I searched our basement everywhere for my gym bloomers and didn’t find them. Bother. However, being an expert needlewoman, I managed to sew up a pair in about twenty minutes, using a piece of polka-dotted percale left over from another project. The polka-dots were red on white, which wasn’t proper school attire, but I didn’t think anyone at tomorrow’s exercise class would object. If they did, I might just have to throw the tantrum I’d been saving most of my life.
And I found my old canvas athletic shoes, so there was another problem solved. They were a little tattered, but I didn’t care by then. I had a couple of old white athletic shirts in a drawer in my bedroom.
“So, what do you think?” I asked Mrs. Rattle, walking into the kitchen right after Ma got home from work.
“Good heavens, Daisy, what are those?” Ma asked, her eyebrows soaring into an alarmed arch over her eyes.
“Gym bloomers,” I said. “For the class tomorrow. I couldn’t find my old ones.”
“Oh. Well, then, I guess it’s all right. I wouldn’t want you to walk around the neighborhood in those things, though.”
“Ma! I’d never walk anywhere in these! I have my reputation to uphold, you know.”
“Yes, dear,” said Ma with a smile, untying the scarf she’d tied over her hair since the wind had picked up as she’d walked home from the Hotel Marengo. Eyeing my footwear, she added, “And I hope you don’t wear those shoes for walks around the neighborhood, either.”
“I’d never! I wear my Oxfords when I take Spike for a walk. And a nice-ish housedress. I had to wear these horrid things in high school for running around the track and doing various exercises.” I frowned down at my outfit, which might have been eye-catching, but wasn’t particularly becoming.
“Did you just sew them up? Just like that?” asked Mrs. Rattle, snapping her fingers to demonstrate what just like that meant. She sounded astonished.
“Well…yes, I did.”
“Amazing,” said she, turning back to the stove, where she’d been dishing her chicken-and-rice concoction out of a pot and into a serving bowl. I peeked at it and noticed it contained not merely chicken and rice, but green peas and some other vegetables, as well, but I wasn’t sure what they were. I think I saw something orange, which might have been a piece of carrot. “I’ve never known anyone who can sew like you do, Daisy. You’re a marvel.”
A marvel, was I? I looked at Ma, who only grinned at me and shook her head as she folded her scarf. Such is the nature of fame, I reckon.
I’d already set the table for Sam, Pa, Ma, Mr. Prophet and me. And for Mrs. Rattle, too, because I assumed she’d sit in Vi’s accustomed place at the head of the table. I hoped seeing her there wouldn’t make me get all emotional and teary.
“Will you go and fetch the men, please, Daisy?” Ma asked. Eyeing my attire, she amended her request. “After you change clothes. Actually, I’ll do that while you change.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said I, wondering where “the men” were and why they couldn’t smell for themselves food was ready.
When I popped out of my bedroom clad in the elderly green housedress I’d laid on my bed for the purpose, I saw no men standing around. So I walked through the dining room into the living room. There I found Ma and Pa, sitting on the sofa, talking softly to each other.
“Where are Sam and Mr. Prophet?”
“At the house across the street, I suppose,” said Pa. “Want me to—”
“Daisy will fetch them,” said my mother, interrupting Pa. Most unlike her. She must be worried about him, too.
“Yup,” I said, trying for a sprightly tone. “That’s what I came in here for. Thought they might be here. They should be. They know what time we eat dinner.” All right, so sprightly hadn’t lasted long.
“Nope,” said Pa, grinning as if he knew Ma’s and my fell plan to keep him from hurting himself. “And don’t think I don’t know what the two of you are up to, either,” he added, confirming my suspicion. “Doc Benjamin said short walks are good for my ticker. I’ll walk across the street with you, Daisy.”
Ma and I exchanged a probably panicked glance, then Ma sighed. “Oh, very well, Joe. It never does any good to try to keep you from doing what you want to do.”
“I know my limits,” said Pa, more seriously than before, getting to his feet and standing as if to test his balance for a second. “And walking across the street won’t tax them.”
“Okay. Come on. Mrs. Rattle’s serving everything up, so we need to fetch those two laggards before the food gets cold.” I gestured for Pa to join me just as a knock came at the door.
“Ha. That’s probably them,” said Pa.
Spike had heard the knock, too, and had already raced to the front door, wagging and yipping his happy-to-greet-friends bark. Nevertheless, although I trusted my faithful hound implicitly, I took a peek through the spy hole before I unlocked and opened the door, revealing Sam and Mr. Prophet.
“Evening, gents,” said Pa.
“Evening, Joe,” came a rumbling duet of bass voices. Mr. Prophet’s voice, probably from years of smoking those wicked quirlies, sounded rusty. Sam’s just sounded deep and masculine.
The men removed their hats and coats and hung them on the appropriate rack next to the door. Then Sam knelt and petted Spike. Mr. Prophet, watching with action with sardonic amusement, said, “Guess he knows who’s important around here. Want me to kiss your cheek for Sam, Miss Daisy?”
“No, I do not,” I said, knowing he was teasing, but kind of shocked anyway.
“It’s all right, Lou. I can kiss my own fiancée.” And Sam proved himself correct the next second.
Pa and Mr. Prophet chuckled. I didn’t. I felt my cheeks get hot, though, and cursed my all-too-easy redheaded blush.
We all, including Spike, headed to the dining room, where Mrs. Rattle had begun setting out serving dishes. Whatever was in it, her chicken-and-rice concoction smelled good.
“I’d better wash my hands,” muttered Sam, heading for the hall to the bathroom. Guess he didn’t want to get in anyone’s way in the kitchen.
“Already washed mine,” said Mr. Prophet, who had his left arm resting in its sling again.
“Was your arm aching?” I asked him, eyeing his sling.
“A bit. Won’t have to use this thing after tomorrow, I reckon. Arm’s healed up right nice.”
“I’m glad,” I told him. What’s more, I meant it. To Mrs. Rattle, I said, “May I help you?”
“No, dear. You just sit yourself down at the head of the table. You can serve.”
Surprised, I said, “Aren’t you going to join us?”
With a little laugh, Mrs. Rattle said, “No, dear. I’ve got men-folk of my own to feed, so I’ll leave dinner with you and head on home.”
“Oh.” I don’t know why it had never occurred to me that Mrs. Rattle might have a life and a family of her own. True, I knew her son, Stephen Doan, worked as a policeman and often accompanied Sam on cases, but I guess there was a Mr. Rattle still extant. And maybe even other children. “Good. Thank you so much for helping us out, Mrs. Rattle.”
“Happy to help, dear. And don’t give me too much credit. Your adorable fiancé is paying me, remember.”
“Adorable, am I?” came a rumbling bass voice from the door leading from the hall to the dining room.
Mrs. Rattle tittered. “Maybe you’re a trifle too big to be adorable,” she said, heading back into the kitchen to fetch her handbag and hat and hang her apron on a hook on the service porch.
“You are,” I agreed, tilting my head and eyeing Sam up and down.
“I think you’re cute as a bug,” said Mr. Prophet in his wrinkly old voice.
Everyone laughed, and I, feeling odd about doing it, went to the head of the table, where Mr. Prophet held a chair out for me. “Thanks,” I said as I sat.
“Sure thing, Miss Daisy.” He took his accustomed chair on one side of the table next to Ma, and Sam took his next to what would have been my place on the other side. Pa sat, as usual, at the table’s foot.
We all said farewell to Mrs. Rattle, as she left the house via the side door. “See you all tomorrow,” she said in a cheerful voice as she shut the door.
“There’s an extra place setting,” observed Ma.
“I thought Mrs. Rattle might stay and take dinner with us.”
“I’ll just pick it up and put it away.”
“I should have thought to put it away before I sat,” I said, feeling guilty. I felt guilty a lot in those days, although not quite as guilty as I had when Billy still lived and I knew I failed him every day. Abysmal thought. I opted to stop thinking. I wasn’t very good at it anyway.
“What’s for dinner?” asked Pa as Ma put the flatware away. The plates had already been stacked at Vi’s place.
“Mrs. Rattle only said it’s a concoction made with chicken and rice.” I peered into the serving dish. “Looks like it also contains peas and carrots and…I think I see bits of onion in there, too.”
“Well, stop analyzing it and let’s eat,” said Ma, sitting again.
In fact, we all sat and glanced at Pa, who recited a short grace. Then we settled our napkins in our laps, and I began serving. “How much would you like, Mr. Prophet?”
“A good hunk,” he said.
“Very well.” I served him a big mound of chicken and rice and whatever else was in the dish and handed it to him. Then I peered up at Pa. “What about you, Pa?”
“A good hunk,” said he, grinning.
So I served everyone healthy mounds of the dish Mrs. Rattle had prepared, passed a basket of rolls, and dipped into my own portion of dinner. Tilting my head, I savored my bite for a second and then decided, “This is good!”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” advised Sam. “Mrs. Rattle has cooked for you before, and nobody complained.”
“I know. And I’m not really surprised. It’s just that Vi is so…so…well, she’s the best.” And darned if a lump didn’t form in my throat. I had to swallow twice to dislodge it.
Observing this phenomenon, Mr. Prophet—after first shooting me a disgusted glance—said, “Say, Joe, will you let Sam and me have the keys to the church so’s we can let the ladies into the hall for their class tomorrow morning? That way, you won’t have to go up there. We aim to stay and watch the ladies exercise.” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.
My mother—my mother—giggled.
“Oh, you’re going to start the class tomorrow?” Pa, ignoring Mr. Prophet’s eyebrow waggle, sounded surprised.
I answered him. “Yes. I know Vi is our first consideration, but we think—well, I think—one of the women who will be at the class has something to do with someone who might be involved in Vi’s kidnapping. Did that make any sense?”
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Really?” said Pa.
My juju gave a quick and painful confirmation of my theory. Slapping a hand to my chest, I said, “Yes. Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.” Then I smiled like the idiot I was and looked at Sam, who, as I should have expected, was in the process of rolling his eyes. I heard Mr. Prophet’s rusty cackle, blast the man.
“Oh,” said Pa. “I guess…Say, Sam, you don’t think there will be any trouble at the church, do you? I don’t want to put Daisy in jeopardy. She’s been through enough this year.”
“Joe!” cried Ma, plainly horrified. “Sam would never put Daisy in jeopardy!” She squinted at Sam. “Would you, Sam.” It wasn’t a question; in fact, she sounded almost lethal.
I love my parents.
“No, no,” I hurried to say. “There’s not going to be anybody there but a bunch of church women and— Bother! I forgot to call Flossie and tell her the class will be held tomorrow at one! Doggone it, I rang Regina and totally forgot about Flossie!”
“Don’t worry about telephoning her,” said Sam, stopping me as I started pushing my chair away from the table. “I talked to her and Johnny today. Went over there after I picked up those papers at the department.”
“You did, did you?” I asked, narrowing my baby blues at him. I also settled my chair back into place.
“Yeah. The Buckinghams have been with us from the beginning. I want as many people as possible helping us without bringing in any outsiders. Besides, Mrs. Buckingham wants to go to the class, for some reason.”
I thought about getting mad, decided to do so would be not merely counterproductive but stupid, and said, “Thanks, Sam. Everybody seems to want to go to that class except me.”
“It’ll do you some good,” said Mr. Prophet. “A little exercise never hurt anybody. Why, I used to do me some dancin’ in the old days. And ridin’. Me and ol’ Mean and Ugly put in some miles.”
“Bet you made other people dance some, too,” I muttered at him.
With a shake of his old gray head, he said, “You been readin’ too many o’ them yaller-back books, Miss Daisy.”
“You’re probably right,” I admitted with a sigh.
“This is quite tasty,” said Ma, effectively changing the subject.
“Yes, it is,” said Sam.
“Yup,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Very tasty,” said Pa.
“It’s really good,” I said, adding my approbation to the crowd.
“There’s tapioca pudding for dessert,” said Ma.
I liked tapioca pudding, so that was nice. “As soon as we finish our chicken and rolls, I’ll fetch the pudding,” I told everyone. “Her rolls are almost as good as Vi’s.” And they were. Almost.
“Mrs. Rattle told me she left some cinnamon rolls for our breakfast tomorrow,” said Ma. She added tentatively, “She said all we have to do is set the oven to medium and put the baking pan in the oven for fifteen or twenty minutes. She said she left the pan with the rolls in the Frigidaire. She also said she covered the pan with a damp towel so they won’t dry out.”
“Do you know how to set an oven to medium?” I asked my mother with trepidation.
“Not really,” she admitted. “Do you?”
“I inherited my cooking skills from you, Ma,” I reminded her.
“We’re all doomed,” said Pa with a guffaw.
“I can set the oven to medium,” said Mr. Prophet. “Fer cripe’s sake, I never knew two ladies as helpless in the kitchen as the both of you.” He grinned at Ma as he said it, and she only laughed. I didn’t, even though I knew he was merely speaking the truth.
“We’ve never had to be,” I said. “We always had Vi.”
Mr. Prophet said, “I’ll come over early and fix breakfast. I’ll fry up some bacon, too, if there’s any left. Pretty sure there is.”
“Thank you!” I said, sounding as surprised as I felt.
“Thanks, Lou. Appreciate it,” said Pa.
“Yeah, Lou. You’re good for something, after all.”
I thought Mr. Prophet might take exception to Sam’s comment, but the two men only grinned at each other.
I’ll never understand men for as long as I live.