The second time I drove through the big, wrought-iron gate at the Pinkerton mansion that day, I stopped to chat with Jackson, the Pinkertons’ gatekeeper.
“Good to see you, Miss Daisy,” said Jackson, his big pearly-white smile gleaming in his dark face.
“You, too, Mr. Jackson. How’s your mother doing?”
“She’s just fine, thank you, Miss Daisy. She’s been saying special prayers for you and your auntie, too.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Has she? Why’s that?”
“Laws, I don’t know, Miss Daisy. She gets these notions in her head, and there’s no telling why. But she told me to tell you to keep your juju close by.”
I lifted the chain upon which my Mrs. Jackson-made juju hung and showed the juju to Jackson. “I wear it all day, every day. Please tell her so. And if she ever lets on why she thinks Aunt Vi and I need special prayers, please let me know, okay?”
With another laugh, Jackson said, “Sure will, Miss Daisy. I sure will.”
“Thank you!” said I, and drove up the long drive to the front of the Pinkerton palace. The bright yellow sports car I’d noticed when I’d dropped Vi off earlier in the day still sat in the circular drive. This fact seemed odd to me. And, because it seemed odd to me, I wondered if it had anything to do with why Mrs. Jackson deemed it necessary to say special prayers for Aunt Vi and me. Then I told myself not to be an idiot, parked the Chevrolet, grabbed my bag of tricks, which contained my Ouija board and tarot cards, and walked up the stairs to the massive porch’s massive door. I patted one of the massive marble lions on my way to the door then rang the chimes. Sometimes, because it was there, I’d use the brass lion’s brass knocker on its brass knocking plate, but that morning I felt like chimes.
Lo and behold, Harold Kincaid opened the door!
“Good Lord!” I cried. “Where’s Featherstone!”
“And a bright and cheery good morning to you, too,” said Harold with something of a snarl.
“I’m sorry, Harold. I’m just so accustomed to Featherstone opening the door, you surprised me. Besides, I didn’t see your car.”
“Yes you did, unless you’re blind as a mole,” Harold told me.
“Are moles blind?” I asked, honestly curious.
“How the devil should I know. You’re blind as a bat then. Is that better?”
“I don’t understand,” I told him, confused.
“You saw my car, dammit!”
“What?” I turned around and scanned the circular drive and surrounding grounds. They were beautiful, but I saw no bright red Stutz Bearcat lurking anywhere. Turning back to Harold, I said, “Where?”
“Right in front of your eyes, Daisy.”
I whirled around again and stared at the circular drive. “That yellow thing?” I asked, astonished.
“That yellow thing, as you so inelegantly call it, is my brand new Kissell Six Forty-five Gold Bug Speedster. For your information.”
“Wow! I didn’t know you’d bought a new car, Harold!”
“I told you I was going to.”
“Well, yes, I know you did, but I didn’t think you’d buy a new car and not tell me about it.” I felt a trifle hurt, actually, although I’d never let on to Harold. We were great friends and all, but I guess he didn’t have to tell me everything he did every time he did it.
“I had planned on popping by this afternoon to give you a ride in it, actually.”
These words made me feel better. “Thanks, Harold. What does Del think about it being bright yellow?”
“He hates it, but I already told him I wouldn’t buy a Ford just because it’s black. I like a machine that reflects my personality.”
“Interesting. So you used to have a bright red personality, and now you have a bright yellow personality?”
Harold rolled his eyes. Sam does the same thing a lot. “Something like that.”
“But what are you doing opening the door? Where in the world is Featherstone?”
“For the love of God, don’t just stand there interrogating me!” Harold snapped. “I opened the damned door so you could come inside.” And darned if he didn’t take me by the arm and yank me indoors.
“Goodness sakes! You’re a bit miffy today, aren’t you?”
“I’m a lot miffy today, and goodness has nothing to do with it,” he chuffed, shutting the door behind me. It closed with a sound that will always and forever remind me of money: solidly. No slamming, no crashing, no squeaking, no clinking; just a good, solid, quiet clunk. The sound of money.
“What’s wrong, Harold? You’re not mad at me for some reason, are you?”
“Good God, no!”
“Well, I’m glad, but what the heck’s the matter?” Harold had shoved my sleeve out of whack when he’d pulled me inside, so I smoothed it down again. It wasn’t like Harold to be irrational and irritable, or to manhandle people. He had a temper, as do we all, but I’d never known him to get into a tizzy. Tizziness was his mother’s specialty, not his.
“There was an incident here today,” he said, not clearing up the matter one little bit.
“An incident? What kind of incident? Calm down, Harold, and just tell me about it.”
Wiping his brow with a hastily-grabbed-from-a-pocket handkerchief, Harold sucked in a huge breath. “I’m sorry, Daisy. But Featherstone and the new chauffeur were injured, and your poor aunt’s been busy all morning making tisanes for my idiot mother and cold compresses for poor Featherstone’s bruised knee and O’Hara’s head. Doctor Benjamin just left. He said the knee’s not broken, but it’s definitely strained, and poor Featherstone will have to take it easy for a few days. No butlering for him for a while. At least O’Hara doesn’t have a concussion, according to the doctor.”
“Good Lord!”
“The good Lord has nothing to do with it, either, if there is one, which I doubt, but don’t tell Del I said so.”
“Del already knows,” I told him. It was true. Del Farrington, Harold’s life partner (sort of like Ma and Pa are life partners, if you know what I mean) was a strict Roman Catholic and attended Saint Andrews Catholic Church every Sunday. I’m not sure what the Roman Catholic Church might have to say about Del and Harold being life partners, but I also don’t care. I’ve held a grudge against the Catholic Church ever since Sam told me his parents disapproved of me because I’m not a Catholic. “Now tell me what the heck is going on, Harold Kincaid!”
“Sit here,” Harold said, shoving me onto a magnificent hall bench, the seat of which had been upholstered in a beautiful brocade fabric. I felt almost as if I were desecrating it by putting my hoi-polloi-ish bottom on it. But my bottom was clothed gorgeously—because I’m a crackerjack seamstress—so I don’t suppose I should have even entertained the thought. Besides, the bench wouldn’t care anyway.
Harold sat next to me, sprawling, his legs stretched out, his head tilted back, and his arms dangling. This posture was most unlike him.
Discover more with