Unsettled Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  "Yes, well, I told you where to look. It's up to you to get someone out there to search for him," I said, fairly snarling at him.

  "Calm down. I'll notify the Altadena Sheriff's Department and they'll tell the forest rangers. If he's up there, we'll find him. Unless, of course, he's been eaten by a bear."

  "Of course." I scowled at him.

  "And you say all the Underhills hated Mr. Underhill?"

  "Every single one. Plus, the man was a flagrant philanderer."

  "How alliterative," said Sam, making me want to smack him. I chalked the urge up to my headache and state of weariness.

  "Well, he was. That's according to his children and his wife. Widow, I mean. He also was mean to animals, according to his family and Mrs. Hanratty. He killed his daughters' bunny and broke their puppy's leg by kicking it downstairs."

  Sam wrinkled his nose. "Over all, he sounds like a truly bad man."

  "Sounds like it to me, too."

  "Do you have any idea with whom he was philandering?"

  I swear, Sam's grammar had improved tenfold since he'd met me. "Sorry. Not an idea in the world."

  "Hmm. Well, thanks for the information. We'll check into it."

  "Thank you."

  Vi called us to the table then, and we sat down to a meal of cold ham, Boston baked beans, potato salad and pumpernickel bread. Yes. My wonderful Aunt Vi had actually made pumpernickel bread because I'd asked her to. I made myself a sandwich: ham on pumpernickel with brown mustard that was kind of spicy. Tasted really good.

  "Thank you so much, Vi," I said, trying not to betray my emotions by bursting into tears. "This is so nice of you. And all because I mentioned that sandwich Sam had at Webster's lunch counter."

  "You're more than welcome, Daisy," said Vi. "Anyhow, I figured you needed something to brighten your day. You've been looking like a storm cloud all morning."

  That was it for me. I started to cry. "I'm so sorry! I just have such a headache, and am so tired." I wiped my tears away with a napkin and felt stupid.

  But it was all right. My family—and Sam—were used to me, and I think they forgave me. Right after I'd cleaned up the dinner dishes, I downed two aspirin tablets.

  Sam found me in the hallway and gave me a big hug. "You're not sick or anything, are you? You don't usually cry at the table."

  "Sam Rotondo, if you're—"

  "I'm not being sarcastic," he said, interrupting what might have turned into a rant. "I don't want you to feel bad. I hurt when you hurt. I love you, Daisy."

  So I cried onto the lapels of his jacket for a minute or two. "Th-thanks, Sam. I'm just so tired and feel so bad."

  "You're welcome. Take a good rest, and I'll bet you'll feel better."

  I lifted my head and gave him a kiss. It was quite a delicious kiss, and it might have heated up some if my kin weren't in the next room. Then, as Sam moseyed to the living room and he and Pa chatted about whether or not to set up the card table and play gin rummy, I took Spike to our bedroom, removed my church clothes, climbed into bed, and slept for two and a half hours. I felt much better after I awoke from my nap. What was even better, was that I was able to get to sleep that night and slept like the dead until seven o'clock on Monday morning.

  In fact, I was downright perky when I joined Pa and Spike in the kitchen for breakfast, which consisted of leftover fried ham, baked beans, and toast.

  "I don't think I've ever had baked beans for breakfast before," I commented as I glanced at the part of the newspaper Pa wasn't reading. "They're good."

  "The British eat beans on toast all the time," said Pa, who knew all about such things, his family having come from England in the early middle ages. I'm joking about that last part, but not about the England part.

  "Huh." Although the Pasadena Star News's classified ads section didn't generally capture my attention, it was what Pa had left for me, so I glanced through the postings. By golly, that morning I noticed something of interest. Darned if the Underhill Chemical Company wasn't advertising for help on their production lines. I read the notice closely, and learned that they were asking for young, healthy women to work their lines, packaging their chemicals. Which contained poison, I had no doubt. I wondered if their employees who worked the lines ever dropped dead of insidious poisoning, but wasn't sure whom to ask.

  Hmm. Maybe I should toddle down to the Underhill Chemical Plant, which sat quite far south on Fair Oaks Avenue, and apply for a position as a line girl. Maybe I could nose around and discover something of use in solving the murder of the dastardly Mr. Underhill.

  The chances of that might be remote, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, as the saying goes.

  Therefore, after seeing my aunt and my mother off to work, going for a walk around the neighborhood with Pa and Spike, and attiring myself in a plain day dress appropriate for a young woman aspiring to stand next to a conveyor belt all day long and fill bags or bottles or boxes with poisonous chemicals, I drove the family Chevrolet south on Fair Oaks, way past Glenarm, until I reached the Underhill Chemical Plant. It was a sprawling place, with a dirt lot in which several automobiles were parked, although I also noticed a bus stop right in front of the plant. I suspected that's how most of Underhill's employees got to work, since I doubted the line girls got paid much. In those days, women didn't get paid as much as men, even if they performed the exact same job. Sometimes I wonder if that will ever change. Probably not. Not that I mean to be negative or anything.

  Oh, never mind.

  I left the Chevrolet in the dirt lot and walked to the front door of the plant. The big double glass doors led into a neat lobby, womanned by a person whom I didn't recognize sitting behind a desk. Not that I know everyone in Pasadena, mind you, but I had lots of friends with whom I'd gone to school. Not this girl.

  "Good morning," I said, smiling at her.

  "Good morning," she said, smiling back at me.

  I'd thought to bring the newspaper with me, so I showed it to the girl. I'd circled the Underhill advertisement. I looked on the girl's desk, but saw no name plate. "I came to speak to someone about this job I saw advertised in the newspaper today." I tapped said ad with a nicely manicured forefinger.

  "The line-girl position?" she asked, eyeing me up and down and making me feel as though I'd overdressed for this occasion.

  "That's the one, all right," I said, trying to sound perky, although I'm not sure why.

  "Let me call for Mr. Browning. He's the one who's interviewing applicants. In the meantime, will you please fill out this form?"

  "Thank you," I said and held out my hand.

  She stuck a form printed in bluish ink into it, and I wondered if the form was an example of a mimeograph. I'd have asked, but the girl was speaking into a tube-like device, presumably to someone at the other end of some kind of telephonic wire. Interesting technologies were in use in those days, and I knew nothing about any of them. Goodness gracious, but my education was limited! I'd have to visit the library again on my way home from the Underhill factory and search out information on new technologies. Perhaps the periodical section would have the most up-to-date articles. I'd ask Miss Petrie.

  But that's nothing to the point. I filled out the form, which would have got blue ink all over my clean gloves had I not thought to remove them first. Therefore, I only got ink on my hands. Maybe this wasn't such a grand idea if even the forms the company used left evil residue behind. The form asked for my name, address, telephone number (if any—evidently not everyone living in the community had a telephone installed in his or her home), closest kin, and former employment history. That last question stumped me, since I had no employment history other than my spiritualist work, and I didn't think that would count for much, as it related not at all to production lines. Therefore, I left that part blank and trusted my ingenuity to come up with an answer should whoever this Mr. Browning was ask me about it. I signed my name on the bottom of the form where it was asked for and slid the paper onto the desk, since the girl was still
speaking into the tube. Was that how this company communicated with its employees? Where were the telephones? They must have telephones. In fact, I saw one sitting on the girl's desk.

  It rang, and the girl answered it. "Mr. Browning?" she said in a businesslike voice. A pause ensued, and then she said, "Yes," picked up the form I'd slid across her desk, and added, "Mrs...." She squinted at the form, although I'd printed my name legibly on the line asking for it. Perhaps she considered the name unusual, which it was, but that was no reason to squint. "Mrs. Majesty," she said at last. I got the feeling she wasn't the sharpest needle in the pincushion.

  Then she jumped when I heard a voice come, loud and clear, "Daisy?" through the telephone.

  The girl blinked at me and said, "Yes. Daisy Majesty."

  I then got the feeling whoever this Mr. Browning character was to whom she was speaking knew me. I considered the few Brownings I'd ever met in my life and landed, plunk, on Robert Browning—no relation to the late poet and dramatist—with whom I'd gone to high school. He was a couple of years my senior and had graduated in the same class as my Billy. I hoped it was he, because we'd always had a friendly relationship.

  It was Robert Browning! He opened the door behind the receptionist's desk a moment or two later and came at me, hands extended. "Daisy! How good to see you again."

  "Thank you, Robert. It's good to see you, too." And I wasn't even lying.

  "Come back here to my room. I'll have to ask you a few questions."

  "Certainly."

  I followed him meekly to a room a couple of doors down a long, ugly hallway, and he pushed the door open and gestured for me to enter.

  "Take a seat. I have to interview you, although I'm not sure why because I've known you forever." He sobered as he took the chair behind his desk. "I was awfully sorry to hear about Billy's passing. I guess I was one of the lucky ones. I never even got off of American soil, much less made it to France or Belgium, after I enlisted."

  He shook his head, and I, idiot that I am, teared up. I swear. However, the dismal truth is that I get weepy at any mention of my late, beloved Billy.

  Robert noted my tears but tactfully glanced away. I'd hastened to grab a hanky from my handbag and dabbed the moisture away. "Um... I imagine that's the reason you're applying for a position here at Underhill. You need to earn a living."

  Boy, you can bet I grabbed that rope and clung to it for dear life. "Yes," I said with a pathetic sniffle. "Without Billy, even though I live with my parents, I need to work. My father has heart trouble and can no longer do the job he used to do." I saw no need to tell him my mother and my aunt both had good-paying jobs, or that I made more money than both of them put together as a phony spiritualist-medium.

  Robert shook his head sadly. "I'm so sorry." He glanced around his office as if he suspected spies might be lurking nearby. Lowering his voice, he said, "I doubt the Underhill production line is a good match for you. You're too smart to work on a line like that."

  That was nice, and it allowed me to do a little snooping. "Oh? Why is that? Is the work tedious or difficult or something?"

  "No. That is to say, the work isn't difficult, although you'd be on your feet all day, but I'm sure it's tedious." He lowered his voice still further and added, "But the truth is that Underhill, the chemical company, has been going through a lot of trouble lately."

  "I know Mr. Underhill died. I was there in church when it happened," I told Robert.

  I almost didn't hear his next words, he spoke so softly. "That's probably the only good thing that's happened to the company in more than a year, to tell the truth. Mr. Underhill was driving it into the ground, and he was driving all of his employees crazy in the process."

  "Oh, dear. I didn't know that." Okay, so I'd just lied again. Chalk it up to snoopery. "Do you think there might be layoffs?" I'd read all about layoffs in the newspaper. Sometimes layoffs sparked riots, although it was difficult for me to imagine so staid a populace as the one living in Pasadena rioting over anything at all.

  "I hope not," Robert said, although I could tell he was worried, because he had frown lines on his forehead. "Barrett Underhill, the late Mr. Underhill's son, is doing his best to clean up the mess his father left."

  "Goodness. I'm sorry to hear about the problems. How many people does this plant employ?"

  "Twelve hundred. Of those, over a thousand either work on the lines or in the warehouse. It's a busy place, and most of us want to keep it open for business. A lot of jobs are at stake. Plus, the chemicals we provide for fertilizer would have to be imported from other states if Underhill went under." He frowned some more. "So to speak."

  "How does one transport chemicals and fertilizer and so forth?" I asked, genuinely curious.

  "Train, then truck—or sometimes horse and wagon, depending on the terrain. The nearest manufacturer of the chemicals we provide is a plant in Ohio, so you can see that if Underhill folds, the entire state of California would be in the suds."

  "Why's that?"

  "Because transporting chemicals and fertilizer from Ohio is a lot more expensive than manufacturing the same thing right here in the state, and California produces more... well, produce... than any other state in the nation."

  "Oh. That makes sense. But you say Mr. Underhill was ruining the company? Why would he do that? Do you think he suddenly went... Oh, I don't know. Crazy, or something?"

  "He wasn't crazy. He was a louse."

  "But why would he want to ruin his own business?"

  Robert Browning heaved a deep and heartfelt sigh. "Resentment. He knew Barrett wanted to make upgrades in the equipment and spend some money on renovation. He also knew Barrett was right to do both of those things and was also a much keener businessman than he was. The elder Mr. Underhill couldn't see why he should spend money on anything but his own pleasures and comfort. Grover Underhill didn't see the point of making life easier for his employees. He'd made his bundle, and he bragged about having enough money to live on forever. When Barrett suggested the line staff should be paid more, his father threw an ashtray at him. Heavy glass thing. Made a dent in the door. Good thing Barrett ducked."

  "Good heavens! I'd heard he could be... well, violent, on occasion, but I thought he only took his anger out on things like rabbits and dogs. I didn't know he abused people, too."

  "Ah. So you heard about the girls' pet rabbit, did you?"

  "Yes, and Mrs. Hanratty—she's the lady who taught my dog's obedience training class—told me he kicked the family dog down the stairs and she had to pay for its medical care."

  "Yes. The man was... Well, perhaps it's an exaggeration, but I honestly think he was evil."

  "He sounds evil to me," I said, meaning it. "Out of curiosity, has anyone ever been injured by chemicals in this plant?"

  Robert's gaze paid a brief visit to the ceiling of his room. "Oh, Lord, yes. In fact, a line worker died from inhaling cyanide. Unsafe working conditions, according to the authorities, although there really aren't any oversight agencies for this sort of thing. Underhill ended up paying a huge fine and had to pay the family of the deceased a bundle in order to avoid a lawsuit."

  "Mercy sakes. How much money is one life worth, anyway?"

  "In this case," Robert said drily, "One hundred twenty-five thousand dollars."

  Mercy sakes again! "That's a whole lot of money."

  "I guess. But it was tragic, preventable accident, and it could have been avoided if Grover Underhill hadn't decided to cut all the corners he could cut in order to make himself rich."

  "How sad."

  "I'd say it was criminal." Robert's voice was hard and cold as ice chunks.

  "So lots of people might want him dead?"

  After gazing at me for a moment, as if he wondered if I were counting him among those who wanted Mr. Underhill dead, Robert said, "Yes. I suppose lots of people wanted him dead. However, I don't know who'd actually go out of their way to murder the man. That's a pretty drastic step to take."

  "Could he
have been accidentally poisoned somehow with a chemical from the plant?"

  "My understanding is that he died of cyanide poisoning in church. Well, you said so yourself. While it's true we use cyanide in some of our products, it works fast. He couldn't have been exposed to cyanide at work on, say, Saturday, and then drop dead on Sunday. I'm afraid someone deliberately did him in." Robert didn't appear too upset by anything except that someone might possibly suspect him of doing the deed.

  "I see." I sat there primly, my hands on my handbag, thinking. Finally I asked, "It's probably a stupid question, but do you know how many people working here might attend the First Methodist-Episcopal Church on Colorado and Marengo?"

  With a laugh, Robert said, "Haven't a clue. Say, are you here to pump me for information, or do you want a job? You sound like the coppers who came here and bothered everyone."

  "I'm sorry. I am interested in getting a job, although this one doesn't sound like a very nice one. But don't forget that I saw the man die. I'm naturally curious."

  "Of course you are."

  He knew I was faking, but he didn't seem to mind. With a grin, he said, "Well, then, why don't you pop by tomorrow at about eleven, and I'll show you the production floor where our line girls work. In fact, I'll take you on a tour of the plant, and then maybe we can have lunch together."

  I felt myself blush. But honestly. Robert Browning, who was two years my elder, single, according to his bare ring finger, and quite handsome to boot, wanted to take me to lunch? I was flattered. And that's putting it mildly.

  Out of curiosity and because he'd asked me to lunch, I said, "Say, Robert, are you married?"

  "Oddly enough, no. Not quite sure why, although I..." His voice more or less choked to a stop, surprising me. "Um, I was engaged to marry Elizabeth Winslow, but..." He paused to swallow. "Well, she passed away last year."

  "I'm so very sorry."

  Oh, dear. I hadn't meant to stir up painful memories. I just wondered why he, a young, single man, wasn't married, when there were so many loose women hanging around. I don't mean loose in a bad way. Oh, bother. You know what I mean.