By the time I finished condoling with Mrs. Pinkerton, conducting her chat with Rolly via the Ouija board, and interpreting a tarot-card layout for her, I was one wilted Daisy.
Oh, and I should probably say something here about Rolly. I’m a spiritualist-medium who conducts séances, reads tarot cards and palms, and occasionally even uses a crystal ball. My life’s work just sort of happened to me on Christmas Eve of my tenth year. Mrs. Pinkerton—who was then Mrs. Kincaid—gave Aunt Vi her old Ouija board, and I was the only member of the family who wasn’t afraid to play with it. Rolly just sort of occurred to me then. According to the story I cooked up, Rolly and I had been married a thousand or so years ago in what is now Scotland. I chose Scotland because I could imitate the accent.
And no, I don’t believe in any of the spiritualist nonsense I spew, but it made for a really good income for a woman in the 1920s. Despise me if you wish. Wouldn’t blame you much, but my family needs the money I make.
But back to the narrative.
“I can’t thank you enough for coming here today, dear,” said Mrs. P. “I know we had an appointment and everything, but this morning was so hideous, I need you more than ever! You’re so kind to help me out all the time.”
“It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said in my soothing spiritualist’s voice. I tell you, by that time in my life I had the purring-voice thing down pat. And I could waft better than your average ghost. I’d spent years cultivating my purr and my waft, and I was darned good at both.
“Daisy…”
Mrs. P’s voice held a tentative quality, and I didn’t trust it. When she spoke to me in that voice, I knew she intended to ask me to do something I didn’t want to do. If she asked me to visit Stacy in jail, I was going to have to disappoint her. I aimed never to look at Stacy Kincaid again in my lifetime. I suppose, if I were subpoenaed to give evidence at one of her upcoming trials, I might be forced to cast a peek her way, but my gaze sure wouldn’t linger.
“Yes, Mrs. Pinkerton?” I said, bravely daring.
“Have you ever read tea leaves, Daisy? I know you know everything about the occult arts, but I’ve never asked you about tea leaves before.”
Tea leaves? Tea leaves! I’d given her Rolly, held séances for her, read tarot cards, read both of her palms and had even read the crystal ball for her on occasion, and now she wanted tea leaves? Holy Moses.
I cleared my throat. “I’ve never attempted to read tea leaves, Mrs. Pinkerton, but if you’d like me to learn, I’ll be happy to do so.”
What the heck. I already lied for a living. What was one more big fat fib?
“Well…I don’t want to put you to any bother. Any more bother. Harold tells me I take terrible advantage of you, dear, and I truly don’t want to.”
Like heck. Anyhow, she paid me a fortune, so I’m really not complaining. Much. “It’s no problem at all, Mrs. Pinkerton. However, today I fear my psychic energy has been rather sapped. Perhaps the next time I visit, we can look at the tea leaves?”
So what was another little trip to the library? They probably had a book about tea-leaf reading. Libraries have books about everything. Heck, a month or so ago, I’d wanted to know what kinds of guns Mr. Prophet had used during his bounty-hunting days, and darned if the library didn’t have precisely what we needed. Mr. Prophet and I had pored through that book about firearms for more than an hour, and he’d known ‘em all. Dangerous fellow in his younger years, Mr. Lou Prophet. And could be yet if provoked. I’d seen evidence of the same, fortunately in defense of my own personal self. Still, I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side.
On the other hand, I wasn’t altogether sure he possessed a good side.
“You’re so kind to me, dear. You’re so accommodating, and I appreciate you so much.”
“You’re more than welcome, Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said sweetly. Then I wafted out of her drawing room a little more quickly than usual, in case she came up with another chore for me to do. Tea leaves? Did she expect the tea leaves to tell her something different from what Rolly, the cards and her palm said? Bother.
Anyhow, because I was worn to a nub—Mrs. Pinkerton had kept me for what seemed like forever—as soon as I scooted out of the drawing room, I made a bee-line down the hall, through the servants’ door, and pushed the swing door into the kitchen because I wanted to find out how Vi was faring after her traumatic morning. I was also hungry as heck, but hunger wasn’t my main reason for visiting my wonderful aunt.
And there was Harold!
“Harold!”
“Daisy!” He sounded sarcastic. He also has his fists on his hips and seemed to be scanning the kitchen for something.
“Whatcha looking for?”
“Your aunt.”
My aunt? Harold was looking for my aunt? This seemed odd to me.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“If I knew where she was, I wouldn’t be looking for her, would I?
“Um, I guess not.”
“Brilliant, Daisy.”
“No need to be mean, Harold Kincaid. But…Well, where could she be if she’s not in the kitchen?”
“I have no idea.”
This seemed even odder. “You mean she isn’t here?”
“Do you see her here?” More sarcasm.
“I mean, she wasn’t here when you got here?”
“No.”
“Well, but… Harold, she works here. She has to be here!”
“You tell her that,” said he. “I would, but I can’t find her.”
“She’s got to be here somewhere,” I said.
“Yeah? Where?”
I, too, glanced around the kitchen. Then I walked to the cook’s pantry where she stored foodstuffs and looked in it. No Vi. I then checked the butler’s pantry, although I’d had to walk through it in order to get to the kitchen, and I hadn’t seen Vi, who would have had a hard time hiding in it. Well, anyone would. Turning around, feeling bewildered, I said, “Could she be looking after Featherstone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Featherstone’s room?” I asked, beginning to feel the least little bit worried.
“Just off the service porch, next to the servants’ staircase,” said Harold. “That’s not a bad idea, Daisy. I haven’t tried Featherstone yet.”
“Well, let’s see if Vi’s with him. Maybe she’s giving him another poultice or something.”
So Harold marched to the door leading to the service porch, and I followed him. Once we were both standing in front of the door next to the servants’ staircase, Harold knocked at the door. Nothing happened. Harold knocked again.
“One moment, please,” came Featherstone’s classy British accent, sounding a bit fuzzy.
The door opened, and Featherstone stood there in his bathrobe and slippers, holding on to the door and with one knee bent, as if it hurt. He looked kind of like a stuffed flamingo, although I didn’t say so.
“Mister Harold. Missus Majesty,” said Featherstone, blinking. He clearly hadn’t expected either of us to be knocking on his door. “May I help you?” His British accent no longer sounded fuzzy, for which I was glad. For a couple of seconds, I’d feared Featherstone might have been drowning his aches and pains in a bottle of cooking sherry. But he’d probably only been napping.
“We’re looking for Mrs. Gumm, Featherstone,” said Harold. “She’s not in the kitchen.”
After blinking at us a few more times, Featherstone said, “I…have no idea where she might be. Perhaps she’s seeing to Mr. O’Hara?”
“Perhaps,” said Harold.
“Thank you, Featherstone,” I said.
“Certainly, Mrs. Majesty.” Darned if he didn’t execute a—shallow, to be sure—bow using his good leg and still holding his wounded leg bent at the knee which, when his robe opened slightly, I saw had been bandaged because his pj’s pooched out at the knee. Poor guy.
“Let’s go see if she’s with the chauffeur, Harold,” I suggested, smiling farewell at Featherstone.
Featherstone nodded at me and smiled, but he didn’t look happy. Well, why should he? If someone had knocked me down and stomped on my knee, I wouldn’t be happy either.
Harold and I found neither Cullen O’Hara nor Viola Gumm when we went outside via the door of the service porch. There stood Mrs. Pinkerton’s Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, which actually looked silver. It also looked as if someone—probably Cullen O’Hara as he was responsible for the Pinkertons’ automobiles—had been polishing it before he’d been interrupted by the thug who’d brained him.
“Where does Mr. O’Hara live? I mean, does he live here?” I asked Harold, thinking perhaps Vi had taken an aspirin tablet or two to the fellow.
“Upstairs in the garage.”
“Oh, yes. I remember. Quincy Applewood and another fellow used to live there when the garage was the stable.”
“Right,” said Harold. He walked past the Rolls and on into the garage, the door to which stood open. Another automobile resided there: a dusty, roofless red thing.
“Whose car is that?” I asked Harold, pointing at the red machine.
“That’s Stacy’s ’twenty-two Twin Six Packard. She hasn’t driven it for a while.” Harold’s smile was downright nasty, which was only as it should be.
“Why doesn’t your mother sell it? Stacy’s not getting out of the clink any time soon, is she?”
“God, how should I know? I hope not.”
Harold had the good sense not to like his sister any more than I did.
He hollered, “O’Hara!” loudly enough to make me jump. He gave me a peevish squint, which I resented slightly. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “O’Hara, are you here?”
No answer returned his bellow.
Harold tried again. “O’Hara!”
Nothing.
Becoming more nervous as the seconds passed and no one appeared, I decided what the heck and shouted, “Vi! Aunt Vi! Are you here someplace?”
Not a sound came in reply to my roar.
So Harold and I searched every crevice and crack in the garage, and then climbed the stairs, hammered on O’Hara’s door and, when no one answered our knocks, boldly walked into the room. We found it empty save for a dresser, bed, a chair, and a table upon which sat a nice radio with a fancy antenna. I ran a finger over the radio. “No dust. I guess O’Hara’s neat.”
“Or a maid cleans his room,” grumbled Harold.
“I guess.” Did maids clean other servants’ rooms? I’d have to ask Edie—one of my old high school friends who was now Mrs. P’s lady’s maid—one of these days.
Squinting some more at the radio, I said, “Your mother must pay him a good wage if he can afford a radio like this.”
Harold turned quickly and did his own squint as he surveyed the radio. “Hmm. You’re right. It looks like one of those new RCA Radiolas, and with the antenna, it didn’t come cheap. I’d ask Mother what she pays O’Hara, but she wouldn’t know.”
“Who would?”
With a shrug, Harold said, “Maybe Algie. I’ll ask him.” For the record, Algie Pinkerton was Harold’s stepfather. Harold moved closer to the radio. “This alone would cost more than I pay Roy in a month, and I pay Roy a lot. But he’s worth it.”
Roy Castillo, Harold and Del’s houseboy, had originally come from Tortuga. He’d been kidnapped there and sold in the United States to a disgusting man. Harold had rescued him. Oddly enough, Aunt Vi had taught Roy how to cook. Or maybe it wasn’t odd. EvidentlyI was the only person Vi couldn’t teach to cook.
“Roy’s definitely worth his pay,” I said.
“How do you know what I pay him?” said Harold.
“I don’t, but you said you pay him a lot and he’s worth it. But that’s not the point, Harold! Where’s Aunt Vi?”
“I don’t know where your aunt is! That’s why we’re looking for her.” He touched the Radiola once more. “I don’t think O’Hara could afford this. Maybe there’s a plot afoot.”
“A plot? A plot involving a radio and my aunt? Maybe O’Hara just has a good friend who gave it to him, or he’s borrowing the radio or something.”
“Huh.”
With that, Harold and I exited Cullen O’Hara’s apartment and tramped downstairs again.
“This is nuts, Harold,” I said when we once more stood in the kitchen. “Where the heck is Vi?”
“I don’t know. Let’s look around indoors. Maybe she’s in another room.”
“Does she wander around your mother’s house often?”
“How the devil should I know? I don’t live here!”
This was true. Harold and Del had a gorgeous mansion in a city called San Marino, which lay a trifle to the south of Pasadena.
“I don’t like this, Harold,” I said as we walked through the butler’s pantry and down the hall from the kitchen.
We looked through all the downstairs rooms, and then trekked upstairs, where we searched thoroughly. I even found Edie Applewood and asked her if she’d seen Aunt Vi recently.
“No.” Edie appeared confused, which made three of us. “Isn’t she in the kitchen?”
“No, and we can’t find her.”
“Good heavens!”
That about summed it up. Harold and I left Edie to her tidying of Mrs. P’s dressing room, and we went downstairs and entered the kitchen once more.
“Harold, something is definitely amiss here. Let me telephone my house. Maybe she got a ride home from someone.”
“Would she leave the kitchen like this? Every time I’ve visited your aunt in her kitchen lair, it’s been neat as a pin, unless she was kneading bread, and then there would be flour scattered here and there.”
“But she always cleans up,” I said, irrationally irked by Harold’s remark about scattered flour.
“Yes, she does. That’s why I think something’s wrong. To my knowledge, your aunt has never left my mother’s kitchen like this.”
Scanning the room for the umpteenth time, my heart squished as I took the damp towel off the two loaf pans into which Vi had placed bread dough. The dough had risen and was now cascading down the sides of the pans. This was definitely not how my aunt made bread. Vi never allowed her bread to rise too much.
“I’m scared, Harold. I think something’s happened to Vi.”
“Well, call your house first. No use getting into a panic yet.”
Yet? Oh, boy.
So I called home, and my father answered the ‘phone. Naturally he wanted to know why I was calling to see if Vi was there. I didn’t want to worry him, so I said I thought she might have been given a lift to our house.
“Oh,” said Pa. “I see.”
I could hear in his voice he didn’t see at all. I didn’t either. “Thanks, Pa.” I gently placed the telephone receiver back onto its cradle and looked intently at Harold. “She’s not there, Harold.”
“Damn.”
“I… I…Well, I don’t know what to think. Where could she be? Do you think she’s with Mr. O’Hara?”
“Good Lord, I don’t know!”
“Well, they both seem to be missing. Maybe they went somewhere together?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know! I just wondered. Maybe they went to…the doctor’s office? Together?”
“How?” asked Harold.
Staring at him blankly, I said, “What do you mean, how? You mean how did they go somewhere together?”
“Yes, sweetie. Cullen O’Hara doesn’t have an automobile, and he didn’t drive off in Mother’s Rolls or Stacy’s Packard.”
“Oh. No. He didn’t, did he?”
Shaking his head, Harold said, “Nope. The two machines are right there in the garage. Well, the Rolls is in the drive, but it’s there.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You might say that.”
“But Harold! Where could Vi be? Something’s wrong. Something has to be wrong! Vi would never just up and leave her job like this!”
“I agree, but I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Good Lord, Harold. Could…Could Vi have been kidnapped? Along with O’Hara?”
“Kidnapped? Who’d kidnap your aunt or O’Hara?”
“I don’t know!” I felt stupid when I felt tears puddle in my eyes. “Oh, Harold, where is she?”
Harold gave me a hug. “I don’t know, sweetie, but we’ll find her.”
Pushing slightly away from him, I asked, “How?”
After a too-long pause, Harold said, “I have no idea.”