Not long after the last ladyfinger was eaten—probably by Mr. Prophet—we adjourned to the living room, and the Castleton staff swept up the reminders of our dinner and toted them off. I didn’t think to ask them to put any leftovers in the Frigidaire. Heck, we could have Flossie’s soup and toast for breakfast, I reckoned.
As soon as they left, Flossie and I went into the kitchen and poured her soup into a big bowl so she could take the soup pot home with her again. I covered the bowl with a dinner plate, which worked quite well as a lid.
“Thanks so much for thinking of bringing us soup, Flossie.”
“Don’t be silly, Daisy. People are put on this earth to help each other. You’ve certainly helped Johnny and me a number of times.”
As if. “No need to be polite, Flossie. I know I’m a dud at cooking, and I sure haven’t done a whole lot for you and Johnny.”
“Daisy Gumm Majesty, look at me,” Flossie demanded, taking my elbow and turning me around. I’d just shut the door to the Frigidaire, and this action on her part surprised me.
I’m sure I blinked at her. We were approximately the same height, so I didn’t have to stretch or anything. “What?” I asked, confused.
“For one thing, you introduced Johnny and me. If that wasn’t a kindness, I don’t know what was. And you taught that cooking class in order to show me how it was done. You and Sam took in poor Mr. Prophet when he was down on his luck, and you helped me save the life of a woman who was nearly beaten to death by her husband! You don’t mean to tell me you don’t remember doing any of those things, because I won’t believe you if you do. Why, you brought us five hundred dollars, after the awful Kincaid girl and her fellow stole the Army’s children’s charity fund!”
“Well, but Mrs. Pinkerton gave you the money. I only transported it.”
“Daisy, Daisy, Daisy,” Flossie said, drawing me into a big hug. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“You’re the sweetest person I’ve ever met in my life, Flossie Buckingham,” I said, sniffling only slightly. “I hope you know it.”
“Applesauce.”
We finally ended our mutual hug—I hugged her back because her words had touched me, even though I knew better than she that they weren’t quite the truth—and Flossie handed me a clean hankie retrieved from a pocket in her Salvation Army uniform. This action on her part was due because I’d started blubbering. Why should kindness make people cry? I don’t know, but I also know I’m not the only one who gets emotional when people are kind.
A few sniffles later, I said, “Thanks, Flossie. Do I look like I’ve been crying again?”
She eyed me thoughtfully for a second or two. “Just a minute.”
Darned if she didn’t go to the flour bin, get a dab of flour on her finger and rub the same on my eyelids and under my eyes!
“I didn’t know you could powder your eyelids with flour if you’ve been crying! Thanks, Flossie!”
“I learned a whole lot about covering signs of beatings and tears when I was growing up. And, of course, living with Jinx Jenkins.”
“Yes. I know you did,” I told her, feeling relatively dismal about the state of the human race. “I’m so sorry, Flossie.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly, Daisy! You and Johnny got me through that bout of madness, and now Johnny and I have a wonderful life and a delightful son!”
“Yes,” I said, absolutely refusing to snivel again. “You do. How is little Billy, by the way?” I asked as the two of us headed back to the living room.
“He’s blooming. He keeps asking when he’ll be able to see Mr. Prophet again.”
I swear to heaven, I didn’t think it possible until it happened, but I burst out laughing. I continued laughing as Flossie and I entered the living room.
Sam, who had been bent over in a huddle with Johnny, Harold, Mr. Prophet and Pa, looked up and frowned at me. “What’s so funny?” he asked in an irritated grumble.
“Billy Buckingham wants to know when he can visit Mr. Prophet again,” I said upon a chortle. Maybe two chortles.
Mr. Prophet sat up straight. “What’s so funny about that? The kid’s got good taste.”
“Yes,” said Flossie giving me a fake frown. “He does. He thinks you’re the bee’s knees, Mr. Prophet.”
Squinting so hard his eyes nearly getting lost in their nest of wrinkles, Mr. Prophet said, “What’s that?”
“It’s a slang term,” I told him. “You should write it in your notebook. If something is the bee’s knees, it’s really good.”
His attention swiveled from Flossie to me and stopped there. He didn’t appear overjoyed to learn any more bits of modern slang. He said, “Huh.”
“Come on over here, ladies,” said Sam, waving for us to join the huddle.
I noticed my mother was no longer among the men. “Has Ma gone to bed?”
“Yes. We want the family to go on as smoothly as it can while we find Vi,” said Pa. “Your mother has to get up early. As for Vi, the story is she’s caught a bad cold and has to rest in bed for a week or so.”
“A week or so?” I cried. “You said we’d find her tomorrow!” I glared at Sam.
“No, I didn’t, but let’s not quarrel. We have to establish a plan of action. Sit down. Both of you.”
So ordered, Flossie and I sat on the piano bench after we’d pulled it out at an angle so as to join the huddle of men. Pa and Sam sat on the sofa, and Harold and Mr. Prophet sat on the living room chairs.
“I think we’ve got it figured out,” Sam continued. “Daisy, tomorrow morning, Kincaid will take you to the telephone company and get this house set up with a single line. We don’t want people listening in on any conversations we might be having as we find Vi, Frank and Officer Costello.”
“Officer Costello?” I aimed a questioning look at Sam.
“He was the work-crew chief, remember?”
“Oh. Right. Is Costello an Italian name?” I asked. “It ends in an O.”
“No, it’s not Italian,” Sam growled. “It’s Irish.”
“Then it should be O’Costell, shouldn’t it? How odd,” I murmured.
“Anyhow, I’ll visit the Pinkerton residence and have a talk with the butler, Featherstone.” He jerked his head and faced me. “His name is Featherstone, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Featherstone. He’s English, I think.”
“I don’t care what he is. I just need to know his name.”
Well, all right!
“I’ll talk to Featherstone.” He did another abrupt head-turn and faced Harold. “When is your mother leaving for wherever you said she was going? I’d rather not have to talk to her, although I’d like to question the rest of the staff.”
“I understand perfectly,” said Harold. “How about I either telephone her tomorrow morning or go over there and hurry her up before you visit? I can make sure she doesn’t know you’re there if you want to question Featherstone. Her lady’s maid will probably be rushing around like a madwoman, so you won’t be able to talk to her until after Mother and Algie leave for the Miramar.”
“The Miramar?” I repeated. “Is that the hotel in Santa Barbara they like so well?”
“It’s in Montecito, but that’s the one they like, yes.”
“Is Montecito close to Santa Barbara?”
“Who cares?” Sam demanded. “All I want to know is when she’ll be out of the house so I can question servants!”
“I beg your pardon,” I said, a trifle miffed, although not much. After all, Sam was concentrating on the case. I’d clearly drifted into trivia.
“Anyhow,” Sam said, and rather loudly, too, “Why…” His voice trailed off, and he swiveled his attention from Harold to me. “You know, Daisy,” said he in a musing tone of voice, “it might not be a bad idea for you to visit Mrs. Pinkerton tomorrow and give her a…whatever you call it. A reading or something? Just to calm her down. Maybe that’ll keep her away for a while. And you can emphasize the point that she’s not to speak to anyone about Vi or her chauffeur’s disappearance.”
I sat up straight and was about to protest—nobody knew how much of my energy got sapped every time I had to deal with Mrs. Pinkerton, except maybe Harold.
But wouldn’t you know it? Harold chimed in with a cheery, “What a great idea! Anything to keep her out of the way for a while.”
I slumped on the piano bench once more and asked, “Before or after we go to the telephone company?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” said Sam.
“Let’s do it before,” said Harold. “She’ll be in a total frenzy. You’re always able to calm her down.”
“Lucky me,” I muttered.
“Hey, it’s your chosen profession,” said Sam, with what I considered an evil grin.
“Chosen, my foot,” I growled. “I fiddled with Vi’s old Ouija board when I was ten, and it’s been paying for groceries ever since.”
“It’s an art,” said Harold.
“It’s a gift,” said Pa.
“It’s funny!” said Johnny and Flossie together, and they both burst out laughing.
They truly belonged with each other. As for me, I guessed I’d be visiting Mrs. P on the morrow. I could hardly wait.
Oh, but hold on a minute here. I could read tea leaves for her! What did it matter that I didn’t know a single solitary thing about reading tea leaves? I considered spiritualist-mediuming a nonsensical profession, but I’d been earning a good living at it for almost ever. I’d just pretend to read tea leaves, which couldn’t possibly be any harder than pretending to see things in the glass ball I lugged around occasionally.
“What?” asked Sam. “Why are you smiling? I thought you didn’t want to visit Mrs. Pinkerton.”
“I don’t, but she asked me today if I’d learn to read tea leaves for her. So I’ll read tea leaves for her tomorrow morning.”
Squinching up his eyes, Harold said, “You know how to read tea leaves?”
“Heck, no. But I’ll do it anyway. Shoot, I fiddle with the Ouija board and tarot cards and that silly crystal ball all the time. Can tea leaves be any harder than those arcane channels? I think not.”
“That’s not a kind-hearted smile, Daisy,” said Pa. “Don’t frighten the poor woman to death.”
“She’s already scared to death, Pa. I can’t make her state any worse,” I said in defense of my own evil grin.
After assessing my mien, Pa said, “Well, all right. But be kind. I know she’s rather silly—”
“Rather silly?” said Mrs. Pinkerton’s fond son. “She’s a blooming nitwit!”
“Harold,” I said in imitation of one of my mother’s Daisys. “What an awful thing to say about your own mother.”
“Nuts to that,” said Harold.
“Just tell her I’ll be reading tea leaves for her,” I ordered. “And don’t forget. If you forget to tell her about the tea leaves, I’ll never speak to you again, Harold Kincaid.”
Harold slapped a hand to his chest under the place where the scab over his liver resided. In anyone else, that portion of the anatomy would contain a heart. “Yoiks! We can’t have that, can we?”
“Huh,” I said, reminding myself of Sam, Harold, and Mr. Prophet.
Mr. Prophet, by the way, laughed so hard, he almost choked.
Johnny laughed, too.
Flossie only giggled.
After giving everyone in the room a few good glares each, Sam said, “Well, just try your best to make her happy, all right?”
“Impossible,” I told him. “She’s got a daughter in jail, a kidnapped cook and a vanished chauffeur. The poor woman may be an…” I didn’t want to call her an idiot. “She may be unaccustomed to dealing successfully with life’s travails—”
Mr. Prophet hooted with laughter again. I frowned at him. He winked back. I swear…
“Anyway, I’ll read tea leaves for her. That should make her feel better, if not happy,” I told everyone.
“Good,” said Sam. “So you’re going to telephone her this evening?”
“Not I,” I told him. “I can’t tolerate being wailed at over the telephone wire after everything else that’s gone on today. Besides, we don’t want any of our other party-line neighbors to hear any more conversations about this situation, do we?”
“Cripes,” said Sam. “You’re right.
Harold proved the hero of the evening when he said, “I’ll give her a ring when I get home. I have a private line.” He shot me a superior grin.
I rolled my eyes, a gesture borrowed from both him and Sam. And, again, probably from Mr. Prophet.
“Good,” Sam repeated.
“What time can you be at the family mansion, Daisy?” Harold.
After thinking about it for a heartbeat or two, I said, “Ten. She’ll be up by then, won’t she?”
“After I telephone her this evening, she damned well better be up by ten,” said Harold grimly.
I noticed Flossie’s lips twitch. Flossie almost never swore. Even when she was being kept by a vicious gangster, I never heard her swear. In fact, the only time I did hear her utter a profanity, it was on behalf of a woman who had been nearly beaten to death by her husband. She possessed a sterling sense of humor, however.
“Good. So ten o’clock, you’ll visit Mrs. Pinkerton,” said Sam. “As soon as you leave the Pinkerton place, you’ll visit the telephone company, right?”
“Right,” chorused Harold and I. Harold added, “I’ll pick you up, Daisy. If I pick you up, we can just zip you down to the telephone company, and Mother won’t be able to take up your entire day. We can say you have a settled appointment or something of the sort.”
“Sounds good to me,” I told him.
“Does a private line cost a lot of money?” asked Pa. Being unable to contribute to the family’s treasury bothered him a lot. I, however, would rather keep him around for as long as possible and not have him die of a heart attack from struggling to earn a living.
“No,” said Harold before anyone else could answer.
Personally, I couldn’t answer, because I didn’t know.
“Are you sure?” Pa squinted at Harold, as if trying to design whether Harold was stretching the truth.
“Absolutely,” said Harold. “A private line doesn’t cost much. It’ll take a while for the ’phone company to schedule an appointment to visit your house and install another telephone line, but it doesn’t cost much. In fact, it won’t even take a bite out of your budget. Well, maybe a nibble, but not a whole bite.”
After staring at Harold contemplatively for a few seconds, Pa said, “If you’re sure. Daisy already has to do too much to support the family.”
“I do not!” I said. Heck, if anything, I did too little to help the family. About the only thing I was good at was spiritualist-mediuming. Well, and sewing and gardening, but I enjoyed sewing and gardening, so they didn’t count.
“Joe,” said Sam sternly. “I’m part of your family now—or I will be soon, anyway—and I don’t want you to worry about anything as trivial as a private telephone line for this house. I’ve already got one set up across the street.”
After sitting and stewing for another few seconds, Pa gave up. “Well…all right. If you’re sure.”
Harold, Sam and I all said, “We’re sure.”
Even Mr. Prophet, Flossie and Johnny nodded.
Whew!
The party, if such it could be called, broke up then. I again thanked Flossie for her chicken soup, gave Johnny a peck on the cheek, and waved farewell to Sam and Mr. Prophet.
After I’d shut and locked the front door, Pa, Spike and I peered at each other.
“I sure hope somebody finds Vi quickly,” Pa said.
“And that she’s well and healthy,” I said.
My father sighed. “Yes. Well and healthy, too.”
Then Pa went to the room he shared with Ma, and Spike and I went to the room we shared.