Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (19 page)

      
“That wouldn’t take much.”

      
I laughed again. “And he never chases women, either, so he wouldn’t give Edie a bad time.” I could have kicked myself as soon as the words left my mouth.

      
Quincy stiffened up like one of Mrs. Garland’s spotted pointers eyeing a duck. That’s another dog I liked, but not as much as the dachshunds. “What are you saying, Daisy?”

      
I waved it away. “Nothing. I just meant that Harold isn’t the sort of man who’d chase women.”

      
“That’s not what you meant, and you know it.”

      
Nuts. “I didn’t mean anything Quincy.”

      
He glared at me. “Is that bastard Kincaid bothering Edie?”

      
Darn my big mouth, anyhow. “How should I know?” I put on an act of annoyance, hoping Quincy would stop questioning me. It worked, but I sure didn’t like the expression on his face when he cranked up the Model T for me.

# # #

      
The next day, I did my duty and visited Detective Rotondo at the Pasadena Police Department. I’d thought about calling him on the telephone but decided a visit would be more discreet. You never knew about Mrs. Barrow. I always tried to shoo her off the party line, but I didn’t think it would be prudent to convey confidential information of a police nature over the telephone wire.

      
Before the end of the decade, Pasadena City Hall was going to be replaced by a splendid new building on Garfield Avenue, just north of Colorado Boulevard, and the Police Department would take up new quarters on Walnut and Raymond. In 1920, City Hall sat on Fair Oaks Avenue at Union, and the police station occupied space at the rear of the building.

      
I parked the Model T at the curb and felt funny walking up to the door of the police station. I hate to admit it, but I even glanced around to see if anyone I knew was watching. As far as I could tell, nobody was. A few of the old cats in Pasadena would have loved to see me heading into the police station, and would assuredly have the news all over town before my business with Rotondo had concluded.

      
It goes without saying that Detective Rotondo was nowhere in sight when I entered the building. I should have expected as much from the disobliging man. A uniformed officer sat at a desk and looked up when I entered. He smiled at me, which was nominally encouraging. I smiled back.

      
“May I help you, ma’am?”

      
“Um, I need to speak to Detective Rotondo.” I glanced around uncertainly. I’d never been in a police station before, and it made me nervous, like I was a crook or something. It even crossed my mind that this might be some kind of ruse on Rotondo’s part to lure me into his clutches so that they could clap the cuffs on me and fling me in a cell to rot for telling fortunes.

      
I gave myself a mental shake. There was no sense getting hysterical about this. I was only doing as Rotondo had asked me. He ought to be glad of my cooperation, not yearning for my capture, for heaven’s sake.

      
Still smiling, the uniform said, “Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow that hallway, Detective Rotondo’s office is the second one on the right.”

      
He had an office all to himself? Shoot, I was impressed in spite of myself. “Thank you.”

      
I followed the man’s instructions. As soon as I knocked at the second door on the right down the corridor, I rescinded my impressedness. A chorus of voices, some sounding cranky, shouted, “Come in!”

      
Pushing the door open, I saw that this office contained several occupants. Rotondo’s desk was the largest, and it sat against the far wall, beneath a window. That looked to me like the best place to be if you had to share an office, from which I deduced that Rotondo was in charge of this particular mob. A shiny wooden plaque on his desk said in gilt letters “Detective Samuel Rotondo.” So. He was a Sam. I supposed he looked as much like a Sam as anything else.

      
When he looked up from whatever he’d been reading at his desk and saw me, he frowned. Not a particularly auspicious greeting and one that irked me. It hadn’t been
my
idea to spy on the Kincaids.

      
The other three men in the room rose from their chairs politely. Rotondo did, too, eventually. “Mrs. Majesty.” He didn’t move.

      
I didn’t, either. “You told me to tell you if I heard anything.” I said it loudly, from the open doorway. Detective Sam Rotondo wasn’t the only one present who could be rude.

      
His dark eyebrows lifted. “You mean, you
did
hear something?”

      
“Yes. And I came here to tell you about it.” I’d have liked to try to make him feel guilty about making me trek all the way to the police station to do him a favor, but since I lived only a few blocks away I didn’t think I could carry that one off with anything akin to aplomb.

      
“Please,” he said, at last sounding courteous if not friendly, “come over here and take a seat. I appreciate you coming.”

      
I swished over to the chair he pulled out. It was old and shabby, I couldn’t help but notice, from which I deduced the police department didn’t spend money on inessentials. I guess I approved of that. I sat with a deliberate flounce, for which I was clad appropriately (my dark blue skirt had a small, tasteful ruffle around the bottom), laid my tiny handbag in my lap, and folded my gloved hands upon it. I felt quite dignified. “I was right.”

      
One of Rotondo’s dark eyebrows twitched. He was a darned good-looking man. I tried not to notice. “About what?”

      
“It’s not Mr. Farrington. It’s Mr. Kincaid.”

      
Silence. Rotondo scratched his nose. “Ah, I think you’d better explain that one to me, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
Probably. I cleared my throat. “There are bonds missing.”

      
“Bonds?”

      
“Bearer bonds. From the bank.” Was the man being deliberately obtuse? “And Mr. Farrington thinks Mr. Kincaid is the culprit.”

      
“The culprit?”

      
I nodded, wondering if he was going to question every other noun I uttered.

      
“Cute word.” He didn’t sound as if he meant it. “Did Mr. Farrington tell you this?”

      
“No.” Bother. I was going to have to confess to eavesdropping. “I overheard a conversation between him and Mr. Harold Kincaid.”

      
“Where? I mean, where did this conversation take place?”

      
“What does it matter?”

      
He rubbed a hand over his face. You’d have thought he thought I was trying to be difficult, and I wasn’t, darn it all.

      
“I need to know the circumstances. Often circumstances mean a lot when it comes to conversations. Believe it or not, sometimes people tell us what they think we want to hear instead of the truth.”

      
“You can’t say that about this conversation, because I wasn’t a participant in it and they didn’t know I was listening.” That didn’t sound very good, but it was true.

      
“I see. And when did this conversation take place?” he asked, trying again for an answer.

      
“Last night.”

      
“And where did it take place?”

      
I was beginning to feel stupid, baiting him this way. But he was
such
an aggravating man. “Mr. Harold Kincaid’s house in San Marino.”

      
Rotondo’s eyebrows lifted. “You were at Mr. Kincaid’s home? And why was that, Mrs. Majesty?”

      
I braced myself for his sarcasm. “I was conducting a séance for Harold and some of his friends.”

      
“Oh.” Not a sneer in sight. I took heart. “You say he owns his own house in San Marino?”

      
“Yes. He has a beautiful home there.”

      
“I can imagine.” His tone was dry. I couldn’t fault him for that. When I talked about rich people, I was apt to be a little dry, too. “Who was there?”

      
“What does
that
matter?”

      
He sighed heavily. “This matter is one of great importance, Mrs. Majesty. I’m not asking these questions for my own amusement. We’re trying to get to the bottom of a potentially ruinous financial situation; one that will affect hundreds of people, if the rumors are true. In order to determine the value of your information, or of any information, I need to get all the facts. Surely you can understand that?”

      
I could, although I didn’t want to. I just
hated
having to capitulate to common sense when it came from someone who didn’t like me. “I don’t remember all their names. They were Harold’s friends.”

      
“I see. Ladies and gentlemen?”

      
I eyed him suspiciously. He didn’t look at me, but concentrated on taking notes on a lined pad with a pencil. “They were all men.”

      
That caught his attention. His head jerked up and he squinted at me. “I’m surprised your husband allows you to work for men, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
I shrugged. I’d be darned if I’d tell him how much Billy disapproved of my conducting a séance for Harold. “These men are not any sort of threat, Detective Rotondo. They’re all perfect gentlemen.”

      
He grunted. “They’re faggots, is what you’re telling me. I’d suspected as much.”

      
“Were you in the army?” I asked, genuinely curious—because of that word, you know.

      
“No.” He seemed a little uncomfortable, probably because there’d been a lot of abuse heaped upon men who hadn’t volunteered when the Great War began.

      
I have to admit that I shared some of the general contempt. It was probably unfair of me, but you have to remember what had happened to Billy. If more men had volunteered, maybe it would have happened to one of them and spared my husband. The phrase “chocolate cream soldier” flitted through my brain. Rotondo seemed to read my mind.

      
Roughly, he said, “I was unable to enlist because my wife was too ill at the time to be left alone. I had to take care of her.”

      
His
wife
? For some reason, I’d never, ever, not once considered the possibility that Sam Rotondo might be married, although I don’t know why. I suppose he was in his early thirties at the time, certainly old enough to be married and have a dozen kids, and I felt a vague and entirely inappropriate stab of disappointment.

      
But his wife was sick. Since I knew what that was like, some of my hostility toward the man softened, albeit not a whole lot. “I’m sorry about your wife. I hope she’s better now.”

      
His expression hardened. I went stiff, anticipating the worst. “She passed away shortly after we moved to California.”

      
I swallowed, sorry to have had my anticipation confirmed. “I’m very sorry. What was the trouble?”

      
“Tuberculosis.” Short and sweet. And almost always deadly.

      
And not unusual, unfortunately. The white plague was rampant. What with wars, influenza, and consumption, a body didn’t stand a chance in those days. You had to be tough to grow up and live to a ripe old age. I shook my head. “I’m really sorry, Detective Rotondo. It’s so hard to see someone waste away like that.” I knew it for a fact.

      
He peered at me suspiciously. I tried not to resent it. “Yeah. Thanks. But you’re not here to talk about my wife.”

      
True, if rude. “Of course not.”

      
He cleared his throat. “So, you overheard Farrington and Kincaid talking about the bank. What exactly did you hear?”

      
“Mr. Farrington said he’d conducted an internal audit and discovered some bearer bonds missing. I don’t know how many, but he said they amounted to thousands of dollars and could be cashed in by anybody.” I wish I could find a couple of those bonds in the street one day. Finding something and rescuing it from being run over couldn’t be considered stealing, could it?

      
“Hmmm.”

      
I waited, but that was it. He was scribbling madly in his notebook. Impatient, I said, “Well? Is that what your own information has turned up?”

      
He didn’t look up. “Did you overhear anything else?”

      
I was offended, both because he didn’t answer my question and because he wouldn’t look at me. “I’ll tell you more when you answer my question.”

      
At last he lifted his head. He was frowning again. No surprise there. “Mrs. Majesty, surely you can understand that I can’t discuss the case with you.”

      
“You
what
?” I jumped up from the chair, which precipitated a reaction from the rest of the men in the room, which disconcerted me. But . . . Gee whiz, this wasn’t fair. I sat down again and decided I’d better whisper. “Darn it, you expect me to be your little spy, but you won’t tell me anything!”

      
He heaved another one of those irritating sighs that tell a person how annoying she’s being for no reason at all, even though there was a very good reason, and I wasn’t trying to be annoying. I was trying to
help
. And I really hoped my assistance would lead to Mr. Eustace Kincaid being locked up for a hundred years or so. Then I could have Rolly advise Mrs. Kincaid to divorce the miserable man and marry somebody nice.