Sam and Mr. Prophet showed up at our door at approximately a quarter to one in the afternoon. Flossie and I had already changed into our exercise clothes. Pa had taken Spike out to the back yard for some serious sniffing on Spike’s part and some rose-snipping on Pa’s.
Mr. Prophet eyed my red polka-dots, white stockings, scruffy canvas shoes and white blouse askance. “Never saw no red polka-dotted bloomers before,” said he.
“I couldn’t find my old gym bloomers, so I had to make some in a hurry. All I could find was this fabric.” I looked down at my puffy polka-dotted bloomers and felt like an idiot. Oh, well. With any luck, this would be the only time I’d have to wear the wretched things. I used to like sports when I was in school, but…never mind. You already know what I think about the class.
“Unh,” he said.
Flossie had made herself some regulation bloomers in navy blue. She’d even made a regulation short-sleeved middy blouse with a navy-blue scarf at the neck. She also wore black stockings and black canvas shoes. In other words, she was much more appropriately rigged out than was I.
“You two ready to go?” asked Sam. All business, Sam.
“I guess so,” I said.
“Sure are,” said Flossie, sounding ever so much more chipper than I had.
“Got a surprise for you,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Oh? What?”
“It’s a surprise,” he told me. Then he gave me one of his snaggle-toothed grins and said, “It’s in Sam’s automobile.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Just don’t holler or anything when you see what it is,” Sam warned me.
“I won’t.”
Darned if I didn’t almost break my word not ten seconds after I’d given it. Mind you, I was a bit surprised to see Officer Stephen Doan in the backseat of Sam’s Hudson. Officer Doan, however, wasn’t the surprise the men meant. As soon as Doan leaned over to push the back passenger door open for Mr. Prophet to nudge himself in, I saw, crouched on the floor in handcuffs and with a bandage over his mouth, Frank Pagano, Sam’s noxious nephew!
My mouth dropped open, but nothing emerged, thank goodness. Sam truly didn’t need to say, “Daisy!” in that austere voice of his. My mouth snapped shut. “You and Flossie sit in the front. Lou and Steve will take care of Frank.”
Frank growled something; well, he couldn’t very well form words with a sock in his mouth. He could glare, though, and he did. If looks could kill, I’d have been a dead Daisy. His growl earned him a smack upside the head by Mr. Lou Prophet, who said, “Shut up, you stinking owlhoot.”
Owlhoot means criminal, according to the Old-Western-to-English dictionary I’d been compiling since having met Mr. Prophet.
Once Flossie and I had taken seats in the front of the Hudson, I sitting next to Sam and Flossie next to the door, I said, “How in the world did you find that brick-head?”
“Lou,” said Sam succinctly.
Another muffled growl from Frank—he probably didn’t like being called a brick-head, even though he was one—earned him another smack upside the head from Mr. Prophet.
I started to turn to look into the backseat, but Sam grabbed my arm, so I didn’t. He pressed the self-starter and began backing out of the driveway. “Don’t draw attention to the backseat,” said Sam.
Made sense. “Where was he?” I asked.
“Found him lurkin’ around the place where you’re doin’ your séance,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Mrs. Bissel’s house?” I asked, astounded.
“If that’s the place where you’re doin’ the séance.”
“Good Lord, what was he doing there?”
“Lurkin’.”
I felt Flossie’s shoulders shake when she laughed, and she put a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. “How did you find him?”
“Just doin’ my job,” said the old coot disobligingly.
“Which is why I want you to perform the séance there,” said Sam, turning north from our driveway on Marengo.
“Why’d you bring him with us today?” I asked.
“Not letting him out of my eyesight—or Lou’s or Steve’s—until we get your aunt back.” He shook his head in a marveling gesture. “You know, one can almost always count on Frank to do something stupid. He decided Costello was an Italian because of the O at the end of his name.”
“Well, I wondered the same thing,” I admitted, then wished I hadn’t, what with Frank in the car with us. I didn’t want to be like him in the least little way. Still and all, Costello seemed an odd name for an Irishman.
“Then, when O’Hara and Costello enlightened him, he decided their gang was all right because they were Catholics,” Sam went on.
“But Mr. O’Hara said he and Cullen aren’t Catholics.”
“They didn’t tell Frank that. And, because their leader is a fellow named Luciano, Frank just knew he’d joined in the right gang.”
“Good heavens,” I murmured. “The Roman-Catholic connection is precisely what Mr. Prophet propounded when Frank first ran off with Costello.”
“Yup, I did,” agreed Mr. Prophet.
“I almost hate to say it,” said Flossie, “but I wouldn’t necessarily think of Costello as being Irish, either, if I hadn’t grown up in New York City. I mean, most of the names ending in ‘O’ back there belong to Italians.”
“Glad I’m not the only one,” I muttered. “I’d never have pegged Costello as Irish.”
“Yeah, but you’re not from New York, and you’re not Italian,” said Sam. “Or Irish, I guess.”
“You’re right. I’m not sure what kind of name Gumm is, although I wish it weren’t Gumm. Gumm isn’t an easy name to grow up with.”
“Oh, Daisy!” said Flossie, softly letting go of her laugh. “You’re so funny sometimes.”
“Well, it isn’t,” I said, recalling quite vividly how much teasing I’d had to endure as I was growing up Daisy Gumm. “Pa said Gumm is a proud old Anglo-Saxon name, but I think, all things considered, I’d as soon be named…Oh, I don’t know. Tudor or something like that. Pendragon, maybe, if it has to be Anglo-Saxon. Gumm is…” My words sort of sputtered out.
“But now your last name is Majesty, and that’s a royal name, like Tudor and Pen-whatever. Majesty is a splendid name,” said Flossie. Then she added hurriedly, “And Rotondo is a splendid name, too.”
“Thanks, Flossie,” said Sam, grinning.
“What does Rotondo mean, anyway?” I asked.
“Fat,” said Sam.
“Sam!” I said, shocked.
With a chuckle, he said, “Well, it does, but San Giovanni Rotondo is also a town in southern Italy.”
“Is that where your family came from?”
“I don’t have any idea. My great-great-grandparents ended up in Florence, and my great-grandparents came to the United States from there. They arrived before Ellis Island was designated as the place for immigrants wanting to enter the USA. My folks came through Battery Park.”
“What’s Battery Park?”
“A place on the southern end of Manhattan. It got its name from the artillery batteries. built in the seventeenth century to protect the settlement.”
“I had no idea.”
“Didn’t expect you do,” said Sam, grinning again.
“I think I need to read some books about the history of New York and New England,” I muttered.
“You won’t come away enamored of your forebears,” warned Sam. “It’s a pretty tragic story. Hell, the only Indian names in the whole of New York and New England are place names now. All the Indians are dead, pretty much. I think there are some Mohicans and Wampanoags still around in reservations. Maybe some Apanakis.”
“The same thing happened all across the country as folks moved west,” I said, feeling guilty for being human. “We people do a lot of evil in the world, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Sam.
“Not all of us,” Flossie reminded us.
“True,” Sam and I duet-ed. If anyone’s interested, this time the duet contained a bass voice and an alto voice in a rather pleasing blend.
“People are gen’ly peckerwoods, ‘less’n somebody takes a paddle and knocks the ticks off’n ‘em. But, hell, ya gotta take the horns with the hide.” Mr. Prophet had, as you’ve probably already correctly guessed, delivered the last speech. Then he bestowed another whack on Frank’s head. “This sorry younker didn’t get himself kicked around enough by his parents or you, Sam. Or mebbe he’s just crazier’n a loco shoat. Some folks are born that way.”
As well as he could, Frank howled through his gag. Therefore, Mr. Prophet whacked him again and said, “Shut up, you sorry sumbitch, or I’ll shut you up permanent.”
“Not a bad idea,” Sam said musingly.
A muffled snuffle came from behind Frank’s gag.
I don’t think anyone, even the extremely kind, generous and loving Flossie, objected to Mr. Prophet’s dire plan. As for me, I wouldn’t mind being rid of the thorn in my side—Frank Pagano—permanently, although I didn’t want Mr. Prophet to be arrested and imprisoned for his good deed. Maybe we could shove him down Mrs. Bissel’s steep staircase and make it look like an accident. Or push him off her roof, which was flat with only a shortish rim around it. Hmmm.
Good Lord! I didn’t mean it!
Oh, what the heck, I did mean it, but I know I shouldn’t have.
However, we’d arrived at the church. Sam thoughtfully pulled his Hudson to a stop at the side entrance, so he exited the machine and opened the door for Flossie and me. “Did Pa give you the key to the side door?” I asked.
“He gave me the key and said it fits all the locks, so I guess we’ll find out. This is the door closest to the class, isn’t it? I can park somewhere else if it’d be more convenient.”
“Oh, no. This is fine, thanks. Yes, this door is closer to Fellowship Hall than any of the other ones.”
“That’s the way I remembered it,” said Sam. Before he escorted us to the church, he leaned into the car and said, “Lou, you come with me. Steve, will you be all right with my numbskull nephew?”
With a grin, Officer Stephan Doan said, “Oh, yeah. We’ll get along just fine.”
“If I’d known you’d have Frank in the car, I’d have brought along my dachshund-headed cane,” I muttered. “Its pointed snout could probably work wonders on the top of your nephew’s thick skull.”
Mr. Prophet guffawed.
Sam ignored my unkind comment, but spoke to Officer Doan again. “Good. I’ll come back and park the car somewhere else after I get Daisy, Flossie and Lou inside the church. I don’t want to leave Daisy unescorted for a second.”
His words gave me pause. Significant pause. In fact, I stood there, feeling as though my feet had suddenly become rooted to the sidewalk. “Why?” I asked plaintively. “Why don’t you want to leave me alone for a second? Do you think someone’s out to kill me again?”
“Naw,” said Mr. Prophet, limping from the car. “It’d be the first time. Most folks only die once.”
Furiously, I said, “You know what I meant!”
“It’s all right, Daisy,” said Sam, preventing Mr. Prophet from further riling me. “No, I don’t think you’re in any particular danger, but you know how Frank feels about you.”
“Yes, I do. He feels the same way your parents and sister feel about me,” I said. “They’re being so unfair.”
“Tell that to one o’ them Injuns that ain’t around any longer,” advised Mr. Prophet.
Those words put things into perspective, and I stopped whining. Rather, I squared my shoulders and said, “Right. Thank you.”
“But still and all, don’t go wandering off by yourself anywhere, okay?”
I frowned up at Sam, who by this time was turning the key in the lock to open the side door to the church. Actually, not that it matters, there were two Marengo-side doors to our church. One of them led directly into the choir room where our robes, hymnals and sheet music were kept. The other door led directly on to a hall from which you could access the sanctuary or the fellowship hall. Or the minister’s office, if you wanted to, but we didn’t. As soon as the four of us were inside the church, Sam re-locked the door.
“Why are you locking it again?” I asked. “Other women will show up shortly, wanting to take this stupid class.”
“I don’t want them entering the church until Lou and I are in position,” Sam explained.
“Oh. That makes sense,” I said.
“It makes a lot of sense,” said Flossie, taking my arm and leading me in Sam’s wake toward the fellowship hall. Mr. Lou Prophet clumped along behind Flossie and me. Protected on both ends, by golly!
As soon as we entered the hall, Sam turned on the electric light switch and squinted around the room. After a mere second or two of scanning, he said, “Ah, good. Mr. Smith did as I asked him.”
“You asked our minister to do something, and he did it?” I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. Mr. Smith had always seemed an obliging man, only I hadn’t anticipated he and Sam were in communication about anything.
“Yeah. See?” Sam gestured to the far end of the room, where tables had been set on their sides, their legs pointed to the wall. “Lou and I will be back there so we can see what’s going on without being seen.”
I glanced from the wall of overturned tables to Mr. Prophet’s peg leg. “Can you crouch behind one of those tables for such a long time?”
“Naw. I’ll set one of the tables on its end and put a chair behind it. That way I can sit while Sam crouches. I’ll be more comfy than he’ll be.” He let one of his rusty chuckles loose.
“You can’t smoke in here,” I reminded him.
“Miss Daisy, I’d never sully the innards of your church with a coffin nail.”
“As to coffin nails, I’m sure the church has seen plenty of those since it was built,” I told him, trying to be funny.
“Har, har,” said Mr. Prophet, leading me to believe my joke had been particularly feeble.
Probably to boost my ego, Flossie giggled.
Sam stuck to the point of this jaunt to church. “All right, enough of that.”
Well, really!
“Daisy, will you be leading this shindig?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m kind of hoping Lucy will lead it, because I don’t want to.”
“I want you to lead it,” said Sam, sounding forceful.
“But I don’t have the book, and Lucy does.”
“Borrow it,” Sam said.
“Bother. Is it all right if we lead it together? Then at least maybe I can see from the book what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“I brought my copy,” said Flossie, reaching into the pocket of her gym bloomers and withdrawing a copy of Eating Your Way to Health, by Dr. J. Douglas Thompson. I’d wondered why her bloomers had looked cockeyed. I hadn’t wanted to be impolite and ask.
Nertz. But I took the book and said, “Thanks, Flossie. I’ll look through it.”
“The exercises aren’t difficult,” she told me. “Mainly stretches.”
I flipped through a few pages until I came to illustrations of a happy-looking young woman doing stretching exercises. “Yes,” said I. “So I see. We used to do these. Then the teacher would make us run around the track a couple of times.”
“I guess we can run around the room if you want to,” said Flossie doubtfully.
“I don’t want to do any of this,” I said. Then I sighed and looked to my fiancé, who’d commenced grinning again. He would. “Want us to run around the room, Sam?”
“As long as you only run around half of it. I don’t want anybody getting close to the tables where Lou and I will be.”
“Right-o,” I said. Perusing the room again, I said, “I guess Miss Betsy Powell can set her radio—or Mrs. Dermott’s Victrola—on the front table there.” I pointed to where the ladies of the congregation generally set out cookies, coffee and tea things after Sunday services.
“Just don’t let anybody near the back tables,” said Sam.
“I won’t.” Darn it, did he think I couldn’t handle a small group of women? I, Daisy Gumm Majesty, who handled séances every other week or so and had done for more than half my life?
“Sorry, sweetheart. Just don’t want anyone to know we’re here.”
“I understand.” Resignation, thy name is Daisy. Only I think I’d already established my name as Guilt.
Never mind.