Chapter 27

Lucy was delighted when I rang her doorbell and she answered same.

"Daisy! I've been wanting to have you over for the longest time. After all, you've invited us to your house several times, and this is the first chance I've had to reciprocate."

Interesting. I'd never thought of dinner invitations and so forth as events needing reciprocation. Then again, my society manners, while fairly well ingrained due to my profession, hadn't taught me everything about how life is supposed to be lived. I don't think Vi expected us to take her out to dinner every time she fed us one of her delicious meals, which was a darned good thing. We'd be broke in no time flat if she did. Sam sometimes took us all out to dinner, but we didn't think of his invitations as reciprocation exactly. He wanted us to know he appreciated us as a family that had, in a way, adopted him as one of ours.

"Nonsense!" said I heartily. "You needn't reciprocate. We love to have you and Mr. Zollinger over." We hadn't had them to dine but once or twice, so I don't know why I'm going on about this topic.

At any rate, the Zollingers' apartment was lovely, and I could imagine their home on Holliston Avenue would be likewise spiffy. Mr. Zollinger clearly made a lot of money. I was glad for Lucy. And for him, too, of course.

I raved about Lucy's pretty furnishings and admirable decorating skills until Mr. Zollinger corralled us and led us downstairs via the elevator and guided us to the Castle Green's restaurant, which was mighty fancy.

There we dined on chicken a la king—the Castle Green's pastry wasn't as flaky as Vi's—and then Lucy and her Albert led us to the Valley Hunt Club's parlor. Sure enough, the room was empty save for a grand piano and several chairs scattered here and there.

"What a pretty room," said I as I walked piano-wards. It really was. The walls were decorated with, appropriately, hunting prints and pictures of past Tournament of Roses Parades. The Hunt Club had sponsored the Rose Parade until interest in the parade grew too large for it to handle. Then the Tournament of Roses Association was formed. If anyone cares.

"Yes, I think it is, too," said Lucy. "Why don't we sing the whole song and not just the third verse?" she suggested. "After all, we'll get more practice that way."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," I said.

So I sat at the piano and practiced a few chords. I had to push my sleeves up a trifle due to those puffy bishop sleeves. Too late I realized they actually did get in the way. I do believe I'd even picked up a little gravy from my luncheon. Ah, well. Such is life. I could wash the dress.

After I felt comfortable at the piano, Lucy stood beside me, folded her hands in front of her waist like an opera singer getting ready to belt out an aria, I played the introduction to "What Child is This?" and we both began to sing. We started at the beginning and went through all four verses. That is to say we sang the four verses we Methodists had in our hymnals.

For all I know, there are dozens more stanzas to the song, the music for which has been around for a really long time. In fact, I read somewhere that folks in British public houses—we here in the USA call those things saloons or bars, or did until Prohibition when they turned into speakeasies—used to sing the melody as a drinking song in the 1600s, although I'm not sure about that. History contains a whole lot of iffy information. If you want to get to the absolute truth of any matter, you have to do more digging than I usually care to do. Our Methodist version was first published in 1871.

Anyway, by the time we'd finished the fourth verse, I was surprised to learn we'd attracted an audience. Applause came from the door. I spun on the piano seat to see a whole bunch of men standing with Mr. Zollinger, clapping to beat the band. I know I blushed, because my face went all hot. Darn my red-headed coloring.

To my astonishment, Gaylord Wagner shoved his way through the crowd and swaggered over to Lucy and me. I gazed at him and tried to hide my discomfort. What the heck was he doing there?

"That was lovely, ladies!" he cried, all ebullience and heartiness. "A gorgeous rendition of a gorgeous hymn by two gorgeous ladies."

Albert Zollinger trotted at Gaylord's heels and put what looked like a restraining hand on his shoulder. Gaylord frowned at him.

"Please, Mr. Wagner, allow me to introduce you to my wife, Mrs. Zollinger, and her very good friend, Mrs. Majesty. They were just practicing the duet they're going to sing at church on Christmas Eve."

"Ah," said Gaylord, disappointment flitting across his face. Unless that was my imagination giving him emotions he didn't feel. "So you're both married ladies."

"Yes," said I, before Lucy could tell him I was a widow.

"I'm sorry to hear it."

His buddies in the background chuckled. I wanted to sneer, but didn't.

"Who was that singing?" came another voice from the door.

When I glanced over to see who had spoken, darned if I didn't espy Vincent Wagner. I didn't know the pernicious Wagner brothers hung out at the Castle Green. Then again, they were rich—or had been, anyway—and rich people frequented fine restaurants, one of which the restaurant in the Castle Green was.

"These two ladies were providing the entertainment this afternoon, Vince," said Gaylord, giving a sweeping gesture meant to encompass Lucy and me. He winked at his brother. "They were practicing for church."

"Church, eh?" Vincent more or less snickered. "Ah, well. Isn't that nice?"

"Not only that," said Gaylord, "but I do believe Mrs. Majesty will be honoring us with her presence at tonight's Christmas party at the club. Isn't that right, Mrs. Majesty?" He smiled down at me. I have no idea why he made me think of a slithering cobra. He was actually rather stocky.

So was his brother, who said, "Really? Will you be singing Christmas carols for us?" Vincent asked.

"Um... No," I said, thinking Christmas carols would be much more appropriate than pretending to be a fortuneteller at a Christmas party.

"I do believe she's going to bring along the tools of her trade," said Gaylord, who seemed to know more about my business than I wanted him to. "Isn't that so, Mrs. Majesty?"

"Yes," I said with something of a snap.

"And what tools are those?" asked Vincent as if he really wanted to know.

"Her crystal ball and so forth," said Gaylord, still smiling down at me. "Claude Dermott told me she'd be attending tonight's shindig."

"Her crystal ball? My goodness!" said Vincent. He looked surprised. Didn't really blame him for that. But I was sick of this conversation. It made me feel ill at ease, perhaps because I just didn't care for the two Wagner brothers.

"Among other things," I said.

"So you're an adept at the mystical arts?" said Vincent, his smile growing wide.

"So people tell me," I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt.

"I've never connected spiritualism and Christmas before," said Gaylord. "This evening should be interesting."

"I haven't, either, Gay. But I'll be sure to stop by and have my palm read or whatever."

"I'm only bringing my crystal ball," I said. My throat had gone tight. "I won't be reading palms."

"Ah," said Vincent. I'm not sure what he meant by that ah, if anything. He turned to a fellow standing next to him. "Stanley, will you look at this."

"Yes?" said the man whom I assumed was Stanley. "Look at what?"

"Why, Mrs. Majesty here," said Vincent. "She's going to be at the Christmas party tonight. Only she won't be singing Christmas carols. She'll be plying her crystal ball."

"Is that right?" said Stanley, who was also kind of stocky. I wanted to get out of there. Actually, I wanted to be out of there. Ten minutes prior to all those men showing up.

"I understand Mrs. Majesty is the finest spiritualist-medium in the entire city of Pasadena," Gaylord told his brother. "Isn't that so, Mrs. Majesty?"

As I said, I wanted to be gone. So I contented myself with a short, "Yes," plucked my hymnal from the piano stand, and stuffed it under my arm. "Let's be off, Lucy. We've practiced enough."

"Yes, indeed," said Lucy's Albert, taking his wife's arm. Then he took mine, too. Fortunately it wasn't the arm under which I'd tucked the hymnal, or the book would have fallen, plop, to the carpeted floor. I don't like bending pages of other people's books, and that one belonged to my church.

"There's no need to rush off," said Gaylord as the three of us marched to the door, where the clot of men parted rather like the Red Sea for Moses.

No one responded to Gaylord's plaintive statement.

Vincent said, "See you this evening, Mrs. Majesty. I'm looking forward to it."

That made one of us.

Then the man called Stanley said, "So am I," which made two of them. I'd begun to dread the mere thought of seeing any of those men again. Ever.

Once we were out in the hallway again, Lucy said, "Who on earth were those men?"

"Two of them, Gaylord and Vincent, are Doctor Wagner's sons," I told her.

"Oh. I didn't care for them. Didn't they seem... I don't know. Insolent? I thought they were."

"So did I," I agreed.

"They are," said Albert Zollinger firmly, letting go of my arm, but keeping his wife's in his grasp. "The both of them. They're useless so-and-sos."

"Goodness. How do you know them, Daisy?"

"I don't know them. I mean, I've met them at parties at rich people's houses. But I don't know them. I don't want to, either."

"I don't blame you." Lucy hugged her Albert's arm, and I wished Sam were there so I could hug his arm.

I didn't spend any more time with Lucy or her husband, but drove home after we'd escaped from the Valley Hunt Club's parlor, the Wagner brothers, and their coterie of friends. A feeling of uneasiness accompanied me from that stupid parlor all the way home. I don't know why.