Altadena, 1926 – By Alice Duncan #2
“I can imagine,” I said. The image of all those long, houndish snouts pointing upwards and attempting to imitate the siren amused the heck out of me, but I didn’t smile.
“But then,” said Mrs. Bissel, regaining her ability to talk, “someone knocked on the front door. Keiji answered it. He’s adept at keeping the dogs inside when he opens doors, but this time Lancelot streaked outside like a sly little bullet.
Keiji, Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, Mr. Farmer, the man at the door, and I all chased after him.
But you know how fast those four little legs can go.
Lancelot had raced down the front lawn and out onto Foothill before any of us could get him. ”
This sounded bad. Foothill Boulevard in Altadena in the evening wasn’t a terribly busy street, but a black-and-tan dachshund might be difficult to see against the roadway, even when cars had their headlights on.
Oh, and Ginger—an old school chum of mine—was a housemaid, Mrs. Cummings was Mrs. Bissel’s cook-housekeeper, and Mr. Farmer minded the kennels.
Yes, her dogs had their own attendant. The kennels were heated too. Lucky dogs. Well, until now.
“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry,” I said.
“And we’ve called and called for him,” Mrs. Bissel went on, her voice thick. “He hasn’t come home, and he always comes when he’s called.”
“Not this time,” honked Mrs. Hanratty.
“Out of curiosity,” I said, “what did the person at the door want?”
“That’s another thing,” said Mrs. Bissel. “I appreciate that he helped us look for Lancelot, but he wanted Doctor Dearing’s house across the street! I’m just so worried.” Again her hankie came into play. “So will you please talk to Rolly for me, dear? He always has such good advice.”
I heard Sam snort in the background but didn’t turn to scowl at him. Rather, I said, “Yes, let’s set out the board.” Then I turned to Sam and said with a smile meant to be deadly, “You just sit across the room, Sam. We’ll consult with the board.”
“Will do,” said Sam. He rolled his eyes, but I think I’m the only one who saw him do it.
“I’ve set up a table and a chair here, in front of the sofa,” said Mrs. Hanratty.
“Thank you very much.” I looked at the arranged furniture and made a sensible decision. “I’ll sit on the chair if you don’t mind.” I was afraid I’d never make it back up off the sofa if I attempted to rise therefrom.
“Are you sure, dear?” asked Mrs. Bissel. “The sofa is ever so much more comfortable than that straight-backed chair.”
“I’m quite sure, thank you,” I told her, patting my protuberance so she’d understand. “It will be difficult enough for me to bend over while seated on a chair.”
“Oh, I know! And I’m so sorry to have dragged you out on so dark a night!” Mrs. Bissel wiped more tears.
“Please don’t fret, Mrs. Bissel. I know that if Spike ever went missing, I’d do everything in my power to find him.”
Sniffling pathetically, Mrs. Bissel said, “I knew you’d understand. You’re so kind.”
An audible huff from Sam made me wish he’d stayed home. I didn’t say so.
The truth, however, was that I’d started being a spiritualist-medium because people paid me to ply my trade.
Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-six and married to Sam, I didn’t really need the money any longer.
Sam worked as a detective at the Pasadena Police Department, but his family owned a chain of jewelry stores in New York City. He was quite well off.
Another truth was that when we’d first met, Sam and I had clashed.
We’d got along like oil and water, like baking soda and vinegar.
I would say we used to get along like cats and dogs, but my darling Spike’s best friend was a cat , for the love of Mike.
My first husband’s death and a few years of Sam and me getting to know each other had softened both of our attitudes.
Now I adored him, and he adored me. Life can be funny that way, can’t it?
Mrs. Bissel and I took our seats, and I withdrew the Ouija board from its velvet sack. As by that time I could read upside down as well as I could read right-side up, I positioned the board so that the numbers and letters faced Mrs. Bissel.
“Do you need time to prepare, Daisy?” asked Mrs. Bissel.
She did so for a good reason. When I conducted séances, I asked for a few minutes of silence before I started summoning Rolly and the dead people with whom he communicated. No such preparation time was necessary for the Ouija board.
“Thank you, but there’s no need,” I said.
“Just rest your fingers lightly on the planchette. I’ll do likewise.
Then please ask your first question. I know I needn’t remind you, but the board, through Rolly, can only answer questions for you.
Rolly can’t answer questions you ask for or about other people. ”
“But I can ask where my Lancelot went, can’t I?”
“Of course.” Neither Rolly nor I had a single clue as to where Lancelot went, but details like that had never bothered me before. I wouldn’t let them bother me now.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Bissel sat still and took in a huge breath. Then she said, “Rolly, do you know where my darling Lancelot is?”
To my everlasting surprise the planchette, instead of swerving up to the NO painted in the upper right-hand corner of the board, zipped straight to the YES painted on the left and stayed there.
Oh dear. This sort of thing had happened before although not, thank God, very often.
The phenomenon was uncomfortable. I mean, I’d made Rolly up when I was ten!
How could he attain reality? It’s probably best if you don’t even attempt to answer that question.
I’ve certainly never come up with a good reason.
Darn Rolly, anyway!
“I’m so glad,” cooed Mrs. Bissel. “Can you tell me where he is right now, Rolly?”
I swear to heaven, the planchette quivered under our fingers as if Rolly were contemplating the question. Yes, I know it sounds daft. It was daft. Nevertheless, the stupid planchette stood there under our fingers and quivered for several seconds before it whipped back to the NO.
“Um, why not?” asked a puzzled Mrs. Bissel.
Great question. I sure didn’t know the answer to it.
Rolly, however, took matters into his own imaginary hands and spelled out CONFUSION .
“Confusion?” asked Mrs. Bissel.
“Confusion?” I echoed.
The planchette zoomed to the upper left corner’s YES . I decided to step in. “What’s the confusion, Rolly?”
ENGINE .
“An engine?” I asked the board, wishing Rolly had remained mute.
The planchette races to the YES. Then it spelled out SPOTS .
A trio of voices composed of mine, Mrs. Bissel’s, and Mrs. Hanratty’s said, “Spots?”
Because I was supposed to be in charge of this lunacy, I asked, “What do you mean by spots, Rolly?”
After quivering for another few seconds, Rolly spelled out FIRE AND SMOKE .
“Fire and smoke?” Mrs. Bissel sounded horrified.
To Mrs. Bissel I said, “Wasn’t it a fire engine’s alarm that upset the dogs in the first place?” I admit to being a little horrified too.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bissel. She released a big sob and put her hankie to her mouth. Then she said, “Oh, Rolly, is Lancelot dead ?”
I was just wishing she hadn’t asked that question when the planchette marched right on up to the right corner of the board and sat on NO . Whew! Now I just prayed Rolly was correct.
“Thank God,” whispered Mrs. Bissel.
“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Hanratty, sounding not unlike one of the trumpeter swans I’d seen when we’d visited the Griffith Park Zoo.
“I’m so glad,” I said.
“So Lancelot is alive, but you aren’t sure where?” queried Mrs. Bissel.
The planchette began writing again. It spelled out WITH FIRE AND SPOTS .
After first casting a frightened glance at the fireplace, fearing to see a scorched Lancelot and not finding him, I released a breath of relief.
“He’s with fire?” asked Mrs. Bissel, clearly confused. Her confusion made sense to me.
“And spots?” I asked.
The planchette toddled over and sat on YES .
“Wait a minute,” said Sam, suddenly appearing at my elbow.
I gave him a withering glance. He remained remarkably unwithered. He would.
“Yes, Detective?” said Mrs. Bissel.
“Could the dog be with the fire engine ?”
Rolly wasn’t supposed to be paying attention to anyone other than Mrs. Bissel and me. The ridiculous planchette sat firmly on the YES and didn’t move.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “You’re the one who’s supposed to be asking questions, Mrs. Bissel.”
With a shrug, Sam said, “Why don’t you ask it, then?” He gave Mrs. Bissel a smile that did his Italian ancestry proud. My Sam could be devastatingly handsome when he chose to be.
“Good idea,” I muttered. Then I gestured for Sam to go back to his corner again. He went.
“Is Lancelot with the fire engine, Rolly?” Mrs. Bissel asked, hope ringing in her voice.
Rolly spelled out ENGINE . Then, as if to confuse us on purpose, the nonsensical planchette again wrote SPOTS .
“Spots?” Mrs. Bissel, Mrs. Hanratty and I said in another rather tuneful trio.
Rolly said YES .
“A fire engine with spots?” I asked, baffled.
The planchette zipped to the NO. Well, that cleared everything up tidily. Yes, I’m being sarcastic. Then I had a brilliant idea. This isn’t unheard of, but it doesn’t happen often.
“Does the Altadena Fire Department have a resident Dalmatian?” All gazes snapped to me. I shrugged. “Just a thought,” I added.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Bissel.
“I don’t either,” said Mrs. Hanratty.
The planchette, deciding to answer my question in spite of the rules, scurried over to the YES and stayed there.
“My goodness!” said Mrs. Bissel.
“Would you like me to drive down there and find out?” asked Sam. “The station’s near Lake.”
“We can walk,” I said. “It’s just across the street.”
“You’re not walking anywhere,” said Sam, sounding more dictatorial than usual.