Unsettled Spirits (22 page)

Pa tilted his head and gazed at me squintily. "No. Really? I thought perhaps you were giving up spiritualism."

"There's no need for sarcasm," I told him. "I just thought I might get... well, a little information from the horse's mouth, so to speak, if I went down there and applied for the job opening I saw advertised in the
Star News
this morning."

"You don't think Sam and the Pasadena Police Department are capable of solving Mr. Underhill's murder without your help?"

Pooh. Pa was unhappy with me. I hated when that happened. My father was such an easy-going, kind-hearted man, I felt like a failure when I disappointed him. I took the message from him and read it. "Hmm. Wonder who Mr. Stephen Tiefel is."

"Someone who interviews people for the Underhill Company, I gather," said Pa.

I felt guilty and sad. Peering up at my wonderful father, I said, "I'm sorry, Pa. You're right. I should leave everything to the Pasadena Police Department. I just thought that, since I know some of the folks who work there and Miss Castleton is interested because of Mrs. Franbold—"

"Was Mrs. Franbold murdered, too?" asked my father, clearly flabbergasted.

"I don't know. Sam won't tell me one way or the other. Anyhow, I thought I might get a tip about who hated Mr. Underhill enough to kill him." Then I used my trump card; it's the one that always flummoxed Sam because he detested it, and it was the truth. "You know, Pa, quite often people are more apt to speak to me than they are to the official police. They don't fear me as they might a policeman."

"Somehow, that doesn't make me feel better about you prying into a place that uses deadly poisons, Daisy."

He had a point. But what the heck. "Well, I might as well keep this appointment. Can't hurt, and it might help, if I can get something of interest to pass along to Sam. I don't aim to get poisoned, believe me."

"I'm sure Mr. Underhill didn't aim to be poisoned either," said Pa. "He
was
poisoned, however, and I really wish you wouldn't pursue this scheme of yours to visit the Underhill plant."

Oh, boy, he was truly unhappy with me. Feeling about two inches tall, I said in a squeaky little voice, "I'm sorry, Pa. But I really think this is something I have to do."

He only shook his head. "I'm going to the Hull Motor Works to chat with Gaylord for a bit," he said.

"Want me to drive you there?"

"No, thanks. I'll take a bus."

He didn't even want me to drive him to a friend's place. I felt like crying.

Instead of doing anything so pointless, I put on some comfortable shoes and took Spike for another walk. Both Spike and I felt better when we got home.

When Sam came to our house for dinner that night, I told him about the accidental poisonings at the Underhill plant, and that the late Mr. Underhill didn't want to initiate any improvements either to the working conditions at the plant or the betterment of the folks who worked there.

Sam frowned at me from across the table. "Yes. We know that. How do
you
know that?"

I heard a snort from my father, but didn't look at him for fear I'd see more disapproval in his face. "I chatted with Robert Browning today," I said airily. "Everyone at the Underhill plant seemed to hate Mr. Grover Underhill, so you have a huge list of suspects. That must be daunting, to have so many people wanting a man dead."

"We have our ways," said Sam, dipping his fork into the delicious chicken curry Aunt Vi had prepared for our dining pleasure that night. She actually had prepared it for the Pinkertons, but she often fixed enough food for the Pinkertons and us, too. Smart woman, my aunt.

"I see," I said, and decided I'd better just keep mum about my foray into the Underhill Chemical Company. Sam would probably erupt if I told him I aimed to return to the plant the next day for an interview with a fellow about a line-girl job.

Except for discreet munching sounds, the dining room was silent for several fraught moments. I scrambled to think of anything to say that wouldn't cause either my father or Sam to get angry with me. My mind remained blank. Sam would say that's its natural condition, but that's not true.

"Delicious meal, Mrs. Gumm," said Sam at last.

I let out a long breath. Good topic. "Yes, it is. I wasn't sure I liked chicken curry the first time you fed it to us, but I love it now."

"It's one of Mr. Pinkerton's favorites," said Vi. "It has a distinctive flavor."

"Where did he learn to eat it?" I asked, thinking that topic, at least, was safe.

"He used to live in London, and I guess India has had a great impact on England's cuisine."

"I didn't know the English had a cuisine," said Sam, sounding as though he were trying to be funny.

"I don't know if that's correct," said Vi. "But Mr. Pinkerton surely does love his kedgeree and curries and so forth."

"What's kedgeree?" I asked, glad the conversation was proceeding along culinary lines.

"It's a rice-and-egg dish with smoked fish and curry flavoring. I have to admit it's not my favorite."

"Hmm. Maybe you should try it on us someday," said Pa. "Just to see what we think."

"If you really want me to, I will, but don't blame me if you don't like it," said Vi with a grin.

"I'm game to try it. Daisy?"

"Sure."

"Peggy?" Pa glanced at my mother, whose nose had wrinkled. Not an adventurous eater, my mother.

"I like the chicken curry," said Ma and, hedging her bets, added, "if you have toast and jam available for me if I don't like the... whatever it's called."

"Kedgeree," said Vi.

"Right," said Ma.

"I read in an issue of
National Geographic
that people in India often use such pungent combinations of spices in order to disguise the flavor of meat that's gone off. I guess they don't have much sanitation or refrigeration there, and..." My voice sort of petered to a stop when I realized everyone at the table had set their knives and forks down and begun staring at me. Dang. Leave it to me to spoil the conversation. "Um... I didn't mean to... Um..."

"There is
no
need for pungent spices to disguise the taste of rotten meat in this house, Daisy Gumm Majesty," said Aunt Vi stiffly.

"I didn't mean that! I only thought it was an interesting fact—Oh, never mind." I hung my head and dipped up another forkful of curry and rice.

"Sometimes I wonder about you, Daisy," said my mother, making my head sink lower.

Oddly enough, it was Sam Rotondo who saved the day. Or the dinner, anyway.

"I almost hate to admit this, Daisy, but you assisted the authorities in finding the Wrights' missing butler."

My head snapped up, and I stared at him as if he were my salvation. "You're kidding!"

"Am not."

"When did they find him?"

"Only today. This afternoon, I think. Thanks to your tip about the Mount Lowe Railroad and surroundings, the Altadena Sheriff's Station set up a search team. They found poor Evans—his first name is Daniel, by the way—being held by some bootleggers who'd set up a still in the foothills. So they not only rescued Evans, but they busted up an illegal still at the same time."

"Good heavens! Poor Evans. I'm so glad they found him," I said, flabbergasted. "I didn't know we had bootleggers in our mountains. That's kind of scary."

"It is indeed," said Ma.

"Well, they're in jail now." Sam eyed me slantwise for a moment. "I also hate to admit that you might possibly be receiving a commendation from the Altadena Sheriff's Station."

"Oh, dear gracious!" Never once did I think those wavy firs and pines in my crystal ball would lead to a result such as this. "I'm... I'm... I'm astounded."

"You're not the only one." Sam's voice was intolerably dry. At least I thought it was intolerable.

"There's no reason to sound like that, Sam Rotondo. I helped, darn it!"

"How in the world did you think to tell the police to look in that area?" asked my mother, no longer ashamed of me, I guess.

Because I'd no more tell my family I'd seen anything other than glass in my crystal ball than I'd fly to Jupiter, I said with becoming modesty, "It was actually Mrs. Wright who suggested it. I asked if Mr. Evans was used to doing anything in particular during his hours off-duty. She's the one who suggested he liked to hike in the foothills."

"But you're the one who told me," said Sam, bless him.

"Good job, you two," said Pa. I guess he'd forgiven me for being an unsatisfactory daughter, too.

"I'm so happy to hear about Evans," said Vi. "Was he injured in any way?"

"He was all right, as far as his health goes, although he was filthy and hungry and dehydrated. I'm pretty sure the bootleggers would have decided he was too much trouble and done away with him before too long. He'd been tied up there for nearly three weeks, poor sap."

Sap. What an appropriate word, given the surroundings.

"I'm so glad he was found. Poor man. I'm sure Mrs. Wright must be relieved," I said, ignoring anything to do with sap.

"He'll probably have to stay in the hospital for a couple of days," Sam continued. "He had lots of scratches and bruises. I guess the bootleggers hit him on the head pretty hard."

"Poor man! I expect Mrs. Wright will pay his medical expenses."

"I hope so. She has more money than God," said Sam.

Not precisely polite, but he was right. "You know, I've never heard about anyone building stills in our foothills before. I thought only hillbillies in the Smoky Mountains or the Appalachians had stills."

"Nope. Thanks to Prohibition, people are setting up stills everywhere. Even in their own bathtubs."

"I've heard of bathtub gin," I said. "I remember you telling me it can make you go blind if you drink too much of it."

"It's true. People need to know how to distill spirits properly unless they want to get into trouble. Health trouble, I mean. They're already breaking the law." Sam drank some of the tea Vi made because she said it went well with Indian cuisine. Couldn't prove it by me, but I liked tea, so I was happy.

The telephone rang. Our ring. Bother. After heaving a soulful sigh, I said, "I'll get it." It was assuredly for me anyway. "Be right back."

After trudging through the kitchen to the telephone, I lifted the receiver and gave my standard greeting. "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."

"Daisy!" cried a voice I didn't recognize, perhaps because it was pitched at an intensely excited level. "It's Vera!"

Vera? Who was Vera? I couldn't recall a Vera in my life. Fortunately, the caller cleared up the matter of her name in her next sentence.

"It's Vera Wright, and I can't thank you enough for telling us to get in touch with the Altadena Sheriff's station! They found poor Evans. He'd been kidnapped by a gang of evil bootleggers!"

Pondering for a mere half-second or so as to whether or not I should say I already knew that, I said, "Oh, my goodness, that's wonderful news, Mrs. Wright."

"Poor Evans was brutalized by those awful men, but they've all been arrested, and the sheriff's men hacked the still where they were making illegal alcohol to bits. Evans will have to stay in the hospital for a few days, but then he can come back to us. And it's all because of
you
!"

As much as I'd liked to have taken the credit for Evans' rescue, I couldn't in conscience do so. "Actually, Mrs. Wright, you're the one who told me Evans liked to hike in the foothills."

"Yes, but it was
you
! You saw those trees in your crystal ball, and they led the search party right to him! You did it!"

Merciful heavens. Those wretched trees in that stupid crystal ball had led the search party to Mr. Evans? I wondered how. But I didn't ask. "I'm awfully glad to have been of some slight help to you, Mrs. Wright. And I'm even more glad that Evans has been found."

"Oh, yes! The poor man. Those terrible criminals had him tied up for almost three solid weeks! They hardly fed him at all, and he was dreadfully dehydrated. The sheriff's team said it was a good thing the weather has been mild, or the poor fellow might have frozen to death."

"Good Lord. I hadn't even thought about it being winter. I'm glad they found him before anything worse happened to him."

"I'm so grateful to you, Daisy. You saved the day. You probably saved Evans' life."

I know you probably won't believe this, but I hated being given credit for doing things I didn't do. I tried to calm Mrs. Wright's ecstasies again. "Truly, Mrs. Wright, it was your mention of the foothills that saved Evans."

"Nonsense. It was you and your crystal ball. Griselda Bissel told me you're conducting a séance at her house this coming Saturday. Is that so?"

"Yes, indeed. I'll be there with Rolly."

"Oh, good. I'll see you then! Believe me, your kindness will not go unrewarded."

My kindness? What the heck was the woman talking about? I didn't ask, figuring it would do no good. She'd pegged me as a heroine, and there didn't seem much I could do about her misconception. She'd probably reward me with money, which would be nice, even if I didn't deserve it.