Chapter 21

When I drove up our driveway on Marengo Avenue, I noticed a large gray Cadillac parked in front of our house next to the sidewalk. It looked like the Grenvilles' auto, and I wondered why they were visiting.

Turned out they weren't. When entered the house via the side-porch door, I heard sobbing noises coming from the living room. Oh, dear. I wanted to run and hide, but knew that to do so would be cowardly, so I walked through the dining room to the living room, my heart sinking slightly with each step.

There I saw Marianne seated on our sofa, Spike at her feet, and Pa with an arm around her shoulders, attempting to comfort her. When I walked in, he looked up and an expression of pure relief sneaked across his face. That was a bad sign; I knew it.

Nevertheless, my courage didn't fail me. Actually it did, but I entered the living room anyway and walked to the sofa. Not a long journey, unfortunately.

"Whatever is the matter, Marianne?" I asked in my comforting spiritualist's voice as I approached her and Pa.

She jumped about six feet—she'd be great if the sitting high jump were an Olympic event—thereby dislodging my father's arm. Then she leaped to her feet and rushed at me like Spike going after a ball. Bracing myself, I briefly hoped she didn't aim to batter me to death. I was, if not taller, at least heavier than she, so I'd probably have prevailed. But I didn't want to fight, curse it.

However, she stopped right in front of me, wiping her eyes with her bare hands. Then she screamed, "Detective Rotondo arrested George! Oh, Daisy, he didn't do it!"

In this particular case, I knew the "he" she spoke of was George and not Sam, and that Sam had arrested George, although George hadn't killed Dr. Wagner. The English language is quite odd sometimes, especially when it comes to pronouns.

And then she sort of crumpled up. I managed to grab hold of her before she hit the floor, but I think I dislocated something in my shoulder while doing so, because it ached for a week after my deft catch. Pa rushed over and helped me guide the weeping woman back to the sofa. This time I sat next to her, believing it to be my duty. After all, I was responsible for Rolly and his idiotic pronouncements.

"I'll go make a pot of tea," Pa said softly, and he hightailed out of the living room as if pursued by a pack of screaming devils. Wise man, my father.

I wished I could join him, but I knew where my duty lay. Therefore, I said, "Did the detective actually arrest George, or did he only take him to the station for more questioning, Marianne?"

She tried to answer my question, I think, but she was blubbering so hard I couldn't understand her. I sighed, a trifle irked, even though I did feel sorry for the dear thing.

"Marianne," I said softly. "Please try to get yourself under control. You really need to tell me what I need to know."

Bless Pa's heart, he came into the living room bearing with him a couple of clean dish towels. He was clearly happy to be relieved of an onerous duty, but he wanted to help me take over for him.

"Here, Marianne," I said since she hadn't stopped weeping. "Use this towel and dry your tears. I need to know what's going on."

Furiously wiping her face with the towel, she gasped out, "I-I-I j-j-just t-t-told you!"

"You told me Detective Rotondo has arrested George, and I want to know if he really did arrest George, or if he merely took George to the police station to ask him more questions."

Sniffling and wiping more tears, Marianne gazed at me out of drowned blue eye. "Is-is there a difference? The detective took George away in a police car. From the book store! In front of all his customers!"

Egad. If Sam really did haul George out of Grenville's Books while customers meandered around, I might just have to speak to my beloved by hand. Not only did I believe George to be innocent of the crime in question, but taking him away in front of a bunch of his customers would be bad for his business even if it were proved beyond the fraction of a doubt that he was innocent of the crime for which he was being questioned. My early-morning annoyance with Sam Rotondo resurfaced and began bubbling like a witch's cauldron over a hot fire.

"I'm really sorry about this, Marianne. I'm sure George didn't kill your father, and I'm also sure the police will find the true culprit."

Unsure of any such thing—about the police finding the real perpetrator, I mean—I put an arm around Marianne's shoulder and tried to hug her and make her feel better. Didn't work.

"Daisy! What am I going to do? George didn't kill my awful father! That stupid spirit control or whatever you call him told everyone to look at the family! That's not fair to us! Neither George nor I had a single, solitary thing to do with killing my father, and neither did Mother!"

"I know, Marianne. I honestly didn't know what Rolly was going to tell everyone during that darned séance. Anyhow, I'm certain neither George nor your mother would have done—could have done—such a thing."

Wiping away more tears with a dish towel, she scowled at me. "If you don't know why he said it, who does?"

Feeling helpless and guiltier than a dozen murderers, I said, "I-I don't know. I'm sorry."

She slapped the coffee table in front of the sofa with her damp towel. "Well, you being sorry certainly helps a lot, doesn't it?"

"Here's some tea for everyone."

My father's chipper voice made both Marianne and me start. Marianne gasped, must have swallowed wrong, and commenced coughing and turning red. Lord, Lord, could the day get any worse?

The answer, of course, was yes. It could and did.

I finally persuaded Marianne to take sips of warm, sweet tea in between coughing bouts, and eventually she calmed down. Pa stood in front of the two of us, looking bewildered and as if he didn't know what to do.

Since I knew no more than he what should be done, I only sat with Marianne until she downed the last of her tea. Sniffling, she eventually stopped coughing, although tears still flowed, but I think these tears were caused by her coughing fit. At last, she stood.

Because I didn't want to stare up at her looking like the dolt I was, I rose too. Pa, I noticed, seemed to be on the alert, in case Marianne decided to slap me silly. At that point, I wouldn't have blamed her if she did.

"Marianne," I said in a last effort to calm her shattered composure. "I'm so sorry George was taken away by the police the way he was. That was... unfortunate."

"Unfortunate! Is that what you call it? The police practically proclaimed George's guilt before all the customers in the bookstore! That's not unfortunate. It's beastly."

She was right. I told her so. "Yes, it was a beastly thing to do, especially since they probably only wanted to ask him more questions."

But it was also possible they'd found something linking George to the murder. Policemen didn't generally rip people—especially people of a certain social standing, which George was—away from their places of work for no good reason. I didn't—still don't, in fact—believe wanting to ask more questions counted. Had someone found evidence pointing to George?

I sure hoped not. I didn't want George arrested for the crime even if he did it. Which adds one more boulder to the scales weighted against my overall character. Still and all, George was a good guy; Dr. Wagner had been evil and vicious and had deserved to die. I swore then and there—to myself; I didn't speak aloud—that I was going to grill Sam Rotondo like one of Aunt Vi's T-bone steaks—not that we Gumms and Majestys got T-bone steaks a lot—the next time I saw him.

Which, of course, was that night when he came to dinner. Thursday nights were choir-practice nights for me, and I didn't have very much time to chat before I had to leave for the church. Therefore, as soon as I heard Sam's Hudson's engine turn off, and even before Spike could begin his happy barking frenzy, I tore out the front door to assail Sam before he could enter the house. If I'd tried to grill him in front of my mother and aunt, they'd have scolded me. I raced to the Hudson even before Sam could extricate himself from its front seat. He glanced up at me, surprised.

I grabbed the sleeve to his overcoat and tried to yank him from the automobile. Sam being a large, obelisk-like fellow, I didn't succeed. I could, however, still use my voice, and I did.

"Sam Rotondo, Marianne Grenville came over here this afternoon, hysterical, telling us you'd arrested George Grenville inside his bookstore in front of his customers for the murder of Doctor Wagner. Is that true? Did you really do that?"

Squinting at me as he struggled out of his car—his left thigh still hurt him a good deal—he said, "We did no such thing."

I'd been bent over him, ready to spew more venom, but his words brought me upright in a trice. Whatever a trice is.

"You didn't?"

"No, we didn't. I didn't. A couple of uniforms visited the bookstore and asked to speak with him some more down at the station so we could get a comprehensive statement from him."

"You haven't already done that?"

"We have his original statement. We wanted to ask him some more questions."

"Why?"

"Because we're conducting a murder investigation, for God's sake!"

"Don't get snippy with me, Sam Rotondo! Why'd you have to haul him out of the bookstore in front of his customers?"

"First of all, I didn't do anything at all to him. I wasn't there. Second, Grenville said he'd be happy to come with Doan and Underwood to the station."

"If that's so, why was Marianne so upset? Honestly, Sam, she was a wreck."

"I don't know. She's an emotional woman. How'd she even find out?"

Good question. "I don't know."

"Well then, stop yelling at my men and me for doing our jobs."

"Nerts to that. She's been upset ever since her father's death was reported. What's so all-fired important that you had to haul George to the station during the day? Couldn't you have waited until the store closed? It's only open until six p.m., for crud's sake."

"Dammit, I don't want to stand out here in the cold arguing with you about the Wagner case."

"That's too darned bad, because I'm going to talk to you about it whether you want to talk to me or not. We have to do it here, because we can't talk in front of my parents and Vi, confound it! Did something new come to light that points the finger at George? And don't you dare try to cut me out of the investigation now. We're in this one together and have been from the first, don't forget."

"How could I forget?" said Sam, sounding grouchy.

Too bad. I was grouchy, too, and I'd also had to deal with Marianne. "Tell me what's going on, Sam, or I won't let you eat Vi's dinner tonight."

"Criminy. At least let me sit on the porch, will you? My leg's killing me."

"All right, but if you don't tell me everything, I'll kill you and save your leg the trouble."

He didn't even crack a grin. Grunting, he sat on the top porch step and stabbed his cane into the hydrangea bed beside him. "We found a bloody baseball bat in the Grenvilles' potting shed."

"You found a what? In where?"

"You heard me."

"But... don't you have to have a warrant or something in order to search other people's property?"

"Yes."

"How'd you get a warrant? Neither George nor Marianne looked guilty enough for a judge to sign a warrant. At least, not to me, they didn't. What happened?"

"We got a call at the station telling us to look more closely at Mr. Grenville."

"From whom?"

With a shrug, Sam said, "It was what we call an anonymous tip."

I huffed. "And it came from the murderer, I'd bet."

"Possibly. I don't know." Another shrug from Sam.

"An anonymous tip was reason enough for a warrant? I don't believe it."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but we got a warrant. And that's principally because of the anonymous tip."

"That's crazy!"

"Not entirely. Don't forget that my men have families, and members of their family work for rich folks all over Pasadena and Altadena. My men know more about the Grenvilles than you'd think."

"Hmm. What else led to the judge signing a warrant?"

Before answering me—he probably knew I'd hate whatever he aimed to say—Sam took in a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. "Judge Carpenter is a member of the Pasadena Golf and Tennis Club. One of the guys who works at the club told him about the bloody bat."

"How did he know about it?"

"His brother works as gardener for the Grenvilles. He found the bat in the potting shed."

"Someone must have planted it there. The real killer, I mean."

"I hope you're right. All I know as of this minute is that my men found a bloody bat in the Grenvilles' potting shed, and they went to Grenville's Books to talk with Grenville about it."

"That sounds like a mighty fishy story to me, Sam. I can't picture George Grenville playing baseball. When he was at school, he never played sports. He's always been more likely to visit a museum or go to the library for fun than play a ball game."

"That may well be true. Anyway, it wasn't any fault of mine that the damned bloody bat was found on Grenville's property. Am I allowed into the house for dinner now?"

"Well... I guess so."

"Thanks heaps."

"You're welcome. But Sam, I know George didn't kill that man, and I think you're putting an awful lot of weight on a so-called anonymous tip. I also think Judge Carpenter should have had more real evidence before he signed the stupid search warrant. Well, I guess there's the gardener, too."

"Precisely," said Sam as he grabbed his cane from the hydrangea bed and whacked it against a porch step to get the mud off.

Shoot. The gardener thing sounded bad, although I still didn't believe George Grenville would own or use a baseball bat on purpose. Heck, even in school, he was a member of the chess club and never participated in sports. "Still, I think you're jumping the gun."

"I'm not jumping anything, and there's no gun involved in this one. It's a baseball bat."

"Funny, Sam Rotondo. The police are over-reacting to something George Grenville never touched in his life."

"Maybe we are. I had nothing to do with it, though."

"Why not? I thought you were in charge of the case."

"I am, but I wasn't at the station when the call came through. I had to keep an appointment with Doctor Benjamin this afternoon. Doan thought the tip and the baseball bat together were strong enough evidence for us to snoop some more in the Grenvilles' business, and Judge Carpenter agreed."

"Hmph. I always sort of liked Doan, but today he sounds like an idiot."

"We have to do our jobs, Daisy."

"And why didn't you tell me you had an appointment with Doc Benjamin? I'm interested in your health, you know, Sam Rotondo."

"I forgot," said Sam. I didn't believe him.

"Hogwash. You're just worried your leg will never get better, and you wanted to spare me."

"How is not telling you about a doctor's appointment sparing you?"

Good question, darn it. "Well... I just think that when a man and woman are engaged to be married, they should share everything."

"Right. That's why you always share information with me."

"I do share!" Recalling the recent Bannister investigation and a couple of other little episodes in my past, I added, "For the most part. Sometimes I can't share because it's other people's business."

"Of course." He struggled to his feet. I noticed his face appeared more ragged and rugged than usual. He'd clearly had a rough day.

My sympathy stirred, I said, "Did Doc Benjamin give you bad news?"

"Not really. Just the same old thing. It'll take time. And the wound will heal completely, but it may pain me forever, depending on the weather or the type of activity I'm doing."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Yeah. So am I."

We entered the house together, and Spike finally got to display his affection for Sam.

I felt crummy. Mainly because of Marianne and George, but also because of Sam. That ghastly woman who'd shot him in the thigh could have easily shot him through the heart. In fact, if I hadn't stuck a kitchen towel over the wound and held it there, he'd have bled to death. I shuddered.

"Here," said Sam, putting his coat over my shoulder in the mistaken belief that I was cold.

"Thanks." I didn't clue him in.