by Janet Dawson
“I hope I can manage the winters,” Pamela said. “Cold weather in Mississippi means rain. I told you before I’d never seen snow until a family visit to Wisconsin.”
Doug gave his new wife a fond look. “We’ll get you some good cold-weather clothes. Besides, I’m going to teach you to ski.”
“How are things going with plans for the ski resort?” Dr. McLeod asked.
Doug, Pamela and Bud, Doug’s friend from Plumas County, were now partners in the venture, along with several other investors. They had purchased a defunct ski resort near Lake Tahoe’s north shore and were in the process of refurbishing it, hoping to open by the time ski season rolled around later that year. Doug told them about what he and the others were doing to upgrade the ski runs and lifts, while Pamela added, “I’m redecorating the insides of the buildings, the main lodge, the hotel rooms, the restaurant and ski shop. I’m having such a good time with all these plans. Doug, while we’re here, I really do need to pay a visit to some restaurant supply stores. We’ve got to have new dishes and glassware, not to mention pots and pans.”
“Speaking of pots and pans,” Lora McLeod said, “I need to check on dinner.”
“I’ll do it, Mom.” Jill stood and went up the back steps. In the kitchen she opened the oven door and pulled out the rack. A pork roast surrounded by apples and onions, glazed with spices and honey, sizzled in a pan. Jill used a meat thermometer to check the roast’s temperature. It was nearly done. She put the roast back in the oven and surveyed the kitchen counter, which held a big green salad and a basket of rolls. Her mother had visited a friend in Sonoma County earlier in the week and had brought home a bushel of Gravenstein apples, the first flavorful apple of the season, so there was a freshly baked apple pie for dessert, the golden-brown lattice crust oozing apples sprinkled with cinnamon and other spices.
In the dining room, the table was set for seven—five McLeods, plus Doug and Pamela. Lucy was out on the patio with her parents but Drew wasn’t home. He’d made himself scarce after breakfast, and Jill wondered if he would appear for dinner.
Just then, the front door opened and Drew came in, wearing the same frown on his face that he had last night and this morning.
“I wondered if you were coming home,” she said.
He shrugged. “Got to be polite and put in an appearance. Where is everybody?”
“Out on the patio. Go wash up.”
As Drew headed upstairs, Jill went to the back door to report. “Another five minutes is my guess.”
“Then we’d better come inside,” her mother said. “After we have dinner, we’ll make the ice cream and talk. Maybe we can play some games.”
“How about poker?” Doug said, with a laugh. For years he had made a decent living with his skills at the card table.
“With you?” Dr. McLeod shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll keep my money in my wallet, where it belongs.”
As they went inside the house, Pamela reached for Doug’s hand and he squeezed it. Jill was pleased to see her cousin and his new wife looking so happy.
In the kitchen, Lora McLeod leaned toward Jill and said, “Is your brother home?”
Jill nodded. “He’s upstairs, getting cleaned up. Don’t worry, Mom. Everything will work out.”
“I hope you’re right.” Her mother sighed and opened the oven door.
Jill and Lucy carried food to the table and everyone ate their fill of the delicious meal. Pamela insisted on helping with cleanup as the men went outside to the patio, to start their contribution to dessert. The McLeods had a hand-cranked ice cream maker, a wooden tub with a metal can that fitted inside. Mrs. McLeod had made the mix earlier, with heavy cream, eggs, sugar and vanilla. Now she poured it into the cylindrical cream can and put in the large beater, which she called the dasher. She carried it out to the backyard, where Dr. McLeod had filled the tub with ice and rock salt. Now he, Drew and Doug took shifts at the crank, turning it until the liquid in the can turned into rich vanilla ice cream. In the meantime, Jill put on the coffee to perk, while Lucy and Pamela cut slices of pie and put them on trays, ready to take outside.
“Ice cream’s done,” her father called.
Outside, her father lifted the beater from the can. Jill took it from him. She couldn’t resist swiping a finger along the edge of the beater, scooping up ice cream.
“Let me have a taste,” Lucy said, reaching for the beater.
Jill held it out of her reach, then Drew relieved her of it. “I get the beater. After all, I cranked the handle for half an hour.”
Doug laughed. “What about my contribution?”
“Let them have it,” Dr. McLeod said, as he plopped a spoonful of ice cream atop a piece of apple pie. He handed it to his wife. “While the children are fighting over the beater, that just means more ice cream for the grownups.”
Chapter Sixteen
Thelma’s Tea Room was located in downtown Oakland, on Telegraph Avenue, a narrow storefront restaurant in the middle of the block. Jill arrived first. She checked her reflection in the window, smoothing the full skirt of her flowered piqué dress.
She had driven to downtown Oakland in the Ford, parking near the tearoom. There were many more cars on the streets today than usual. The familiar Key System buses that usually filled the streets, moving passengers all over the East Bay, were gone. The employees had gone on strike a week earlier. That morning’s newspapers had speculated how long the strike might last, and so did the passersby. The subject seemed to be on everyone’s lips. Two women walked past and Jill overheard them talking. “My husband usually takes the bus to work and now he has to drive.”
“Surely it will be over soon,” the other woman said. “That strike back in nineteen forty-seven lasted eighteen days, the paper said.”
“That’s almost three weeks. I certainly hope this one doesn’t last that long.”
Tidsy sauntered around the corner in a white cotton dress decorated with red polka dots, a big leather purse swinging from her arm. She greeted Jill with a wave. “Lots more traffic today. I’m sure it’s because of the strike.”
“Yes, I noticed the same.”
Tidsy opened the door and they went inside. The tea room looked as though it had been furnished from someone’s attic, with tables of varying size, some small enough for just two people, while others were intended for larger parties. The tables were set with white cloths and napkins, a teacup and saucer at each place and a small vase of flowers on each table. Mismatched chairs were tucked under the tables. Cabinets and bookcases were arrayed against two walls, all holding an assortment of china teapots, cups and saucers. On the back wall was a counter with a cash register, and a display of items for sale, such as packaged teas and teapot cozies.
A waitress in a white uniform with black collar and cuffs greeted them. “Table for two, ladies?”
“There will be three of us,” Tidsy said, as she pointed. “How about that table there, in the corner by the window?”
“Certainly, ma’am. Please follow me.” The waitress showed them to the table.
Jill opened the menu. “Let’s have tea while we’re waiting. I’ll have a pot of Earl Gray.” She liked the distinctive taste and had read that the tea leaves were flavored with the oil of the bergamot orange fruit.
“Darjeeling,” Tidsy said with a wink, reminding Jill of their conversation the previous afternoon.
The waitress nodded and left, returning a short time later with two pots of tea. Jill’s pot was rounded, the white china decorated with blue flowers. Tidsy’s pot had a squared shape, and it was pale yellow with red flowers.
Jill turned over her teacup, which was in the classic Blue Willow pattern. She set the silver strainer on top of her cup and poured. She didn’t normally use sugar but today she decided to drink her tea as the English did, so she stirred in sugar and milk.
Tidsy took her tea straight. After swallowing a mouthful, she said, “How was your trip? Did you have a good time?”
“I did. I e
njoyed visiting Oroville, and meeting Mike’s family. They’re nice. But…” Jill’s voice trailed off.
Tidsy tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “But? What?”
“Lately it feels as though lots of people are telling me what to do with my life. Namely get married and have babies. I get it from Mom. Which is to be expected, because she’s my mother. I get it from various other family members. I even get it from passengers on the train. Usually in the form of ‘It’s nice that you’re a Zephyrette, but sooner or later you’ll want to settle down.’ And on this trip to Oroville, I got it from Mike’s family. I like them, but Mike’s grandfather and aunt acted as though Mike and I are practically engaged, and all that’s left is to set the date. The only person who doesn’t make assumptions is Mike. I know he’s thinking along the lines of us getting married, but we’ve talked about it and I’ve told him I’m not ready for that kind of commitment. Not yet. And he’s fine with that.”
“Society’s expectations,” Tidsy said. “We all get the party line, from family and those damned women’s magazines, which are full of fantasy rather than reality. We’re supposed to get married and have kids, defer to our husbands, be the support troops, not career women. Well, I got married. He died, and then I discovered I liked being a career woman just fine. Although I got put out to pasture after the war was over. Don’t buy the party line, Jill. I know you’d like to scream and tell people to mind their own damn business. But sometimes you have to smile and move on.”
Jill picked up her teacup. “That’s what I have been doing. But it’s good to be able to talk about it with someone who understands. My sister’s getting married later this year, so right now she and my mother are occupied with wedding preparations. Marriage and family are in the air at the McLeod manse, and I admit to being a tiny bit weary of it. What about you, the career woman? I know you left your government job at the end of the war. And I get the feeling that you work from time to time.”
“I do keep my hand in,” Tidsy said.
“But you don’t say at what.” Suddenly Jill struck the table with her hand. “You’d make a great private investigator.”
“Really?” A smile played on Tidsy’s lips. “Tidsy on the case, hmm. Me and Sam Spade? I thought I was more the Brigid O’Shaughnessy femme fatale type.”
“Femme fatale, maybe. But Sam Spade was interested in justice, while Brigid was just interested in the falcon. You’re on the side of good, not evil.” Jill checked her watch. “Margaret will be here soon. Before she gets here, I want to tell you about a conversation I had with my father, after I talked with you on Wednesday. He’s a doctor, as you know. Last week, I told him about Kevin Randall’s death. I asked him about heart damage due to rheumatic fever. Dad said he knows someone in the coroner’s office and he told me he’d see if he could get a look at Randall’s autopsy results.”
Tidsy’s blue eyes sparked with interest. “Did he?”
“Yes. He told me Randall had a damaged heart valve that would cause something called atrial fibrillation, an irregular heartbeat. Digitalis is used to control the heartbeat. According to Dad, Randall’s death was caused by valvular heart disease and what he called digitalis toxicity.”
“An overdose of digitalis,” Tidsy said.
Jill reached for the teapot and strainer, pouring more tea into her cup. “Randall had a prescription for Digoxin. I found the bottle near his body. It’s one of several prescription medicines that contain digitalis. Dad thinks it’s possible Randall took the overdose himself. He says it happens all the time, with patients who have an episode. So Randall could have taken too much Digoxin, or made a mistake about how much he’d taken earlier in the day, or over a few days.”
Tidsy’s look turned speculative. “But you don’t think so.”
“It’s possible, yes.” Jill added sugar and milk to her tea. “But Dad said there were abrasions around Randall’s mouth and that he’d bitten his tongue. How did those injuries happen? Were they accidental? Could he have bitten his tongue when he was dying? Or did it happen while he was having lunch?”
“If Randall was murdered,” Tidsy said, “someone gave him that overdose. Maybe that accounts for the abrasions, and tongue.”
“Who would have access to Digoxin?” Jill asked. “And how would that person administer an overdose?”
“Digitalis is foxglove,” Tidsy pointed out. “And foxglove is a very common ornamental plant. It grows everywhere. I understand the whole plant is toxic, right down to the roots and seeds. If the flowers have been in a vase, even the water is deadly. If someone gave Randall an overdose of pills, I’m guessing the killer has access to the drug, either a prescription for Digoxin, or a family member or friend who uses it. As for how, whether it was poisoned water, chopped-up foxglove or pills, the fatal dose could have been mixed with food or drink.”
“Mr. Randall sat at my table during lunch,” Jill said. “I didn’t see him consume anything but coffee or tea the rest of the time. But that’s not to say he didn’t.”
“The man you saw arguing with him would be a logical suspect,” Tidsy said. “But would Randall have consumed anything he offered?”
“I doubt it.” Jill had a thought just then, but it was fleeting, going out of her head. She wondered where Margaret was. They had agreed to meet at one o’clock, and it was after that now. Just then, she looked out and saw Margaret coming up the sidewalk, wearing a summery yellow shirtwaist.
Margaret entered the tea room, carrying bags from Capwell’s and Kahn’s, two of Oakland’s larger department stores. She walked over to the table and sat down, putting the shopping bags on the floor at her feet. “I’m a bit late, I’m sorry. Hello, Mrs. Tidsdale. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Oh, call me Tidsy. Everyone does. Come on, girls, I’m hungry. Let’s get this tea party on the road.”
The waitress stopped at their table and Margaret chose a pot of English Breakfast tea. After the waitress returned with a third teapot, they ordered a full tea for three.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Tidsy said. “Kevin’s job involved reviewing the financials of companies under the Vennor Corporation umbrella. We know he was on a business trip to Plumas County, because that’s what he told Jill on the train.” Now Tidsy reached for her oversized handbag and took out a notepad and a thick sheaf of printed pages. “I got hold of a Dun and Bradstreet business information report for the Vennor company. It tells me a lot about the corporation, of course. Now, what I was looking for was in the history section of the report. That usually lists the names and business descriptions of affiliated companies. In this case, there are quite a few affiliates, since your Uncle Dan has been building a bigger empire.” She flipped open the notepad, the first sheet covered with handwriting. “I went through the list of affiliated companies and looked for businesses in Plumas County. I made a list. There are five in all.”
Jill took the list and scanned it. As she had speculated during her earlier conversation with Margaret, the companies in Plumas County were mining and lumber concerns. The Soda Ridge Mining Company had an address in Quincy, along with Tidsy’s note saying the mine’s operations were actually located in Belden, in the western part of the county. Sierra Lumber Mills was located in Chester, up by Lake Almanor in the north county. In the eastern part of the county, two mining companies, Grizzly Mountain and Penman Peak, had addresses in Portola, though the mines were located in Spring Valley and Blairsden, both west of Portola. The Mohawk Valley Lumber Company had a Portola address. Jill knew from her travels that the valley was between Portola and Blairsden.
“Not an H among them,” Jill said, thinking of the four taps that she had heard, possibly Morse Code for the letter H. But Margaret had heard more taps, spelling different letters. “Of course, this doesn’t tell us the names of the people who run these companies. Which would be helpful.” She glanced at Margaret. “Once your uncle buys a company, does he leave the previous owners in charge?”
“I have no idea,” Ma
rgaret shook her head as she read the list. “I’ve never heard of any of these companies. And I don’t recall hearing Kevin mention them.” She handed the list to Tidsy.
“It would make sense to leave the previous owners in charge of the day-to-day business operations. I’ll dig deeper and see what I can find out.” Tidsy put the report and list back in her handbag. “Now, Margaret, I understand you had an interesting encounter on the train. Tell me about it.”
Just then the waitress arrived with their order, on a three-tiered tray, with sandwiches at the bottom, scones in the middle, and tiny pastries on the top. Tidsy inspected the sandwiches and wrinkled her nose. “Cucumber, I don’t think so. Now, roast beef, that’s for me.” She picked up the sandwich and set it on her plate.
Jill had no problem with cucumber sandwiches. She took one of those, and added a scone.
Margaret chose a scone and a chicken salad sandwich. “Yes, I had a very interesting trip in roomette four. I saw the shimmering light. I heard voices, two voices, I think. But they were talking over one another and I couldn’t make out any words. And I heard the taps. Four short taps, like the ones Jill heard, and the ones that we heard after the séance.”
“I’ve been doing some reading,” Tidsy said. “Those taps are quite common. The term for it is ghost knocking.”
“But the taps aren’t random,” Margaret said. “They seem to be spelling out something and I think Jill’s right, it’s Morse Code. There were four short taps, then silence. Then one short tap followed by a long one. Another silence, followed by a short tap, a long tap, and a short tap.”
“In Morse Code, that would be—” Jill began.
“The letters H, A and R,” Tidsy said. “I see what you mean by that list of company names. Not an H among them. Neither do we have an A or an R. So what does it mean?”
They sat in silence for a moment, eating their scones and sandwiches. “I have an idea,” Jill said. “About the séance.”
