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  Unsettled Spirits

  Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

  Book Number Nine

  by

  Alice Duncan

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-990-0

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2015 by Alice Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  For Sue Krekeler and Lynne Welch, two of the best beta readers any author ever had.

  Chapter 1

  My family and I, along with Sam Rotondo, welcomed the New Year, 1924, as we welcomed most new years. We walked from our tidy bungalow on South Marengo Avenue in Pasadena, California, to Colorado Boulevard and watched the Tournament of Roses Parade. No Rose Queen was crowned for 1924, although I don't know why. The day was chilly, but bright and sunny. We knew the press would publicize the parade, and that people all over the United States—and, for all I know, the world—would envy us our gorgeous weather. Roses in January? Must sound grand if you're buried under six feet of snow in Maine or New Hampshire. The parade was lovely, and my family and Sam enjoyed it greatly. We always did.

  The only thing Sam and I knew that the rest of my family didn't was that Sam and I had recently become an engaged couple. I still cringe when I recall Christmas of 1923, when Sam attempted to bestow an engagement ring upon me.

  Sam must have anticipated my possible reaction, because he took Spike, my late husband's black-and-tan dachshund and probably the smartest dog in the universe, and me to the front porch. There Sam and I sat on the front porch steps, bundled up against the nippy weather. Spike bounded off to chase leaves and, if he was lucky, the neighbors' cat Samson.

  Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew a little box. "See if you like this," he said, handing the box to me.

  Drawing back slightly, I took the box, opened it, and saw displayed therein a yellow-gold ring with an emerald set in what looked like a nest of rose leaves. It wasn't elaborate; it was, however, possibly the most beautiful ring I'd ever seen in my life.

  So what did I do? I clutched my left hand, still bearing the plain gold band my late husband, Billy, had given me on our wedding day in 1917, to my heart and burst into tears.

  Sam said, "It's all right, Daisy. I know it's probably too soon." He sounded resigned.

  "I-I-I'm sorry, Sam," I blubbered, feeling like an idiot. "It-it's beautiful, but—" I couldn't go on.

  Sam put his arms around me and rocked me like a baby. "I understand, Daisy. When you agreed to marry me, you told me you weren't ready yet. Take all the time you need."

  After a minute or two I recovered my composure and glanced up at Sam from what I knew were swollen red eyes. Unlike the heroines of romantic novels and motion pictures, I don't look good when I cry. My skin gets all blotchy, and my eyes get red and puffy. "I'm sorry." I sniffled, and Sam reached into another pocket and produced a clean handkerchief. I took it with a shaky hand and said, "Thank you."

  As I mopped my eyes and cheeks and felt foolish, Spike began barking like a bad dog, which was most unlike him. My bleary gaze couldn't quite locate him, so Sam rose from the porch steps and went to look for him.

  "Here he is," he called a moment or so later. "He's just wishing Pudge a merry Christmas."

  Pudge Wilson, son of the neighbors to the north of us, hove into view with Spike frolicking at his feet. Sam walked stolidly beside the boy and the dog. Sam never frolicked.

  "Merry Christmas, Pudge," I said, trying with all my inner strength to pull myself together. I realized I still held the jewelry box and quickly stuffed it into a pocket of my coat.

  "Merry Christmas, Miss Daisy," said Pudge. He shyly handed me a wrapped parcel. Pudge was about twelve years old by that time, and he'd been sweet on me for years. He was a nice kid; and I have absolutely no idea why people called him Pudge, because he was about as big around as a toothpick. He also had a ton of freckles and a delightful smile.

  "Thank you, Pudge," I said. "You shouldn't have given me a present."

  "I made it in Boy Scouts," said Pudge proudly. I guess he was too young to notice the signs of distress on my face. At any rate, he didn't comment on them. "Anyhow, your family always gives us about six thousand cookies for Christmas."

  This was true, although it was only because my aunt Viola Gumm, widow of my father's older brother, lived with us, and she was the finest cook in the entire City of Pasadena, if not the whole U.S. of A. So I took Pudge's package, smudged where dirty little-boy fingers had pressed the paper, and opened it to reveal a piece of bark with something—it looked kind of like a horse—burned upon it.

  "You did this yourself?" I tried to sound astonished and gratified.

  "Yep." Pudge straightened and beamed at me. "It's made by heating an iron rod and burning the wood." He pointed at the image. "That's a unicorn. I thought you'd like it, because unicorns are kind of magic."

  "How very thoughtful. Thank you so much, Pudge." I rose and gave him a hug, which succeeded in embarrassing him nearly to death and sent him scampering back home.

  Spike wanted to follow him, but I called him to heel. Because Spike had been to obedience school three summers prior to this Christmas, he heeled. Bless the dog.

  I sat again, and Sam and I surveyed my present from Pudge. "Do you think that's supposed to be the unicorn's horn?" I asked, pointing to a burned line that looked as if it were protruding from the animal's nose.

  "I guess so. I thought unicorns had horns on their heads, not their noses."

  I shook my own head. "Darned if I know where their horns go, but this was thoughtful of Pudge."

  "Yes, it was," agreed Sam. "You see? I'm not the only one who loves you."

  That started me off again, until Sam said, and curtly too, "Cut it out, Daisy. For God's sake, if I'd known you'd carry on like this, I'd have waited to give you the ring."

  "I-I-I'm sorry!"

  Sam rolled his eyes, something he did a lot in my presence.

  Perhaps some sort of explanation is called for here. I am Daisy Gumm Majesty, and at the time I burst into tears that Christmas on our front porch after seeing the ring Sam had so thoughtfully acquired for me, I earned my living (and most of my family's) by working as a spiritualist-medium to the wealthy folks who lived in Pasadena. There were a lot of them. Pasadena was at that time a rich-man's town, and if it weren't for the fact that rich people required people like my family and me to work for them, we'd have been living elsewhere.

  As for Sam Rotondo, he was a detective for the Pasadena Police Department, and a widower of some years, his wife h
aving died of tuberculosis. He and she had moved from New York City to Pasadena in the vain hope the milder climate would help her condition. It didn't.

  Sam and I would probably never have met if it weren't for the evil Mr. Eustace Kincaid, who was at the time married to Madeline Pinkerton. Mrs. Pinkerton had been my best client for more than half my life. This was partly because I began my career at the age of ten when Mrs. Pinkerton gave my Aunt Vi an old Ouija board, and I'd flummoxed my family by pretending to be able to use the thing. Aunt Vi was so impressed, she told Mrs. Pinkerton, for whom she worked as cook, and Mrs. Pinkerton had taken me under her wing. Therefore, by this, my twenty-third year, I was sought after by most of the well-off matrons of Pasadena, California, who wanted me to chat with their dead relations for them.

  But I see I've veered off-course. To continue, I somehow—and it wasn't my fault, no matter what Sam says—got embroiled in catching Mr. Eustace Kincaid in his dirty dealings. And the reason Mrs. Pinkerton is no longer Mrs. Eustace Kincaid is because after her first husband's villainy was discovered, she divorced him. Divorce was generally frowned upon back then, but I guess the high society of Pasadena let Mrs. P get away with it because Mr. Kincaid, although he tried, was unable to ruin the bank he ran. Mind you, this was mainly because Mrs. Pinkerton's son Harold had a... Never mind. I'll get into Harold later.

  A year or so after her divorce from Eustace Kincaid, she married her longtime friend, Mr. Algernon Pinkerton, another fabulously wealthy Pasadena person. I'd always liked Mr. Pinkerton, a roly-poly, pink-cheeked, jolly gentleman, although I didn't much care for his nickname, Algie, because it sounds like... well, like algae, and that stuff is icky. But that's not the point.

  Do I believe in communication with people who have crossed from this life to another one? Good heavens, no! I'm not stupid. Well, and neither are most of my clients, but they can afford to be whimsical and at least pretend to believe in communication with the dead. Heck, if I really could talk to spirits, I'd be chatting with my late husband every day. I only wished I could. Instead, I'm a middle-class widow woman with a family to support, and I made a whole lot more money as a spiritualist-medium than I could make doing any other sort of work available to females back then.

  Actually, my mother, Peggy Gumm, worked as the head bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo, which was an impressively good job for a woman at the time. However, if she were a man doing the same work, she'd have been paid a whole lot more money.

  As I've already mentioned, my aunt, Viola Gumm, worked for the Pinkertons and was a spectacular cook. She cooked for the family too, and we were happy about it. Naturally, if she were a man, they'd call her a chef, and she, too, would make a whole lot more money. Does this seem fair to you? Me, neither.

  My father, Joe Gumm, used to be a chauffeur for rich folks until he suffered a heart attack and was forced by his health to retire from that work.

  Therefore, our family was supported by its women. I have an older brother named Walter and an older sister named Daphne, but they didn't live with us. However, at the time of the ring fiasco, Walter, Daphne, their spouses and their children were all inside our bungalow, having gathered for a magnificent Christmas meal prepared especially for us by Aunt Vi. Things were quite jolly inside the house.

  But back to the front porch, where things weren't particularly jolly. Sam's churlish comment dried my tears, and I dug in my pocket for the ring box. "I'm not sure what to do, Sam," I told him in a mournful whisper. "I do love you, but it's only been a couple of years since Billy died, and I loved him so much. Not more than you, but in a different way." I pleaded with him with my watery gaze. "Do you know what I mean? I know it sounds silly—"

  "No, it doesn't," said Sam, interrupting me. "I feel the same way. Billy was the love of your life. Margaret was the love of my life. No other woman can ever take her place."

  Well! I liked that!

  Can you tell I was a trifle irrational during this conversation? I mean, I'd just told Sam that, in effect, I could never love another man as I'd loved Billy, but I felt insulted when he said pretty much the same thing about his late wife Margaret. You figure it out; it's beyond me.

  By the way, my Billy was a casualty of the Great War. The fighting didn't kill him instantly, but the forever-cursed Kaiser's poisoned gas had burned out his lungs, and at the time of his death, he still carried shrapnel in his legs. He took his own life, although our extremely kind family physician, Dr. Benjamin, had written the cause of his death as an accidental overdose of the morphine syrup Billy had to take because of the hideous pain with which he lived.

  Anyhow, Sam must have noticed my indignation, because he heaved a huge sigh and said, "You know Billy asked me to take care of you after his death, don't you?"

  He meant, of course, that before his death, Billy had asked Sam to take care of me if he died, but I'm not here to quibble. Anyhow, I knew what he meant because...

  "Yes." I sniffled once more. I'd overheard the conversation during which Billy had asked Sam to care for me after he departed this earth. I hadn't meant to listen in. It just worked out that way. "But if you're marrying me just because—"

  "Damn it! You know that's not the reason. I love you. I don't love you the same way I loved Margaret, because she was my first love. We were both innocents and believed we'd be together for the rest of our lives. I'm sure it was the same with you and Billy. Hell, weren't you only seventeen when you guys married?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then. You're not a child any longer, and neither am I. I'm almost thirty years old, for God's sake. I love you. You said you love me. But don't forget that I also said we could be engaged for however long it takes for you to adjust to the idea before we marry. You needn't take the ring. I'll keep it."

  He reached for the box, but I tucked it in my lap, slapped my other hand over the one holding the ring, and said, "No!" I swallowed and said, "May I keep it? I'll just... keep it in a drawer or something."

  "For Pete's sake," muttered Sam.

  "I know. But... I love the ring. And I love you. I'm just not quite ready to wear it. That sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?"

  "Well..."

  "But it's the truth!"

  "Whatever you want to do with the ring is all right by me, but if you decide not to marry me, I want it back."

  "Of course," I said, thinking melancholy thoughts about Billy, lost love, found love, and the symbols of love. Was I pathetic, or what?

  Sam said, "I mainly just wanted to know if you liked it. My father designed it." Sam's family owned and ran a jewelry store in New York City.

  After another pathetic sniffle, I said, "I love it. Your father is very talented."

  "You don't mind that it's not a diamond?"

  "I don't even like diamonds. The emerald goes better with my hair." I suppose that sounds silly, but I had dark red hair, and I cultivated a pale, ghostly, wafting persona that fitted my position as a spiritualist-medium to perfection. Emeralds and rubies were my all-time favorite gems, but I wouldn't dare wear a ruby, which might be taken as bright and sprightly and... well, red. My job required me to be sober and pallid. I never wore red. Emerald green, on the other hand, had a sort of mystical air about it. Or maybe it didn't, but I'd wear an emerald before I'd ever wear a ruby.

  "That's what I thought, too." I could tell Sam was trying not to laugh at my hair comment.

  "But I... I can't give up Billy's ring, Sam. Not yet, anyway. I'm sorry."

  "No reason to be sorry. You can just keep this one until you're ready."

  At that moment, the front door opened, and Daphne's children raced outside.

  "Aunt Daisy! Aunt Daisy! Come and play the piano for us. We want to sing Christmas carols!"

  So Sam and Spike and I returned to the bosom of my family, the entirety of which barely fitted into our snug bungalow, and I walked to the piano and played Christmas carols for my family. I've always been glad my folks made me take piano lessons when I was a kid.

  Chapter 2
r />   January 1, 1924, fell on a Tuesday. The week following that colorful parade day progressed at a slow, dignified, Pasadena-like pace. I had no séances to perform for anyone, no tarot cards to read, no nothin', probably because most of my clients were recovering from their Christmas and New Year's celebrations.

  As for my family, my mother and aunt resumed their duties at their different workplaces, and I went to the library and picked up books for everyone to read. My favorite librarian, Miss Petrie, had taken some time off, so I had to search the shelves for reading material on my own—Miss Petrie liked to put aside books for my family and me to enjoy. Pa and I walked Spike every day, and Sam came to dinner most evenings. In other words, our lives were as normal as normal could be.

  Then came Sunday, January sixth, when the elderly widow, Mrs. Theodore Franbold, dropped dead right after taking communion at our church. My family attended the First Methodist-Episcopal Church on the corner of Marengo and Colorado, and Mrs. Franbold's demise provided a whole lot more excitement than most of our Sunday services could offer. Not that I wanted people dropping dead in church; I only mention the matter as interesting.

  At our church, we take communion once monthly, on the first Sunday of each month. I sang alto in the choir, and we choir members sat in a space reserved for us on the chancel. We were served communion separately from the rest of the congregation, so I couldn't rush to see what had happened when I saw Mrs. Franbold keel over right in front of Mr. Grover Underhill. Rather than trying to help her or catch her, Mr. Underhill jumped out of the way, plowing into several other people and nearly felling a couple of them. I frowned, thinking this behavior was typical of him. He was a certified meany, as far as I was concerned. Not that I knew him well, but what I did know of him, I didn't like. Poor Mrs. Franbold. Just her luck to be standing next to Mr. Underhill.

  Squinting, I saw the folks around Mrs. Franbold steady themselves after being bumped by Mr. Underhill and gasp when they saw the reason for his ungentlemanly behavior. A few seconds later, I saw several people, including Sam Rotondo, who had taken going to church with us even though he'd grown up in the Roman Catholic Church, gather around the fallen woman. I lost Sam in the crowd when he knelt, probably to organize things and see what he could do for Mrs. Franbold.