I don’t know about anyone else, but I slept like the proverbial log Wednesday night. Having lost a lot of sleep the prior night and having had a frightening and eventful day, I was tuckered. Even though Spike hadn’t had as hideous a day as I’d experienced, he slept like a log, too. I think dogs are just like that. They don’t fuss and fume and dwell on things and let stuff bother them. Wish I were more like a dog.
On Thursday morning, Sam and Mr. Prophet came over to our house for breakfast. I’d risen at my usual time and had already bathed, brushed my hair, powdered my cheeks (only a little, so they wouldn’t shine) and donned a comfortable but pretty, mid-calf length, tan-colored dress with a brown collar and low-waisted belt. I didn’t anticipate having to do any running around or fleeing from this or that, but I’d learned long ago one couldn’t predict what a day would bring. Days in my life had brought a whole lot of unusual things of late, and I didn’t intend to rip anything, get blisters on my feet or trip because of a too-tight skirt if I had to skedaddle in a hurry. Besides, the brown and tan went well with my auburn hair and my beautiful emerald engagement ring. I plopped my brown cloche hat on top of my brown handbag in my bedroom before I joined the men.
“You look lovely, as usual,” said my darling father.
“Yes, you do,” said my darling fiancé.
“You always look well, Daisy,” said Ma. My mother wasn’t given to flattery, so her comment surprised me.
“Thank you,” I said to everyone in general.
“Vi fried up some ham and cream of wheat for us,” said Pa. “It’s in the warming oven.”
In case anyone doesn’t know about fried cream of wheat, it’s like fried cornmeal mush, only it’s wheat. I mean, you fix cream of wheat as you would if you were going to eat it for breakfast, but instead of eating it instantly when it’s soft and hot, you pour it into a loaf pan and put it in the Frigidaire over night. It sets up just like cornmeal mush does, and then you fry it for breakfast. You notice I didn’t say I fried it for breakfast.
There I go again, bemoaning my lack of cooking skills. I beg your pardon.
“Good. I love fried cream of wheat,” I said. “Anybody else want some?”
Everyone except Ma and Vi, who had already eaten their breakfasts, did, so I dished up breakfasts for all the men in my life and me. Even Spike got a little bite of ham. I tried not to feed him too many table scraps, because the long back of a dachshund is difficult enough for a dog to manage. No dachshund needed to haul extra pounds around on those little short legs. It had occurred to me more than once that dachshunds should come equipped with an extra pair of legs in the middle, but then they would look even sillier than dachshunds already looked with only four legs. Their silly-lookingness (I seem to be making up words right and left, don’t I?) was one of the reasons I liked them so much.
The men waited for me before digging in, which surprised me. Pa was polite and gentlemanly at all times. Sam had been taught manners and used them every once in a while. I’m not sure what, if anything, Mr. Prophet’s mother had attempted to teach him if he’d ever been a child, but I never expected him to behave like a gentleman. On Thursday morning, he did.
After I’d carried my plate to the table, made sure the syrup pitcher was full—Vi had heated the maple syrup, as she always did—and laid out the butter, Pa said a short prayer, and we ate. Yum.
“This is real good,” said Mr. Prophet. “Don’t think I’ve ever had this stuff before. What’s it called again?”
“Fried cream of wheat,” I told him.
“Eh?” His brow furrowed as he looked at me, as if he thought I was making some kind of joke.
“Excuse me.” Deciding an explanation would just confuse the fellow, I got up from the table, marched to the cupboard, and got down the box of cream of wheat. Yellow and with a happy-looking Negro fellow on the front, even the box seemed cheerful. “Here. This is a box of cream of wheat.”
“Be da-darned,” said Prophet.
I didn’t laugh as I put back the box and returned to my seat. The man evidently did mean to keep his language clean when he was in my father’s house. I approved. Mind you, Mr. Lou Prophet wouldn’t care one way or another if I approved of him.
“So you’re all going out to Missus Mainwaring’s orange grove today?” Pa asked as he cut a bite from his slab of cream of wheat.
I answered him. “Yes. Sam needs to interview a woman named Sally. She was too upset the day before yesterday when Mister Prophet killed the man who shot at Mrs. Mainwaring. Then, yesterday, all of that other stuff happened.” I shook my head as I tried to figure out what I’d just said.
But my father understood. “I’m sorry these things are happening in our neighborhood,” he said with a worried frown on his face.
“With that woman in the neighborhood, anything’s liable to happen,” said Mr. Prophet is a voice leaving his listeners in no doubt as to his opinion of Angie.
I didn’t even bother frowning at him, since I knew to do so would be a waste of energy on my part.
“Oh, that’s right,” said Pa, peering at Mr. Prophet. “You knew her before she moved here, didn’t you?”
“Yep.”
“But her past doesn’t matter at the moment,” said Sam in a voice slightly louder than was strictly necessary. “The woman has done nothing in Pasadena to bring any blame upon her. In fact, she’s an extremely successful businesswoman. Orange Acres is the biggest and most profitable orange grove still in town. There used to be a lot more orange groves in these parts, or so Daisy tells me.” He smiled at me.
I smiled back. “And poppy fields,” I said, hoping to get Mr. Prophet off the subject of Angie. “In fact, they’re thinking of renaming one of the streets in Altadena Poppyfields, because there used to be so many poppy fields around here. Only they’re going to spell it as if poppy and fields are one word. Poppyfields instead of poppy space fields.” I ran out of spit and stopped talking.
“Interesting,” said Mr. Prophet in a voice that might possibly have sounded more bored, but not without considerable effort on his part.
We didn’t talk a lot during the remainder of breakfast. When we were finished dining, Pa said he’d wash the dishes if we needed to get going.
“Thanks, Pa.” To Sam, I said, “I’ll go brush my teeth and be right with you.” I also needed to use the toilet, but the men didn’t need to know it.
“Great. Lou and I will get the Hudson and meet you outside.”
And they did. After I used the facilities, I detoured to my bedroom to put on my hat and grab my handbag. I spoke comfortingly to my poor pooch, who looked bereft.
“I’m sorry, Spike. I’ll take you for a walk when I come home.”
Spike wasn’t reassured. I could tell. Feeling guilty, I walked into the kitchen to find Pa drying the dishes he’d just washed.
“Don’t worry about Spike,” said Pa. “I’ll take him for a walk.”
I got on my tiptoes and kissed my father’s cheek. “Thank you, Pa. You’re the best.” Squatting before my dog, I petted him several times and told him to buck up. “You can go for a walk with Pa this morning, and then I’ll take you for another walk this afternoon. Okay?”
Even though he wagged and grinned at me, I don’t think Spike quite understood. Ah, well. I’ve often wished I could speak my dog’s language, but I can’t. Therefore, I walked outside, making sure the front door was locked behind me, and joined Sam and Mr. Prophet at the Hudson. Mr. Prophet exited the front seat, held the door open for me, and climbed into the back seat as soon as I’d sat in the front seat.
“Thank you,” I said politely.
“Yeah,” he said.
I gave up.
Sam had just begun to roll his Hudson down Marengo, when he stopped short in front of Mrs. Mainwaring’s house. We all stared at a man who stood on the front porch, a pretty bouquet of flowers in his hand, talking excitedly to Hattie.
“Cripes,” said Mr. Prophet. “What’s going on now?”
“Don’t know,” said Sam.
“Do you want me to find out?” I asked.
A duet of loud “no’s” answered my question. Crumb. You’d think I deliberately set out to get into trouble if you listened those two.
“Let’s all go see what’s going on.” Sam parked his automobile at the curb, and we all exited it. The gate stood open, so we just marched up to the porch where the man still stood, talking heatedly to Hattie Potts.
“But she’s my wife,” the man said.
Sam, Mr. Prophet and I exchanged a trio of speaking glances.
“Not another one,” Sam said under his breath.
“Don’t surprise me none,” said Mr. Prophet in his I-hate-Angie voice. “She’s probably got a hundred more tucked away somewhere.”
I kept mum, deciding it was probably for the best.
“Mister Godfrey, I don’t know what to tell you,” said a clearly rattled Hattie. “Missus Mainwaring—”
“Missus Who?” the man—Mr. Godfrey, I presumed—said. “She’s Missus Godfrey! I’m her husband.”
We’d reached the porch stairs, and Sam cleared his throat. Mr. Godfrey whirled around, startled. Hattie, standing in the middle of the open coffin door, muttered, “Thank God.”
As we climbed the porch steps, Sam said politely, “Is there something we can help you with, Missus Potts?”
“Yes, please,” said Hattie.
“Who are you?” the man demanded. “I’m here to see my wife! I just found her after all these years!”
“Perhaps we’d better all go on inside, so we can discuss this matter,” said Sam, taking Mr. Godfrey’s arm, turning him around and nodding to Hattie.
After her glance paid a visit to the heavens—actually, it was the roof of the covered porch—Hattie stepped aside and said, “Come on in, then. I’ll get Miss Angie. She ain’t gonna like this one little bit.”
“Miss Angie?” Mr. Godfrey sounded confused which, if my surmises were correct, wasn’t surprising. “I’m here to see Virginia Godfrey. My wife.”
“Come along, Mister Godfrey,” said Sam, steering the man toward the front parlor.
He didn’t seem to be exerting any particular force, but I knew my Sam. If Mr. Godfrey tried to do anything at all, Sam’s strong hand on his arm would stop him dead. Well, maybe not dead, but… Oh, never mind.
“Why don’t you sit right here. Mister Godfrey, is it?” said Sam in a polite voice, pressing gently on Mr. Godfrey until he plopped into the chair to which Sam had guided him.
“But—”
“Why don’t we wait until the lady of the house joins us.” It was a statement rather than a question, and I thought Sam was pretty smart not to mention Angie’s last name again.
Mind you, Sam didn’t know what Angie’s last name was any more than I did. When I’d done my reading for Angie a couple of weeks ago and Rolly had predicted her past would come back to haunt her, I’d had no idea what her past might contain. At least two husbands, evidently. Perhaps Lou Prophet was right, and there were even more of them lurking. Evidently Angie had been a busy woman before she moved to Pasadena.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Mr. Godfrey complained.
“Neither do I,” said Sam, smiling at the man as he sat in a chair beside him. Mr. Prophet and I selected seats on the sofa. “So we’ll just wait a few minutes. I’m sure everything will be explained presently.”
Lou Prophet said, “Huh.”
We’d been sitting, staring at each other, for a few minutes, when Hattie appeared. Carrying a tray bearing a silver teapot and several of Angie’s beautiful Coalport cups and saucers, she kept an eye on Mr. Godfrey as she set the tray on the piecrust table near the chairs Sam and Mr. Godfrey occupied.
“Miss Angie will be in shortly,” she said, and turned and walked away.
“Who is this ‘Miss Angie’ that woman keeps talking about?” asked Godfrey. His voice had taken on a pleading quality.
“Everything will be cleared up soon,” Sam promised.
I hoped he was right.
In the meantime, I took a good long gander at Mr. Godfrey. To me he appeared to be maybe Angie’s age; perhaps a couple of years older, although not nearly as well-preserved. Maybe in his mid-fifties? I’m not good at judging ages. However old he was, he looked tired, stooped, wrinkled and unhappy. Gray-haired, he also wore a small mustache and sideburns a little longer than was fashionable in 1925. I got the feeling he was still living in the days when he’d been young and bouncy. Any bounce he’d once possessed seemed to have deserted him. Now he only looked old, anxious, worried, and stooped.
Poor guy. I hoped he wasn’t really Angie’s husband because, upon first glance, he seemed to be a nice fellow. Then again, as with age, I wasn’t a good judge or a person’s moral fiber. It generally took an act of senseless violence for me to recognize the person committing it as evil.
And I was supposed to be a spiritualist-medium. As Lou Prophet, Li, Sam (or Harold) might have said: “Huh.”
“Anybody want tea?” I asked, trying to sound sprightly.
Nobody wanted tea. Very well, then, I poured myself a cup, added just a pinch of sugar, stirred, and sat back on the sofa again. Mr. Prophet frowned at me for some reason.
“What?” I asked, irked.
He only shook his head.
Of course, once I’d poured myself a cup of tea, I didn’t know what to do with it. I hadn’t really wanted tea; I just thought serving tea might take the edge off the atmosphere. If ever a room was filled with tension, that one was, and tea didn’t help one little bit.
After what seemed like a year and a half, Angie appeared in the doorway to the front parlor, clad impeccably as usual and looking beautiful, also as usual. At her age! I don’t know how she did it, but if we became better acquainted, maybe she’d teach me. Li, looking equally gorgeous, stood directly behind her. I got the feeling she was acting the role of bodyguard, although I’m still not sure if I was right in my surmise.
“Ginger!” Mr. Godfrey jumped up from his chair, almost strangling the bouquet of flowers in his hands. “It is you! Oh, Ginger, I didn’t think I’d ever find you!”
“Ernest,” Angie said, her voice warm, holding out both hands as she walked to Mr. Godfrey.
Li still stood in the doorway, watching the play with what I could only consider cynical detachment. Wished I could do that.
“Ginger. I looked everywhere for you!”
“Oh, Ernest,” Angie said mournfully. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry? About what?” Remembering his flowers, Mr. Godfrey thrust them at Angie, who gave a vigorous start.
Li took one step into the room and stopped. I don’t know if Angie signaled her, or if Li was just naturally good at reading people’s intentions and had judged Mr. Godfrey’s to be benevolent. Wished I could do that, too.
Taking the flowers and gazing down at them as if her heart were breaking, Angie said, “Oh, Ernest, I…I… Well, I have to tell you something. I should have told you years ago, but I was a coward.”
“What?” Mr. Godfrey sounded befuddled. “What do you mean? A coward?”
“Come with me, Ernest,” said Angie, taking the poor fellow’s arm pretty much where Sam’s hand had lain not long since.
“Come where? I’ll go anywhere with you.”
Poor Mr. Godfrey.
Sam said, “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”
Both Angie and Mr. Godfrey did mind—and so did Li—but Angie knew better than to protest. With a nod, she led Godfrey from the room, Li and Sam following. I wanted to know what was going on, but Sam gave me a glare clearly telling me to stay put. So I did, confound it.
“He’ll tell you all about it,” said Mr. Prophet.
“He’d better,” I said.
“I told you before. The truth ain’t in that woman. I’ll bet you right now she’s telling a story that’ll have the poor peckerwood’s head spinnin’.”
“I wish you didn’t dislike Angie so much.”
Giving me a look that might have felled a lesser woman, Mr. Prophet said, “I wouldn’t piss… Er… I mean, I wouldn’t spit in that woman’s ear if her brain was on fire.”
I blinked twice. Then I said, “Oh.”
At least he’d made a stab at not being vulgar.