Still pressing a hand to my heart, I gave Pudge a shaky grin and said, “My goodness, Pudge. When did you learn to play the bugle?” Very well, so play might have been an exaggeration. I didn’t want to crush the boy, even if he had scared the three of us out of several years each.
“Boy Scouts!” Screeching to a halt in front of the porch, Pudge smiled hugely, displaying a couple of gaps where teeth had fallen out and were halfway grown in again. “Want to hear some more? I can play ‘Taps,’ too!”
“Um…” I couldn’t think of a polite way to say no.
Mr. Prophet took the problem out of my hands. Mouth. Whatever. “What was that you just played?” he asked in a none-too-friendly voice.
Evidently not noticing his audience wasn’t universally appreciative of his efforts, Pudge, still beaming with joy, said, “‘Reveille!’ I can’t play it very well yet, but I’m practicing.”
“Yeah,” said Mr. Prophet. “Can you play the retreat?”
“Retreat?” Puzzled, Pudge said, “When do buglers play the retreat?”
“When they’re tellin’ their troops to run away because the Apaches are massacreein’ ’em all.” Mr. Prophet’s growl began having an effect on Pudge, whose grin faded slightly.
Because I didn’t want to squash his happy mood or cause him to lose faith in his not-quite-new-found bugling ability, I said, “But you won’t need to practice that one here in Pasadena.” Frowning at Mr. Prophet, I added, “We’re unlikely to be attacked by a rogue band of Apaches here in town.”
“Ain’t that a shame,” grumbled Mr. Prophet under his breath.
Fortunately, Pudge didn’t hear him. “Yeah. That’s so,” said he, brightening again. “Want me to play something else for you? I can do the mess call. Kind of.”
“No!” said Mr. Prophet firmly.
Poor Pudge, who was about as big around as a length of mercerized cotton thread, looked hurt. No one had ever explained to me how he’d come by his nickname. In fact, when I’d asked his mother, Mrs. Wilson said even she couldn’t remember. “Perhaps not now, Pudge. Mr. Prophet, Mr. Kincaid, and I were discussing something important.”
“I thought you were eating cookies,” said Pudge, eyeing the almost empty plate on the table.
“We were, but we’re all through now. Why don’t you take the rest of the cookies back home with you? Thank you for giving us a concert,” I told the lad.
“Gee, are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Harold. “Please. Take them all. I wish there were more left to give you.”
“Golly, thanks!” slipping one skinny arm into the loop of his bugle, Pudge grabbed the four cookies we’d left on the plate. “I’ll play some more for you later.”
“Thank you, Pudge!” I said as he scooted off across the lawn.
“Cripes,” snarled Mr. Prophet. “If he comes around here with that damned bugle again, I might just have to shoot him.”
“Don’t be such a miserable old curmudgeon,” I told him. “What a terrible thing to say about a young Boy Scout who only wanted to show off a new musical skill.”
“Skill might be stretching it slightly,” said Harold. “I don’t have a gun with me, or I might shoot him, too.”
“You two are awful,” I told them both.
And, in a duet comprised of one bass and one tenor voice, they said, “Huh.”
Deciding to get rid of leftover foodstuffs on the porch before ants could get at them, I said, “I’ll take all this inside. Maybe you can think of a plot to get Vi back.”
“Gotta wait until Sam comes home and lets us know who’s involved,” Mr. Prophet reminded me. “If he can.”
“I think you should begin at least thinking about a plan.”
The two men exchanged a glance clearly telling me they thought I was crazy. Irked, I carried the pitcher and empty cookie plate into the house. Bless Harold’s heart, he followed with the table and set it beside the front door once more. He even retrieved our already-read books from the inglenook and replaced them on the table.
“Thanks, Harold. I think you and Mr. Prophet were mean to Pudge.”
“Nuts. Damned kid nearly scared the life out of me.”
“Golly, he only scared about three years out of me.”
Harold and I were both laughing like hyenas when we rejoined Mr. Prophet on the porch steps. He glared up at us. I stuck my tongue out at him before I resumed my seat. I know, how childish can I be, huh?
“Hellkatoot,” muttered the old bounty hunter.
Which reminded me of something. “Say, Mr Prophet, how did you go about tracking people when you were looking for crooks to pick up and get paid for?” I paused, contemplating my question, then said, “Did that make any sense?”
“Yeah, it made sense. And when I was huntin’ bounty on owlhoots, I gen’ly had a destination in mind. Back in the old days, we rode horses. These days, you can’t follow tracks the way you used to.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to follow tracks then, either,” said Harold.
With a snicker, Mr. Prophet said, “Yeah, I guess that’s the truth.”
“But you were good at bounty-hunting, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess so,” said Mr. Prophet with a shrug.
“People wrote dime novels about you, so you must have been good!”
“Huh,” he said with another roll of his eyes.
“Do you think you could follow the crooks’ trail if we took you to Mrs. Pinkerton’s house, and you inspected the area where they climbed over the back wall?”
“Dunno.”
Frustrated, I said, “Well, do you think you could at least try?”
Another shrug. “I could try, but I want to know if Sam’s found out anything first.”
“Nertz,” I muttered.
“He’s right, you know, Daisy,” said Harold. “Sam said he’d be back as soon as he can be. He might have more of an idea about where to start looking once he gets the information he needs, if the police have anything new on the gang. If it is a gang.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I said the words grudgingly, even though I knew both men were correct. Personally, I didn’t have a single clue how to find Vi, and I felt bad about it. I must be right about why she was kidnapped, mustn’t I? Oh, Lord, I didn’t know.
Perhaps sensing doubt on my part, my juju suddenly almost burned a hole through my chest again. I must have jumped. I know I slammed my hand over my bound bosom.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Mr. Prophet. He didn’t sound like he cared much.
“Are you all right, Daisy?” Harold did. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Nothing, really,” I said, feeling silly. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Why’re you always slapping your…chest?” asked Mr. Prophet. I had a feeling he’d selected the word “chest” over another, less appropriate, word. Well, perhaps not less appropriate, but less proper.
“Am I always doing that?” I asked. I hadn’t realized how much the blasted juju had been pestering me in recent days, but if it was burning me so often this antique man had noticed, I guess it must be a lot.
“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
On the other hand, he’d sharpened his hunting instincts keenly over the years. He probably noticed a lot of things most of us didn’t.
“It’s…Um…” Crumb. I couldn’t tell the truth. Could I?
Oh, what the heck, why not? They already thought I was crazy.
“Mrs. Jackson made me a Voodoo juju, and almost every time I think about who might have kidnapped Vi—or my thoughts land on Miss Betsy Powell—it heats up and burns my chest. The juju, I mean. That’s the reason I think Miss Betsy Powell’s new gentleman friend is behind the crime. I know she’s not directly involved, because she’s not smart enough to figure out how to commit a crime.” There. Let them laugh. See if I cared.
“What?” asked Harold, squinting at me with what appeared grave doubt. “Who the devil is Mrs. Jackson, and what’s a Voodoo juju?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Prophet. “Wondered if it was somethin’ like that.”
I gaped at him. “You mean, you believe me?”
With one of his characteristic shrugs, he said, “Why not? I’ve had some Injun magic done on me a time or two. Some o’ that shit—er, medicine, can be mighty powerful.”
“You really think so?”
“Yeah. Why not?” he asked again. “It’s been burnin’ you, ain’t it?”
Harold repeated, “Who’s Mrs. Jackson, and what’s a Voodoo juju?”
“For pity’s sake, Harold Kincaid! Mr. Jackson has been your mother’s gatekeeper since before the beginning of recorded history! Mrs. Jackson is his mother, and she’s a Voodoo mambo from New Orleans. When the KKK shot her son, she made Voodoo jujus for Sam and me, because we caught the killers. Well, Sam did. Well, so did I. Actually, she made Sam’s after that horrid woman shot him, but…Oh, never mind. Anyway, both my juju and Sam’s have acted up a time or two when someone’s committed a crime and either he or I were near—or were thinking about—the perpetrator.” I pursed my mouth, again wondering if my words had made any sense.
“Are you serious?” Harold didn’t believe me. I could tell.
“Yes! I am serious!”
“Don’t sell them Voodoo folks short, Kincaid,” said Mr. Prophet, surprising me. “I been to N’Awlins a time or two, and they know their shi—magical stuff. Injuns, too. Hell, I still have me a medicine bundle an Apache feller give me. Used to wear it around my neck, but I figger I don’t need it in Pasadena.” He made the word “Pasadena” sound like the dullest place on earth. I resented his tone, but knew to argue would be useless.
“That’s where I wear my juju,” I said, hauling same out from under my collar and dangling it in front of the two men.
“Good Lord,” said Harold faintly.
“Mrs. Jackson made one for Aunt Vi, too, but she was kidnapped before I could give it to her.”
Harold grunted skeptically.
“There’s lots o’ things go on in this world, Kincaid. I been over most of it, at least here in the States and Mexico, and I’ve learned not to scoff at a bit o’ magic here and there.”
“That’s why I’m sure Miss Betsy’s Powell’s latest love, or someone connected to her, is involved in Vi’s kidnapping,” I repeated. “Because every time I think about the woman, my juju acts up.” The silly thing put me to the lie at once, because it just dangled there in my hand, doing nothing. “Well,” I amended, disgusted with it, “It usually does.”
“If you say so,” said Harold, still doubtful. I couldn’t really blame him. Much.
“Huh. Interesting,” said Mr. Prophet.
“Well, it’s true,” I said, not expecting to win Harold over to my point of view any time soon. However, I was happy Mr. Prophet didn’t scoff. Turning to him, I asked, “Have you really benefited from Indian magic over the years?”
Leaning back on his right elbow—guess he didn’t want to put any strain on his bullet-scratched left arm—he seemed to ponder my question for a few seconds. Then he said, “Yeah. Benefited and hurt both, at different times.” His wrinkled old lips turned up in a kind-of half-smile, and I got the impression he was thinking about certain Indian maidens. Or certain Indian ladies who weren’t maidens. Or even ladies. “Yeah,” he repeated. “Benefited quite a bit sometimes. Hurt a bit here and there, too.”
“I won’t ask,” I mumbled.
With a rusty chuckle, he said, “Better not. Don’t want to sully your pretty pink ears.”
Sam’s Hudson turned into our driveway just then, so I didn’t pursue the conversation, which I wouldn’t have won anyway. Not that it was a competition. Nevertheless, it often felt to me as if I didn’t quite understand what Lou Prophet said to me. Worse, it seemed to me he liked it that way.
“Sam!” I rushed over to where he’d stopped his car behind our Chevrolet, which I always parked at the foot of the side porch steps. “Did you discover anything helpful?”
He bent to give me a kiss on the cheek. Have I mentioned Sam’s a little over six feet tall? Well, he is, and in order to kiss my cheek, he had to bend because I’m only about five-three. Maybe five-four in the morning. I shrink during the day. I think we all do.
“Might have,” he said. Then he opened the back door of his automobile and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he said, shoving the sheaf into my hands. “Take these, will you? I’ve got some more stuff in here.”
So I held the papers, and he retrieved the rest of his “stuff,” which consisted of a couple of folders and several loose papers.
When I turned to walk back to the porch, I discovered Harold and Mr. Prophet had joined us at Sam’s Hudson. I handed Harold my papers. “Please take these in the house. We can…Oh, shoot, I don’t know where we can go over them. Sam?”
“How ‘bout your house, Sam?” Mr. Prophet suggested. “We can be private there.”
“That’s right,” I said sweetly. “I forgot you were afraid of Mrs. Rattle.”
“I ain’t—”
“But it’s a good idea anyway, even if it was prompted out of cowardice. We don’t want Mrs. Rattle or Pa to worry any more than they need to. If you have found something frightening, I’d as soon spare him.”
“Hmmm.” Sam stood and pondered for a few seconds over what seemed to me only a logical suggestion.
A trifle peeved, I said, “Well? Why can’t we use your house?”
“Our house,” Sam said, frowning at me.
“Our house, then. Why can’t we use it?”
“Good idea,” said Sam. “We can sit on the porch.”
“Why the porch?” I wanted to know.
“It’s nice out today,” Sam said. I knew the pleasant weather wasn’t the reason he didn’t want us in his/our house, but I decided once more that to protest would prove futile. “Here,” he said, handing me the bundle with the folders and loose papers. “You take these, and I’ll move the car across the street.”
So I got to hold some papers after all. As Sam returned to his Hudson and pressed the starter button, Harold, Mr. Prophet, and I traipsed across the street to Sam’s and my house. I loved the house, a spacious Pasadena bungalow a little larger than the Gumm-Majesty residence, mainly because it had two full stories. My parents’ home only had two rooms upstairs. Vi used those rooms. The thought of Vi made my heart twang.
At any rate, Mr. Prophet opened the gate to the pretty stonework fence around the porch. Harold, after placing his armful of papers on a little oval porch table, set about arranging chairs around same. For the record, Harold and I had bought that oval-shaped table and the porch chairs at a big warehouse called Fulton’s in Los Angeles about a month prior. Our next foray into the world of Los Angeles business places would include searching for china patterns. I was so lucky to have Harold as a friend. I’m sure a couple of my female friends would have been delighted to go with me to select china and flatware, but Harold had better taste than anyone else I knew, including me.
But back to the matter at hand.
I placed my stack of folders and papers beside Harold’s. Sam pulled his Hudson into the driveway, got out, and joined us on the porch.
“You sure you don’t want to go inside the house? It would be more private in there,” I told Sam.
Cocking his head to one side, Sam gave me a considering look. I wasn’t sure what he needed to consider, but after a second or three he said, “Here is fine. I need to talk to Lou after we finish our business.”
“You need to talk to him here? And you don’t want Harold and me to hear what you aim to say?”
A tight smile preceded Sam’s, “Yes. Nothing personal. Just information I want to impart to Lou and which you and Harold don’t need to know.”
“Well,” I said, trying for indignation and not quite achieving it.
“You know I’ll tell you everything you need to know, Daisy,” said Sam. He didn’t sound especially conciliatory.
I heaved a weary sigh. “I suppose so.”
“That’s my girl,” said Sam, sounding more like my father than my fiancé. To Mr. Prophet, he said, “You’ve been keeping an eye on the house, right, Lou?”
“Yep,” said Mr. Prophet. “I been watchin’ the front door since I walked out of it.”
“Not when you were inside my folks’ house,” I said.
“Was, too. Front door to your house was open. I know what I’m doin’, Miss Daisy. And I been doin’ it for forty-fifty years longer’n you’ve graced this earth.”
“How poetic,” I said under my breath.
A leathery cackle crept from his wrinkled old lips. “Yeah. Ain’t I jist?”
“Cut it out, you two,” said Sam in a no-nonsense tone. “I think I know what happened. If we can figure out where the gang’s keeping Vi, we can probably get her back. I just hope there’s no gunplay.”
“Gunplay!” I screeched. “You will not shoot weapons near where my darling aunt is being held captive! I’ll crawl through a window or something if I have to, but I don’t want Vi to get wounded, by accident or design!”
“Daisy,” said Harold, cringing. “Lower your voice, all right? Hurts my ears when you shriek like that.”
“I don’t care,” I said stubbornly. “Vi’s been through enough already. No guns.”
“Calm down, Daisy,” said Sam. “You haven’t heard what I have to tell you yet.”
He sounded so composed and serene, I nearly yelled again. But I didn’t. Later, I’d be proud of myself. Just then, I wanted to throw a tantrum. Come to think of it, if I had, it might have been the very first tantrum I’d ever thrown in my life. I’d been a good kid, I suspect because I’d had good parents.
I’d had a minor breakdown shortly after that rotten car had pinned me against a pepper tree on January first, but I figure I deserved that one. I had been a trifle irrational at the time. But I don’t think that counted as a tantrum.
Anyhow, I zipped my lips and kept them zipped as we watched Sam arrange the papers and folders we’d put on the small porch table.
“All right. Unless Daisy wants to yell again, let’s get comfortable and go through some things,” said Sam, holding a chair for me. He sat at the head of the oval table andI sat next to him.
Harold and Mr. Prophet sat on the other side of the table.