High Spirits [Spirits 03] (33 page)

      
“Mrs. Killebrew!” I was surprised to see our across-the-street neighbor waving at me.

      
She came over to us and, avoiding Spike through some means known only to her, she grasped my leash hand. “Oh, Daisy, I can’t tell you how much Jerome and I appreciate what you’ve done for us!”

      
Jerome was her husband, but that’s about the only part of her speech I understood. I opened my mouth to say so, when she rushed on.

      
“I just think you’re wonderful, and I wanted you to know it. I’m baking a chocolate cake right now—it’s in the oven—and I’ll bring it over as soon as it’s frosted.”

      
“Uh ...” I was, as they say, at a loss for words.

      
Billy said, “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Killebrew.”

      
Bursting into tears, Mrs. Killebrew flapped her hand in the air, whipped out a hankie, and said, “No, no. It’s we who should be thanking your heroic wife.”

      
And she dashed back across the street. I stared after her, completely baffled. Then I looked down at Billy, who was likewise impaired.

      
Not so Spike. He wanted to
go
. So we went.

      
Our walk was interrupted another couple of times by neighbors, however. They all came up to thank me. For what, I didn’t know, although I suspected it had something to do with the raid on the speakeasy.

      
“Shoot, Billy, I hope word hasn’t gone around that I’ve been consorting with those horrible people at the speak.”

      
He shrugged. “If it has, it looks as if folks don’t mind.”

      
Neither one of us could figure out how anyone could have learned of my involvement so fast, although we didn’t dwell on it a whole lot. We walked clear around the block that day, which isn’t as meager a walk as it might sound, since those were long blocks. It felt good to be out and about on a gorgeous day instead of crammed into a stuffy, smoke-filled speakeasy. I felt free for the first time in a month, at least. And Billy was as healthy as we could expect him to be, although not forever, I hoped. He might even begin trying to walk again one of these days.

      
Thus it was that I felt relatively rested and happy when Sam Rotondo showed up at our house, as threatened, at about three o’clock that afternoon. It was he who explained our neighbors’ odd behavior.

      
“You didn’t read the papers this morning?” he asked incredulously after he’d parked himself on a chair in the living room with my family and me scattered here and there in the room, staring at him. He looked pointedly at Pa, who grinned sheepishly.

      
“I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so I hid the paper.”

      
“Huh. So that’s why I couldn’t find it,” muttered Billy.

      
I seldom glanced at the newspaper, so I hadn’t missed it.

      
Sam held up the morning’s copy of the
Pasadena Star News
. To my utter horror, a big black headline across the top read:
LOCAL PASADENA MATRON FOILS BOOTLEGGERS.

      
My mouth fell opened and stayed that way. It was probably just as well, or I’d have screeched at Sam.

      
Sam didn’t seem to care. “Listen here,” said he. “‘Local matron, Daisy Gumm Majesty, wife of war hero William Majesty, assisted the Pasadena Police Department in the arrest of several criminals who have been operating a speakeasy in various locations throughout our fair city and surrounding areas. Before Mrs. Majesty agreed to assist with the investigation, the police department had been stymied in their attempts to capture the vicious gang.’”

      
“Good Lord,” I whispered, more appalled than flattered. What would this do for my business? What would this do to my family? What would this do to
me
, for crumb’s sake?

      
Relentlessly, Sam read on: “‘Hailed as a heroine for undertaking such a hazardous endeavor—’”

      
I squealed an incoherent protest. It was an undignified noise, but I couldn’t help myself. It
had
been hazardous, blast it! Even the newspaper said so. Then I buried my face in my hands.

      
Sam read even
more
: “‘Detective Sergeant Samuel L. Rotondo, who worked closely with Mrs. Majesty during the execution of this case, hailed Mrs. Majesty as a true heroine.”

      
“
Ohhhhh!
” Me, again. And I really didn’t like that word “execution.”

      
“‘The acting Chief of the Pasadena Police Department, Mr. O’Dell, declared that the department intends to honor Mrs. Majesty with an award for meritorious service, as well as present to her the reward that attaches to the capture and conviction of the criminals.’”

      
A word in that part of the narrative caught my attention, and I stopped moaning. Looking up at Sam, I said, “Reward?”

      
He grinned. He would. “Reward. There’s a big reward on these guys. One originating in Detroit and one from New York City.”

      
My entire family, including Ma, who’d napped after returning home from work, turned to stare at me. I stared back, only managing to whisper, “Oh, my.”

      
“Mind you,” Sam said, cautioning me not to become too ecstatic, “you won’t get the reward until the creeps are convicted.”

      
I said, “Oh.” I still couldn’t quite take it in.

      
“However,” he went on, “the Chief wants to have a ceremony next Wednesday at one-thirty. All the papers will be there, and you’re going to get a certificate suitable for framing to hang on your wall.”

      
I swallowed hard, something ugly having occurred to me. “And you’re sure none of Maggiori’s associates will come after me with Tommy guns? I’ve heard these guys are vicious.” Heck, I’d seen how vicious some of them were with my own very eyeballs.

      
“They won’t dare. You’re a heroine. If they go after you, their bosses will be furious. The gangs don’t shoot women.”

      
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” I said darkly. In fact, the reason I stopped looking at newspapers was that I got tired of reading about all the innocent victims of these so-called gangs back East.

      
“Well,” Sam said, amending his statement. “They don’t go after women
on purpose.
”

      
Somehow that didn’t make me feel a whole lot better, although that other word,
reward
, softened my worry some.

      
Billy took my hand. “Hey, Daisy, this is good! I didn’t realize what an important thing you were doing. Sorry if I was crabby a couple of times.”

      
Turning to gaze at my husband, I thought,
a
couple
of times?
I said only, “Thanks, Billy. I was really scared.”

      
He pulled me into a hug, which surprised me almost more than anything else that had happened to date. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you were scared.”

      
And then everyone except Sam stood up and rushed me. I was overwhelmed with hugs and congratulations from Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi, all of whom beamed fondly at me. Poor Aunt Vi told me she’d been fielding telephone calls for me all day long, and that I’d probably be spending all of Monday on the ’phone.

      
I didn’t mind that. In spite of my remaining misgivings, it appeared that my misery was
over
. And evidently it wasn’t merely over, but I’d come out of the whole thing smelling like the proverbial rose. It truly boggled my mind.

      
My mind being boggled did not, however, prevent my entire family and me from piling into the Chevrolet and riding up to City Hall the following Wednesday afternoon at one-thirty.  There, while flashbulbs went off all around us, one of the two men who were handling the affairs of the police department since the resignation of Chief McIntyre, Captain Louis O'Dell, handed me a lovely parchment certificate acknowledging my “bravery and valiant efforts in service of the citizens of Pasadena, California.” Wow. I never in a million years expected anything like that.

      
The two acting police chiefs, Captain O’Dell and Mr. Harley Newell, both shook my hand. The mayor shook my hand. Sam Rotondo—who shocked my socks off by appearing in full uniform for the ceremony—shook my hand. A whole bunch of other people shook my hand, too, and my picture showed up in both the evening editions and the morning editions of all the newspapers. The neighbors not only brought chocolate cakes, but flowers and presents and all sorts of other things. My business, which was already good, boomed until I wasn’t sure I could handle it all.

      
Boy, you just never know about these things, do you?

* * * * *

      
I didn’t discover what had thrown Mrs. Kincaid into a tizzy about Stacy until we attended the engagement party for Miss Florence Mosser to Mr. Johnny Buckingham, which was held in the Fellowship Hall of the Salvation Army Church about three weeks after I’d been feted by the city fathers.

      
The whole family attended this function, too. I was ever so happy for Flossie and Johnny, who looked great together. Flossie had a glow about her I never expected to see, and she looked positively charming in her Salvation Army uniform.

      
As soon as she saw us enter the room, me pushing Billy’s chair, and Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi trailing behind us, Flossie squealed and rushed over to us. Her easy tears were flowing, but since she didn’t wear makeup any longer, they didn’t stain her cheeks—devoid now of any hint of bruising—with dark streaks.

      
“Oh, Daisy, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me!” said she.

      
Johnny was hot on her heels. “And I can’t, either. You’re the best, Daisy.” He shook my hand warmly once Flossie released me. She’d had me in a bear hug for a second there.

      
“Shoot,” I gasped—Flossie’s bear hug had been fierce— “I didn’t do anything, really.”

      
They both said, “Ha.” I guess they didn’t believe me. They were captured by well-wishers then, and my family and I proceeded merrily into the room.

      
And then I nearly fainted dead away. “Billy!” I whispered, agog.

      
“Good God,” said he, similarly afflicted.

      
“What’s the matter?” asked Ma, oblivious.

      
Well, that’s only because she didn’t know Stacy Kincaid. Aunt Vi, who had spotted the same phenomenon Billy and I had, sat with a thump on one of the hard benches. “My word.” A mistress of understatement, my aunt.

      
But there she was. Stacy Kincaid. In the uniform of a Salvation Army minion. A private, I reckon, unless there’s a rank beneath private.

      
But that’s unkind.

      
But ... Stacy Kincaid?

      
She gave me a little finger wave and a smile, and I smiled back uncertainly. Then she crooked her finger, inviting me over to where she stood.

      
Billy and I looked at each other. Then he grinned.

      
With a big sigh, I said, “Well, I guess it can’t hurt. Too much.”

      
Oddly enough, it didn’t.

      
Mrs. Kincaid told me the next time I visited her to read the cards or the board or whatever idiocy she wanted done that day that she was pleased Stacy no longer frequented speakeasies.

      
“But I must say, Daisy, that I didn’t know the Salvation Army was what Rolly meant when he said something dreadful was going to happen to Stacy if she didn’t change her ways.”

      
Some people are never happy.

* * * * *

      
I received the reward money, quite a bundle, by golly, around the middle of April. I didn’t tell anyone about it because I had a surprise to spring on my family. I was lucky when the funds finally came because by that time a good deal of progress had been made in the area where my interest lay.

      
Sam Rotondo, who seemed to live at our house, Pa and Billy were all sitting around a card table in the living room, playing gin rummy, Ma and Aunt Vi were chatting at the dining room table while Ma embroidered a handkerchief, and Spike rested happily on Billy’s lap when I opened the front door.

      
“Hey, Spike,” I said when heads turned toward me. “You’re falling down on the job.”

      
“I told him it was you,” said Billy with a smile for me. He’d been very nice to me in recent weeks, and I appreciated him for it.

      
“That accounts for it, then.”

      
“He’s a good boy,” said Billy in that silly voice people use on dogs. Me, too. I’m not denigrating it or anything; I’m just reporting.

      
“I have something for us,” I said as I turned around and picked up the parcel I’d lugged up the front porch steps. I fear the grunt I made while doing so was rather unladylike.

      
It did, however, prompt Sam and Pa to get out of their chairs and hurry to the door.

      
“What is it?” asked Pa, curious.

      
“You’ll see. Take it inside and put it ...” I looked around, hoping for some free space. The only flat space was the card table. What the heck. “Put it on the card table.”

      
“But ...”

      
“Put it on the card table,” I repeated ferociously.

      
So Sam put the parcel on the card table.