Shaken Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 13): Historical Mystery Page 13

  “Oh! Of course! I’ve seen pictures of men in frock coats. And you’re right. All the men wore them back in the 1880s or thereabouts.”

  “Some of them still do,” said Sam. “Prophet probably can’t afford to replace it.”

  We were silent for a moment or two. I don’t know about Sam, but I was feeling a wee bit sorry for poor old Lou Prophet who, according to the reports I’d read, had been a real, true, wild-and-woolly character back in the day. Not sure precisely what day, but I think it had passed long since. Ah, well. I decided to ask Sam more questions, only this time about Frank.

  “So, what was Frank’s story? Did he decide to kill me by himself, or did somebody pay him to murder me?”

  “Not sure yet.”

  My lips pressed together until I reminded myself of the squinchy-lipped Mr. Crimstone, and I smoothed them out. I was a spiritualist-medium, and I had a certain air of fashion to maintain and protect. Wrinkles from frowning wouldn’t go at all well with my established persona.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He said he acted of his own volition, but I have a feeling there’s more to the story than that. Frank’s never been known to think up things for himself before. He said he did it because he doesn’t want us to marry, but I suspect someone else at least prodded him to do the deed.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He’s wanted for robbery back in NYC,” said Sam. “And he ran out on his bail. Poor Renata.” He shook his head. “That’s what the wanted poster was about. But Frank’s dumb as a box of rocks. I don’t think he’d actually try to kill you unless somebody else suggested doing so might be a good idea, especially if he offered Frank money to do it. Somebody wants you out of the way.”

  “We’ve already gone over lists and lists of people who might want me dead,” I said, feeling not merely sore and sleepy, but quite dispirited.

  “I’m going to cable Renata tomorrow. If I can get moved into the house across the street from you soon, I’ll put Renata up there—providing she’s willing to visit Pasadena for her son’s sake. I know she’s as fed up with him as I am. But attempted murder is a much more serious crime than any he’s been picked up for before now. I wish her husband would come out here. He’s about the only one Frank might listen to.”

  “What’s his father’s name?”

  “Francis. Same as his. Frank’s a junior, although the name is the only decent thing he inherited from Frank Senior, who’s a good man. Renata and he are lucky to have each other. But he’s washed his hands of Frank Junior.”

  “That’s kind of sad, although I’d just as soon wash my hands of him, too. It’s not every day somebody tries to murder me. And to think it was your nephew.”

  “Yeah. Too bad we can’t prove he was adopted and give him back to whoever spawned him. I fear it was just bad luck on Frank and Renata’s part to have reared a pig like Frank.”

  “I’d say so.” This conversation was downright depressing. “Do they have any other children, or is Frank their only one?”

  “They’ve got another boy and a girl. They’re both good kids. Carmine is a couple of years older than Frank, and Pia’s a couple of years younger.”

  “Pia’s a pretty name, too.”

  Sam shrugged.

  “Why do you think Frank went so wrong?”

  “Honestly? I don’t have a clue. He’s got great parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents on both sides of his family But Frank? Frank grew up rotten. I don’t know how or why.”

  “Boy, you never know about these things, do you? I’d hate to have a child go wrong like that.”

  “Renata and Frank Senior aren’t too thrilled about it, either.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was the bacon-grease painter, either,” said Sam.

  “That sounds more like something he’d do than knife-throwing,” I said. Then I wondered if I was right. “How the heck did he learn how to throw a knife so well, anyway?”

  I saw Sam’s head shake, even though the light was dim. “Damned if I know.”

  “You and Lou Prophet,” I said, feeling cranky. “Can’t say a single sentence without putting a swear word in it somewhere.”

  Sam laughed.

  It figures.

  Fifteen

  The house was dark when Sam walked me to the front door. Spike stood just inside the door, wagging. I’d taught him not to go into a barking frenzy when a family member came to either the front or the side door, and he generally remembered. Not always, but I was pleased he remembered that night. Nobody ever came to the back door. As soon as Sam pushed the door open, however, Spike was all over the both of us. But he didn’t bark.

  My physical condition didn’t take kindly to my well-meaning dachshund, however, and I spoke sternly to my darling hound. “Spike. Sit.”

  A little hurt—I could tell—Spike sat. And he looked up at me with the most mournful eyes I’ve ever seen. I wanted to squat down beside him and pet him for an hour or two, but I couldn’t squat. I could hardly stand. Therefore, because I was a total mess, I started to cry. Just a little bit, mind you.

  “Sam,” I said, sniffling pathetically. “Will you please bring me that horrible morphine syrup? I need some. I c-can’t even pet my d-dog!” Those words made me cry harder.

  “Sure, sweetheart. Spike, come along with me, and we’ll get your mommy something that’ll make her feel better.”

  Because Sam hadn’t spoken the proper code word to release Spike from his seated position, I did it for him, “Okay, Spike. Go with Sam.” And he did. What a brilliant dog I had!

  Sam was as good as his word. I’d managed to make my way to the dining-room table and had more or less fallen into a chair when he returned with the morphine syrup, Spike, a spoon and a peppermint drop. I squinted at the latter object. “Where’d you find a peppermint drop?”

  “Guess your father left ’em in a bowl on the kitchen counter. I took one because I know the syrup tastes bad.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I drank the spoonful of syrup he poured out for me, grimaced, and had opened my mouth to receive the peppermint drop, when Sam stopped it on its way to my mouth. “What?” I asked, irked. That syrup was awful. I needed that peppermint drop, darn it!

  He didn’t answer me, but lifted the peppermint drop to his nose and sniffed at it. He reminded me of Spike.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “This doesn’t smell like a peppermint drop to me.”

  “Let me smell it.”

  He closed his fist around the little candy tidbit. “Don’t put it in your mouth.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. This thing smells like almonds, not peppermint. Maybe it’s an almond drop, but unless I know for sure, I’m not giving it to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because compounds of cyanide smell like almonds. Bitter almonds.”

  “Cyanide!”

  “Yes. Cyanide.”

  “And cyanide smells like almonds?”

  “Bitter almonds.”

  “Bitter almonds? Why bitter? Is a bitter almond different from a regular one?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I’ll never get that taste out of my mouth now,” I said, my voice quavering. Shoot, I was a disaster.

  “I’ll see if there’s something else in there for you to eat. Something I know is safe.”

  “Why is somebody doing these things to me?” I asked. I felt like wailing, but I didn’t want to wake up my folks or Aunt Vi. I also didn’t want to sound like Mrs. Pinkerton, who was the best and most accomplished wailer I’d ever met in my life.

  “I wish I knew,” said Sam as he went back in the kitchen. He returned a moment or two later with a piece of bread. He’d buttered it and spread some of Aunt Vi’s raspberry preserves on it.

  “How do you know the preserves aren’t poisoned?” I asked, hesitating to take the bread.

  “I sniffed them and tasted them. No almonds.”

>   I took the piece of bread and gobbled it down. If I died, I’d at least die with a pleasant taste in my mouth. “Thanks, Sam. Do you think it was Frank who put the candy dish in the kitchen?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. You don’t lock your doors, do you?”

  “Not very often,” I admitted.

  “I don’t like this,” said he.

  “Nor do I.”

  “I’ll interrogate Frank again tomorrow. I can probably get him to tell me who he’s been talking to recently. He might have been manipulated into using that knife on you. He’s as dim as a fading ember, and he wouldn’t know if someone were twisting him to do his will.”

  “How poetic,” I said.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I packed the rest of those drops and the bowl in some waxed paper I found in the pantry. Tomorrow morning I’ll take them to the station to be tested, so if anyone asks about them, that’s where they went. You might ask your father if he left a bowl of candy on the kitchen counter.”

  Thinking—not awfully hard, because I was sore and tired—I said after a moment or two, “It would be most unlike anyone in the family to leave sweets on the counter.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Ants. They love water and sweet stuff.”

  “Good point. You might also ask if anyone bothered to lock the door this evening after we left.”

  “I will, although I doubt anyone did. The front door was unlocked when we came home. As I already told you, we don’t generally lock the doors.”

  “Better start locking them.”

  “I guess so.” What a bleak thing to have to do. Nobody locked their doors in Pasadena. Well, not in my neighborhood, anyway. I suppose the rich folks in the San Rafael Hills or on Orange Grove did. But the folks in my neighborhood didn’t have a whole lot to steal. I decided to talk about something else. “What did you think of Lou Prophet?”

  Sam grinned, surprising me. I’d gained the impression he strongly disapproved of Mr. Prophet. “He’s quite a character.”

  “He sure is. I really have read about him, you know. Robert Browning owns quite a collection of what he calls yellow-back novels, and Mr. Prophet features in several of them. I don’t know how much of what’s written in them is true.”

  “Probably not much,” said Sam.

  “Probably. But even so, he’s lived an interesting life.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “He fits into Pasadena like Cinderella’s stepsisters’ feet fitted into that glass slipper.”

  Sam chuckled. He said, “I’m going to talk to Mrs. Killebrew tomorrow, too. I’d like to move into that house as soon as possible. Maybe…” His words trailed off.

  “Maybe what?”

  With a huff, Sam said, “This may be one of the biggest mistakes I’ll ever make, but maybe Prophet can stay there for a while. He could be a kind of watch-guard or caretaker, although I doubt he’s taken care of a whole lot in his life so far.”

  “According to the dime novels, he had a big dun horse, and he took care of him.”

  “A horse?” After giving me one of those looks, Sam said, “I see.”

  “Yes. A horse. He was some kind of bay which, I think, is a color. Of a horse. Not just a bay. Some adjective comes before bay. But I don’t know anything about horses.”

  “Me, neither. There were lots of horses in New York in the poorer sections. Kids got paid to pick up the horse poop. Street kids.” Sam shook his head as if he didn’t like remembering the squalor in some parts of his native city.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yeah.” Sam sighed heavily.

  Because I didn’t want to think about poor little children having to scoop horse poop off the streets of New York City, I said. “He named his horse Mean and Ugly, too.” Then I giggled, not quite able to imagine anyone naming an animal something like Mean and Ugly.

  “Great name,” said Sam. His mouth kind of crinkled, as if he wanted to smile but was trying to be stern. He gave that up after a second or three and grinned.

  “Mean and Ugly.” Glancing down, I saw my faithful hound staring up at me, hope writ large on his features. Spike loved the kitchen and the dining room, because that’s where food resided most of the time. He’d learned long ago that food wasn’t always to be found in the kitchen and dining room, but he lived in hope. “I’d never name you anything so horrid, Spike. Your daddy named you.” Instantly, I wished I hadn’t thought about Billy. I’d originally got Spike to cheer Billy up. My ploy had worked. For a while. It was my turn to sigh.

  Sam reached over and took my hand. “It’s all right, Daisy. Billy loved you and Spike.”

  “Yes. He did. But about Mr. Prophet. Do you really think he might want to stay at Mrs. Killebrew’s house? Or at least agree to do it?”

  “It’ll be our house if he stays there. But I think having him there might be a good idea. I’m sure he’d prefer it to the Odd Fellows’ Home of Christian Charity.”

  I chuffed my scorn. “Christian charity, my foot. Mr. Brimstone is about as full of Christian charity as…as your stinky nephew.”

  “You’re right. And I like the name Brimstone. Fits him. Anyhow, Prophet might keep an eye on things while I’m at work. I hate to think people are coming in and out of your house as easily as they seem to be doing. Or painting the steps with bacon grease. Prophet could…I don’t know. Watch the place and keep an eye on this house, until we tie the knot and move in there.”

  “That would be a kind thing to do, Sam.”

  “Maybe. Maybe it’s stupid, too. I’m not sure I trust him very much.”

  “I don’t know why not. He’s…a little strange, but that’s only because he’s old and…and…well, not from Pasadena.”

  “Ha! Neither am I.”

  “No, but you’re from a big city. I got the feeling Mr. Prophet hasn’t lived in very many big cities.”

  “He seemed to like Los Angeles until that accident with the two ladies and the liquor.”

  “He didn’t call them ladies.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Sam laughed out loud.

  I shook my head, extremely glad to have met Mr. Lou Prophet, and that’s not even including the gratitude I felt toward him for bashing Frank around.

  “As I said, if I can get into the house soon, it would also be a good place for Renata to stay, too, if she comes out here. And if she and Prophet can stand each other. Heck, Prophet could stay in the little back house.”

  “I kind of liked him. He’s certainly not like anyone else I’ve ever met.”

  “Nope. I think he’s one of a kind.”

  “There used to be more like him. At least according to the dime novels and the flickers.”

  “Right.” Sam used his palms to push himself to his feet. “Well, I’d better get going. Have to work tomorrow, and I want to talk to the Killebrews and Prophet again. And Frank. I’ll wring the truth out of that little pipsqueak one way or another.”

  “After you wring the truth out of him, maybe you can wring his neck,” I suggested, only half-joking.

  “Good idea.” He saw I aimed to get up and walk him to the door and said, “Stay there until the syrup starts to work. Then lock all the doors in the whole house before you go to bed.”

  “Nobody ever comes in through the back door,” I said.

  Sam gave me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me squint. “Somebody might try now, Daisy. Somebody wants you dead. You don’t want you dead. I don’t want you dead. Your parents don’t want you dead. Spike doesn’t want you dead. So just lock the damned doors, will you? Including the back door. Hell, that door leads right into your bedroom, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I admitted, feeling silly to have protested locking the back door. I told myself I had to get a firm grip on what was now the reality of my life—which, apparently, included someone who wanted me out of it.

  How depressing.

  Spike and I sat in the dining room until the morphine syrup began making me feel giddy, so I got up, balancing myself on the table—I
don’t know how my Billy could have drunk so much of that stuff and stayed conscious—then slowly made the rounds of the doors, using my new cane to brace me as I walked. I made sure every single door in the house was locked, including the door to the basement. Heck, for all I knew, a murderer might be lurking down there at that very moment, just waiting for me to go to sleep so he could do me in.

  I wished I hadn’t thought about that.

  Oh, well. If a bad guy really was down there, he couldn’t get out now. Maybe I’d just leave the basement door locked and let him die there. We didn’t use the basement much. Heck, if a nasty murderer died down there, we wouldn’t even know about it until he began to stink.

  It was definitely time to stagger to bed. I’m generally not so ruthless. Or weird.

  Spike and I had a peaceful night’s sleep. I do believe that, because Sam had me lock all the doors, any last little frizzle of nervousness I might have felt about being murdered left me for a while. Or maybe that was just the morphine syrup working its magic. I could hardly wait until I didn’t need to use the stuff any longer.

  Sixteen

  Friday morning I slept later than usual. That’s probably because I got to bed later than usual on Thursday night. By the time I crawled out of bed, tested my various limbs to see if they would support me without my having to drink morphine syrup, deciding they would although they’d hurt, I was almost ready to tell my family about last night’s choir practice.

  Unfortunately, the only family members at home that morning were Pa and Spike. Spike had already figured out my tale of woe from the way Sam and I had spoken to each other Thursday night. Pa was horrified and outraged. He slammed the newspaper he’d been reading onto the kitchen table, crunching it, and stared at me.

  “That lousy son of a bitch tried to knife you?”

  Now, my father never swears. I guess I have to amend that to rarely swears. I don’t think I’d ever heard him utter a bad word until that Friday morning in January.

  “Yes, he did. Sam locked him up, and he’s going to be charged with attempted murder.”