Unsettled Spirits (4 page)

"You mean, she might have been given something like poison? How could she have been poisoned?" asked Aunt Vi as we gathered around the dining room table and I told my family what had transpired in Pastor Smith's office.

That day our dinner, which we took right after church on Sundays, was a pot roast with potatoes, carrots, celery and little pearl onions. Aunt Vi's pot roast was one of the more delicious dishes on the face of the earth.

"I don't know." I glanced across the table at Sam, who'd joined us. "Sam? Why did Doc think the woman was poisoned?"

"Beats me. He mentioned poison, and I called the department to send some uniforms in. He might be mistaken. The medical examiner will run tests to find out what happened."

"That's terrible," said Ma, a sensitive plant, if a not-very-imaginative one.

"It's terrible that she dropped dead in church," I said. "But how could she get poison there?"

"We don't know she was poisoned, and if she was, we don't know how," said Sam as if he wished I'd drop the subject. In a pig's eye.

"Maybe Betsy Powell poisoned her," I opined, thinking about how Betsy had reacted to Mrs. Franbold's collapse. She'd reacted again when she'd heard Dr. Benjamin mention poison. Hmm. Was that a clue?

"Daisy!" said Ma, who didn't approve of her daughter suggesting ugly things at the dinner table.

"Well, she was sure upset. I don't think she'd be that upset if Mrs. Franbold had just dropped dead, unless she knew something the rest of us didn't. Well, and she also spilled grape juice on the church carpet. Maybe she was worried about that."

"Oh, dear," said Ma. "Grape juice stains terribly."

"I thought the same thing," I told her.

"Peroxide," said Aunt Vi as if she knew what she was talking about. "Peroxide will get wine and grape-juice stains out of most things."

Wine and grape-juice stains? Vi's late husband, Ernie, had enjoyed imbibing. Maybe that's why Vi knew about peroxide's stain-removing capabilities.

Still and all... "But I can't imagine why spilling communion cups could have led to her hysteria."

"You can never tell," said Sam. "Some women cherish their hysterics."

I was about to argue with him, but then I remembered Mrs. Pinkerton. Mrs. Pinkerton might be said to cherish her hysterics, I guess, although she didn't seem to enjoy them much. Neither had Betsy Powell.

"Do you know Miss Powell well, Daisy?" asked Pa, buttering a biscuit. Aunt Vi also made the best biscuits in the world.

"No. Not well. I see her at church. She's not in the choir, although I think she's on a couple of other committees, because sometimes I see her on Thursday evenings after choir practice." Glancing again at Sam, I asked, "Do you know how old she is?"

"Who? Miss Powell?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "The uniforms probably managed to take a statement from her after she woke up from her second faint. From the looks of her, I'd say she was in her forties, maybe?"

"Hmm. Never married," I mused. "That's kind of unusual, isn't it? I mean, she's not ugly or anything."

"Daisy!"

Oh, dear. I'd annoyed my mother again. "Sorry, Ma, but she's a nice-looking woman, and most nice-looking women get married when they're young, don't they?"

"Maybe women her age," said Sam. "Nowadays, though, there aren't that many young men still alive to marry them."

That was the truth. The Great War had cut down almost an entire generation of young men. We in the United States were luckier in that regard than were Great Britain, France, and Belgium, but a whole lot of our young men had been wiped out, too, thanks to Kaiser Bill's determination to rule the world. Too bad nobody'd poisoned him.

This sad truth was also why Lucille Spinks had agreed to marry Albert Zollinger, a widower some years her senior. Not that Mr. Zollinger wasn't a nice man, but still, there were precious few younger ones for Lucy to choose from. Dismal thought. Back to Betsy Powell.

"She's nice enough," I said. "Kind of sweet. You know the kind. Brings flowers or cookies to people who are sick and stuff like that. I thought men liked sweet women."

"Maybe she's just boring," said Sam.

My mother didn't yell at him, which I believe to be unfair considering his statement was worse than my earlier one had been. But there's never been any justice in this old world, and I don't suppose there ever will be.

"Will you know more tomorrow, Sam? I mean, will you have a report to read or something?"

He shrugged as he took another biscuit from the basket. "I don't know. Depends on what the autopsy report shows. If they do an autopsy."

Ew. Dinner-table talk didn't generally include autopsies. But as long as Sam had brought up the subject and Ma hadn't objected... "If Dr. Benjamin thinks she was poisoned, surely they'll do an autopsy on her, don't you think?"

"Probably," admitted Sam. "That doesn't mean I'll get to read it. Or want to read it, for that matter."

"But Sam!" I cried. "The woman dropped dead in our church! We all want to know what happened to her."

"I know. I know. But the Pasadena Police Department can't afford to take everyone's nosiness into consideration when they're dealing with a case. You should understand that by this time, if anyone should."

Pa snickered.

Ma nodded.

Vi smiled.

I considered heaving a biscuit at Sam, but restrained myself. Which was a good thing. My mother would probably have hauled me onto her lap and spanked me if I did anything that childish.

While I was trying to think of a suitable retort that would let Sam know what I thought of his attitude without incurring my mother's wrath, the telephone rang. We all sat at attention and stared at each other as we listened. It was our ring.

Since basically every telephone call we received in our family was for me, I got up from the table, said, "Excuse me, please," and went to the kitchen, where our phone hung on the wall. As I walked, I contemplated what this telephone call might mean.

Had Stacy Kincaid strayed from the narrow pathway allotted her by the Salvation Army, which she'd joined after a distinguished and disgusting career as a hellion? If she had, Mrs. Pinkerton might be telephoning me in a State. Could Harold Kincaid be calling to ask me out to luncheon? That was a pleasant thought. Could Mrs. Bissel have another ghost, or spirit, in her basement that required exorcising? I'd exorcised one ghost for her; I expect I could do it again if necessary, although the last one had been relatively easy to deal with, mainly because it wasn't a supernatural being but a runaway girl.

I'd just decided my money would have to be on Mrs. Pinkerton and was praying madly that she wasn't in hysterics—I'd had enough hysterics for one day—when I reached the telephone. I lifted the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece, giving my regular line in my purring spiritualist's voice: "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."

"Oh, Daisy! I'm so glad you're home!"

Mrs. Pinkerton. But she didn't sound distressed. I gave a silent sigh of relief. "How do you do, Mrs. Pinkerton?" I asked, still in my best low, purring spiritualist's voice.

"I'm fine, thank you."

Boy, that didn't happen often.

"Did you enjoy your stay in Santa Barbara?" I asked her. The Pinkertons had spent the Christmas season in Santa Barbara, California, a pretty town on the coast some miles north of Pasadena. I'd never been there, but I knew it was a gorgeous place—and expensive—because otherwise the Pinkertons wouldn't have gone there. Plus, I'd seen pictures.

"Oh, my, yes. Santa Barbara is
so
lovely, and the Miramar By the Sea is
such
a special place."

I just bet it was. Bet it cost an arm and a leg, too, although money didn't matter to the Pinkertons of this mean old world.

"I'm so glad you had a good time," I said, sparing Mrs. P my opinion of expensive resorts I couldn't afford to visit.

"Oh, yes, it was beautiful. The ocean is... so vast, don't you know."

"Indeed, yes. It must have been quite pleasant to stay there." And look at the ocean. Well, and they probably did other things, too, but I didn't know what.

She sighed into the phone. "Oh, it was. But I'm calling to see if you'd be interested in handling the fortune-teller's tent at a charity party I'm going to be giving early next month. You know you're always the first one I think of when it comes to all things spiritual." She honored me with one of her tittering laughs.

"I'd be happy to do that, Mrs. Pinkerton. What's the cause?"

"The Pasadena Humane Society," said she.

"Oh, that's an excellent cause! I'll be even happier to do it than I was before." I didn't generally joke around with my clients, but some imp of humor must have invaded my voice box at that moment.

Fortunately for me, Mrs. Pinkerton only laughed. "Oh, yes. I know how much you love that dachshund of yours. Mrs. Bissel will be there, and Pansy Hanratty, too. They're both big supporters of the Humane Society."

They were both big, at any rate. But I adored both women. Mrs. Bissel was probably my second-best client, and much easier for me to deal with than Mrs. Pinkerton, mainly because she never had hysterics. Well, and she'd also given me Spike. Mrs. Hanratty was not only the mother of the current, number-one, top screen idol, Monty Mountjoy, but she also had taught Spike's obedience training course.

"When do you plan to have the party, Mrs. Pinkerton?"

"I looked at my calendar, and I think most of my friends will be back in town by the second week in February. How about Saturday, February ninth? Will that fit in with your schedule?"

Of course it would. My schedule didn't have so many events on it that I even had to check. Nevertheless, in an effort to make Mrs. Pinkerton think I was busier than I was so she'd appreciate me more, I said, "Let me check my appointment book, and I'll be right back with you." I allowed the receiver to dangle for a moment, making sure it didn't hit the wall and cause permanent damage to Mrs. Pinkerton's eardrums. When I picked it up again, I said, "That date will be perfect, Mrs. Pinkerton. When would you like me to appear, and will you be providing the tent?"

"Oh, wonderful! You should probably arrive about seven-thirty so you can get yourself set up. The other guests will be invited to arrive at eight. And yes, Harold is making the tent. You know Harold." She spoke of her son fondly, as was only his due.

And I certainly did know Harold. He was, in fact, one of my very best friends. "That's wonderful. I'm sure he'll make a most... colorful tent." If I knew Harold, he'd dig up every arcane symbol from every occult group or religion he could think of and plaster them all over the fortune-teller's tent for his mother's party. Very artistic, Harold. He worked as a costumier at a motion-picture studio in Los Angeles.

I wanted to ask her if her no-good, evil daughter would honor us with her presence, but I didn't. Sufficient unto the day, and all that. Besides, if Stacy had back-slid, Mrs. Kincaid would be wailing at me. Nevertheless, I hoped Stacy would stay away from the party.

"That sounds good. I'll be looking forward to it."

"Um... Daisy?"

Oh, dear. What did she want now? Bet I knew. "Would you like me to wear a Gypsy costume? Or perhaps one in keeping with the party's theme? Probably a Gypsy would be better, since Gypsies are associated with spiritualism. I'll be happy to do that." I did it every time any of my clients hosted a charity ball or party, in fact.

"As long as you don't think wearing a costume beneath your dignity, dear. Everyone knows you're the best spiritualist-medium in Pasadena, so I don't think appearing as a Gypsy would damage your reputation any."

"No, I don't think it would. I've done such things before, if you'll recall."

"Yes, I know. But I always... I don't know. Hesitate. Do you know what I mean? Because you're
so
important to me, and you help
so
many people with your gifts, it seems... Oh, how to express it? Unseemly, somehow, to ask you to dress up in a silly costume."

"I'll make sure my costume isn't silly," I assured her.

"That's why I hope you'll be a Gypsy and not some kind of animal."

"No animals. I promise. A Gypsy will do quite well, I think."

"Good. I knew you'd be able to think of just the thing to wear to such a party. The guests, you see, will be arriving in various animal costumes."

Good Lord. In that case, I
knew
my dignity wouldn't be assailed. I'd be telling fortunes for dogs and cats and horses and pigs, for Pete's sake. It was the guests whose dignity I'd worry about, if I were Mrs. P.

Thank everything on earth and in heaven, I'm not.

We ended our telephone call cordially, and I sauntered back to the dining-room table, took my seat, and told everyone about Mrs. Pinkerton's planned charity party.

"She's holding it to raise funds for the Pasadena Humane Society," I told my family and Sam. "Which I think is a noble goal, although her guests will be dressed in animal costumes, which will probably look silly. On some of them, anyway."

"
Animal
costumes!" Ma cried. "Whatever for?"