I doubt that North Lake Avenue in Altadena, California, has ever seen or ever will see another evening like that one. Police cars from Pasadena, sheriffs’ cars from Altadena, ambulances, medical personnel and uniformed members of just about every organization that might have even a remote interest in the gang responsible for kidnapping my darling aunt, Viola Gumm, swarmed everywhere.
Even Mr. Cobb, who had built himself a magnificent estate at the top of Lake Avenue, barged through his gates and demanded to know what was going on. When someone told him, he stood there frowning for a few seconds, then turned around and retreated to his safe haven.
Wish I could do that.
But we got Vi home eventually. Sam had to remain at the police station, where his blithering fool of a nephew was locked up. Again. This time, I didn’t think anyone would put him on a work crew. Sam had spoken with the Chief of the Pasadena Police Department, Mr. Ben Parker, and it sounded as though the PPD was going to clean out its ranks.
Turned out Mr. Lucky Luciano had nothing to do with Vi’s kidnapping. Yes, he had rented a large estate in Pasadena. When he’d complained about not being able to get decent food here, one of his dimmer minions had decided to find him a good cook. Unfortunately, Frank Pagano had suggested Vi. That’s when the now-dead Donald Costello—who used to work for the PPD—had connived with his pal, Cullen O’Hara, and taken Vi. When Luciano’d discovered what they’d done, he’d ordered a hit on Donald Costello (that means he ordered his men to kill Costello) and demanded Frank return Vi. That’s when Frank became frightened and gave himself up to his uncle—well, his former uncle now, I reckon, since Sam had disowned him. He was the reason we couldn’t discuss our plans for Vi’s recovery inside Sam’s new house, in case you remember that far back. At the time of our meeting on the porch, Frank Pagano was bound and gagged and tied to a chair in the kitchen with Officer Stephen Doan guarding him.
AndMr. Lou Prophet had told me he’d hunted him down, as if he were still a rugged bounty hunter tracking criminals across the bleak desert sands in the Old West. That man. I never knew when to take him seriously. He could sure handle a rope, though.
Mr. Luciano, by the way, wasn’t affected by Vi’s doctoring of that night’s dinner, since he’d managed to get himself aboard a train headed back to New York City. Guess he didn’t like us Southern Californians. He’d come back in a couple of years, however, much to everyone’s dismay. Except his, naturally, since he only got richer from cornering several markets pertaining to the motion-picture industry.
Poor Harold was almost as crushed as his brand-new Kissel 45 Gold Bug had been. He got over his desolation quickly, however, and bought himself brand-new, red Stutz Bearcat Roadster. He looked better in a red vehicle than a yellow one. When Mr. Prophet eyed the new machine, he only shook his head and looked as if he wanted his old horse, Mean and Ugly, back.
I gave Vi her Mrs. Jackson-made Voodoo juju, and she didn’t scoff at all. She just hung it on a chain around her neck and sincerely thanked Mr. Jackson the next time she went to work. She resumed working for the Pinkertons two weeks after she’d saved herself from the gang.
As for Miss Betsy Powell, she was sick for days after that night. Mr. Costello also got quite sick, but he, unlike Miss Powell, went to jail after he was released from the hospital. Miss Betsy Powell went home. She seemed to take the nonsense I’d read in her tea leaves to heart, however, because she cried on my shoulder at church a couple of Sundays running. I kept hoping she’d visit the Salvation Army Church and give me a rest.
Only several days after Thursday’s séance did it occur to me Mrs. Barrow hadn’t attended our exercise class on Wednesday of that week. I’d have asked her about her absence, but on Thursday, the telephone company hooked us up to a private line!
I told Lucy Zollinger she’d have to take charge of any remaining exercise classes if she wanted them to continue, because I bowed myself out. Lucy was kind of crushed, but she recovered.
All in all, I still considered 1925 an iffy year, but I was willing to give it another chance. Couldn’t really do much else, could I?