We set the date for our party on Saturday, April fourth.
Lots of things happened between the time we planned the party and the party itself. For one thing, Sam’s sister, Renata Pagano, visited Pasadena. Not for fun. Her son, Frank Pagano, had tried to murder me in January. Threw a big knife at me and, if I hadn’t turned my head at a crucial moment, I’d have been a dead duck. Or a dead Daisy.
When asked why he wanted to kill me, he’d claimed it was because he and his family didn’t approve of me. Me! Daisy Gumm Majesty, who’d never done any harm to anyone, at least not on purpose. The reasons he cited were two-fold: I was neither Italian, nor was I a Roman Catholic. When questioned fully, however, Frank admitted someone had hired him to do the evil deed. He still occupied a cell in the city jail, but his trial was coming right up. Renata aimed to visit Pasadena for the trial and to try to figure out why her son had turned out so badly. According to Sam, Frank was the only bad apple in the family. I had no reason to doubt him.
It came as a blow, however, to learn Renata Pagano disapproved of me, too.
“Told you she would,” said Sam as we sat on the porch of my parents’ home one evening after dining on one of Vi’s magnificent meals.
“Yes, you did, but I didn’t think… Well, I can’t imagine not approving of someone because of his—or her, of course—nationality or religion.”
With a shrug, Sam said, “You don’t know many Italians.”
“No, I don’t. In fact, I believe you’re the only thus far. Except for your rotten nephew.” Frank Pagano had not only tried to kill me, but when he’d visited Pasadena several months earlier, he’d stolen a darling painted statue of Buddha I’d bought in Chinatown in Los Angeles. Worse, he’d pilfered one of my church’s silver candlesticks! The young man was a total failure at being a productive member of society. I didn’t tell his mother that, because it was clear she wanted no input from me.
“It makes me sad that your family doesn’t like me, Sam, just because I’m neither Italian nor Catholic.”
Another shrug, “It’s just one of those things. People seem to stick with their own kind. It’s not just Italians and Catholics. For instance, lots of people hate Jews just because they’re Jews. Look at Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. Even Shakespeare hated Jews, I suppose.”
“I don’t.”
Sam gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You’re an open-minded human being, love.”
“Piffle.”
“And a lot of folks don’t like men like Harold, either.”
“But that’s totally unwarranted prejudice! Harold and I have discussed this countless times.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. He said the Soviet Union actually executes homosexuals. I guess somebody would have to turn him in or something, but that’s horrible.”
“True, but the Soviets aren’t alone in their distaste. Remember Oscar Wilde?”
Sighing, I said, “Yes. I remember his story. So unfair.”
“Then there was Henry the Eighth’s dissolution of the monasteries.”
“But…but that was because he wanted to marry Ann Boleyn, wasn’t it?”
With a shrug, Sam said, “Caused a huge upheaval in the church, whatever his reasons were.”
“Yes, I know, but…”
“And don’t forget the Crusades in the Middle Ages. Those gallant lads wanted to wipe out all the Muslims they could find. In turn, of course, the Muslims wanted to kill all the Christians.”
“But…”
“And remember when Mary was Queen of England?”
“Of course, I don’t!”
“Well, she burned Protestants right and left. Just because they protested the greediness of the Roman Catholic Church.”
I stared at Sam, something having hit me right between the eyes, in a manner of speaking. “Is the word protest where we get the word Protestant?”
After glancing at me for a moment or two, Sam said, “Yes.”
Shoot. I was usually the one who knew etymology. I hadn’t pegged Sam for possessing such knowledge. Another huge sigh escaped my lips.
“And don’t forget the Turks killed a million or so Armenians during the Great War because Armenians are culturally Christian and the Turks feared they’d join forces with Britain and the USA against Germany and Turkey.”
“Culturally Christian? What does that mean?”
“It means that if you’re an Armenian, your family and friends are Christians. Unlike, say, the Turks, who are Muslims.”
“Oh. That’s…awful.”
“I think so, too, but I’m not Turkish. In New York City, most rich folks hate Italians and the Irish.”
“Why?”
“Italians and Irish are considered poor and dirty, not to mention…ta-da!…Roman Catholic.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Or something like that. As far as I’m concerned, religion has caused and continues to cause more trouble in the world than pretty much anything else.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”
“You would and did about a month ago, if you’ll recall,” said Sam, thereby making me remember an unhappy episode in my life. Not that the episode in question was far from my thoughts in the first place.
“Yes, but there were extenuating circumstances.”
“Huh.”
“There were! Several people were trying to kill me at the time, if you’ll recall.”
“How could I ever forget? And now even Christianity has its various sects and cults.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d call them cults. Precisely.”
“What about those fellows in the Appalachians who handle snakes? Are they like the run-of-the mill Methodist-Episcopals who attend your church?”
“Ew. I read about them. No, they aren’t like us. And we aren’t like them. I don’t know what to call them, actually.”
“You don’t have to call them anything,” said Sam, “but you can’t deny the truth, unless you want to fib to yourself.”
“How depressing.”
“Just the way things are.”
“Which doesn’t make it any less depressing.”
Sam shrugged and said, “Huh.” “Huh” was his favorite word, by the way.
“But getting back to you and your own family, you’d started attending services at the Unitarian Church with your wife even before you and I met. She was an Italian Catholic, too, wasn’t she? To begin with? Margaret, I mean?”
With a sideways squint at me, Sam said, “I’ve only had one wife so far, Daisy. And yes, she was both Italian and Catholic. Neither of us cared much for the Catholic Church, although I don’t have anything more against it than I do any other church, so Margaret found West Side Church for us.” With another squint and a slight frown, he added, “The truth is, I prefer the Congregational/Unitarian Church to the Methodist-Episcopal Church, but I’ll join the Methodists if it’ll make you happy.”
“Thank you, Sam.” I squeezed his arm and asked primly, “Will you also join the choir?” Sam possessed a wonderful bass voice. So, in fact, did Lou Prophet, although his vocal chords were not as pristine as they’d once been and his voice sounded a little scratchy. I believe this had to do with his love of “quirlies.” “Quirley” would definitely have its place in my dictionary. A quirley was a cigarette. It was also a coffin nail.
Told you Mister Prophet was quaint.
“We’ll have see about Lou and your choir,” said Sam. I heard the grin in his voice. “Don’t press your luck.”
“Um…” I began, not sure how Sam would react to the question I aimed to ask him next. “Would you like me to get in touch with Harold to work with the Castleton in catering our party?”
“Sure,” he said to my astonishment. “In fact, I was going to ask you to ask him. He knows a hell of a lot more about parties than I do.”
“Yes, he does.” I decided to leave the matter there.
“Pretty night,” said Sam, looking skyward.
“How can you tell?”
I felt his shoulders shake as he snickered. “I know there are stars up there. Just because Marengo’s planted on both sides with pepper trees and we can’t see the sky doesn’t mean it isn’t there. The weather’s pleasant.”
“It is,” I agreed upon a satisfied sigh. Life was good. For the most part. “I’ve finally started making Regina Petrie’s wedding gown. She’s going to be a beautiful bride.”
Regina Petrie was not merely going to be a beautiful bride, but she also worked at the Pasadena Public Library and was my favorite librarian on the face of the earth, which was saying something, since I equate librarians with goddesses. An unfortunate act had been committed in the biography section of the Pasadena Public Library, which I loved almost as much as I loved Sam, during which another librarian had been foully done to death. Also unfortunately, my friend Robert Browning had—foolishly, I admit—picked up the murder weapon and had thereby become one of Sam’s primary suspects. Which was silly on Sam’s part, but he didn’t know Robert as well as I did. Anyway, things turned out quite well as a result of the incident—barring the murder of Miss Carleton, the murdered librarian—because by the time the real culprit had been caught, Robert and Regina were engaged to be married.
Whew! That seems like a long explanation, but it wasn’t meant to be. Just thought you might want to know why I told Regina I’d make her wedding gown and the dresses for her bridesmaids. I did mention I’m a crackerjack seamstress, didn’t I? Well, I am. I have so few true talents and/or virtues, I don’t mind touting my ability as a seamstress.
Anyhow, thanks to various people wanting to do me in during the first part of the year, I’d feared I wouldn’t be able to finish Regina’s wedding togs in time for the ceremony. I’d been proved wrong and remained happy about it.
“You’ll be a beautiful bride, too,” said Sam, who wasn’t generally mushy.
“Thank you, Sam. And you’ll look like an Italian duke.”
Sam chuffed out an annoyed breath. “I wish to God Harold hadn’t coined that phrase. You’ve been telling me I look like an Italian duke ever since, and I’ll wager neither you nor Harold has ever seen an Italian duke in your lives.”
“You’re right. The only Italian duke we’ve ever seen is you.”
“Cripes.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes and then I remembered something interesting. “Oh, Sam, guess what?”
“What?”
“Missus Mainwaring telephoned me today and asked if I’d be free to bring my Ouija board over to her house tomorrow. She wants to consult with Rolly.”
“Have I ever mentioned I think Rolly is a stupid name for a spirit control, even one that doesn’t exist.”
Ah, yes, there we were. Sam was back to his old self. I didn’t mind. This was the self I’d fallen in love with, after all.
“Not my fault. I was ten years old when my agile brain created Rolly. Anyhow, most people think his name is spelled like Sir Walter Raleigh’s, and not R-o-l-l-y.”
“Yes. I know the story. Desdemona.”
I sighed deeply. “Desdemona’s not my fault, either! How the heck was I supposed to know when I was ten that Desdemona was a world-famous murder victim? After all, we weren’t forced to read Othello until eighth grade or whenever it was.”
Sam hugged my shoulders. “Don’t get miffed, sweetheart. I just like to tease you, is all.”
“I know. And I don’t mind. Too much.”
“So what does Missus Mainwaring want Rolly to do for her?”
“I won’t know until I visit her.”
“Valid point.”
Lou Prophet, who had been playing gin rummy with my father while Sam and I enjoyed our privacy, opened the front door. “Is it safe for me to go home? Don’t want to interrupt anything interesting.”
“Mister Prophet!” I cried, trying to sound scandalized and not succeeding.
With a sigh, Sam rose to his feet and helped me to mine. “Yeah. I guess it’s time for bed. I’ve got to get up early.”
“Are you working on a homicide?” I asked him, not expecting an answer. Sam didn’t like me to get mixed up in his cases.
“Not at the moment, but now that you’re up and around, I suspect there will be one soon.”
Mr. Prophet laughed.
I didn’t. “Sam!”
My darling fiancé had called me the Typhoid Mary of Murder in Pasadena a couple of times. But it’s wasn’t my fault I keep stumbling over dead bodies, confound it!
Drawing me into his arms and planting a kiss on my cheek, Sam murmured, “Don’t forget to call Harold.”
“After your last comment, maybe I’ll just let you plan the party.”
“Oh, don’t do that, Miss Daisy. You want all your guests to survive, don’t you?” Mr. Prophet asked jokingly.
“Most of them,” I said scowling at the two men.
Sam and Lou chortled as they walked across the street to Sam’s and my new house. I’d be so glad when Sam and I could walk into that house, bold as brass, as a married couple. Oh, well. Won’t be long now, I promised myself.
I probably shouldn’t have made that promise.