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

  "Well, you do, don't you, Pa? You told me your friend, Charlie Smith, is a member of the Klan."

  "Charlie didn't have anything to do with planting a bomb," said Pa with great force.

  "How do you know? Anyone filled with enough hate to join the KKK might be persuaded to do almost anything."

  "Not Charlie. He's a good, decent man."

  "Huh. Your good, decent chum joined an organization that only exists because its members hate everyone who isn't one of them."

  "Daisy," said Ma, darn it.

  Sam turned to Pa. "If you know someone in the Klan, Joe, it might be really helpful if I could talk to him." He held up a hand when Pa opened his mouth to say something. "And no, I'm not accusing your friend. But he might know something or someone who has information about who's been harassing Mrs. Pinkerton and Jackson."

  "Well..." Pa looked mighty unhappy. I was sorry to have put him in the middle of a muddle, but not sorry enough to regret having flung Charlie the Klansman into the conversation.

  "He just wants to talk to him, Pa. For all you know, Charlie will be as horrified as we are that people in an organization to which he belongs are bombing people's mailboxes, burning crosses and sending threatening letters."

  "That's a good point, Joe," said Ma, much to my surprise.

  Pa heaved a sigh. "All right. I'll get Charlie over here. He works for the city—"

  "Then he's violating a city ordinance by belonging to the KKK," I said triumphantly, interrupting my father, which wasn't very nice of me, but oh, well.

  With a tilt of his head, Pa glanced at me somberly. "Wonder if he knows that. You know, it might be a good idea if you did talk to him, Sam. I suspect he doesn't realize he's breaking the law."

  "That's true, Pa. Why, he might lose his job." I know I shouldn't have felt such glee when I said that, but I did anyway.

  "Right. I'll ask him to come over to the house at five tomorrow evening. That time all right with you, Sam?"

  "Fine. And then Daisy and I can visit the Jacksons."

  "Oh, but it might be getting dark then," said Ma. "I don't know that I want Daisy in that neighborhood after dark."

  "Peggy," said Aunt Vi, pinning my mother with a frown, which was a most unusual thing for her to do. "Jackson is a fine man. I'm sure his family are good, upstanding citizens. Just because the man's a Negro doesn't mean his neighborhood is dangerous."

  "Well, but..." Ma hung her head. "You're right. Of course. I, of all people, should know that."

  "Why you of all people?" asked Sam as if he were genuinely curious.

  "Why, because of our history, of course," said Ma, as if everyone should know what she was talking about.

  Sam still appeared confused, so I enlightened him. "Crispus Attucks," I said. "The first man killed by the British during the Boston Massacre at the beginning of the Revolution. He was a black man."

  "You're kidding me," said Sam, incredulous.

  "Am not. Both of my parents are descended from Revolutionary stock. They taught my brother and sister and me all about it before we even started going to school."

  "I'll be dam-uh-darned," said Sam.

  I had no doubt about that, although I didn't say so.

  * * *

  Choir practice that evening went quite well, and I was pleased to be asked by my friend and fellow singer, Lucille Spinks, if I'd be willing to be a bridesmaid when she married her fiancé, Mr. Albert Zollinger. Mr. Zollinger seemed to be a fine man, but he was a good deal older than Lucy and kind of stringy. Then again, the Great War had wiped out so many young men that a girl had to take what was available if she ever wanted to be a wife and mother. That doesn't sound awfully romantic, but Lucy was making the best of it. And she sure loved flashing her diamond engagement ring around. She'd darned near blinded me with it a time or two.

  October was almost upon us, the weather was cooling down some, and Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director, had us practicing "For All the Saints" already, even though we wouldn't be singing that one until the end of the October. That was all right with me, because I love that hymn. I also loved the anthem for the upcoming Sunday, which was "Amazing Grace." In fact, Lucy and I were scheduled to sing a duet during the second verse of that one. Mr. George Finster (bass) and Mr. Lou Ballantine (tenor) were singing a duet during the fifth verse (it's a long hymn). As Lucy's and my voices blended during practice (she's a soprano), my mind wandered to the vexed question of the Klan.

  Here we were in church, supposedly good Christians all. How could anyone who called him or herself a Christian belong to an organization devoted to hate? Why, the Klan even murdered people. I'm sure Jesus Himself would loathe the tenets of the KKK. I decided I'd ask Mr. Charlie Smith if he was a Christian, and if he thought being a Christian was compatible with being a Klansman.

  Sam would be furious. Probably Pa wouldn't much like it, either. And I sure as anything hoped Mr. Smith wouldn't.

  "When we've been there ten thousand years," we sang with gusto during the last verse, "Bright shining as the sun, We've no less days to sing God's praise Than when we've first begun."

  Hmm. It was difficult for me to imagine ten thousand years of anything at all, and singing for ten thousand years sounded as if it might hurt one's throat. However, that's clearly not the point of the hymn. I have a really good imagination, but sometimes I'm a trifle too literal. Then I remembered that "Amazing Grace" had been penned by a repentant slave-ship captain, John Newton. I'd bet he'd detest the Klan, too, if he knew about it.

  Mr. Hostetter interrupted my musings, which was a good thing, since I was supposed to be thinking about God and His mercies and stuff like that.

  "Very well done, everyone. Miss Spinks and Mrs. Majesty, your voices blend beautifully. Mr. Ballantine and Mr. Finster, you also sounded quite good. Mr. Finster, you need to be just a trifle louder, and you went a little sharp on the second line. Let's go over your verse again."

  Lucy and I exchanged a look of triumph. We were better than the men! I know what you must be thinking. We were in church, which is no place for vanity. Still, we were proud of ourselves.

  People. There's no doing anything with them. Anyhow, my vanity received another boost when Mr. Hostetter changed the order of the duets. On Sunday, Lucy and I would be singing the fifth verse, and the two men would sing the second. I guess our choir director didn't want to leave the congregation on a sour note. So to speak.

  When I drove the Chevrolet down the hill to our little bungalow—yes, it's an easy walk, but I don't like walking alone at night—I wasn't sorry to see Sam's big black Hudson sitting in front of our house. In fact, I rushed into the house via the side porch, pausing only to scoop up Spike, who greeted me with his customary exuberance, and proceeded to the living room. I'd expected to see Pa and Sam playing gin rummy, but they weren't. In fact, they seemed to be having a serious discussion, which broke off instantly when they saw me.

  "What?" I said. "Keep talking. Don't let me interrupt you." Even as I spoke the words, I knew they wouldn't work. The men in my life seemed determined to keep me uninformed about the good stuff.

  Standing, Sam said, "I was just leaving."

  "Thanks for stopping by, Sam," said Pa.

  "Oh, no you don't!" I told them both. "What were you talking about? It was about Mr. Pinkerton and Jackson and the Klan, wasn't it?"

  Pa and Sam exchanged a glance, then looked at me, and looked at each other again. After several uncomfortable seconds, Pa said, "You might as well tell her, Sam. She'll find out anyway."

  Hugging Spike to my chest—he was quite a largish bundle—I said, "That's right, Sam. So spill it." Then something truly horrible occurred to me. "Please don't tell me Mr. Pinkerton has joined the Klan! He's such a nice man!"

  Naturally, Sam frowned at me. "No, he hasn't joined the Klan."

  "Thank goodness." I sank onto the sofa and set Spike in my lap. Before Billy's death, my arms had been strong and muscular, because I'd had to wrestle with his wheelchair and Spike and h
im on a more or less daily basis. I wasn't as strong anymore, and my arms ached. I shook them out. "What's wrong, then?"

  "Nothing's wrong," said Sam. Grouchily, I'm sure I need not add. "But Mr. Pinkerton knows the Pasadena Klan's exalted cyclops. He's a member of one of Pinkerton's clubs."

  I squinted at Sam. "He knows the what?"

  With a sigh Sam said, "He knows the exalted cyclops of the Klan in Pasadena."

  "What in the name of Glory is the exalted cyclops? I've never heard a more ridiculous title in my entire life!" I felt like giggling.

  "The exalted cyclops is the big shot in a particular group of Klan members. This guy leads the Pasadena chapter," said Pa.

  "Good Lord. And these guys take themselves seriously?" I thought about all the articles I'd read in various newspapers, and any notion of laughter fled. They may call themselves silly names, but they killed people. And burned crosses. And hated everyone.

  "Yeah," said Sam. "They do take themselves seriously. Very seriously. And now I know one of them is a prominent Pasadena businessman."

  "Good Lord," I said again. "This sounds grim."

  "It is grim," agreed Sam.

  Pa nodded.

  Spike and I saw Sam to the door, and I stepped outside with him. I hadn't removed my sweater, so I wasn't uncomfortable in the chilly night air. Spike, who loved being outdoors in the front yard, instantly raced after the Wilsons' cat. The Wilsons are our neighbors on the north. They have not only a cat, but also a young son, whose name is Pudge. That's not his real name, which, I think, is Richard, but everyone calls him Pudge, probably because he's as big around as a broom straw.

  "So is this exalted cyclops person going to be a problem for you?" I asked Sam.

  He heaved a huge sigh. "I don't know. If you're asking if he's going to affect the way I do my job, the answer's no."

  "Could he cause you any trouble?"

  "I expect so. He's a bigwig."

  "That's so unfair," I said, feeling enormous sympathy for Sam in that moment.

  He shrugged. "It's all part of the job."

  I peered up at him. Sam was a large man, solid as an oak, and about as mobile. When we first met, we disliked each other. Sam thought I was a fraud, and I thought he was a bully. We were both kind of right, but... well, our relationship changed a lot after Billy's death. In fact, Sam had once, in the heat of a verbal battle, told me he loved me. Talk about shocked. My mouth had fallen open, and I'd almost keeled over. We hadn't discussed the love angle of our relationship since that time, but we'd grown closer in the ensuing year and a half or thereabouts.

  "Why'd you decide to become a policeman, Sam?" I asked, honestly curious.

  "I wanted to help people."

  Oh, boy. You sure can't tell what a person's like inside from looking at the outside, can you? Sam Rotondo, who appeared about as approachable as a fire-breathing dragon, had gone into police work because he wanted to help people. "That's a noble reason," I said, meaning it.

  I should have expected that Sam would think I was making fun of him. "It's the truth," he growled.

  "I believe you, Sam. It's just... I only wondered, was all. Did Margaret approve of your line of work?"

  Margaret was the name of Sam's late wife, who'd died of tuberculosis shortly after the two of them had moved to Pasadena from New York City. I knew for a fact that Sam felt guilty about her passing, even though he wasn't to blame for her poor health or her death. I felt guilty about Billy's poor health and his death, too, so I understood his sensitivity on the Margaret issue. Even though I knew the matter was a moot one, I still believed I was more culpable than Sam, because of how much Billy and I used to argue, even though I knew he was only grumpy because he was in pain and couldn't breathe or work at a job that could have supported us. Poor Billy. Poor me. Poor Margaret. Poor Sam.

  Another shrug. "She didn't like the hours. It's probably a good thing we didn't have any kids."

  This wasn't the first time he'd said that, and I understood his reasoning, even if I always experienced the urge to wince when he said it. If his marriage to Margaret had born fruit, his children would now be living with his parents in New York City. Sam might or might not have been able to move back to New York, but he still wouldn't have had the rearing of his children to himself.

  "I guess so. Billy and I wanted children, but... well, if we'd had any, I probably wouldn't have been able to support them. Not and rear them, too."

  "Right. That's exactly right. And your mother and aunt both work away from home, too, so you couldn't be off reading palms somewhere and leave the kids with either of them."

  Crude, but true. "Yes," I said, and left it at that.

  "Well, I'd best be off." He turned to me, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me. He didn't. I wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or not. He said, "Your father talked to his friend Charlie this evening, and the time of our meeting has changed. We're going to go to his house tomorrow at one. Will that be all right with you?"

  "Sure."

  "Also, I talked to Jackson this evening when I went to the Pinkertons', and he said if we got to his place at seven, he'd be there, and so would his brother."

  "That's fine with me."

  A mad eruption of barking from Spike interrupted us at that point, so I'll never know if our discussion would have led to anything more revealing of a personal nature. I called, "Spike! Come!"

  Spike, well-behaved dog that he was—because I'd taken him to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club two years previously, and we'd both learned our lessons well—came. And Sam, after petting Spike and calling him a good dog, which he was, left. I watched his big, blocky Hudson roll away down Marengo and wondered for about the six-thousandth time where he lived.

  Chapter 5

  Friday morning dawned overcast and foggy. The weather suited my mood, since I woke up feeling down in the mouth. I wasn't sure why until, after slipping on a faded blue day dress and shoes and stockings, I made my yawning way into the kitchen and saw Pa.

  Oh, yes. It all came back to me. The exalted cyclops of the Pasadena chapter of the Ku Klux Klan was a rich businessman, and Mr. Pinkerton, husband of my best client, knew him. Presumably well, although I didn't really know that for certain. Not only that, but the Pinkertons' gatekeeper, a friend of mine, was being harassed by that same Klan. And, perhaps most distressing of all, some of my father's friends belonged to the Klan. Dismal, all of those things.

  "Morning, sweetheart," said Pa.

  "Morning, Pa," said I. My heart brightened marginally when I saw that my wonderful aunt had fixed French toast and sausage patties for breakfast. Vi herself was upstairs getting ready to go to Mrs. Pinkerton's house and begin a day of cooking. Bless her heart; then she'd come home and finish the day with more cooking for us, her family.

  "Your aunt outdid herself this morning," said Pa as he watched me take a couple of pieces of French toast and a couple of sausage patties from the plate in the oven where Vi had put them to keep them warm for late-rising me. Well, it wasn't all that late, being approximately seven-thirty at the time, but both Vi and Pa rose distressingly early.

  "Where's Ma?" I asked.

  "Getting primped up for work."

  "Golly, I don't have anything to do this morning, do I?" I'd been haunting—so to speak—Mrs. Pinkerton's house ever since she'd received that first threatening letter from the Klan, but I hadn't heard from her today. Yet. A glance at the clock told me there was still plenty of time for her to annoy me. "Let's eat up quickly and walk Spike, Pa. I want to be gone if Mrs. P calls again today."

  With a chuckle, Pa said, "I've finished breakfast. You eat up, and we'll go. You can wash the dishes when we get back from our walk."

  Spike, who was already excited about breakfast, almost had a spasm when he heard the word "walk". Smart dog, Spike.

  "Will do." I dug in, buttering my French toast and pouring real New England maple syrup over same. Our relatives back East always sent us genuine maple syrup for Christmas, which
was very nice of them. In between bites, I said, "Sam said we're going to Mr. Smith's house this afternoon."

  "Yeah. I talked to Charlie, and he asked if we could visit him instead of him coming here. He gets off at noon on Fridays, and he asked if we could come earlier than we'd planned."

  "Sounds good to me."

  Ma and Vi both walked into the kitchen just then. Both of them were clad appropriately for their jobs: Ma wore a sober gray suit; Vi wore a sober gray day dress. As soon as she arrived at Mrs. P's house, she'd don an apron. Both ladies wore sensible shoes. I was the only clothes-horse in the household.

  "Good morning, Ma. Good morning, Vi."

  "How are you today, Daisy?" Ma asked. She had a distinct twinkle in her eye. I think she suspected I'd been spooning with Sam the night before.

  "Fine, thanks. You?" Darned if I'd tell her Sam and I had been talking about the KKK as we'd dallied on our front porch. Let her keep her romantic notions.

  "Fine, dear. Glad it's Friday and that I only have to work until noon tomorrow."

  "I think everyone should go to the five-day workweek," I said.

  "You sound like a Socialist," said Pa, grinning at me.

  "Phooey. People shouldn't have to spend their entire lives at work."

  "People have been spending their entire lives at work forever, sweetheart," said Ma.

  "Maybe when we all lived on farms and stuff," I said. "Not these days. These days, with all our modern conveniences, we can get more done in less time. Well, except for me, but my hours are my own. More or less."

  "I'd rather work at my job than yours," said Ma. "At least I don't have crazy rich people calling me all the time."

  Vi said, "And isn't that the truth!"

  "Exactly," said Pa.

  It was nice to know my family didn't think I loafed for a living. I guess.

  And then the telephone rang. My mother, father and aunt all turned their heads to stare at me. I stared at the dad-blasted telephone and didn't move until I'd finished chewing and swallowing the bite of sausage I'd just taken. Then, with a sigh on my lips and doom in my heart, I rose and went to the 'phone.