Altadena, 1926 – By Alice Duncan
BY ALICE DUNCAN
I hung the receiver on the switch-hook and looked up at Sam, who was watching over me as if I’d break. To be fair, I was nine months pregnant and just about to foal, as my best friend once said. Sam, as my darling husband, cared about me.
“Who was that, and why did you agree to meet at her house?” Sam asked sternly. “You shouldn’t be working in your condition, Daisy.”
“My condition has nothing to do with anything. Poor Mrs. Bissel has lost one of her dachshunds.” My own personal black-and-tan liberty hound, Spike, sat at my feet and whined at me. I petted him and said, “Poor Mrs. Bissel is beside herself.”
“God forbid,” said Sam. “One of her takes up enough space.”
“That’s not kind, Sam Rotondo. Mrs. Bissel is a lovely woman and ever so much less trying than most of my clients.”
“Your clients, my foot. I thought you were going to cut back on your work now that we’re starting a family.”
“I have cut back on my work. But it won’t hurt to motor up to Altadena Drive and help her find Lancelot.”
Sam squinted at me. “Lancelot?”
“Lancelot. He and Lucille are Spike’s parents.”
“I thought Lancelot had designs on Guinevere. Wasn’t Guinevere married to King Arthur?”
With a huff, I said, “Legendarily speaking, Lancelot wasn’t married to anybody. At least I think he wasn’t. And yes, Arthur and Guinevere were married.”
Sam’s gaze went from my face to Spike’s. “Your parents weren’t married, Spike. Hate to break it to you, buddy, but you’re illegitimate.”
“Sam Rotondo, that’s a terrible thing to say to Spike.”
With a shrug, Sam said, “It’s true though.”
“Still… She dotes on Lancelot and the rest of the herd.”
Spike lifted his front legs and laid his paws on my knees in a consoling gesture as I sat at the telephone table in the hall. So much belly protruded that he didn’t have much knee space.
“I dote on you,” mumbled Sam, “but I wouldn’t call a spiritualist-medium to find you if you got lost, for cripes sake!”
“I know that, but poor Mrs. Bissel is in a real state, Sam. She doesn’t want a séance or anything. She just wants to consult Rolly via the Ouija board.”
Perhaps a note of explanation won’t go amiss here.
You see, since my tenth year, I’d been plying the Ouija board, shuffling tarot cards, reading palms, and peering into crystal balls for the wealthy women of Pasadena and Altadena, California.
Except for sewing and playing the piano, spiritualist-mediuming was the only thing I knew how to do.
My family was composed of working-class people.
We only lived in beautiful Pasadena because the rich folks needed us to do their more tedious chores.
Also, my father possessed a weak heart and my first husband had been permanently crippled in the Great War.
The women in the family, therefore, earned the bread and brought home the bacon.
And no, I don’t believe anyone can communicate with dead people. I was, candidly, a fake, if a compassionate one.
Well…please allow me to amend my prior statement. A few odd things have happened in my life that make me wonder if I’m as much of a fake as I thought I was. Did that sentence make sense?
Never mind.
Mostly I doled out sensible suggestions to women who hadn’t had to think for themselves during their pampered lives.
I have absolutely no idea why so many of them thought of me as comfort in their lives.
Oh, and I’d made up my spiritual contact, Rolly, in my tenth year too.
Sometimes I wished I’d given him a more sophisticated name, but most clients thought his name was spelled R-A-L-E-I-G-H, so it didn’t matter.
They also think my name, Daisy, was shortened from Desdemona.
It’s not. I was dubbed Daisy at birth. If I’d read Othello before I turned ten, I’d not have chosen the name of a world-famous murder victim. Oh well.
I heaved myself out of the chair in front of the telephone table. Sam, bless his heart, helped me up as I was a trifle cumbersome at the time. “Thanks, Sam.”
“If you’re determined to visit Mrs. Bissel, I’m going with you. No way I’m letting you drive from here to Lake and Foothill alone.”
“Thank you, Sam. I’m glad.”
“You are?” He sounded surprised.
“Yes. So let me put on my working duds, and you can drive me to Mrs. Bissel’s place.”
“Huh,” said Sam.
It didn’t take long for me to don the huge, but still elegant, black dress I’d sewn specifically for my spiritualist job during my pregnancy.
Then I slapped some white powder on my unfortunately rosy cheeks.
I used to be a crackerjack wafter, but pregnancy had put an end to that.
Once the baby arrived, I’d practice wafting again if I needed to.
I also grabbed my spiritualist paraphernalia which, in this case, amounted to the lovely bag I’d made for my Ouija board.
I’d even sewn a pocket on the bag in which rested the planchette.
“Rolly, we haven’t talked to each other for a long time,” I said to my non-existent spirit control as I plopped a black cloche hat on my bobbed red hair. “Please don’t get obstreperous. I’m tired, pregnant, and want to get this spiritualist episode over with quickly.”
As expected, Rolly didn’t respond.
Sam and Spike waited for me at the foot of the staircase. Spike wagged. Sam frowned.
“It’s November. You’ll need a coat,” said Sam.
“There’s a warm one in the hall closet.”
As the hall closet was close to the front door, Sam opened it and pulled out my coat. Then he held it for me and I slipped my arms into its sleeves. I’d also made the coat in a lightweight wool and lined it with soft flannel. That’s because wool makes me itch. I’d make a lousy sheep.
At any rate, the coat kept me warm while Sam and I bade farewell to a doleful Spike and walked down the porch steps.
Sam opened the door to his big black Hudson and helped me onto the large bench seat.
Then he got into the driver’s seat and backed out of the driveway.
He pointed the Hudson north, up Marengo Avenue, then turned right onto Colorado Street.
The time was around seven-thirty p.m. As it was the Monday after Thanksgiving, darkness had settled in already.
The Hudson’s headlamps guided us eastward on Colorado to Lake Avenue, left on Lake, and up to Foothill Boulevard.
That’s where Sam hooked a right on Foothill and drove to Maiden Lane.
There he took another left, then one more in order to cross the bridge over the gutter and onto Mrs. Bissel’s circular driveway.
In the middle of the circle stood a monkey-puzzle tree. I spared a moment to be grateful the Santa Ana winds weren’t blowing. It’s not fun to get speared by a spiky leaf from a monkey-puzzle tree. I know that from painful experience.
When Sam and I walked across the patio and up to the big house, Keiji Saito, Mrs. Bissel’s houseboy, had already opened the door of the sun porch for us.
Smiling broadly, he said, “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Rotondo. Mrs. Bissel is waiting for you, along with Mrs. Hanratty. They’re in the living room. ”
“Oh, I’m so glad Mrs. Hanratty is here too,” I said.
Mrs. Pansy Hanratty, mother of current silent-screen idol Monty Mountjoy, is the woman who taught the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club class to which I took Spike. Spike came first in his class, by golly!
“Yes,” said Keiji. “Mrs. Hanratty is trying to keep Mrs. Bissel’s spirits up during this stressful time.”
Keiji helped me off with my coat. Sam managed to remove his own hat and coat without Keiji’s help. “Will you be joining the ladies, Detective?” Keiji asked politely.
I started to say, “No,” but Sam spoke over me.
“Yes. I’ll just sit in the room and be quiet.”
“You’d better be quiet,” I whispered to my husband.
“Promise,” he whispered back.
“Very well then,” said a clearly amused Keiji, and he gestured for us to enter the huge living room from the sun porch.
We did as requested and walked into the living room.
A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the lighting was low.
There on a sofa across the room sat Mrs. Bissel, a large woman with a heart to match; and Mrs. Hanratty, who was kind of tall and spindly.
Both women were favorites of mine. Mrs. Bissel was a widow.
I’m not sure if Mrs. Hanratty was also a widow or if she’d gained her independence through divorce.
“Oh, Daisy!” said Mrs. Bissel, heaving herself up from the sofa. “I’m so glad you could come! And Detective Rotondo! How kind of you to allow it.”
“I never allow my wife to do anything,” Sam said in a resigned voice. “I just tag along and make sure she doesn’t get into trouble.”
Eying my bulge, Mrs. Hanratty also rose. She said, “And doesn’t go into labor while you’re not with her.” She had a honking voice, as if she were speaking into a barrel or an empty well or something.
“That too,” said Sam with a grin for me.
“He’s not a tyrant, thank goodness,” I said.
“I’m sure of it,” said Mrs. Bissel, smiling sadly. “Daisy’s been of such help to so many of us over the years.” She dabbed her eyes with a hankie.
Rushing as well as I was able to Mrs. Bissel, I held out both hands and said, “I’m so sorry about Lancelot, Mrs. Bissel.” For the record, I always used a smooth, low tone as mysterious as I could make it when I was mediuming. “When did he go missing?”
As Mrs. Bissel struggled with tears and grasped my hands, Mrs. Hanratty spoke for her.
“About two hours ago. Griselda”—Griselda was Mrs. Bissel’s first name—“said several of her babies were in the house when a fire truck roared past the house blaring its siren. The fire station is right down the street on the other side of Foothill.”
“Yes, I know it well,” I said. “It’s right next to Honeycutt’s Market.”
“Exactly. Well, as luck would have it, all the dogs began howling.”