by Alice Duncan
We layered and layered until our dishes were full. Lord, I loved these women. They were so good to me, and they all followed my directions as if they trusted me. Even Hilda did. Her attention and precision troubled me slightly, since I continued to believe she was German and not Swiss. Since I had a reputation as a German-hater to maintain, I really wanted to find fault with her. Unfortunately for me, I was unable to find a single character flaw to pounce upon and detest.
“When your dish is filled, beat an egg in a little bowl and add a cup of milk.” I demonstrated, and the ladies followed my instructions like the good students they were.
“Then pour the milk-and-egg mixture over your scalloped meat, dab it with more dots of butter, and bake in a moderate oven for approximately one half hour.”
When we all got our dishes into the big oven in the back of the room, preheated by the ever-helpful and vigilant Flossie Buckingham, we returned to our places and discussed yet more uses for dried bread. Fortunately, the students and the book were resourceful in that regard, since I definitely wasn’t. We covered bread rusks, how to resuscitate stale bread, milk toast, and sprinkling the bottom layer of pie crust with breadcrumbs to ensure the bottom crust didn’t get soggy. As if I’d ever made a pie in my life—or intended to make one in the future. Well, why should I, when we had Vi to cook for us?
After half an hour or so, having pursued the issue of what to do with stale bread, we traipsed back to the stove and withdrew our dishes. By gum, they looked quite nice! They smelled as if they tasted good, too. Another triumph brought to you by Daisy Gumm Majesty, the worst cook in the world. When people say wonders never cease, I think they mean me.
We sampled our scalloped meat (quite palatable, if not up to Vi’s standards) and as we said our good-byes until the next Saturday, I braced myself to receive more confidences from Gertrude Minneke.
She remained behind while the other ladies filed out. They all thanked me and looked happy. When I glanced Gertrude’s way after the last student left the room, she appeared troubled. Oh, goody. If she told me Eugene had been falsely accused of yet another murder, I was going to tell Sam, darn it. I don’t care if I promised her I wouldn’t. Flossie and I chatted for a bit at the door, and then Flossie, too, left the hall. Gathering my courage, I turned and smiled at Gertrude. She didn’t smile back.
“Would you like to chat now?” I asked pleasantly.
“Yes, please,” she said, her voice a subdued muffle.
“Would you like to sit here?” I gestured at two of the desks.
“Let’s go outside to talk. Is that all right with you? I don’t want anyone to overhear us.”
Oh, dear. “Of course.” Inwardly, I heaved a big sigh.
But I walked with her outside, where the Salvation Army had a little courtyard. Two benches had been set out there under a couple of big old oak trees, and we sat on one of the benches. It wasn’t an especially comfortable place to sit, what with the seats being hard and cold, oak leaves plopping down on us and the wind picking up, but I didn’t complain. What I wanted was to get this over with.
“Now, Miss Minneke, what can I do for you?”
“Get Eugene and me out of Pasadena.”
My eyebrows soared and I gawked at her. “Do what?”
“Oh, Mrs. Majesty!” She burst into tears. Have I mentioned how much I dislike having people cry at me? Well, I do.
“But . . . but, Miss Minneke, how do you expect me to do that?”
She wiped her eyes with a hankie. “You have an automobile, don’t you?”
“Yes. It belongs to my entire family, though. It’s not just mine.”
“But you have one. That’s the important point.”
For her, maybe. “Um . . . I think I need to know a little more about what seems so important to you that you need to flee the city where you’re getting so much help from Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham and the Salvation Army. It doesn’t seem right to me that you should just up and go away. They took you on and sponsored you,” I reminded her. “And you agreed to the deal they offered.”
“I know. I know.” She sounded miserable. As well she might. “But, you see, some of the awful people Eugene got mixed up with back East have suddenly shown up in Pasadena. Eugene is sure he saw the leader of the gang in town the other day.”
The leader of the gang? Just who were these people Eugene used to hang around with, anyhow? I decided to ask. “Just who are these people, Miss Minneke? If Eugene is afraid of them, he ought to go to the police and make a clean breast of things.”
“No! He can’t do that. He’d be arrested if he went to the police, and then we’d never be able to prove he didn’t do what they’re saying he did.”
So we were back to that scenario, were we? With Eugene and Gertrude trying to clear Eugene’s name of a crime he was believed to have committed in New Jersey. From all the way across the country, in my fair city of Pasadena. That part of her story still didn’t make any sense to me.
“Are you absolutely sure your brother had nothing to do with the . . . crime?” Murder sounded so ugly.
“Of course, I’m sure!”
Now she looked offended, which I considered nonsensical. “Miss Minneke, I can truly sympathize with your troubles, but you must understand my reservations. You may well be sure that your brother is an innocent man, but I have no way of knowing that.”
“But I told you he didn’t do it!”
“Yes, yes, I know you did. But your saying so doesn’t necessarily make it so.”
Her expression changed dramatically. Now she gazed upon me as she might have if I’d kicked her kitten. “You don’t believe me?”
This time my sigh was entirely audible. “Listen to me, Miss Minneke. I believe you believe your brother is innocent of the heinous crime of which he is accused. But I don’t know him the way you do. For all I know, you, a loyal sister, are looking at him through rose-colored glasses. I’ve read about people who have refused to believe their loved ones committed terrible acts, yet their loved ones have been proven to have done the deeds of which they’d been accused. You might well be one of those people. I don’t have any way of knowing the truth one way or the other.”
She began to whimper softly.
“Besides,” I went on, “my time isn’t really my own. I have an invalid husband to care for, and a living to earn for the both of us. He was seriously wounded in the war and is unable to work, and my father has a bad heart condition, and he can’t work. I can’t just take off if I feel like it. I have too many people depending on me.”
Silence descended upon us, much as those pointy oak leaves continued to do. At least she stopped whimpering.
At last Gertrude said, “Well . . . I guess I understand your reservations—although I know Eugene didn’t kill anyone. I’m not looking at him through rose-colored glasses, believe me. I’m too much of a realist to do that.”
Hmm. I didn’t buy that one for an instant. I didn’t say so, however.
“But . . . well, if you can’t drive us to Los Angeles or San Diego, could you possibly lend us some money?”
Good Lord. This was almost worse than driving the two of them out of the city to elude the coppers and New Jersey goons.
She began wringing her hands again. Shoot. “Please, Mrs. Majesty. It would mean so much to Eugene and me. And we’d pay you back. Truly, we would.”
I was getting tired of this, darn it. My voice was a trifle tart when next I spoke. “I’m sure you would, and I’m also sure it would mean a good deal to you and your brother. But it would also mean breaking your agreement with the Salvation Army and with two of my own dear friends. It’s not a matter of paying me back. If you didn’t think you’d be able to abide by the contract you signed with the Salvation Army, you shouldn’t have signed it in the first place.”
“But it was the only chance we had. We learned of the opportunity through the Salvation Army in Trenton. They paid our way out here on the train, and we never ever guessed people would come af
ter us.”
“Then it’s doubly important for you to keep your word,” I said in my severest tone of voice.
She whimpered again. “I know. I hate deceiving people.”
We sat there silently for a few moments, Gertrude biting her lower lip and me wishing myself elsewhere before she spoke again. “If . . . if I could get hold of some money from someone else, would you be willing to purchase train tickets for us?”
“Train tickets? Where would you go?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” She sounded as desperate as she claimed to be. “It doesn’t matter. We just need to get out of here.”
“If you’re determined to go—and I still don’t think it would be honorable of you to do so—then why can’t you buy your own train tickets? Why the elaborate charade?”
“Because they might be watching for us at the train station!” Her tone implied I ought to have known that already.
“Who’s ‘they,’ in this context?” I asked drily.
“The criminals.”
“Oh. Well. . . .”
“Please, Mrs. Majesty! This may be the only chance Eugene and I have.”
Nuts. “The Salvation Army is giving you both a chance at a new life right here in Pasadena,” I reminded her.
“I know. I know.” She clearly didn’t like being prompted to remember where her duty lay.
“They not only paid for your transportation, but they found housing and a job and training for the two of you. I think it would be. . . .” I hesitated, trying to select the right word. I wanted to use immoral, but didn’t think Gertrude would appreciate my candor. I opted for dishonest. I supposed it amounted to the same thing, but it didn’t sound quite so severe. “I think it would be dishonest of you to break your agreements with two Salvation Army churches.”
Her tears started in earnest once more. “But we didn’t know those horrid men would come after us, Mrs. Majesty! And Eugene is innocent! You’re being terribly unfair.”
I was being unfair? I, Daisy Majesty, whose only responsibility to this woman was to teach her how to cook with stale bread? I thought not. However, I couldn’t find it in my heart to completely crush her. I stood and said, “I don’t know, Miss Minneke. This whole scenario makes me very uncomfortable, as much as I’d like to help you. Let me think about it for a while.”
She didn’t appear happy, but she said, “All right. Thank you for thinking about it, anyway.”
I drove home that day feeling pretty darned oppressed.
Chapter Twelve
The next day, Sunday, I took the family for a nice ride up into the foothills after church and dinner. But not before I had to endure much questioning by Lucille Spinks about Sam Rotondo. Shoot.
“Do you know if he ever asks ladies out to movies, Daisy?” Lucy was buttoning up her choir robe as she asked the question.
Pulling my stole over my head, I said, “I don’t know. He took my family out to a movie and dinner once. Want me to ask him?” I didn’t want to ask Sam if he’d like to better his acquaintance with Lucille Spinks. For some reason, when it came to Sam, I still couldn’t help but think of her as a rival. Idiotic, I know.
She blushed, for Pete’s sake! “Oh, no! Well . . . would you mind?” She turned around and put her hands over her face. “Oh, I feel so silly!”
Would I mind? Yes, I would. “Of course I wouldn’t mind, Lucy.”
In a way, it was both unkind and foolish of me to resent Lucy’s interest in Sam. The war had deprived us of so many, many young men that there weren’t a whole bunch of them left for the ladies who’d been left behind. Then again, some of the men who’d fought in Europe had come home with French or British brides, thus taking even more men away from the crop of females wanting to get married at home. The situation was tough, and I resolved to treat Lucy with compassion, even if she did want to take Sam away from Billy.
Besides that, it was entirely possible that Sam might want to get married again. In fact, when I thought about it, he might well be a lonely person. Why else would he be at our house so often? And at least Lucy was a nice person. If Sam had to marry somebody, Lucy seemed a likely and plausible choice.
She whirled around again and took my hands. “Thank you, Daisy. You know I had thought Marvin Halliday and I would marry, but he. . . .”
Oh, dear goodness. That’s right. I finally recalled that Lucy’s beloved had also been lost in the war. Cursed war. Cursed Kaiser. I squeezed her hands. “I know, Lucy. What a dismal aftermath, huh?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Dismal is a good word for it.” And she let go of me to snatch her handkerchief and wipe her eyes.
Bah.
But it was a crisp, sunny November day, and we endured the church service. Also, everyone was looking forward to Thanksgiving, which was the following Thursday. I think Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays. Not only do we always have a wonderful meal, thanks to Aunt Vi, but my birthday would fall on the Wednesday after Thanksgiving. I’d be twenty-two, by gum! And Aunt Vi would bake a delicious meal and a lovely cake, and I’d get presents. I know it sounds childish, but I liked getting presents. Well, who doesn’t?
I also appreciate Thanksgiving because it’s the one day in the year when we all concentrate on our blessings rather than our burdens, and I regret to say I dwelt a lot on my many responsibilities in those days—more than I should have, I’m sure.
Not only that, but Thanksgiving hymns are some of the loveliest, in my opinion, second only to those dedicated to Christmas. I generally prefer Thanksgiving and Christmas hymns to Easter hymns, which tend to be gloomy because of Good Friday and all. The Sunday of which I write, the choir sang “Come Ye Thankful People, Come,” which is one of my very favorites, and the organist truly outdid herself during the collection of the offering with a perfectly gorgeous medley of Thanksgiving music.
And then, after feasting on one of Vi’s more delicious meals, we went for our Sunday drive.
In Southern California, we don’t get the glorious fall leaves my father speaks of fondly—he’s originally from Massachusetts—but the weather sure shone upon us that Sunday, even if our leaves turned more yellowish than red and orange. Except for the evergreens, of course, which remained . . . well, green. Sometimes in November we get horrible winds the newspapers call Santa Anas. They knock the oranges off both of our trees, and sometimes entire branches. More than one of the magnificent pepper trees on our street had been uprooted by a windstorm. I am also prone to get hideous headaches during windstorms. No evil winds marred our Sunday drive that day.
In Altadena, which is a little town just north of Pasadena, there is an extremely charming street called Santa Rosa. It’s the town in which Mrs. Bissell, the dachshund breeder, lives, only she’s a little north and east of Santa Rosa. The street is lined with great big deodar trees, and every time I drive up it, I think of Rudyard Kipling’s Under the Deodars. Not that Kipling or his book has anything to do with this saga; I only mention it. Anyway, the long line of deodars on Santa Rosa originally lined the drive of Colonel F. J. Woodbury, who used to have a huge ranch up there and after whom a big east–west street in Altadena was named. Now Santa Rosa is lined not merely with deodars, but with huge, gorgeous houses, and it’s still nice to drive up.
So we did. Drive up Santa Rosa Avenue that day, I mean, and we all enjoyed the beautiful fall day. Ma and Pa and Vi sat in the backseat so that Billy and I could sit together in the front street. I doubt that Billy would have cared much one way or the other. What he wanted was to be able to drive the machine himself, but he couldn’t. He didn’t complain, however, and the day was quite enjoyable. He held Spike on his lap, and Spike had his nose stuck out the window, his ears flapping gloriously in the breeze.
We didn’t share a cross word all day long, wonder of wonders, even though I couldn’t get the image of that cache of morphine syrup out of my mind’s eye. But I didn’t bring up the subject again with Billy. Not ever. Perhaps I should have. I don’t know, and I suppose it’s no good
second-guessing oneself.
At any rate, the Monday following that lovely and peaceful Sunday, I got yet another frantic call from Mrs. Kincaid. Her wedding was to take place the following Sunday, and Billy and I were invited. I wanted to go, mainly because I’d get to see Harold Kincaid and Edie Applewood, my old school chum who, as I’ve already mentioned, worked as lady’s maid for Mrs. Kincaid. Billy wasn’t so keen on going, but he said he would. I wasn’t counting on that, but I determined not to nag him. If he decided to go to the wedding, fine. If he didn’t, well, I’d miss him, but that was fine, too. I sure intended to go. The reception was going to be held at the Valley Hunt Club, which was a fabulous place, and which I only ever got to see when rich people invited me.
This wedding of Mrs. Kincaid’s to Mr. Pinkerton had garnered me oodles of bucks over the past several months, due to her nervousness about embarking on another marriage. I didn’t think she needed to worry. Mr. Pinkerton seemed to be a genuinely fine gentleman. Not that one can always tell about things like that, of course. But I’d known him slightly for years and years, and he’d always been pleasant and kind to me—and to Mrs. Kincaid, too. He was a heck of a lot nicer to her than her previous husband, the dastardly Eustace Kincaid, who was serving time in the state penitentiary—which was a good place for him in my considered opinion—for fraud and theft.
At any rate, after I finished cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I changed into one of my spiritualist outfits and set out for Mrs. Kincaid’s, Ouija board in hand in the lovely little traveling bag I’d sewn for it years earlier.
That day, because Mrs. Kincaid had begun to annoy me a little and I didn’t feel in the mood for anything perky, I selected a long-sleeved dress of dull gray wool with a dropped waistline and black trim. With my black shoes, handbag and coat, I looked like a widow woman in half-mourning. That was a fine look to achieve for a person in my profession.
Mrs. Kincaid didn’t care what I looked like. She probably didn’t even see me, she was so involved with her own petty problems. Well, I considered them petty. She certainly didn’t. So I sat with her, pulled my Ouija board and accompanying planchette out of their carrying cases, set the board on the lovely mahogany coffee table in the drawing room, we put our fingers lightly on the planchette, and the planchette spelled out answers to Mrs. Kincaid’s questions. The answers were the same as ever, mainly because the questions were the same as ever.
