by Alice Duncan
Mr. Prophet just looked at me over his cigarette paper and piled-up tobacco.
I said, “Oh,” again and turned my head to face forward once more.
“She married him in St. Louis,” said Li, surprising me. I’d almost forgotten she was there. “After she got out of New York City. She had to run from New York before Raymond Alberts could kill her.”
“She didn’t…um, divorce Mister Alberts or anything?”
“No,” said Li. “When she got to St. Louis, she met Ernest Godfrey. He was a shoe salesman and a nice man, and he loved her. Angie married him there, in St. Louis. Then Alberts found her, she was scared, and her feet got to itching again. She’d saved up some money, so she pretty much ditched Godfrey.”
“He seemed upset when he left her house,” I said.
“He was. He loved her.” Li shrugged.
“And she didn’t love him?”
Stupid question, Daisy Gumm Majesty.
“Angie loves men in her own way,” said Li, not clearing up the matter in my mind at all. “But she had goals and she aimed to achieve them. After she left St. Louis and Godfrey, she went to Colorado. Grand Junction, I think she said. She married somebody else there, but I don’t remember his name.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Sam.
“The Lord don’t have nothin’ to do with that harpy,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Maybe not.” Li shrugged again. “Angie did what she had to do. She told me she was happy there in Colorado with her Colorado husband, whatever his name was, but he died.” Giving Mr. Prophet a hateful glare, she said, “And no, Angie had nothing to do with his death.”
After he’d licked his cigarette paper and folded it over the mounded tobacco, Mr. Prophet stuck the cigarette in his mouth and said, “Huh.”
Then he scraped the head of a sulfur match against his thumbnail and lit the thing. I do believe I’d heard him call one of those matches a “Lucifer” once. I’d have to ask him to clarify that when he was in a better mood. I swear, my Old West-English dictionary was growing by leaps and bounds!
“Anyhow,” Li went on. “The Colorado husband had become wealthy running a silver-mining operation. When he died, he left her with quite a bit of money. So she moved to Tombstone. That’s where I met her. It’s also where she married Adolph Grant, who’s one of the worst men on the face of the earth. Fortunately, Angie got away from him, and she took Hattie and Cyrus and me with her, along with a couple of other people who worked for Grant.” Glaring at Mr. Prophet, Li said, “And I don’t care what you say, Lou Prophet, Angie Mainwaring is trying to help the women she brings to Pasadena. She rescues them. She doesn’t want them to have to live the way she did.” After a second or two, she added, “Or me.”
I didn’t correct her grammar. I understood what she meant.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Prophet, rolling his window partway down and blowing smoke from same.
I wished he wouldn’t smoke in Sam’s Hudson because cigarettes were stinky and the smell lingered in the upholstery, but I didn’t say anything. More to the point, Sam didn’t say anything, and it was his car. Things might change when we married, although I wasn’t counting on it.
“If Mister Grant was so awful, why did Angie marry him?” I asked, believing the question to be pertinent.
“He’s one of those men who don’t show their true colors until it’s too late,” said Li.
Not quite sure how to ask what I wanted to ask next—I didn’t want to be vulgar, even if I was sitting in an automobile with Lou Prophet and a former… But maybe Li hadn’t been a… Bother. “Um…I mean…Um, did he make Angie…um…go with other men?” Nertz.
Fortunately, Li understood my fumbling attempt at asking a question. “No. She was in charge of keeping the girls happy. And that meant…Uh…” Her voice sort of faded to a stop.
“It meant feedin’ ‘em laudanum, chloral, morphine and liquor to keep ‘em from complaining,” Mr. Prophet volunteered.
After glowering at him for a heartbeat or two, Li shrugged and said, “Yes. Unfortunately, it did. The girls Angie took in had nowhere else to go. At least Angie gave them a roof over their heads and a safe place to live.”
“How did the girls end up in Tombstone? And so…so poor. Or without means. Or…I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I mean, did they go there to get a job? Or…I don’t know.”
“Every girl I ever met in Grant’s house was there because she thought she’d have a better life in Tombstone than wherever she came from. I did the same thing. Thought maybe I could open a little restaurant. Ha. Back then, Adolph Grant owned the whole damned town. If he wanted a woman, he’d have her, no matter what she’d come to town for.”
“Oh. You like to cook?” I asked, interested.
Both Sam and Mr. Prophet laughed, although I don’t know why.
Then Li laughed, too, and I decided I must have said something stupid, although I wasn’t sure what it was. People who could actually cook and liked doing it intrigued me.
After she stopped laughing, Li said, “Yes. My husband and I wanted to open a restaurant in Tombstone.”
I’m pretty sure my eyes bugged out, at least a little bit. “Your husband?”
“Yes, Charles MacDonald. We married in New York City and then moved to Tombstone. Charlie was sure we could make our fortune if we opened a Chinese restaurant there. He said we’d be a novelty.” Li shook her head. “We were a novelty, all right.” She sounded bitter.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Adolph Grant killed Charlie and snatched me. After that I worked for him. On my back.”
Shocked by her plain-speaking—which was really stupid of me under the circumstances—I said, “Oh.”
“Angie took care of me. She took care of all of Grant’s girls. I was luckier than most of the other girls.”
“You mean you were smarter than them,” said Mr. Prophet. His words didn’t strike me as kindly meant.
Evidently, they struck Li the same way. With a scowl that would have done credit to a gargoyle, she snapped, “You’re right. I’m smarter than a lot of people, including you.”
Mr. Prophet grunted.
“Anyhow, Angie took care of me, and I took care of her. Grant charmed her. One of his more wicked talents, damn him. He could be charming when he wanted to be, until he had you. Then he showed his true colors. When Angie married him, all of her money became his, of course, because that’s the way marriage works.”
It did? I didn’t ask.
“The laws are changing in some states,” said Sam, butting into the conversation so suddenly, I started in surprise. “In fact, more and more of them are becoming community-property states.”
“What does ‘community property’ mean?” I asked.
“It means that when a man and a woman marry, anything either of them produces during the marriage belongs equally to both of them. Sort of a fifty-fifty split.”
“And Arizona isn’t one of those states?”
“I have no idea,” said Sam.
“Is California?”
“Why?” asked Sam shooting a grin at me. “Want all my money? Too bad. I made it before we got engaged.”
“I’m not marrying you for your money!”
“Why the hell not?” asked Lou Prophet. I turned my head and glared at him, for all the good it did.
“I know you aren’t.” Sam reached over and patted my knee.
“Anyhow, Arizona wasn’t a whatever you called it. At least it wasn’t back then,” said Li glumly. “It wasn’t even a state. What was Angie’s became Grant’s, and what was Grant’s, he kept, believe me. Including Angie.”
“Huh,” said Mr. Prophet.
“But Mister Grant is dead now?” I asked.
“Yes. I’ve been told he was shot to death about a year ago,” said Li.
“Do you have any proof? I mean, did you read his obituary or anything?”
“No, but several people, including Sally, told me he was murdered in his parlor h
ouse. I know for a fact he was selling illegal liquor there. He probably got in bad with a bootlegging operation, and they killed him for cheating. He cheated everyone he ever did business with.”
“Mercy,” said I. Silly, I know.
“I don’t think mercy and Adolph Grant ever met,” said Li in a dry-as-dust voice. “All I know is, he’s dead.”
“Good.” That wasn’t nice of me, but Mr. Grant sounded like a truly awful person. I knew from bitter experience slavery existed in the United States, even though people didn’t call it that. It always distressed me to learn about another one of slavery’s many forms. Sounded to me as if Mr. Adolph Grant had pretty much enslaved Angie and everyone else who’d had the misfortune to become entangled with him and live under his influence. No matter what Mr. Prophet said about her, I thought Angie was a heroine for helping enslaved women achieve their freedom. I suppose it was too bad she’d gone about it in a less-than-honorable manner. But honestly, there are times when honor has to be set aside in order to achieve a loftier goal.
Maybe.
Fiddlesticks. I don’t know what I’m babbling on about. All I knew at the moment was Angie Mainwaring, according to Li, helped women in distress. I had no reason to doubt Li’s word on the subject and, to my mind, Angie’s actions on behalf of other women who were unable to help themselves made her a good person. Kind of like Flossie Buckingham. Only an overall less-good person than Flossie. Maybe I’m wrong. Sorry about blabbing again.
But we’d reached the Lamanda Park section of Pasadena by then, so our conversation and, thank the heavens, my muddled thought processes ceased. Sam slowed down when he got to Orange Acres and turned onto the long drive. The aroma of orange blossoms was as potent that day as it had been on… Good Lord, had we been there only two days ago? By golly, I guess so. So much had happened since then, our first visit seemed as though it had happened in another lifetime.
I smiled as we approached the big old Victorian mansion. It looked like a huge wedding cake, with all its curlicues, gables, turrets, gingerbread trim and so forth. The place was gorgeous, although I don’t think I’d like to live in a house so big. Unless one could afford a staff of dozens, it would be impossible to keep the place clean and tidy. Then there were the grounds and the gigantic orange grove. Angie probably did employ dozens of people.
And that, I decided on the spot, was one more reason to like her. In order to keep her mansion and orange grove—not to mention the house she’d bought on Marengo Avenue—buzzing along properly, she had to employ a whole lot of people. Although the country had gradually begun climbing out of the economic depression it had fallen into after the war, many people remained unemployed. And if Angie gave jobs to people who used to be all-but-slaves, more power to her!
I didn’t voice my opinion aloud, primarily because I didn’t want to hear any more snide comments from Mr. Prophet. I don’t think Li would have jeered, but I didn’t know for sure. In truth, I didn’t understand her. She seemed both hard and soft. Ruthless and compassionate. Hateful and loving.
Or maybe I was totally wrong about her, and everyone else found her personality to be as clear and easy to understand as a fresh mountain stream.
Somehow, I doubted it.
When Sam pulled up to the big wrap-around porch, Li got out first. She didn’t wait for Mr. Prophet to open her door for her. Mind you, I don’t know if he’d have done it if she’d waited, but I guess she wasn’t taking any chances.
“Do you know what Sally’s last name is?” Sam asked me before the two of us exited the motorcar.
“I don’t have any idea. We should have asked Li, I guess.”
“We’ll learn it,” Sam said philosophically. Then he exited the Hudson.
He didn’t have a chance to open my door for me like the gentleman he sometimes was, because Mr. Prophet got there first. He’d thrown his quirley away by then, and he wore a sardonic expression on his face when I thanked him for opening my door for me. Drat the man.
Twenty-Three
“Miss Li!” Sam called, stopping Li just as she reached out to open the mansion’s front door.
She turned and frowned at him.
“Wait there a minute, please.”
Li waited, and Sam caught up with her, Mr. Prophet and yours truly right behind him.
“Please don’t say anything to Miss Sally except that we want to talk to her,” Sam said. “Will you do that? If not, please say so, because I don’t want the news about Mister Tucker’s demise to come from anyone else before I have the chance to talk to her.”
“She might already know,” Li said.
“If she does, she does. But I’d like to see her reaction when she receives the news if at all possible.”
Hmm. Did Sam think Sally was the cuckoo in the nest? She didn’t seem like a viable candidate to me because she’d appeared so darned fragile, both mentally and physically, to think up a dastardly plan to ruin Angie’s life all by herself. Maybe she’d had help? From whom? Then again, what did I know? Absolutely nothing, darn it.
“Very well,” said Li. She sounded grudging, as if she didn’t think a big, burly Italian police detective ought to be delivering sad news to one of Angie’s protégées.
Too bad. Sam knew what he was doing.
Did I stick by my man, or did I not?
Li opened the big front door and walked into the entryway ahead of us. She called, “Clara? Clara, I’m back.”
A bustling noise came from the staircase, and I looked up to see a woman who might have been Hattie’s twin sister coming down the steps. I found out later that she and Hattie were sisters, but not twins.
“Miss Li? Glad you’re back.”
“How have things been here?” Li asked the woman.
“Calm.”
The woman whose name was Clara smiled such a benevolent smile, I instantly felt as if I’d been blessed. Some people are just like that, I reckon.
“Thank God for small mercies,” said Li. “Is Sally upstairs?”
“Yes. She’s with Nancy and Brenda in the upstairs parlor. They’re playing Old Maid.”
I don’t know why the card game the three women were playing struck me as funny, but I darned near burst out laughing. It’s a good thing I didn’t because Sam would probably have killed me if I had. I don’t mean literally.
“Thanks, Clara.” Turning to Sam, Li said, “Do you want me to fetch Sally?”
“In a minute.” Sam turned to the woman whom I assumed to be Clara. Holding out his police credentials, he said, “Ma’am, I’m Detective Sam Rotondo, from the Pasadena Police Department. I want to question Miss Sally about the incident that occurred in the orchard on Tuesday.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. Miss Angie said you’d be coming around in a day or so. I’m Clara Wilson.” Clara held out her hand for Sam to shake.
“Happy to meet you, Miss Wilson,” said Sam, shaking the woman’s hand gently.
“It’s Missus Wilson, but it’s all right,” she said, beaming another benevolent smile upon all of us. I swear the woman was a walking benediction.
“Missus Wilson. Thank you. Is there a good place where we can talk in private for a minute or two?”
Private! Private? “Sam, you’re going to need me with you when you talk to Sally.”
Smiling at me, far from benevolently, Sam said, “Oh? Why’s that?”
“Well, because…because you need a woman with you, that’s why. You said so yourself! Sally’s…fragile.”
“Miss Li’s a woman,” Sam pointed out.
“Aw, let her go with you,” said Mr. Prophet, surprising me. “She’s nicer than Li. Sally’ll be likelier to talk to her than to you or Li.”
Shocked, I turned upon Mr. Prophet. “That’s so unkind! How can you say such a thing about Li, Mister Prophet?”
With a shrug, he said, “Because it’s the truth?”
“Never mind, Daisy,” said Li. “Lou’s Lou, and there’s nothing anyone can do about him.”
“But he
’s being—”
Sam put a hand on my arm before I could lambaste Mr. Prophet anymore.
“Leave it be, Daisy. Lou wants you there, so I’ll allow you to sit in. If you cause any trouble, I’ll kick you out.”
“Trouble! I’d never—”
“Shut up, Daisy,” Sam advised, interrupting my rant, “or I might change my mind.”
Frustrated and angry, I shut up. He was being unkind and unfair—according to me—but I wanted to be in on his interview with Sally. Besides, he’d told me he wanted me there! Had he been lying? Darn the man!
“Do you want me to go with you, too?” asked Li.
“Might as well. But let me do the talking, please.”
“Happy to,” said Li. I got the feeling she meant it.
“Come along with me.” Smiling with as much benevolence as she’d earlier displayed, Clara Wilson led us all to a parlor off the entryway.
The room was furnished beautifully. Nothing ostentatious; everything just seemed perfect. I don’t know much money Angie had earned—or, perhaps, stolen—over her many marriages and her fifty-some years, but it must have been a bundle. I don’t think I’d ever seen such pretty furnishings, including the draperies. The windows were open half-way, and a gentle breeze wafted the scent of orange blossoms into the room as it made the sheer curtains billow softly. The place was about as much like heaven as anywhere on earth could get, if you asked me. Not that you did. Just thought I’d mention it.
“Please take a seat in here,” said Clara. “Would you like to ask me any questions before Li goes to fetch Miss Sally?”
“Yes, please,” said Sam, holding a round-backed armchair for Clara to sit in. The chair, naturally, was beautiful, a dusky rose color. It was one of a pair.
Sam sat in the chair’s mate and gestured for Li, Mr. Prophet and me to take a seat nearby. So we did. I saw a nearby filigreed sofa with a patterned fabric that went well with the chairs and sat on the end closest to Sam and Clara. Li sat next to me and folded her hands in her lap. She looked so demure, you’d never have guessed she’d once been in an unsavory business. Mr. Prophet sneered down at another beautiful chair near our sofa, its cushion patterned like the sofa, before he sat, too. I have no idea what he had against pretty furniture.
