Dark Spirits (A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery, Book 7) Read online

  Chapter 2

  On Thursday morning, my mind was still unsettled about Jackson's problems, but I tried not to worry my father who, as usual, went with Spike and me for a walk after breakfast.

  In fact, it was he who brought up the subject as we walked along our pepper-tree-lined street, Marengo Avenue, in the gorgeous city of Pasadena. Spike didn't have a care in the world. After all, nobody hated him just because he was black. Well, he was black and tan, but you know what I mean.

  "Did someone really burn a cross on Jackson's lawn, Daisy? You didn't just say that to make a point, did you?"

  I stared at my father. "What? I'm not in the habit of creating nasty scenarios to make a point, Pa. Well, except when I'm working." The full meaning of his words sank in, and I could hardly believe he'd said them. "In fact... in fact... darn it, why would you think I'd ever do such a thing?" My feelings were hurt. And by my father, of all people. My father, who is probably the most wonderful human male on the face of the earth!

  "Don't get upset, sweetheart. It's just... well, it's troubling that you know someone who's in bad with the Klan. I know some of those folks, and they take themselves pretty seriously."

  "You know Klan members?" Shocked doesn't half describe my condition at this piece of information.

  Pa heaved a big sigh. "Yeah. I'll never understand it, either. These guys aren't bad people."

  "They must be stupid, if they're not bad," I said. "Heck, the Klan hates everybody who doesn't believe precisely as they do, and they believe they're God's chosen people. Why else would they terrorize Negroes, Jews, Gypsies, Indians and Roman Catholics? That's insane thinking, Pa."

  "Don't get mad at me about it," said Pa, not sounding angry but, rather, frustrated. "I agree with you." He peered down at me, a puzzled expression on his face. "What's this about Jews and Gypsies and Indians and Catholics? I thought they only hated Negroes."

  "No. I actually asked Miss Petrie at the Pasadena Public Library to guide me to some reference materials about the Klan when Jackson first talked to me about his brother's troubles. The library's periodical room has newspapers from all over the country. I read a bunch of them that had articles about the Klan. The KKK hates everybody who isn't them. If you see what I mean. And they've done some perfectly horrible things in a lot of states."

  "So you said. Wonder why they're so rampant in Oklahoma?"

  I shrugged, feeling helpless. "I don't know. The governor of the state seemed particularly concerned about Tulsa and some city that begins with an O. It's an Indian name, I believe." I huffed. "Which is probably the only remnant of the Indian culture left in the state." The unfairness of the world often got my goat. Which is an odd expression, but I don't suppose it matters. "Um... oh, yes, it's Okmulgee. I guess both Tulsa and Okmulgee are kind of near Arkansas and Texas, and there's been a lot of Klan violence in Texas, but I'm not sure why they're so... raucous, I guess is an all right word, in Oklahoma. They claim they're fighting for Americanism, whatever that is. They don't like immigrants of any stamp."

  "Heck, if you go back far enough, we're all immigrants." Pa shook his head. "And if they hate immigrants, then I really don't understand why Charlie's a member. He's the most peaceable fellow I know. Anyhow, his parents came here from Germany in the late 'eighties, so wouldn't he be sort of an immigrant?"

  "I should think so. Do his Klan buddies know he's a first-generation American?"

  "Don't know, sweetheart. The Klan sounds crazy to me. My family came here with the Pilgrims, but I don't have anything against other folks coming here to make better lives for themselves."

  "Have you talked to... what's his name? Charlie who?"

  "Charlie Smith."

  "Smith? That doesn't sound German to me." Ever since the war, I'd held a particular grudge against Germans because they killed my husband. Not quickly and kindly, but slowly and painfully, with mustard gas, which has got to be one of the most hideous weapons ever perpetrated against anyone, ever. I tried not to hate Charlie because he came of German stock, but I was perfectly willing to detest him for his Klan affiliation.

  "I expect the name started out Schmidt or something like that."

  "Probably. Those guys at Ellis Island weren't great spellers."

  Pa chuckled. "No. I guess they weren't." His expression turned serious once more. "Still, I can't figure out why Charlie joined the Klan."

  "Have you asked him?"

  "Yeah. He said the Klan's patriotic."

  "Patriotic?" I think I snorted, not a very feminine or spiritualistic sound, but really! Patriotic? Lunatic, maybe. "Perhaps he should pay a trip to the library and do some research," I said wryly.

  "Maybe he should, at that."

  We spoke no more about unpleasant things as we walked among the dripping pepper trees. I love those trees even if they are kind of messy. Spike was in his glory, snuffling through all the fallen pinkish seeds and dead leaves. I once asked Vi about those seeds, which look sort of like red peppercorns, but she said they aren't edible so I've never eaten one, proving that even I can follow advice once in a while.

  When we got back home, the telephone was ringing. Since every now and then I can not only take advice, but can even occasionally display common sense, I didn't rush to answer it. Rather, I hung Spike's leash in the kitchen, took off my sweater, hung it in my closet, and told myself that if the 'phone stopped ringing by the time I did all that stuff, the call wasn't important.

  It didn't. Stop ringing, I mean. I exchanged a glance with my father, who shrugged. We knew it was Mrs. Pinkerton on the other end of the wire, and the persistence of that dad-gummed ringing also told us she was in another taking. Or perhaps this taking was left over from that of the day before. I hate to admit it, but I almost didn't blame her for being upset about what had happened the day before.

  With slumping shoulders, I walked to the telephone, which was on the wall in the kitchen, and picked up the receiver. "Gumm-Majesty residence, Mrs. Majesty speaking."

  Perhaps I'd best explain about the Gumms and Majestys at this point. I was the only Majesty extant at the time this story took place. My Billy was the last of the Majestys on his limb of the Majesterial family tree. My family name is Gumm, and the rest of the residents in our snug little bungalow on South Marengo Avenue were Gumms.

  "Daisy!" shrieked Mrs. Pinkerton.

  I pulled the receiver an inch or so away from my ear in an attempt to forestall deafness.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Pinkerton," said I, in my soothing spiritualist's voice. We spiritualists have to use all the tools available to us, and a low, purring voice is de rigueur. In this instance, my tone of voice didn't help. Not that I'd expected it to. When Mrs. Pinkerton was this upset, it would take a brick upside the head to get the woman to calm down. Or a tarot-card reading by yours truly. I suppressed my sigh. I did, however, take a moment to shoo our party-line neighbors off the wire, including the annoying Mrs. Barrow, who absolutely loved listening in on my conversations. I'm sure my conversations were a good deal more interesting than hers, but still....

  I heard the last click, and said, "Please, Mrs. Pinkerton, try to calm down." This advice was akin to telling the Pacific Ocean to stop making waves, but I tried it every now and then for form's sake. Didn't work this time any more than it usually did.

  "Daisy! They planted a bomb!"

  I jerked up from my slump and stared at the receiver in my hand. "I beg your pardon?" My spiritualist voice had risen an octave and no longer purred.

  "They planted a bomb!" she repeated. "In the mailbox! It blew up the box and the pillar and shattered Jackson's gatehouse windows!"

  Very well, the time for shilly-shallying was over. "Did you call the police? If you didn't, do so instantly. Right this minute." I remembered with whom I was speaking and said, "Never mind. I'll call the police."

  "Oh, Daisy, thank you! I knew you'd know what to do!"

  An idiot would have known what to do if someone planted a bomb in her mailbox, but I didn't say so to
Mrs. P. "I'll telephone Detective Rotondo right this minute and then come to your house. Is that all right with you?"

  "Oh, yes. Yes. Yes! Thank you, Daisy! You're so good to me!"

  She was right about that. For once, the woman didn't keep thanking me but hung up the telephone on her end of the wire. As soon as I depressed the receiver on our 'phone a couple of times, tested the wire to make sure Mrs. Barrow hadn't sneaked back on, and sucked in a deep breath for courage, I dialed the Pasadena Police Department. As the 'phone rang on the other end, I glanced at my father, who stood at the kitchen table, watching me, a troubled expression on his face.

  "Somebody planted a bomb in Mrs. Pinkerton's mailbox. It blew up."

  Pa's eyes widened, and I wanted to ask him what he thought of his pal Charlie's Klan affiliation now. But someone answered the other end of the wire, so I couldn't.

  "Detective Rotondo, please," I said to the policeman who'd answered at the station. "This is Mrs. Majesty calling."

  I strained to hear a snicker on the other end of the wire, but couldn't. Sam came in for a good deal of ribbing by his fellow policemen because of me, which wasn't fair to either of us, but I'd recently begun to believe that human beings were almost always irrational and often bestial creatures who gave ourselves too much credit just because we didn't belong to some lower form of life. Last time I looked, it wasn't amoebas or dogs or raccoons or elephants or hippopotami that were causing the world's troubles. It was people.

  Sam picked up the telephone on his end, so my reveries ended abruptly. "What is it?" he barked into his receiver. He would.

  "Darn you, Sam Rotondo. Why aren't you ever polite to me when I telephone?"

  "Because a call from you always means trouble," he said as if he meant it. Huh.

  "Maybe, but this time it's not I who am in trouble. Someone planted a bomb in Mrs. Pinkerton's mailbox, and it went off, shattering that concrete pillar it stood on and breaking the windows in Jackson's gatehouse. Mrs. Pinkerton is in a tizzy."

  "What?"

  It was a bellow, and yet once more I had to yank the receiver away from my ear. "Darn it, Sam, don't yell at me! I didn't do the evil deed. I suspect the Klan members who have been harassing Jackson and his family are the culprits here."

  "God damn it."

  "And it's no use swearing at me, either. I'm headed to Mrs. Pinkerton's house right now, and I suggest you get a wiggle on and get some men on the job as quickly as you can. Mrs. Pinkerton, unlike Jackson and his kin, is white and has money, don't forget." Very well, that was snide of me. But it was also the truth. I knew from personal experience that the PPD paid more attention to the city's wealthy citizens than they did to the rest of us. Or the Jacksons who lived here. A dirty shame, that.

  "God damn it," said Sam once more, and then he slammed the receiver down. Politeness was not one of Sam's major personality characteristics.

  Since I was used to it, I merely hung the receiver up on my end of the wire and turned to speak to my father. Spike was there, wagging at me, so I knelt and gave him a vigorous petting. "I have to go to Mrs. Pinkerton's place. Lordy, I hope this doesn't mean more trouble for Jackson. You know, Pa, his only sin is to be a Negro. He's a very nice man. That Klan is a wicked thing."

  "You don't know the bomb was planted by the Klan," Pa said, as if he held on to some faint hope.

  I said, "Huh. Until Jackson's brother moved here from Oklahoma, nobody ever bothered Jackson or his family. In fact, I saw his son Jimmy playing the cornet in—" Nuts. I'd seen Jackson's son playing the cornet in a band in a speakeasy, but I didn't want to tell Pa that. Not that I'd been doing anything wrong in that stupid speakeasy; I was there on Mrs. Pinkerton's behalf. I swear, sometimes that woman loomed large as perhaps my biggest problem as well as my best client.

  "In what?"

  "In August," I replied lamely. Then I got to my feet and lammed it out of the kitchen and into my bedroom, which was right off the kitchen. Billy and I used to share that room because it was the easiest room for Billy to get in and out of. I remained there after his death because... well, why not? Spike joined me in staring at my well-stocked closet.

  "What should I wear, Spike?"

  A chill hung to the September morning, which was somewhat unusual, since September in Pasadena is generally a scorcher. In fact, the first day of school has traditionally been the hottest day of the year, and we kids felt compelled to carry all our textbooks home to show the folks. We'd be walking with a hundred pounds of books under our arms in a hundred-degree heat, some of us for miles. Occasionally I wonder why we didn't all die of heat prostration. Not that the weather has any bearing on the present story, but I thought I'd mention it.

  Spike voiced no opinion regarding my wardrobe question, so I opted for a rusty-brown, ankle-length day dress with a low waist and long sleeves that gathered into cuffs at the wrist. My hair is sort of rusty-red, and the color of the dress went well with it. I opted for black accessories: hat, handbag, and low-heeled pumps with a strap over the arch. I always had a sensation of something akin to glee when I managed to put myself together in so fashionable a manner, because I'd made the dress, hat and handbag with my very own skillful fingers. I'm no shoemaker, so I had to buy the shoes, but I got them on sale at Nash's. I expect the entire outfit, which was perfect for the day and my occupation, probably cost me no more than a buck and a half. Well, with the shoes, maybe you could add another half-dollar to the total cost.

  After I got my outfit assembled, I retired to the bathroom, where I washed my face, combed my hair into submission—it wasn't hard to do, since I'd had it bobbed a year or two earlier, and kept it short—and dabbed a bit of light-colored rice powder on my cheeks to cover my freckles. No lipstick. I always aimed for the pale and spectral image appropriate to my profession, but I did use a little mascara and a little eyebrow pencil. And then I was ready to drive our family's almost-new Chevrolet to Mrs. Pinkerton's house and face even so unpleasant a scene as I expected to find there.

  I was right about that last part.

  Chapter 3

  Boy, what a mess. The bomb had taken out not merely the cement pillar into which the mailbox had been stuck by some clever craftsman years earlier, but some of the black iron fencing leading up to the gatehouse, as well. Shards from every single one of the windows in Jackson's gate-guarding sanctuary lay on the ground or inside the gatehouse building.

  The police had arrived before me. That's because they didn't have to worry about dressing appropriately. They wore uniforms or cheap suits every time they went out to investigate a crime. I wasn't pleased to see Sam Rotondo standing there, fists on hips, glaring at the shattered remains of the pillar. He was surrounded by uniforms, and poor Jackson looked as if he wished he were elsewhere. I didn't blame him.

  Therefore, I decided to begin my work here, at the scene of the crime, and leave Mrs. Pinkerton to stew in hysterics for another few minutes. I parked the Chevrolet in the drive and got out.

  Sam looked up at me and scowled. Jackson looked up at me and smiled. "Miss Daisy! Thank the good Lord, you come. Mrs. Pinkerton's in a real state. Thank you, child."

  "There's no need to thank me, Jackson. I'm your friend. And these men"—I swept my arm in a broad gesture meant to include the entire police contingent—"are going to help solve this terrible crime." I speared a couple of uniforms with a sharp look. "Aren't you, gentlemen?"

  One of the uniforms shuffled his feet and muttered, "Yes, ma'am."

  I nodded sharply. "Good." Turning to Sam, I said, "I presume this was a Klan crime?"

  "We don't know anything yet except that it happened," he all but snarled at me. "We're at the preliminary stages of our investigation."

  "Nuts. You know as well as I do that someone in the Klan planted that bomb, Sam Rotondo. Mr. Jackson and his family have been harassed for weeks by those horrible people."

  Jackson nodded. Sam grunted. I kept an eagle eye on the rest of the policemen and noticed a couple of them exchange what looked to
me like guilty glances. I turned to one of the policemen who'd glanced guiltily at the other policeman.

  "What? Do you know something about this terrible crime?" I asked him. He was a young man, probably younger than I, who was twenty-three at the time. "I know some of you in the police force are members of the KKK. Are you? If you are, you're breaking a city ordinance, you know."

  Very well, while it's true I can sometimes hold my tongue, most of the time I can't. I didn't really mean to accuse the young man, but I was madder than a wet hen at the moment. To see Jackson there, amid a sea of white men in uniforms, all of whom probably thought they were somehow superior to him, just made me mad.

  "No, ma'am," said the young policeman, whose name, I saw, was Officer Petrie—I instantly wondered if he was related to my Miss Petrie, a librarian at the Pasadena Public Library—stammering slightly.

  "Hmph," said I.

  "Daisy, get out of here. Go and hold Mrs. Pinkerton's hand, will you? We have work to do."

  I ignored Sam and turned to Jackson once more. "Are they treating you all right, Jackson? Do you want me to stay here and make sure they do their jobs?"

  Sam said, "God damn it."

  I continued to ignore him. I was worried about Jackson, darn it.

  "No, ma'am. I'm doin' all right here. These gentlemen are treatin' me okay."

  "They'd better be," I said, raking the assembled policemen with one last good glare. "You be sure to tell me if they don't."

  Sam cursed again. Again I ignored him. However, I did get into the Chevrolet, pressed the starter button and continued up the long, deodar-lined drive to the front of the house. It had been a couple of years since I'd felt obliged to enter through the back door like a tradesman. I, Daisy Gumm Majesty, spiritualist medium, entered through the front door or I didn't enter at all.

  Very well, perhaps my indignation was a wee bit high that morning. I tried to tone down my anger and resentment as I stomped past the marble lions, walked up to the gigantic double doors, and whacked the knocker with a good deal more force than was strictly necessary.