Unsettled Spirits (10 page)

"Maybe. Hasn't helped my idiot sister any."

"Bet it has. If she'd been poor from birth, she'd have been locked up years ago, and nobody would have bothered bailing her out."

After considering this unflattering comment for a second or two, he said, "You're right. Having money's better than not having it."

"As if you'd know," said I.

"Ah, but I mingle with peasants like you, and you keep my feet on the ground."

"Pooh. Harold, you're pip. You know that, don't you?"

"Absolutely."

And with a smile as big and wide as his tummy, Harold drove us to the Castleton. I reasoned from this that Del and Emmaline were expected to arrive at Emmaline's father's hotel on their own.

I was right. Del stood outside in the cold, his topcoat and hat keeping him warm, looking like the southern gentleman he was. I didn't see Emmaline until we entered the grand hotel. By the way, Harold drove up to the entrance and a liveried fellow ran up to him, bowed, and opened my door while another liveried lackey opened Harold's door and then got into the machine. Harold took my arm, we greeted Del, and we waltzed into the hotel without giving the Bearcat another glance. From this I deduced that the liveried fellows would park Harold's Bearcat for him and, when we left the hotel, would fetch it for him.

Whether Harold wanted to admit it or not, money talked. Loudly.

Very well, so I'd also visited Emmaline Castleton at her home, which was lavish. I'd been to her father's Castleton Memorial Hospital several times, but I'd never been to the Castleton Hotel before in the company of a Castleton. You'd have thought we were visiting royalty. That is to say, you'd have thought we were royalty visiting the hotel. Oh, you know what I mean.

A fellow in a black suit who looked vaguely like an undertaker, hurried to us as soon as our feet hit the red carpeting inside the building. "Miss Castleton's guests?" he inquired in a snooty voice.

"Yes, indeed," said Harold, who didn't let his money give him airs. He let his money give his servitors airs.

Am I being cynical? I suppose so. I apologize.

Anyhow, we were divested of our outer garments, asked if any of us would like to visit the "guest facilities," which, I assume, were the bathrooms, and when we all declined the invitation, he led us to the main dining room, which was a supremely fancy place, through that room, and to a private dining room, where he opened the door and bowed. Harold and Del let me enter first, as was only proper.

Emmaline had been seated at the beautifully set table, complete with a gorgeous flower arrangement in its middle, with her elbow on the table and her palm supporting her chin when we entered. As soon as the door opened, she got to her feet and headed to me with both her hands out.

"Daisy, it's so good to see you again," said she, beaming at me.

That was nice. "It's good to see you again, too, Emmaline." I beamed back at her. What the heck.

Harold rubbed his hands together. "What's on the menu today?" he said.

Del bumped him with a shoulder in a funning gesture one wouldn't necessarily expect from the extremely sober and proper Delray Farrington, who hailed from a fabulously wealthy family from New Orleans.

Which is kind of funny, because Mrs. Pinkerton's gatekeeper, Jackson, is also from New Orleans, only his family is black, so they probably were either owned by or waited on the Farringtons back in the day.

Oh, pooh. Forget I said that. Life isn't fair, never has been, and never will be, so it's almost not worth making note of the fact.

"But Daisy, I wanted to ask you about Mrs. Franbold," said Emmaline, taking my arm and leading Harold, Del and me to the table. "Was she really poisoned? At a
communion
service?"

To say I was surprised by this introduction to the luncheon table's conversation would be a major understatement.

Chapter 8

Before I could say anything, which was a good thing since words seemed to have fled from my brain, Emmaline gave some instructions to the dignified man in black, who bowed to her and left the room. By the time the door shut behind him, my words had returned. All I had to do then was put them in some kind of coherent order.

"You
knew
Mrs. Franbold?" I asked, surprised. I didn't know Mrs. Franbold had toddled around in such exalted company.

Emmaline cocked her head in seeming surprise. "Her granddaughter, Vivian Daltry's daughter Glenda, is a good friend of mine. She's engaged to marry Barrett Underhill. Vivian's husband, Ralph, is one of Grover Underhill's partners in their fertilizer company."

My face must have shown my opinion of Grover Underhill, because Emmaline laughed. "Yes, I know. Mr. Underhill is a horrible person, but Glenda and Barrett are very nice, and poor Glenda was most cut up about her grandmother's death."

"Yes, we all were. I mean the congregation of the First United Methodist-Episcopal Church were. Was. Whatever the correct tense is. Mrs. Franbold was a sweet woman." Then, because I couldn't stop myself, I blurted out, "Do you know that when Mrs. Franbold fell over at church, rather than try to catch her, Mr. Underhill actually jumped out of the way? He bumped into a bunch of other people, too. In fact," I said because I'd just then thought of it, "I wouldn't be surprised if he's the one who knocked Betsy Powell's tray over and made her spill communion grape juice all over the church carpeting."

"Communion grape juice?" Del asked, as if he couldn't help himself either.

"Yeah. We Methodists don't drink wine. And don't ask me why, because I don't know. Probably because alcohol used to cause so many problems when the Wesley brothers were around."

"It still does," said Harold, with a wry grin. "In fact, now that we're in the midst of Prohibition, alcohol is causing more problems than ever."

"Yes," I said. "Those bootleggers are killing each other—and lots of other people, too—right and left." Something occurred to me then and I asked Del, "Say, Del, do you Roman Catholics still use wine in your communion services?"

"Yes. It's communion wine."

"They got a special dispensation from the Pope," said Harold, his voice snide.

"I doubt the Pope has much political sway here in the good old US of A," I said.

"You're right," said Emmaline. "But I think the Episcopalians use wine, too. I'm sure they've been granted special permission or something."

"True," said Harold. "Mother goes to that Episcopal Church on Euclid. I think the pastor is Father Learned, but Father Frederick is Mother's preferred priest. In fact, I thought she might marry him after she dumped my father, but she chose Algie. Which is probably the better choice, because I can't see Mother as a minister's wife."

I couldn't either. In fact, my mind boggled even as I tried to picture Mrs. Pinkerton as benefactress to a bunch of Episcopalians. Or anyone else, for that matter. Because I couldn't think of anything cogent to say, I muttered, "I like Father Frederick." Truth. He was a great guy, and, as nearly as I could tell, kindhearted and non-judgmental, although I'd never been to services at All Saints, which was the church Harold meant. In pursuit of information, I did go there one day and tried to speak to Father Learned, but he was stone deaf and I didn't get very far.

"But forget the Episcopalians," said Emmaline impatiently. "What else happened that day, and do you know if Mrs. Franbold was actually poisoned? It must have been dreadful."

"It was." I gave a little shudder as I remembered the chaos of that morning. "Did you go to the funeral? I didn't see you there." Not that I meant to be judgmental myself. I only wondered.

"No. I wasn't able to attend, although I spoke to Glenda before and after the service. I guess all of Mrs. Franbold's children were upset. As were her grandchildren."

"Yes, they were. I met Mrs. Franbold's children, but I'm afraid I didn't get to meet Glenda, and I didn't see the Underhills there, either."

Emmaline sighed dolefully. "I've been having a horrid time with my chest," said she, patting same gently. "The doctor said I had tuberculosis on one lung, so I had to go into hibernation for nearly a year. It was awful."

"Tuberculosis? Oh, my goodness. I'm so very sorry!" The only people I knew of who'd ever had tuberculosis were dead. Sam's late wife sprang instantly to my mind.

With a cynical smile of her own, Emmaline said, "Yes, it's been awful. But thanks to my father's money, I got the very best treatment. In fact, I do believe I had to go into isolation shortly after your husband's funeral. I actually left your house and went directly home and to bed." She sighed. "What a bleak, unhappy day that was."

It sure came flooding back to me just then. In fact, it flooded back so fast and so furiously that I lost my appetite. Dang. And I'd been so looking forward to that special luncheon.

Harold must have noticed my change in demeanor because he slapped me on the back so hard, all my sorrows flew out of my mouth in a big "Whuff!" I turned on him. "Harold Kincaid, what was that for?"

"You got the dismals. I saw you. So I drove 'em out."

"Oh, dear. I'm sorry I brought it up, Daisy. What a stupid thing for me to talk about."

But Harold's whack had cured me. "No, it's all right. Yes, it was a miserable time in my life, but life goes on whether you want it to or not. And with Harold around, I don't dare sulk or anything."

"Better not," said Harold.

"You might try to be a little gentler next time," said Del, frowning at his beloved.

"Being gentle with Daisy doesn't work."

"Harold Kincaid! What a mean thing to say!" Then Emmaline Castleton laughed. It wasn't a genteel laugh, but a big, happy, contagious laugh, and we all joined in.

After we'd quieted down, Emmaline bade us seat ourselves, and asked again, "So do you think Mrs. Franbold was murdered? Glenda is worried that she was poisoned. Evidently her uncle, Charles Franbold, believes she was. Glenda is afraid someone will think Barrett did it."

"Why would anyone think that?" I asked, interested. I still didn't have an answer for her on the poison issue, because nobody'd bothered to tell me. Darn Sam Rotondo. "And why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Franbold? I thought everyone loved her."

"So did I, but Glenda is frightened to death." Emmaline sat there with her lips pursed for a second before she said, "She's worried that someone wanted to kill Mr. Underhill but got Mrs. Franbold by mistake."

"My goodness. Why would anyone want to kill Mr. Underhill?" I asked, puzzled.

"Because Mr. Underhill is such a beast to work for. In fact, he's just a beast. Treats everyone with contempt."

"Even you?" I asked, incredulous.

"Well, no, but that's only because my father has more money than he does." Emmaline produced an admirable sneer.

"How very odd," I said. "I mean, that's kind of twisted logic, isn't it? That someone would have wanted to murder Mr. Underhill during communion and got Mrs. Franbold instead. Isn't that kind of... well, not very likely?"

With a shrug, Emmaline said, "There's no accounting for people's thoughts, I reckon. And I honestly
can
feature why almost anyone would want to kill Mr. Underhill. He's just awful."

"Except to you," said I.

"Except to me," said she. "Because of my father and his buckets of moolah."

Miss Emmaline Castleton knew all about how money could buy things, like respect from the disgusting Mr. Grover Underhill. Her father's money had even bought entry into the United States for two young German folks. This, in spite of the scene I made at her home when she asked me to help the German soldier who'd tried to save her Stephen's life. But I'd had a young German woman of my own to save, so I really had no business screeching at Emmaline. I'd screeched anyway, and had been heartily ashamed of myself afterwards. Emmaline, however, had been a peach about the whole thing. And, as I'm sure you've noticed for yourself, money talks. It did then, it still does now, and now the United States possessed two newish immigrants from Germany cluttering it up. Actually, Hilda, the woman I saved from deportation, was as tidy a specimen of human womankind as you could find anywhere.

Life is so strange sometimes.

Back to the luncheon table. The waiter and a couple of minions arrived with soup for all of us and little individual plates with bread, butter, and a dollop of something black on it. I stared at that black dollop in a teensy bit of dismay. I knew from reading that rich folks loved caviar, but I wasn't keen on trying fish eggs myself.