As worried as I was about Vi, I hadn’t believed I’d be able to sleep that night. But I did. Like a log. So did Spike. What’s more, at about seven on Tuesday morning, the heavenly aroma of frying bacon woke me up.
Waking up to the smell of bacon cooking in the morning wasn’t unusual. Smelling bacon in the morning on a day when Vi wasn’t there to cook it was extremely unusual. Neither Ma nor I ever attempted to cook anything that might possibly get burned, because if it could burn, we’d burn it. I don’t consider this an admirable skill, but it is the truth.
Groggily, I peered at my wonderful dachshund. He didn’t bother peering back. He just hopped off the bed and headed for the door to the kitchen. So I got up, stuck my feet in my floppy slippers, donned my newish bathrobe, and opened the door to let him into the fragrant other room.
Then I nearly fell over dead from astonishment when I spied Mr. Lou Prophet, peg leg and all, standing at the gas range, flipping bacon slices with a spatula in the cast-iron skillet as if he’d been cooking bacon all his life. Which, after pondering the matter in my fuzzy brain for a moment, I decided he probably had been.
Squinting at me, spatula in hand, he grunted, “’Mornin’, sunshine.”
“You’re cooking breakfast for us?”
Stupid question, Daisy Gumm Majesty.
“What’s it look like I’m doin’?” he asked, also acknowledging the stupidity of my question.
“Cooking breakfast.” Then I remembered the manners my parents had taught me and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Prophet.”
The blasted man rolled his eyes at me!
“I’ll just get dressed,” I muttered, and I headed for the bathroom.
“Huh,” he said at my back.
So I took care of business in the bathroom, which included a quick bath and a quick hair-washing. My thick, wavy, dark-red hair had been really easy to take care of since I’d had it bobbed a couple of years earlier. Because I had to walk in front of Mr. Prophet in order to get to my bedroom again, I put on my bathrobe and slippers rather than merely wrapping a towel around me.
He probably wouldn’t have noticed if I had worn a towel, because he was in the process of opening a can of Heinz Oven-Baked Beans—with what looked like a gigantic knife. We had a can opener, but I guess a can opener wasn’t manly enough for Mr. Lou Prophet, former bounty hunter.
Spike had evidently gone outside to perform his own morning toilette because he hadn’t returned to the bedroom when I did. Therefore, I opened the door to my packed closet and tried to decide what to wear to Mrs. Pinkerton’s place, the telephone company and Mrs. Bissel’s house. Sam hadn’t told me I could visit Mrs. Bissel, but he hadn’t forbidden a visit, either, and I wanted to know what Dennis Bissel had to say about any people he knew who were named O’Hara.
After a few minutes spent mulling, I reached into the closet and took out a recent creation of mine: an “ensemble-costume” frock. What that meant was it had a full-length coat effect, while the under panel, cuffs, collar and piping were all made of duvetyn (I think that’s really only artificial silk) and boasted artificial-silk piping. The coat part I’d sewn in a dark green, and the under panel, etc., were made in a lighter green. The fake coat fastened at about hip level with a pretty closure, and it had embroidered pockets. Naturally, I’d done the embroidery myself. I wasn’t worth a whole lot, but I could sure sew up a storm.
By the time I’d managed to subdue my hair and get dressed, including the donning of flesh-colored stockings and my brown double-strap shoes with a Louis heel, Pa, Sam, Mr. Prophet and Ma were all in the kitchen and about to sit down to breakfast. I grabbed an apron on my way to the table.
“’Fraid you’ll spill somethin’ on your fancy trappin’s?” asked Mr. Prophet.
“Yes,” I told him, because it was the truth. I suspected he was making fun of me.
“Makes sense,” said he, nodding.
As I tied my apron, I wondered if I’d ever figure out when the man was serious and when he wasn’t.
“Not worth the effort,” Sam whispered in my ear as he held my chair for me. My darling Sam. He always seemed to know what I was thinking. This ability of his was a mixed blessing, but I appreciated it then.
I grinned up at him.
“You look lovely today, dear,” said Ma, appearing slightly puzzled. She’d gone to bed before today’s plans had been settled.
“Harold’s picking me up, and I’ll go to visit Mrs. Pinkerton before he takes me to the telephone company,” I explained to Ma. I opened my mouth to say I’d then visit Mrs. Bissel, but remembered I hadn’t told Sam this part of my day’s campaign yet.
Bless the man; he said, “You’re going to visit Mrs. Bissel, aren’t you? To find out if her son’s O’Hara is any relation to Mrs. Pinkerton’s O’Hara?”
After giving him a heartbeat-long hard stare, I said, “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not as long as you don’t go haring off on your own trying to find Vi. If you learn anything, call me at the station. If I’m not there, leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
“I won’t go ‘haring off’ to do anything,” I said with some heat.
“Good. I’m going to get in touch with Mrs. Rattle and have her come here and clean and cook for a week or so.” After shooting me a glance, Sam amended his statement. “It probably won’t take a week to find Vi.”
“I certainly hope it doesn’t,” said Ma. “I’m terribly worried about her.”
“We all are,” agreed Pa.
“Here’s some grub,” said Mr. Prophet, setting a platter filled with bacon and toast in the middle of the kitchen table next to the bowl of oranges we always kept there. Walking back to the kitchen range, he said, “I heated up some of these baked beans. Spread ‘em on the toast and stick some bacon on top. It’s good, and it’ll have to do until a real cook gets here.”
“Goodness,” said Ma. “Thank you, Mr. Prophet. I expected we’d be eating toast and butter for breakfast today.”
“You can butter your toast before you dump on the beans,” he told her graciously.
“Beans on toast,” said Pa musingly. “Isn’t this what British folks eat?”
“Don’t know,” said I, looking rather skeptically at the foodstuffs on the table. I wanted Vi back!
“Think it was some coyote from England first fed me beans on toast back in the old days. Better’n sardines on toast, although sardines on toast ain’t bad.” Mr. Prophet sat on another kitchen chair and was reaching out to grab a piece of toast when he realized Pa hadn’t prayed over the food yet. With a sigh, he laid his vagrant hand in his lap.
Pa said, “Grace.”
We all laughed. It felt good. Then we dug into the fare Mr. Prophet had kindly prepared for us.
Not long into the meal, something occurred to me. “Do they have coyotes in England?” I asked.
Nobody answered my question. As might have been expected, the question of whether or not coyotes existed in the British Isles plagued me for the rest of the day. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.
But Mr. Prophet’s breakfast was quite tasty. I vowed to remember this simple meal in the unlikely event I ever had to cook for Sam after we were married.
Aaaaaand, just as we were swallowing our last bites—well, except for Ma, who’d eaten and then left the house to walk up the street to the Hotel Marengo—the telephone rang. Blast the stupid instrument!
As ever—well, except for the prior evening—I was the one who rose from the table to answer it. Telephone calls were almost inevitably meant for me. I peeked at the kitchen clock on the wall as I headed for the ’phone. A little past eight. I guess it wasn’t an unreasonable time for a person to be telephoning, but I think after ten would have been more polite. Besides, after ten, I wouldn’t have been home.
“Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking,” I said, as ever.
“Oh, Daisy, I’m so glad you’re up!”
Lucille Spinks Zollinger. As much as I wanted to ask her why she telephoned at this hour if she expected the household residents to be abed, I didn’t. True to my calling as a spiritualist.
“Why, yes, Lucy. We’re all up and doing. We just finished breakfast.”
“I’m so glad. I was a little worried about telephoning this early.”
Again, I didn’t ask why she’d done so if it worried her. “Oh?”
“Yes. I just wanted to make sure you can help me lead the exercise class at church tomorrow. If you’re available. And I also wanted to ask if your librarian friend can join us. After talking to Mrs. Dermott, we decided one p.m. would be a good time, if it’s all right with everyone else.”
Regina! I’d forgotten all about telephoning Regina. I didn’t confide the truth to Lucy. “I haven’t been able to reach Regina yet, but I’ll try again today. One p.m. tomorrow is all right with me. I’m sure I can find my physical-education clothes somewhere.” If not, I’d— Well, I wasn’t sure what I’d do, but I’d think of something.
“Wonderful! Thank you so much, Daisy!”
“Any time,” I said, my voice a wee bit weaker than usual.
“See you tomorrow,” Lucy said in a voice absolutely vibrating with joy.
About a silly exercise class I’d have given my eyeteeth (or at least a bicuspid or a molar) to avoid. Sweet Lord, have mercy.
I only said, “See you then.”
As I turned away from the telephone, I saw every gaze on me.
“Physical-education clothes?” said Sam, clearly perplexed.
“Oh,” said Mr. Prophet. “The exercise class at church.”
“Exercise class?” said Pa. “At church?”
So I explained to my father how enthusiastic some church ladies—and even Regina Petrie and Flossie Buckingham—were about starting a women’s exercise class.
“To be held in the fellowship hall. Lucy—or somebody. I can’t remember who—is going to bring her Victrola and some records for us to exercise to.”
Pa said, “Oh.”
“That’s about how I feel about it,” I said. Then, to the sound of masculine laughter, I removed myself to the bathroom to brush my teeth and dab a little rice powder on my cheeks. Not even for tea leaves would I lower my standards for pale-and-interesting spiritualist-mediuming.
Harold’s knock came at our front door at around nine-thirty. I was ready. As a precaution, I’d decided to carry my Ouija board to Mrs. Pinkerton’s, although I left the tarot cards at home. Darned if I’d let the woman harass me any more than was absolutely necessary.
“’Lo, Harold,” said I as I answered the door with Spike.
Spike, with considerably more enthusiasm than I’d showed, leaped ecstatically upon Harold’s trousers. Harold, kind man that he was, knelt to pet my darling dachshund even before I could reprove Spike for daring to jump on a guest. Spike knew Harold of old and expected consideration from him, I guess. He didn’t normally jump on people because I’d taught him not to.
Or maybe I was just losing control of everything in my entire life. Dismal thought, so I decided not to think anymore unless I had to.
“You ready for this?” asked Harold, eying me up and down. “You look good. That’s one of those ‘ensemble’ frocks, isn’t it?”
Glancing down at my lovely costume, I said, “Yes. I made it last month.”
“Excellent. It’s not too heavy, is it? It’s going to be warm today, according to the weather report in the newspaper.”
“Is the weather report in the newspaper ever accurate?” I asked unkindly.
“I doubt it, but you’ll probably be comfortable in that.”
“Good.” I heaved a huge sigh. “All right, Harold Kincaid, let’s be off.”
Sam and Mr. Prophet had left the house long since, and Pa had decided to lie down for a while. This action on his part worried me. Pa didn’t ordinarily take naps, especially not right after breakfast. I really hoped Vi’s disappearance wasn’t going to have a permanently deleterious effect on his overall health.
But there wasn’t much I could do about Pa’s health except help everyone involved in the matter find Vi and bring her home. Therefore, I bent to give my darling liberty hound a last loving stroke or two, stood up, sighed again and said, “Very well, Harold. Lead me to my doom.”
“My mother won’t be your doom, Daisy, although my sister might yet be.”
His words surprised me. “Harold! You don’t think Stacy can possibly be implicated in Vi’s kidnapping, do you? From her jail cell?”
“Not really. But I wouldn’t put a whole lot past her.”
“Oh, Lord. I don’t even want to think about your rotten sister! I have enough to worry about, what with Vi vanishing and Lucy Zollinger dragging me into helping her conduct an exercise class at church.”
“Yeah. You mentioned going to an exercise class last night. What’s it all about?”
We’d reached Harold’s spiffy Kissel Gold Bug and he’d opened the passenger-side door for me as he asked his question.
“Get in, and I’ll tell you about it.”
So, as Harold drove up Marengo Avenue to Orange Grove and turned left, I explained about Eating Your Way to Health and the exercises Lucy wanted a bunch of church women to do. “To music on the Victrola,” I added in a dismal-sounding voice.
“Why’d you agree to do it if you don’t want to?”
“I…Crumb. I honestly don’t know. I guess so people wouldn’t think I’m standoffish. I’m already one of the few church ladies who work outside the home, you know. Along with Ma and Vi.”
“If any of those sanctimonious bitches dares look down on you, leave your church.”
“Harold! I love my church!”
“Why?”
“Why? Um…” Clear thought wasn’t my best pal that morning.
“See? You can’t even think of one good reason! If you have to attend church, why don’t you go to the Union Liberal Church? At least they’re not religious fanatics.”
“We Methodist-Episcopals aren’t religious fanatics, either, Harold Kincaid. Anyhow, what’s the Union Liberal Church? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Used to be the West Side Congregational Church. I think the church aligned itself with the Unitarian Church and changed its name.”
“My goodness! Sam and his late wife used to attend the West Side Church,” said I, stricken by the notion. Although I’m not sure why. I loved my church. In spite of impending exercise classes. And Miss Betsy Powell.
“There. See? It’s better than your rigid Methodist Church.”
Harold’s comment came at the precise moment my Voodoo juju stabbed me with a prick of heat.
Why in the world did it hurt me every single blinking time I thought of Miss Betsy Powell? Speaking of stupid.
Mean, Daisy!
“Well?” Harold demanded.
“Well, what?” I asked, having lost the train of the conversation.
“Why don’t you go to the Unitarian Church? Hell, I might even go to a Unitarian Church.”
“You?” I guffawed. “Whatever would Del say?”
“Del would be thrilled to get me into any Christian church. He’d rebel if I attended a synagogue or a mosque or a Buddhist temple, I suppose.”
“There’s a Chinese Methodist Church on North Marengo,” I told him, just because I remembered it right then.
He eyed me from his driver’s side seat. “Did I say anything nice about Methodists? Any Methodists?”
“Well, no, but I’m a Methodist, and you don’t hate me, do you?”
“No. You’re my best friend. I don’t like churches because churches don’t like me.”
“I guess I can understand your point of view,” I said, wishing the truth wasn’t the truth. Harold had spoken the truth, however. I do believe even Johnny’s Salvation Army frowned upon men of Harold and Del’s persuasion. I have a feeling neither Johnny nor Flossie gave a rap about anyone’s personal life as long as they valued God. Or a god. Oh, dear. I was confusing myself again.
“Huh,” said Harold.