“Very well, then,” said Sam. “Everyone calm now?” He gave me the stink-eye, which I didn’t appreciate.
Nevertheless, I said, “Yes.”
Harold and Mr. Prophet nodded.
“Good. Okay, Costello’s been found.”
“He has? Good!” I cried, overjoyed. If Costello had been found, Sam could probably make him tell where Vi was. If, of course, he’d had something to do with her kidnapping, and I just knew he had.
“Not so good,” said Sam. “He’s dead.”
Stunned, I whispered, “D-dead?”
“As a doornail,” said Sam.
“Well, then, he can’t tell us anything, can he?” said Harold.
“Nope,” said Mr. Prophet. “Where’d you find him?”
“I didn’t find him. A couple of patrolmen heard gunfire—”
“Gunfire!” I didn’t mean to bellow; it just sort of came out. “In Pasadena?”
“Cripes,” muttered Mr. Prophet.
“Daisy!” said Harold, peeved.
“I’m sorry,” said I, chastened. “Still, one doesn’t generally hear gunfire in Pasadena.” I added, because it was true, if unfortunate, “Except sometimes at our house.”
“True.” After eyeing me again, sternly, Sam went on. “Two patrolmen heard gunshots when they were driving along the Arroyo Seco, near Devil’s Gate Dam. When they got out of the patrol car to investigate, they discovered Costello’s body. According to the report, it looked as if he’d been shot on the bridge and someone tossed his body into the Arroyo, probably hoping it would hit the water and be carried off in the spillway.”
“Ew,” I said.
“Yeah. Anyway, they didn’t recognize him because they never worked with him, and he wasn’t wearing his uniform. Therefore, he wasn’t identified until the morgue van picked him up, took him to the medical examiner, and the police went through his pockets.” He frowned darkly. “He still had his Pasadena Police Department shield with him, the maggot.”
“And Frank wasn’t dead with him, I don’t suppose,” I said, weakly hoping.
“No such luck,” said Sam, “Although I didn’t see the body. We can always pray.”
“Sam!” I said, not really shocked. It was all right by me if Frank Pagano met a sticky end. The rotten little twerp had tried to kill me several times, and I figured if anyone should be shot and shoved off the bridge into the Devil’s Gate Dam spillway, Frank was a better candidate than most.
“Anyway, he hadn’t been dead long. If he was shot near where Vi’s being kept, it might be one of those grand places near the arroyo over there.”
“San Rafael area or Brookside Park area,” I muttered. “Extremely secluded and expensive.”
“Both of those things.”
Musing, I said, “I can’t see a policeman earning enough money to live in the San Rafael area. I mean, people like the Hastings live in San Rafael. People with grand estates live there.”
“Right. Which is another reason I expect there’s a mob connection to this whole thing, since gangsters have more money than most of us.” Shaking his head as if in frustration, Sam said, “Although why the devil Lucky Luciano would want a place in San Rafael when he’s trying to break into the moving pictures isn’t clear to me yet.”
“Lots of rich people live in Pasadena,” said Harold.
“He’s right, Sam,” I agreed.
“Yeah, I know, but Los Angeles and the studios are a long way from Pasadena.”
“Twenty miles or thereabouts,” said Harold with a shrug I think he borrowed from Mr. Prophet. “I drive it most days.”
Tilting his head to one side, Sam said musingly, “Yes. I suppose you’re right about the drive not being especially long.”
“Earl Derr Biggers is buying a home in Pasadena!” I said, suddenly recalling one of my favorite books and its author.
Two bases and a tenor created a trio when they chorused, “Who?”
“Earl Derr Biggers. He writes about a Chinese police detective in Hawaii called Charlie Chan. And Zane Grey lives in Altadena!”
Three male gazes rested on me for several seconds that felt more like several months. Maybe centuries.
Then Harold cleared his throat and said, “I’m thinking more along the lines of scientists and architects and those sorts of people, although I do know a couple of movie folks who live here, too, or have second homes in the area. And, of course, those authors.”
“Anyhow,” said Sam, “I guess it isn’t as much of a stretch as I thought if Luciano wanted to get away from it all in a grand estate in one of those tucked-away locations.”
“Probably not,” said Harold. “Although I’ve read he generally chooses to live in hotels.”
“Why does he want to live in hotels?” I asked, curious about what, to me, seemed an odd living preference.
“Don’t know. All I know is I’ve heard he likes to live in hotels. Maybe he likes to have his meals catered—”
Harold stopped speaking abruptly, and we all stared at him.
Then I said, “See? I knew that was the reason they kidnapped Vi!”
“Could well be,” said Sam after thinking the matter over for a few seconds. “However, Costello’s death might have thrown a monkey wrench into the works. If he’s the gent your church friend—”
“She’s not my friend!” I cried, interrupting again. I should stop doing that.
Wearily tilting his head at me, Sam spoke slowly. “If he’s the gent Miss Whoever-She-Is has been seeing, she might not go to the exercise class of yours— And don’t tell me it’s not your class!”
Guess he saw me open my mouth to interrupt again. I slapped a hand over said mouth and muttered, “Sorry.”
“Not a problem. Just let me talk for a minute or two, all right?”
“Yes, Sam. Thank you, Sam.”
He gave me a wicked glint and continued. “If she’s not at the class, it might mean she’s learned of her lover’s death. If the dead Albert Costello was the guy she was seeing, and we don’t know. Maybe she’s seeing his brother. I had aimed to have someone follow her from the class just to see where she took herself off to.”
“Does she still work at the Underhill Chemical Company?” I asked after waiting to make sure I wouldn’t interrupt him again.
“Yes, she does. I had a detective telephone Browning from the police station.”
“Did you tell him why you wanted to know?” I asked, surprised he’d do such a thing.
“For one thing,” said Sam, sounding slightly peeved, “it wasn’t I who called. It was another detective. And no, he didn’t explain to Browning why he needed to know the names of the stenographic staff at Underhill. He gave him a story about how we’d been asked to locate the next of kin of a fellow who lived in another state and who works in Underhill’s stenographic pool.”
“Does Robert Browning know the names of all of Underhill’s employees?” I asked.
“No. However, he was able to have his secretary direct Steinberg’s call to the personnel department.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is Steinberg the other detective?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Sam,” I said, deciding I’d not speak any more unless I really needed to know something or had something important to add to the conversation. The latter seemed a stretch.
“Anyway, the woman still works there.”
“Was she at work today?” I asked, breaking my self-imposed silence even before it could properly take effect. I swear, I’m hopeless.
“Yes, she was.”
“Ah. That means either she doesn’t know Costello’s dead or he’s not her boyfriend.”
“Daisy,” said Harold, giving me a stern glower. “Will you please just let Sam talk for a few minutes? I don’t know about you, but I don’t have all day.”
Knowing Harold was correct, I said, “I beg your pardon.”
“Beggin’ ain’t an attractive thing to do,” muttered Mr. Prophet. I tried to kick him under the table but missed.
“Ow!” cried Harold, leaning over to rub his calf. “Why the hell did you kick me?”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Wouldn’t’ve hurt me if you’d kicked me, ‘cause you’d’a hit my peg,” said Mr. Prophet with a downright fiendish grin.
“Stop it!” Sam said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. This was his “I’m going to slit your throat, hang you in a butcher’s icebox, and, come midnight, retrieve your body and toss it into the spillway of the Devil’s Gate Dam” voice.
Harold and I sat up straight in our chairs like good little children. Mr. Prophet, still slouching, only grinned some more.
“All right,” said Sam in the same deadly tone. “She works there, and she was at work today. Lou and I will go to the church tomorrow and observe your class from…hell, where can we see it and not be seen?”
After waiting to make sure Sam had actually asked a question of me, I pondered it for a heartbeat or two and said, “Um, the kitchen? I guess you can watch from the kitchen. If Lucy leads the class, which I hope she will because I don’t have the lousy book she wants to use, you can probably watch us without being seen if Lucy faces the kitchen and the other women face the other way.”
“We don’t want Lucy to know we’re there, either,” said Sam.
Bother. “Well, I don’t know, then! We’re going to have the class in the same room where we have fellowship on Sundays after church services. Can you think of another way to watch without being seen?”
Sam put an elbow on one of his folders and tapped his chin with a forefinger. I noticed he took good care of his hands. Actually, I’d noticed that before. Sam was a handsome man. And he was mine. My heart got all soft and squishy for a second. Then he spoke again.
“Hell. Well, Lou and I can get there early and figure something out.”
“Very well,” I said in a dignified manner so nobody would know my heart had been softened for a second there.
“What time does the class start?” asked Sam.
“One o’clock,” I said.
“Good. We can go up there early, Lou. We’ll figure something out. The minister will be there, won’t he?”
“I…I don’t know. On a Wednesday? I guess he’ll be there. Or maybe a deacon will open the place up for the class.”
“Hmmm. I don’t suppose your father is a deacon, is he?”
“A deacon? Um…No, I don’t think so.”
“Rats,” said Sam.
“But he is an elder,” I said, startled at remembering. “Elders are members of the church. I think deacons are something else. But Sam, I don’t want Pa to be part of this problem. You know he’s been having more trouble with his heart lately.”
“I know. I don’t want him involved, either. All he’ll need to do is open the place up. Actually, if he trusts me with the keys, I can open the place up. We can tell him it’s for your”—he glared at me before I could voice a protest—“exercise class.”
Brightening, I said, “That’s a great idea! Then Pa won’t have to worry one little bit, and I’m sure he’ll be glad he doesn’t have to go up there and unlock the doors for such a stupid reason.” Boy, I really didn’t want to go to that exercise class. Can you tell?
“Right,” said Mr. Prophet. “Good idea.”
“Great. It’s settled,” said Sam, picking up a folder. “All right. Here’s what I think we know about the crooks my brainless nephew is running with. They’re a mix of Italian and Irish thugs, and I think Luciano is using them for his own purposes. I doubt any of them know it, but the boss—Luciano—doesn’t really need any of them. He just needed them to do a job for them. I suspect the job was the kidnapping of your aunt, Daisy.”
“Told you so,” I said with a little sniff. My juju objected by sending a shaft of heat through my chest. “Ow! Oh, very well, my juju told you so,” I said in order to placate the annoying thing.
Sam squinted at me for only a second, then shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”
“Just as well,” said Mr. Prophet. “I’ll explain it to you later.” He gave me a wink.
So I kept quiet for the next twenty minutes or so, during which Sam told us all about what he thought he knew about the so-called gang with which his nitwit nephew had got himself entangled.
After he stopped speaking, he looked around at the three of us, who’d all been listening attentively. “Any questions?”
Harold shook his head. So did Mr. Prophet.
I said, “Yes. What am I going to do if I can’t find my gym bloomers?”
None of the men had an answer for me. Gee, whatta surprise.