Unsettled Spirits

by Alice Duncan

He heaved a gigantic sigh. "Yes, well, it was awful. She caught the influenza. The pandemic was long past, but that stuff is cruel. Elizabeth was so sick. Finally her illness turned to pneumonia, and she passed at the Castleton Memorial Hospital last November eighth. It... It... It is still painful to talk about."

  "I know what you mean, and I didn't mean to dredge up awful memories." I felt like a louse, actually.

  "No, no. I don't mind telling you, because you've also lost the person you loved most."

  "Yes," I said, feeling blue all of a sudden. "Yes. We've both lost our loved ones. So many people have."

  "Yes." He pasted on a smile and pretended to be happy once more. "But we can have a pleasant luncheon together tomorrow after I give you the grand tour, not that there's all that much grand about a manufacturing plant. Still, we can have a nice long chat. It will be good to catch up with each other."

  "Yes, it will be." Pretending I wasn't embarrassed, I said, "Thank you, Robert. That sounds lovely, and I appreciate it so much." Then I bethought me of the tube via which the receptionist had summoned Robert to meet me. "By the way, what's that tube-like thing the girl at the desk used to get in touch with you?"

  "Oh, that's a speaking tube. It's rather like a loud speaker." His mouth pursed into a grimace of distaste. "That's out of date, too, of course. I hope Barrett will be able to implement the changes he wants to make, if his blasted father didn't squander all the money he'll need to make them."

  "Goodness. I hope so, too. Well, thanks for interviewing me. I appreciate it."

  "I'm sure you do."

  We both laughed as he escorted me to the lobby, guiding me with my hand on his arm. I took my leave of the girl at the desk, whom Robert called Susan, and I left the Underhill Chemical Plant.

  Chapter 16

  As I'd told myself I'd do, I stopped by the Pasadena Public Library on my way home from the Underhill plant. I had a lot to think about, and I was pretty sure I wouldn't really find out anything of a crime-solving nature in the periodical section of the library, but it was worth a check. I was curious as to what modern innovations Barrett Underhill wanted to implement at the plant, and why his father had so vigorously objected to implementing them.

  After a brief chat with Miss Petrie, who hadn't expected me to visit the library that day and had, therefore, tucked no books away for my family and me, I toddled to the Periodical Room, where I gazed about with bewilderment. There were so many magazines available, ranging from pure entertainment to scientific digests reporting on the latest in unpronounceable discoveries. Where, wondered I, would I find innovations in assembly line technology? Truth to tell, the subject wasn't of great interest to me except as it might help explain the death of a repulsive man who had unquestionably deserved his fate.

  Nevertheless, in the spirit of detectival research, I reached for a copy of Popular Mechanics and a copy of Scientific American, gathered them in my arms, and headed to a table, where I sat and read the table of contents of each and remained completely befuddled. Mechanical stuff and I weren't the greatest of friends. Oh, boy, I wished Billy were still around. He'd been an automobile mechanic par excellence, and could have told me in a heartbeat what the newest and greatest inventions were and why they might be of use on an assembly line.

  I did so miss my Billy. Oh, well. At least I didn't start snuffling in the library. I took a moment to feel sorry for Robert Browning. So many people had lost so many loved ones in the past few years.

  However, after glancing at several magazines—it didn't take me long to give up on Popular Mechanics and Scientific American—I decided I didn't really care what innovations Barrett might have been interested in. Anyhow, I could ask him if I really wanted to know. I'd ask Sam if he knew. He might even answer me. Or not. I never knew about how Sam would react to me being interested in a case. In this case, however, I should think he'd be more forthcoming than usual, since... Well, since I'd witnessed the murder, darn it.

  I left the library soon after my foray into the periodical section, none the wiser for my attempt at discovering the latest innovations in chemical plant assembly line mechanics. Or whatever Barrett was interested in. At least he'd wanted to pay the line girls a higher wage. That was a kind thing to want. He must have taken after his mother, since his father sounded as if he'd been sort of like a devil from the netherworld, and would have preferred having slaves rather people he had to pay.

  But I didn't have much time to think about Mr. Underhill or mechanical innovations. When I entered our nice little bungalow, greeted with joy and exuberance by Spike, the cursed telephone was ringing. No one else seemed to be home—Pa was probably out beating his gums with a friend or seven—so I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the receiver.

  "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking." I had the part down pat, and always used my special spiritualist's voice when I answered the 'phone.

  "Daisy!" wailed a voice I knew of old.

  Good heavens, Mrs. Pinkerton's charity event had been staged on Saturday, and it was only Monday. What could have occurred to make her wail so soon after such a triumphant party? Perhaps someone stole the proceeds? If so, my bet would be on Mrs. P's stinky daughter, Stacy. I didn't say so.

  Rather, I said soothingly, "Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Pinkerton?"

  "It's Stacy!" Mrs. P howled a trifle less shrilly.

  Aha! Perhaps the brat had stolen the charity proceeds. Rather than ask if that were so, I said in a gentle voice, "Whatever can be the matter with Stacy? I thought she was firmly attached to the Salvation Army and dedicating herself to doing good works." Even saying those words made me want to gag, but I pretended otherwise.

  "She has! But that's the problem. She's gone and got herself engaged to a private!"

  "A private?" My brain froze for a moment before understanding struck, not unlike a sledgehammer. "Oh, you mean a private in the Salvation Army?"

  "Yes!"

  Well, thought I, she could probably do worse. On the other hand, we were discussing Stacy Kincaid here, so perhaps Mrs. P had a point. I asked quietly, "Have you met the gentleman in whom she's interested?"

  "Yes! And he's no gentleman!" shrieked Mrs. P.

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear and shook my head. Her shriek had gone straight through my brain and, I'm sure, burrowed a tunnel through it. "Um, do you suspect him of..." Of what? Who'd want Stacy? Silly question, Daisy Gumm Majesty. "Of being a fortune-hunter or something along those lines?"

  "Yes!"

  Glad I hadn't yet put the receiver to my ear once more, I tried to lead by example and spoke softly. Mind you, I'd tried this trick time out of mind, and it had never worked yet. "What makes you think so?"

  Didn't work this time, either. "He's a rat!"

  Not, in fact, unlike Mrs. Pinkerton's first husband and father of her children, Mr. Eustace Kincaid, who'd married Mrs. P for her money. I didn't say that, either. "What makes you think so?"

  "I can tell," said Mrs. P, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I can tell."

  Which didn't clear up the matter one bit, at least for me. "In what way? What makes you say that?"

  "He tries to ingratiate himself. He's... he's... he's awful. He slithers."

  Which would make him more like a snake than a rat, although I kept that thought to myself as well. It only occurred to me then that I hadn't bothered to shoo our party-line neighbors off the wire, should any of them be listening in. Oh, well. Too late now. They could be entertained for free. "Very well. He's too... oily?"

  "Yes!"

  "What's the gent—er, I mean, what's the man's name?"

  "Percival. Terrible name."

  "What's his last name?" I couldn't argue with her about the moniker, since I didn't much care for the name Percival either, although I couldn't see that his name was the poor fellow's fault, but that of his parents.

  "Petrie," said Mrs. Pinkerton, making me blink. "Percival Petrie. I'm sure there's something wrong with him, Daisy. I know it!"

&nbs
p; Given that name, perhaps the woman wasn't as wrong as she usually was. The very name Petrie, except when referring to my favorite librarian, conjured up extremely bad memories. I'd met a couple of truly evil Petries not long since.

  "Hmm. I might be able to get some information about him, Mrs. Pinkerton," I told the woman.

  "Information? Well, of course you can! I need to consult with Rolly! Soon!"

  Oh, brother. What I'd been thinking was that I could make another trip to the Pasadena Public Library and ask Miss Petrie if she had a snake of a relative named Percival. She had a whole bunch of awful relations who shared her last name. They came from the bad side of the family. Miss Petrie came from the good side. Both sides had originated in Oklahoma, if anyone cares.

  In what I knew to be a futile effort to make Mrs. Pinkerton understand something she didn't want to understand, I softly said, "You know Rolly can't answer questions about anyone other than the person asking the question, Mrs. Pinkerton."

  A sob smote my ear. I dared press the receiver to said ear, thinking that if she had taken to crying, she wouldn't be hollering.

  "I know. I know. But please, Daisy, can't you come over and bring the Ouija board. I really need Rolly's guidance. And please bring the tarot cards, too. At least they might be able to predict chaos or happiness in my future."

  Heck, even without Rolly, the Ouija board, or my tarot cards, I could predict Mrs. P's future. It would be full of hysteria over nothing and lots of good food cooked by my aunt. Well, she did have a burden to bear in the person of her daughter, but she ought to be used to Stacy by this time. I'd probably feel differently if I had a wayward child of my own, not that I ever would.

  Unless Sam and I....

  Pooh. Forget that.

  "I can come over in about forty-five minutes, Mrs. Pinkerton. Will that be all right with you?"

  "Oh, thank you, Daisy!" She hung up her receiver.

  With a profound sigh, I did likewise.

  What I'd wanted to do when I got home from the library was take Spike for a walk, build a sandwich for lunch and read for a while. However, duty—and money—called, so I put on more comfy shoes, walked Spike around the block rather than taking him for a long happy meander through the neighborhood, came home, took off my line-girl-interview dress, and looked in my closet.

  The third week in February remained a trifle warmish, but it was still technically winter, so I chose to dress accordingly, in a lightweight brown-checked day dress that came down to just above my ankles. It had a darker brown belt that tied at my hip, and dark brown trim. Naturally, I'd made the dress myself. I'd made Ma one just like it, what's more. Because I had so much brown-checked fabric left over from those two dresses, I'd asked Vi if she'd like one, too, but she said she though the three of us dressing alike might be a bit much, so I made my sister Daphne one instead. I'd given it to her for Christmas, and she'd liked it, so everything worked out all right.

  After arming myself with my brown cloche hat, brown gloves, brown shoes and flesh-toned stockings, which weren't considered nearly as shocking as they once were, I gave Spike one last hug, tossed him a peanut-butter cookie, which was wrong of me, and left for Mrs. Pinkerton's house.

  Once there, I endured a fit of tears from Mrs. P, called upon Rolly to tell her what he always told her—the only thing she could do for her daughter was love her, if possible (a daunting prospect, at least from my perspective)—and not to tell Stacy how much she disliked Stacy's choice in men. Rolly gently reminded her how Stacy had rebelled a couple of years prior when Mrs. P had violently objected to an infatuation of Stacy's, which had just sent Stacy storming back to the speakeasy in which the infatuation lingered. That particular evildoer, a fellow named Jinx Jenkins, had been murdered in prison not long back. He had, according to Sam Rotondo, been "shanked," a shank being a prison-made knife. Stacy had adored the low life, and it sounded to me as if she still did. Not that I should judge or anything, judgment being supposedly left up to God.

  "Oh, dear," whimpered Mrs. P when Rolly mentioned Jenkins. "But how can I pretend to like this Percival fellow when I don't like him at all? I think he's as awful as that other awful man."

  Rolly told her that she needn't pretend to like him, but she should be civil to him and not berate him in Stacy's presence. To do that would to drive Stacy more firmly into his arms, according to Rolly. And me, but since Rolly and I are one, that goes without saying, even though I said it anyway. Oh, never mind.

  After consorting with Rolly via the Ouija board, I dealt out a tree-of-life pattern with my tatty tarot deck. I was rather disappointed to see the devil and the number of swords, including the ten and three of swords, appear in my spread, those symbols being the least happy ones in the arcana. Nevertheless, I attempted to interpret as rosy a future as I could, given the cards staring me in the face. It probably didn't matter since, even though I'd been dealing tarot for Mrs. Pinkerton for more than half my life, she still knew nothing about the tarot symbols or what they represented. Other people's deliberate ignorance was a blessing in my line of work.

  If I believed in the tarot, I'd have said Mrs. P was in for a rugged road for a few months, but I don't believe in the tarot, and I didn't tell her that. And please don't remind me about those stupid trees I saw swaying my crystal ball or the ghost who popped up at one of my séances. Those were both flukes of something or other, and I still don't believe in spiritualism. Really. Honestly.

  Oh, never mind again.

  After parting with a tearful Mrs. Pinkerton, I decided to mosey down the hallway to the kitchen and have a chat with Vi, if she was in the mood for a chat.

  I pushed the swing door gently, hoping to gauge Vi's mood before interrupting her. She was singing "Yes! We Have No Bananas," so I assumed her mood was happy, and entered her realm. "Hey, Vi," said I to her back as she kneaded a mound of dough on a floury breadboard.

  She didn't appear to have been startled by my sudden appearance, because she smiled as she turned to me. "Good morning, Daisy! I hope you succeeded in calming Mrs. Pinkerton down some."

  I sank into a kitchen chair and said, "I don't know. Evidently Stacy has become enamored of some fellow from the Salvation Army, and Mrs. P's in a twitch about it."

  "Oh, don't I know it. She's been in here crying at me, believe it or not. I've not met the lad, so I have no opinion on the matter, but..." Her words trailed off.

  "But given Stacy's usual taste, he's probably a gigolo or a punk or something of the like."

  With a squint and a frown, Vi said, "I don't even know what those words mean, Daisy Majesty. I swear, you young people and your slang! It's disgraceful. In my day, we didn't use words like that."

  "No, you probably had words of your own. A gigolo is a man who lives off women, and a punk is a hoodlum. That's a criminal to you, Vi."

  "I know what a hoodlum is," Vi said with a sharp note in her voice. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's past noon, Daisy. Are you hungry? Mrs. P is going out to take luncheon with some of her friends and will then attend a meeting of the Women's Hospital board of directors—although I can't imagine her being of much practical use in a hospital board meeting."

  "Me, either."

  Vi and I both chuckled.

  "But if it's not any trouble, I'd love some lunch. It's almost one, and I'm hungry."

  "At least you're eating again," said Vi with a sniff.

  "Let's not go into that again, please," I begged. After Billy's death, I couldn't eat. People—among them my parents, Harold Kincaid, Aunt Vi, Sam Rotondo, and several others—told me I looked downright skeletal, although I'm not sure about that. I do know I lost a good deal of weight, which hadn't yet caught up with me. That was a good thing, since women were supposed to be bone-thin and look like boys in those days. Nevertheless, it was kind of nice to feel hunger again now and then.

  "Lunch is no problem. Let me get this dough into a greased bowl and slap a damp towel over it, and I'll wash up and fetch you up a special salmagundi salad.
There's lots left in the refrigerator."

  "Whatever is a salmagundi salad?"

  "It's just a mix of chicken and eggs and lettuce. And a little bacon. I use a French dressing on mine because I always have some handy in the Frigidaire."

  "I don't think you've ever served it to us at home."

  Vi gave me a speaking look. "And just how do you think your family would react if I fed them a salad for dinner?"

  "You feed us salads for dinner all the time."

  "Not a salad all by itself. But this salad is a meal in itself."

  "Oh." Truth to tell, I wasn't sure I wanted a mere salad for lunch, but I could always fix myself a ham sandwich at home should I still be hungry after dining on Vi's concoction.

  Being hungry was the very last thing I was after I (almost) finished the gigantic salad, complete with chicken chunks, boiled egg chunks, bacon chunks, bleu-cheese chunks, and avocado chunks Vi fed me. And delicious? Oh, my goodness gracious!

  "Vi, I think this would make a spectacular Sunday dinner for the family," I told her as I struggled with the last bites of bleu cheese, a delicacy we Gumms and Majestys didn't often get to eat.

  "Do you really? You don't think your father or Sam would mind?"

  Sam? Why was she talking about Sam as if he lived with us? Of course, he nearly did, but I still didn't approve of Vi speaking of him as if he were a member of the family. I decided I'd best not tell Vi that. "How could they possibly mind? Especially if you serve these perfectly delicious dinner rolls with the salad. Heck, there's enough meat and eggs and cheese in with the lettuce to feed an army!"

  "Hmm. Well, I guess I'll have to try it. Maybe next Sunday."

  "Wonderful idea!" The notion of dining on this spectacular salad again so soon pleased me greatly, and it was a satisfied Daisy Gumm Majesty who waddled from Mrs. Pinkerton's house approximately an hour and a half after I'd gracefully wafted into it.

  Chapter 17

  My gratified state lasted until I entered our Marengo bungalow, greeted Spike, and saw my father standing before me with a piece of paper in his hand. He had a slight frown on his face, which didn't seem right to me.