by Alice Duncan
As our macaroni dishes cooked, I had planned to lecture the ladies on some of the uses for stale bread, which, according to the book, was so abundant in most households that the average housewife couldn’t keep up with it all. Needless to say, I didn’t know this fact from experience, although Vi confirmed the book’s veracity in that regard. Astonishing what you can learn even when you don’t want to, isn’t it?
My plans suffered a check when, just as I was launching in to the economic value of frying bread in bacon fat in order to stretch the family budget in a tasty way, who should roll into the fellowship hall but my husband. Worse, he was followed by his best friend and my mortal enemy, Sam Rotondo, detective with the Pasadena Police Department. Sam and I had encountered each other before, almost always under unfortunate circumstances. Unfortunate for me, I mean.
I must have been standing there with my mouth open for quite some seconds, because it was Johnny—I don’t know where he’d been lurking—who suddenly showed up and graciously introduced Billy to the ladies, all of whom muttered and fluttered. They appeared almost as embarrassed and disconcerted as I was.
“And this is Detective Sam Rotondo,” continued Johnny, smiling happily. I guess he was glad Billy and Sam had joined the fray. That made one of us. “He’s originally from New York City, but he moved here several years ago and is now working for the Pasadena Police Department.”
More flutters and mutters.
“I didn’t know you were going to come,” I said, perhaps a trifle ungraciously. I wanted to ask if Billy had showed up in order to watch me fail, but that would have been unkind, not to mention self-defeating. After all, these women didn’t know I was a failure as a cook. Yet.
“We just decided to drop by and offer encouragement,” said Billy, smiling his winning smile.
Billy had always been a very handsome fellow. Even from his wheelchair, he exuded the charm that had won my heart when I was no more than a girl and used to follow him around, much to his annoyance. He got over it.
“Well . . . thank you.” I tried to sound sincere.
“Please,” said Sam, “carry on.” He waved his hand in the air with a nonchalance I didn’t believe for an instant. I squinted at him hard, but could not discern any deeper motive for his sudden arrival at this strange place. Strange for him, I mean. Well, and it was strange for me, too, but. . . . Oh, forget it.
Then I noticed the big clock hanging on the side wall and recalled our not-yet-burning noodles. Ignoring the men, I said, “Let’s check our dishes, ladies.”
So we once again trooped to the back of the hall. Praying hard, I opened the oven door and, wonder of wonders, all nine of our little dishes were bubbling away and looked wonderful! Pretending I knew what I was doing, I said with some satisfaction, “You see? The custard is almost set and the tops are getting brown. That’s exactly what we want. We should give them another minute or two, though, to be sure of the custard.”
The ladies nodded happily, and we discussed stale bread for another little while as we waited for our dishes to be perfectly done. One of them mentioned croquettes, and I started slightly. There were a couple of recipes in the little booklet for croquettes, little volcano-shaped things that looked far beyond my limited capabilities. I said something about maybe trying croquettes another time and then, thank God, it was time for me to open the oven door again.
“And there you go, ladies.” I spoke with understandable triumph as the aroma of perfectly cooked cheese custard wafted into the room. “Do you all remember what your dishes look like? Let’s take them out of the oven and sample our wares.”
So we did.
Only there was one dish left in the oven. Puzzled, I looked around at my class. Only eight women were left. “Where’s . . . ?” But I couldn’t remember their names. I mean, I could vaguely remember that somebody was named Margaret and somebody else was named Maria, but I didn’t yet know which woman went with which name. “Has someone left?”
Then the ladies all glanced around. Evidently they didn’t know each other, either, because one of them said uncertainly, “I think so.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ll take her dish out of the oven, and we can just leave it here. Perhaps she had to go to the powder room or something.”
“I’ll go check,” said Flossie. She bustled off but came back empty-handed.
“Oh, well. I’m sure she’ll return. In the meantime, let’s see what we’ve made up and how it tastes.”
So Billy, Sam and I bravely sampled my bread and macaroni pudding, as the other ladies sampled their own dishes, and Johnny, being the kindhearted gent he was, took a taste of everyone’s dish. He paused longer at Flossie’s desk than anyone else’s. Flossie colored and fed him a spoonful of her macaroni, and it did my heart good to see the two of them so happy together. Darn it, I could do some things right.
Appearing perfectly dumbfounded, Billy said, “Hey, Daisy, this is pretty good.”
“Yeah,” said Sam, loquacious as ever.
“Thank you.” And I said no more. Occasionally I can keep my mouth shut, although not often.
I glanced back at the stove to see if the one wandering woman had returned to claim her prize.
But whoever the woman was, she never returned to the group that day.
Maybe she didn’t think cheese and macaroni was worth her time? That made me feel pretty awful, to tell the truth.
Chapter Three
We ate the leftover macaroni pudding at supper that night along with Aunt Vi’s pork chops and brussels sprouts. My dish seemed a kind of paltry contribution to the meal, but the entire family raved. That’s only because they, too, knew about all my previous cooking disasters and were being kind to me.
In order to divert everyone’s attention, I said, “I wonder if that woman will ever come back to class again.”
“If she does,” Sam said, surprising me, “let me know, will you?” Aunt Vi had begged him to stay for supper. Everyone loved Sam. Except me.
I eyed him narrowly, mistrusting this fascination of his for my student defector. I could detect pretty well myself, and I detected more than casual interest in this police detective. “How come?”
He shrugged.
“There’s something you’re not telling us, Sam Rotondo. If there’s a vicious criminal in my cooking class, I ought to know about it.” I glared at him.
“There’s no vicious criminal in there that I know about,” he said, sounding slightly exasperated. “I just thought it was peculiar that as soon as a policeman showed up, she vanished.”
“Darn you, Sam Rotondo,” I said, all the frustration of my day at last finding a target. “What in the name of heaven do you want with a poor, innocent woman who’s probably an impoverished refugee and who’s taking a cooking class? She’s a charity case, for heaven’s sake.”
Ma said, “Daisy,” in a tone of voice I remembered of old.
Aunt Vi said, “Honestly, Daisy Majesty.” She didn’t approve of rudeness in any form, not even when it was directed at Sam Rotondo, who deserved it.
Billy snickered and said, “I thought I detected a German accent from one of the women. You ought to be glad the police are interested.”
I glared at my beloved. “I thought so, too. Johnny said a couple of them were Belgian, but I think at least one of them’s German.”
“Ah.” Billy scooped up more macaroni.
“I don’t think a German lady would be taken in here, in the United States,” said Pa thoughtfully. “We just fought a war with Germany.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said, smiling at Pa.
“Not,” Pa said, “that the poor women had anything to do with the war.”
Bother. My family members were all so reasonable. “I suppose not,” I grumbled.
“A very few Germans have managed to get into the United States illegally,” said Sam.
“Illegally?” I’d never heard of such a thing. I’d always thought of deeds such as murder, kidnapping and theft as illegal. It never
occurred to me that countries might have laws governing who could and who couldn’t cross their borders. Which was silly of me, really, since I’d read about the Chinese Exclusion Act and stuff like that in school.
“Yeah. Only people with valid work permits, a sponsor and a job are supposed to enter the United States. The government is especially particular about Germans. We’re taking in some of the Russian-Germans and a few Belgian-Germans, but they aren’t allowing many German-Germans to enter.”
I stared at him, undoubtedly rudely, for a few seconds. “I didn’t know there were such things as Russian-Germans and Belgian-Germans.”
Billy enlightened me. “Oh, sure. Lots of folks, especially Jews, tried to get out of Germany before the war and during it. It’s even worse there now, what with all the damage from the bombs. The war ruined crops and farmlands as well as cities, and thousands of people are attempting to start their lives over someplace else. Someplace that hasn’t been ruined by the war, I mean.”
“Well, surely Flanders and France were hurt worse than most places, weren’t they?”
“That accounts for the Belgian immigrants,” muttered Sam. “Although not too many have made it as far as the USA. I’m sure you’ve read about what a mess Russia is these days, what with that revolution they had over there right after the war and all.”
“Are we not letting Russians in either?” I was beginning to think we Americans were rather snobbish. “Weren’t the Russians our allies in the war?”
Again Sam shrugged. I wished I could heave a brussels sprout at him—speaking of things Belgian. “We’re letting quite a few Russians in.”
“Oh.” I felt a little better about American kindness of heart. “But what’s this about Jews?” I knew Jews had been persecuted for centuries, if not millennia, because of their religion—Christians were mad at them because Jews killed Jesus, but I figured Jesus was a Jew, too, so I didn’t buy that argument—but I’d never thought about such things in this modern day and age.
Sam waved his hand in a careless gesture. “We allow some Jews in. We really don’t have much of an immigration problem here. Not in Southern California, anyway. Our immigration policies are so strict that most people can’t get in. Those who can get in enter via Ellis Island in New York City.”
“That’s right,” I said thoughtfully. “You must have met a lot of immigrants when you lived in New York.”
He nodded, not looking especially happy about his experience with immigrants. He might have been thinking of the Bolsheviks or the Anarchists like Sacco and Vanzetti. That got me to thinking again, which can be a dangerous thing. “Are all immigrants radicals like those Italian guys who blew up the bank?”
Billy choked slightly. I realized he was laughing and knew I’d said something stupid. Again. “They didn’t blow up a bank, Daisy. They shot a couple of payroll guards.”
“Oh. Well, that’s just as bad, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.” I could tell my husband was trying not to laugh out loud at me. Nuts. I turned my attention back to Sam. “Well, are all immigrants Bolsheviks or Anarchists, Sam?”
“Of course they aren’t.” Again he sounded exasperated. “My father and mother were from Sicily, and they’re not Bolsheviks or criminals.” He eyed me coldly. “And neither am I.”
Whoops. I’d forgotten for a minute that Sam was of Italian descent. “Sorry, Sam.” Boy, I hated apologizing to that man.
He waved a hand as if to say, “Forget it.”
“Daisy Majesty, I don’t know what to do with you,” Ma muttered.
Aunt Vi tutted.
“No,” Sam continued. “Most immigrants are perfectly law abiding and are happy to be here and away from famine and the destruction of war. As I said, we don’t allow many of them to enter. However, lots of them are going to South America, and some have sneaked across the border that way.”
“Oh.”
“What’s supposed to happen,” he said, repeating himself, “is that a fellow will have a job lined up and a work permit, and then he and his family can emigrate to one country or another—except this one, where they’re not generally welcome. If they want to come here, they have a better chance if they have a sponsor.”
“Oh.” That didn’t sound right to me, although I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. “I thought people were supposed to send us their tired, weary and huddled masses yearning to be free.” My sixth-grade teacher, Miss Ischy, whose grandparents had come here from Switzerland, had taught us that.
Billy laughed. It was more like a snort, actually. “That was then. So darned many of ’em came here that the government decided to crack down on immigration.”
“I didn’t realize that.” Well, except for the Chinese, who, as I mentioned before, I had read about. My education regarding these matters seemed pitifully insufficient at the moment. I decided to visit the library and see what I could find out about the crackdown on immigration.
“But some of ’em manage to sneak in anyhow. Usually across our southern border with Mexico.”
“Hmm.” I took another bite of pork chop. Vi was such a good cook. No way in a million years could I ever even aspire to her degree of expertise of the cooking arts. I think you have to be born with the gift. Sort of like I was born with the spiritualism gift, if you know what I mean. “Mr. Kincaid tried to sneak out of the country the same way. Via Mexico, I mean.” Mr. Kincaid, Mrs. Kincaid’s ex-husband, was now languishing in prison, which was a good place for him. I’d always figured that Stacy got her unpleasant qualities from him rather than her mother, who was only flighty. Mr. Kincaid was mean and evil.
Sam frowned at me. He never did appreciate my involvement with the Kincaids. Which just goes to show how much he knew. If it weren’t for Mrs. Kincaid, my family wouldn’t be half so well off.
“Do you suppose these women have a sponsor?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “My guess is that your friend Buckingham or his church are sponsoring the women in your class.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” And it sounded very much like something Johnny, who had a heart as big as the outdoors, would do. Flossie, too.
And thus the conversation died.
Ma and I washed up after supper, which we always did since Vi did all the cooking, and Billy, Sam and Pa set up the card table in the living room. They just loved playing gin rummy with each other. As Ma washed and I dried, I couldn’t help but think back to my first-ever attempt at teaching anything at all. “I can’t believe I’m teaching a cooking class.”
Ma laughed a little. “I can’t, either. You’re no better cook than I am.”
“Well, at least you made a good raisin pie earlier in the year.”
“It almost killed me, too.” Ma laughed and I joined her.
“But I really do wonder what happened to that lady who disappeared.”
Ma only shrugged.
* * * * *
The following morning we all walked up to the First Methodist-Episcopal Church, North, on Colorado Boulevard and Marengo Avenue, where I sang alto in the choir. Since Thanksgiving was fast approaching—for which meal I would not be cooking, thank God—the choir sang “For the Beauty of the Earth,” a pretty song I’ve always loved, and I forgot all about cooking classes, German ladies, Russian immigrants, Sacco and Vanzetti and Johnny Buckingham.
On Monday, Mrs. Kincaid called in a tizzy. As usual. Actually, she’d been even more frazzled than usual lately, because she was planning for her wedding to a gentleman named Mr. Algernon Pinkerton. Mr. Pinkerton was a very nice, very wealthy fellow who had been a good friend to Mrs. Kincaid through all her travails with Mr. Kincaid, but Mrs. Kincaid didn’t need much of an excuse to tizzy up, if you know what I mean.
“Please, Daisy, bring your cards. I simply must know if I’m doing the right thing in marrying Algie.”
It would, thought I, be more to the point if it were he worrying about marrying her. Naturally, I didn’t say so. “Of course,” I purred. We spiritualists purr a lot. We also
waft, but that would come into play later. “I’ll be happy to do a reading for you.” What the heck. She sure couldn’t do worse than her first husband, and money was money. I could always use more of hers, and she sure seemed to like to give it to me.
Besides, I liked Mr. Pinkerton, although I wasn’t sure I’d want to marry anyone whom folks called “Algie,” which sounded like pond scum to me. However, Harold Kincaid, Mrs. Kincaid’s son and my best friend, liked him. I knew from experience that Harold was a much better judge of people than I, so there you go.
After I hung up the receiver, I turned from the ’phone with a sigh to find Billy and Pa looking at me, both grinning. “Mrs. Kincaid,” I said, although from their smirks, I presumed they already knew that.
Pa confirmed my presumption. “We heard.”
“I don’t understand why she keeps calling,” said Billy. “I mean, once you read the cards, the message doesn’t change, does it?”
“Not much,” I confirmed as I started clearing the table.
“The cards don’t say different things at different times?” Pa asked.
“Well,” said I, “it all depends on what questions you ask.” Then I stopped stock-still in the middle of the kitchen, marveling that I, who knew better, was actually talking as if there was really something to this spiritualism nonsense. I’m pretty sure I sighed again.
Changing the subject, I said, “I’m going to stop by the library before I go to the Kincaids’ place. Does anyone want anything?”
“Yeah,” said Billy. “Will you see if there are any new Zane Grey books there? I think he’s published a new one.”
“I’ll check on it. I’m hoping Miss Petrie will have a new mystery or two for me.”
