt the Pope has much political sway here in the good old US of A," I said.
"You're right," said Emmaline. "But I think the Episcopalians use wine, too. I'm sure they've been granted special permission or something."
"True," said Harold. "Mother goes to that Episcopal Church on Euclid. I think the pastor is Father Learned, but Father Frederick is Mother's preferred priest. In fact, I thought she might marry him after she dumped my father, but she chose Algie. Which is probably the better choice, because I can't see Mother as a minister's wife."
I couldn't either. In fact, my mind boggled even as I tried to picture Mrs. Pinkerton as benefactress to a bunch of Episcopalians. Or anyone else, for that matter. Because I couldn't think of anything cogent to say, I muttered, "I like Father Frederick." Truth. He was a great guy, and, as nearly as I could tell, kindhearted and non-judgmental, although I'd never been to services at All Saints, which was the church Harold meant. In pursuit of information, I did go there one day and tried to speak to Father Learned, but he was stone deaf and I didn't get very far.
"But forget the Episcopalians," said Emmaline impatiently. "What else happened that day, and do you know if Mrs. Franbold was actually poisoned? It must have been dreadful."
"It was." I gave a little shudder as I remembered the chaos of that morning. "Did you go to the funeral? I didn't see you there." Not that I meant to be judgmental myself. I only wondered.
"No. I wasn't able to attend, although I spoke to Glenda before and after the service. I guess all of Mrs. Franbold's children were upset. As were her grandchildren."
"Yes, they were. I met Mrs. Franbold's children, but I'm afraid I didn't get to meet Glenda, and I didn't see the Underhills there, either."
Emmaline sighed dolefully. "I've been having a horrid time with my chest," said she, patting same gently. "The doctor said I had tuberculosis on one lung, so I had to go into hibernation for nearly a year. It was awful."
"Tuberculosis? Oh, my goodness. I'm so very sorry!" The only people I knew of who'd ever had tuberculosis were dead. Sam's late wife sprang instantly to my mind.
With a cynical smile of her own, Emmaline said, "Yes, it's been awful. But thanks to my father's money, I got the very best treatment. In fact, I do believe I had to go into isolation shortly after your husband's funeral. I actually left your house and went directly home and to bed." She sighed. "What a bleak, unhappy day that was."
It sure came flooding back to me just then. In fact, it flooded back so fast and so furiously that I lost my appetite. Dang. And I'd been so looking forward to that special luncheon.
Harold must have noticed my change in demeanor because he slapped me on the back so hard, all my sorrows flew out of my mouth in a big "Whuff!" I turned on him. "Harold Kincaid, what was that for?"
"You got the dismals. I saw you. So I drove 'em out."
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry I brought it up, Daisy. What a stupid thing for me to talk about."
But Harold's whack had cured me. "No, it's all right. Yes, it was a miserable time in my life, but life goes on whether you want it to or not. And with Harold around, I don't dare sulk or anything."
"Better not," said Harold.
"You might try to be a little gentler next time," said Del, frowning at his beloved.
"Being gentle with Daisy doesn't work."
"Harold Kincaid! What a mean thing to say!" Then Emmaline Castleton laughed. It wasn't a genteel laugh, but a big, happy, contagious laugh, and we all joined in.
After we'd quieted down, Emmaline bade us seat ourselves, and asked again, "So do you think Mrs. Franbold was murdered? Glenda is worried that she was poisoned. Evidently her uncle, Charles Franbold, believes she was. Glenda is afraid someone will think Barrett did it."
"Why would anyone think that?" I asked, interested. I still didn't have an answer for her on the poison issue, because nobody'd bothered to tell me. Darn Sam Rotondo. "And why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Franbold? I thought everyone loved her."
"So did I, but Glenda is frightened to death." Emmaline sat there with her lips pursed for a second before she said, "She's worried that someone wanted to kill Mr. Underhill but got Mrs. Franbold by mistake."
"My goodness. Why would anyone want to kill Mr. Underhill?" I asked, puzzled.
"Because Mr. Underhill is such a beast to work for. In fact, he's just a beast. Treats everyone with contempt."
"E
ven you?" I asked, incredulous.
"Well, no, but that's only because my father has more money than he does." Emmaline produced an admirable sneer.
"How very odd," I said. "I mean, that's kind of twisted logic, isn't it? That someone would have wanted to murder Mr. Underhill during communion and got Mrs. Franbold instead. Isn't that kind of... well, not very likely?"
With a shrug, Emmaline said, "There's no accounting for people's thoughts, I reckon. And I honestly can feature why almost anyone would want to kill Mr. Underhill. He's just awful."
"Except to you," said I.
"Except to me," said she. "Because of my father and his buckets of moolah."
Miss Emmaline Castleton knew all about how money could buy things, like respect from the disgusting Mr. Grover Underhill. Her father's money had even bought entry into the United States for two young German folks. This, in spite of the scene I made at her home when she asked me to help the German soldier who'd tried to save her Stephen's life. But I'd had a young German woman of my own to save, so I really had no business screeching at Emmaline. I'd screeched anyway, and had been heartily ashamed of myself afterwards. Emmaline, however, had been a peach about the whole thing. And, as I'm sure you've noticed for yourself, money talks. It did then, it still does now, and now the United States possessed two newish immigrants from Germany cluttering it up. Actually, Hilda, the woman I saved from deportation, was as tidy a specimen of human womankind as you could find anywhere.
Life is so strange sometimes.
Back to the luncheon table. The waiter and a couple of minions arrived with soup for all of us and little individual plates with bread, butter, and a dollop of something black on it. I stared at that black dollop in a teensy bit of dismay. I knew from reading that rich folks loved caviar, but I wasn't keen on trying fish eggs myself.
Harold, who always seemed to know what I was thinking, said, "Don't worry. It's an olive tapenade. It's good smushed on the rolls and butter."
"I'd never force anyone to eat caviar," said Emmaline with a grimace. "Can't stand the stuff myself."
"I'm like that with oysters," said Del. "Oysters are practically a staple in New Orleans." He shuddered delicately.
I'd never eaten an oyster, either, but I'd never admit it to this trio of privileged people. After surreptitiously watching Harold deal with a roll, butter and some olive tapenade, I did the same thing. "Oh, this tastes like those olives we had in Egypt and Turkey, Harold!" Those olives were nothing like their tame cousins we usually eat in the USA.
"Indeed," said Harold with a blissful grin on his face.
I dipped into my soup, front to back with my spoon as my mother had taught me, and took a sip. "This is delicious, too," I declared. Then I felt a little silly.
"It's one of my favorites," said Emmaline after taking a sip of her own soup. "It's green pea soup."
"Hmm. It's not like my aunt's split-pea soup. That's much heavier and has ham in it."
"Yes. This is made with fresh green peas. Chef Armand, the head chef here, made it up and won't let go of the recipe. He'd probably endure torture and still not reveal it."
"Sounds silly to me," said Harold.
"I don't know," I said after taking another bite of delicious, sweet, fresh-tasting green-pea soup. "It's his bread and butter. So to speak. If everybody knew how to make it, it wouldn't be special any longer."
"Precisely," said Emmaline. "I don't begrudge him his recipe, but I made him promise to leave a copy for me in his will."
"Good idea," I said, laughing.
"It goes really well with the olive tapenade," I said after trying a bite of roll, butter and tapenade along with a sip of soup.
"Well-chosen meal, Emmaline," said Harold. "Depending, of course, on what you serve us next."
We didn't have to wait long. A second after Del, who ate more slowly than the rest of us, probably because of his southern-gentleman upbringing, put his spoon on the plate beside his soup and sighed, a host of waiters swarmed in, swept the soup and bread-and-butter plates off the table, and set before each of us a plate upon which sat a wide goblet filled with a thick red sauce and with whole cooked shrimp draped over the rim of the goblet, tail ends facing us and front ends dipping into the sauce.
"Oooh," breathed Harold, his hands clamped over his heart. "Shrimp cocktail. I knew I liked you for a good reason, Emmaline."
"For my food, you mean?" asked Emmaline with a laugh.
"Yes!" Harold picked up one of the lemon quarters residing on his plate next to his goblet, squeezed lemon juice on top of the red stuff, and then he proceeded to pick up a shrimp tail with his fingers and dip it into the sauce. "Heaven," he said with something of a moan after he'd chewed and swallowed.
What the heck. I'd never had shrimp cocktail either, so I followed Harold's example, squeezed a quarter of a lemon on top of what I found out later was the cocktail sauce, and dunked in a shrimp. Harold was right. If it wasn't precisely heaven, it came in a close second place.
"Another of my favorites," said Emmaline emulating Harold and me (and Del, too, by this time). "But this recipe is easy to find in almost any cooking book."
"Is it really?" My head lifted, and my gaze landed on Emmaline. Perhaps I'd have to pay another visit to the library sooner than I'd anticipated, if any cooking book had this recipe in it. Although I wasn't sure where Aunt Vi would find shrimps. Perhaps Jurgensen's, the rich-folks grocery store in Pasadena would have them, but they'd also probably cost a lot. Well, I'd just have to think about how to get my hands on some shrimps.
After the shrimp cocktail had been downed by one and all, I was full. But that didn't stop the industrious team of waiters. They swept in and out again, and another team brought in steaming plates of chicken a la king. It was good. Not as good as Aunt Vi's, but I didn't say so.
Harold did. "I think Daisy's aunt makes a flakier crust than this on her chicken a la king," he said with a judicious expression on his face after he swallowed his first bite.
Emmaline laughed again. "She probably does. Chef Armand is good with soup, but his pastry chef should probably take lessons from your aunt, Daisy."
"I don't know," said I, feeling a trifle embarrassed. "I think it's delicious."
"It is, indeed," said Del.
He was forever trying to undo perceived damage done by his more outspoken lover, Harold. But everyone who mattered already knew Harold and never held the things he said against him. At least I don't think they did.
After we'd demolished the chicken a la king and a delicious pudding bristling with coconut and pineapple, we all sat back in our chairs, stuffed.
"That was wonderful. Thank you, Emmaline."
"You're more than welcome, Daisy. And I do hope you won't think I've invited you here under false pretenses, but I'm going to ask an enormous favor of you."
Oh, dear. I didn't like the sound of that. I said, "You are?" Trepidation was clear to hear in my voice.
"I am." Emmaline put her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and stared at me. "I would be ever so grateful if you'd poke into Mrs. Franbold's death. The family can't get anything out of the doctors or the police, and they really need to know how she died, for their own peace of mind. The poor woman's demise has put a hold on every aspect of their lives, particularly since Charles Franbold suspects something dire proceeding from the Underhill connection."
"He thinks Barrett Underhill had something to do with Mrs. Franbold's death?" I said, incredulous. "That would definitely put a damper on things, I reckon."
"Well, he hasn't directly blamed Barrett yet, but it's clear he thinks either Barrett or Mr. Underhill had something to do with Mrs. Franbold's demise, even if some sort of unintentional action on their part caused the woman's death."
"But what could either of them have done?"
"Underhill owns a fertilizer company south of town, Daisy," said Emmaline. "Fertilizer plants are fairly dripping with poisons, especially if they also produce pesticides, which Underhill does."
>
"They are? I didn't know that!"
"Pesticides are poisons, aren't they?" said Harold, as if he honestly wanted to know and wasn't making fun of me.
"Yes, they are. And I do believe lots of fertilizers use cyanide to one extent or another. I mean, the Underhill plant is basically a chemical plant. We're not talking about Irish farmers cutting peat to grow their gardens in," said Emmaline.
"Goodness," I muttered, wondering what she thought I could do to determine if an Underhill had done in Mrs. Franbold. "I'm not... Well, I'm not sure what I can do."
"Detective Rotondo would pitch a fit if you snooped into another one of his cases," said Harold with a wicked grin.
I allowed my chin to drop, feeling awful. I wanted to help Emmaline and the Franbolds, but if I did, Sam would be on me like that red paint the KKK had sloshed on Mrs. Pinkerton's gatehouse.
"It's because Emmaline hates you," said Harold, again being wicked.
"I do not! I know Daisy to be a kindhearted, resourceful woman. For heaven's sake, she's taken care of her family for years. That takes resourcefulness and intelligence. The fact that she's maintained her humanity in the face of so much inhumanity is something to take pride in."
"Thanks," I muttered. "I think."
"Can you just snoop a little bit?" Emmaline said in a wheedling tone. "I don't expect you to play private investigator or anything."
I heaved a heartfelt sigh. "Well, I guess I can ask questions of people, but if Sam gets wind of my poking around, he really will pitch a fit."
Ignoring the last part of my sentence, Emmaline smiled and said, "Oh, thank you, Daisy."
Nuts.
Chapter 9
My snoopery began that very evening, when Sam joined my family for dinner. I was still full from lunch, so I didn't do proper service to Vi's admirable dinner of salmon croquettes served with a cream sauce. I wasn't a particular fan of croquettes—I'd been forced to teach a bunch of immigrant women how to fix them a couple of years prior, and I still hadn't fully recovered from the ordeal—but Vi's were delicious. Still, I only ate about three-quarters of one, all my asparagus, and dawdled over my dessert, which was a baked apple with cream.
