"All right. Enough of this. Come on, and I'll take you home. Kincaid couldn't tell me much, and what he did tell me I'm sure you'll know soon enough. I'm through here. Perkins and the rest can finish taking statements."

"You're not going to stick around until everyone leaves?"

"I'll read the reports in the morning."

"Lucky you. Wish I could read the reports."

"Huh."

Sam had left his Hudson sitting in the middle of Marengo Avenue. Not that it mattered much. As I've already mentioned, very few people in Pasadena went out after dark. He opened the passenger door for me, and I climbed in, feeling as if my interesting evening had been cut short because of Sam. I really wanted to know why Gloria Lippincott thought someone was out to get her. Maybe she had lots of money.

But no. She said her husband had cleaned her out and she might have to sell her home. So that theory didn't hold water. If what she'd said was true.

Unless there was some kind of insurance policy on her life held by someone I didn't know about. "Say, Sam, do you know if anybody's taken out a life-insurance policy on Gloria Lippincott?"

Sam said, "No," in such a way that told me he didn't intend to entertain questions from me about the Gloria Lippincott problem. Blast.

He pulled the Hudson to a halt in front of my house, and I waited in the machine until he opened my door. This, in spite of his uncooperativeness.

Spike was overjoyed to see us again. So I sat down, smack, on the floor and let the sweet doggie crawl over me and give me kisses. Sam looked upon this with disfavor writ large on his features. I frowned up at him. "What's the matter? Don't you approve of people having fun with their dogs?"

"I don't care what people do with their dogs. I wouldn't want a dog licking my face, is all."

The telephone rang. Sam and I looked at each other.

"Maybe it's Kincaid," said Sam.

I groaned as I got to my feet, giving Spike one last pat. "Maybe it is. It's kind of late for anyone to be calling." Our party-line neighbors would be incensed. It was almost ten o'clock at night. Oh, well.

I answered the telephone as soon as I could get to it. "Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."

"Daisy!" shrieked a voice on the other end of the wire. The voice was so distraught, I couldn't tell who it belonged to at first.

"Yes?" I said, donning my purring, subdued spiritualist's voice. I was pretty sure this wasn't Mrs. Pinkerton calling, because I'd come to recognize her various squeals and wails years earlier.

"It's Griselda Bissel," sobbed the voice, surprising me. I was accustomed to wailing from Mrs. Pinkerton, but Mrs. Bissel was a sane and sober woman, even if she was rich as Croesus, whoever he was.

"Whatever is the matter, Mrs. Bissel?" I said, worried.

"They've arrested Dennis!"

I nearly dropped the receiver.

Chapter 12.

"They've what?" I confess to having been shocked out of my spiritualist role.

"They've arrested Dennis," Mrs. Bissel repeated. "They say he killed someone with his automobile! That woman's husband! The one who's after Dennis. Not the woman. Her husband. They say he killed him with his machine!"

"Good heavens. I can't believe Dennis would do any such thing."

"He didn't!"

"I'm sure he didn't." Her words had so rattled me, I didn't know what to say, but I was absolutely positive that sweet Dennis Bissel, whose sweet wife, Patsy, adored him, would never, in a million years, run over anybody with his automobile. Heck, hitting a body might dent the fender or something. Not that Dennis would think of anything like that. Oh, never mind.

"Oh, Daisy, I need you to do something!"

"Um... I'm not sure what I can do, Mrs. Bissel," I said, feeling as though I were letting my side down.

Then I nearly jumped out of my skin when a pair of big, warm hands settled on my shoulders. Sam. I was so tired and so sick of problems that I actually allowed myself to lean back against his big, warm chest for a minute.

"What is it, Daisy? What's going on?" he murmured in my ear.

To Mrs. Bissel, I said, "Can you hold the wire for a moment, Mrs. Bissel?" Putting my hand over the receiver, I told Sam about Dennis being arrested. He frowned, although this frown didn't seem to be aimed at me for once. With a gesture, he asked me to hand him the receiver. So I did, with fathomless relief. Sam would know what to do. Sam could take care of Dennis. Sam would sort it all out.

As for me, I more or less wilted onto a kitchen chair, and Spike put his paws in my lap. I petted him as I listened to Sam's side of the conversation.

His voice was surprisingly gentle when he said, "Mrs. Bissel, this is Detective Rotondo." Pause. "I drove Daisy home from the Mikado rehearsal tonight." Pause. "Yes, I saw your son and his wife there." Pause, and Sam's frown deepened. "No, I didn't realize that." Pause. "I'll be glad to look into the matter for you." Pause. "You're welcome." Pause, and Sam grimaced. "Yes. I'll give her back the receiver."

Glowering, he held out the receiver to me, so I had to get up and go to the telephone. I didn't want to. "Mrs. Bissel? Was Detective Rotondo of help to you?"

She seemed to have stopped crying, thank God. "He said he'll look into the problem for me. Oh, thank you, Daisy. I know Dennis would never have hurt anyone."

"I believe you, Mrs. Bissel. I can't imagine Dennis as a coldblooded murderer, either." I shot a glance at Sam, who rolled his eyes. Only to be expected from that source.

"Can you come over tomorrow, Daisy? Just to see if Rolly has anything to say about this mess?"

"Of course. I'll be happy to visit and consult Rolly with you." I lied quite nobly, if I do say so myself.

"Thank you, Daisy."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Bissel."

I hung the receiver in the cradle and went back to the kitchen table. Sam had taken a chair, and I sank into the one I'd recently vacated. "I really can't believe Dennis Bissel would murder anyone."

"I'll look into it," said Sam.

After thinking about and rejecting several pungent comments, I said only, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I walked him to the door with Spike trotting along at my side. At the door, I almost fell over when Sam bent and gave me a peck. On the lips. Lips that Spike had licked not long before.

Then he left, and I stood there gaping at the door until Spike nudged me. So I took the two of us off to bed.

I rolled out of bed about sevenish the following morning. I didn't want to rise. I wanted to curl up, pull the quilt over my head, and hide out for a year or so.

But I'd promised Mrs. Bissel I'd go to see her, and the poor woman was so upset, I couldn't in conscience break my word. Therefore, I forced myself to leave the nice, warm bed. Spike, I noticed, was long gone. He'd probably got down from the bed the minute Aunt Vi or Pa had walked into the kitchen. Spike was no fool. And I always made sure the hinges on my bedroom door were oiled so it wouldn't squeak when anyone opened it to allow Spike out.

After thinking about getting dressed for approximately thirty seconds, I decided I'd save big decisions until after breakfast, so I put my ratty old robe on over my ratty old nightgown, stuffed my feet into my ratty old slippers, and staggered out to the kitchen.

"Morning, sunshine," said Pa, grinning at me from the kitchen table.

"Uhhh. Morning, Pa." I shuffled over to the stove, where Vi had left a pot of coffee on the warming plate. I grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured coffee into it. Then I went back to the table, where Pa was reading the morning Star News. Spike sat at his feet, looking up at him as if he expected a bite of food to appear miraculously, although he did turn his head and wag at me. I loved my dog. He was always happy to see me, even when I looked like the wrath of God.

"I see here where it says there was some excitement at church last night," said Pa, peering at me over the paper, which he'd crunched down.

I sipped the bitter brew. I really don't care for coffee, but it perks one up in the morning. Tea does, too, but you have to boil water and measure tea and heat the pot and so forth, and the coffee was already made, thanks to Aunt Vi.

After swallowing, I said, "You have no idea."

"It says here that a stone fell from the church roof and almost injured a member of the cast of The Mikado."

"It didn't fall. Someone threw-or maybe shoved-it from the roof. It almost hit Gloria Lippincott. She thinks somebody is trying to kill her."

"Lippincott? Isn't that the name of the man who was run down the other day?"

"Yes. She's his wife. Widow, I guess, at this point. They were estranged, whatever that means. I guess they'd lived apart for a couple of years. He wanted a divorce, but she wouldn't give him one. Or the other way around. I can't remember. Oh, and the police arrested Dennis Bissel, Mrs. Bissel's son, for murdering him. Gloria's husband. Late husband, I mean. Late estranged husband. Oh, bother. Anyhow, I don't believe for a single second that he did it. Dennis, I mean. He didn't kill Mr. Lippincott." I yawned and rubbed my gritty eyes. "What a mess."

Silence greeted my explanation. Opening my eyes wider, I saw Pa staring at me, an odd expression on his face.

"What?" I asked. "What's the matter?"

"Mrs. Bissel's son was arrested for murdering the husband of a woman who was almost killed last night at the church? Our church?"

Oh, dear. Perhaps I should have taken more care with my words. I sighed. "Yes. Our church. Bet the worship committee isn't going to like this one little bit."

"I'm on the worship committee, and I don't like it," said Pa, rather tartly for him. "Nor will Pastor Smith, I imagine." Pastor Merle Negley Smith had been the preacher in charge of the First Methodist-Episcopal Church for several years by that time.

Dismayed, I gazed at him for a couple of seconds, worried that he aimed to blame me for something. "It wasn't my idea to sing in The Mikado," I said, a plea in my voice. "And I had no idea Mr. Hostetter would agree to stage it at the church." I added lamely, "It's for a good cause."

Folding his newspaper and laying it on the table, Pa reached for the hand that wasn't clutching my coffee mug for dear life. "I know that, Daisy. None of that was your fault. But you do seem to get caught up in the most alarming circumstances sometimes."

"You sound like Sam," I told him bitterly.

He grinned. "Sorry, sweetheart. I just hate that such terrible things seem to happen around you." He shook his head.

I understood his concern. Things did seem to happen around me. I didn't like it, either. "Well, Sam was here when Mrs. Bissel telephoned last night, and he told her he'd look into the matter of Dennis running down Michael Lippincott. Which I'm sure he didn't." I groaned softly. "But I promised Mrs. Bissel I'd take Rolly up to her house and have him chat with her."

Pa squinted at me for a moment or two and then said, "Hmm. Maybe that's it."

"Maybe what's what?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

"Maybe your odd line of work attracts the strange things that seem to occur around you."

"You're not going to tell me you suddenly believe in ghosts, Pa!"

He chuckled. "No, no, no. But you have to admit that holding seances and pretending to talk to dead people isn't an average job for an average woman."

"Of course, it isn't. But I'm good at it, and I make a lot of money doing it."

"I know, sweetheart. But maybe... Oh, I don't know. I'm probably wrong, but you have an unusual profession, and unusual things seem to crop up in your vicinity. Quite often."

"I guess." But I didn't want to talk about it any longer. "Did Vi make anything for breakfast?" I grabbed an orange from the bowl on the table and began peeling it. It was of the navel variety and easy to peel.

"She fried up some cornmeal mush. I think she left a plate for you in the oven."

"Bless her heart." I grunted when I rose from my seat. I really had to get more exercise. I was turning into a marshmallow. However, that didn't prevent me from enjoying the fried mush and bacon my wonderful aunt had so thoughtfully left for me.

Speaking of my wonderful aunt, she appeared in the kitchen just then, along with my wonderful mother. Both of them were dressed for work. I felt like a slacker.

"Daisy, were you there when that stone fell on that woman?" Vi asked.

"That's terrible!" said my mother. "And at our church, too!"

Fudge. Why hadn't I just stayed in bed as I'd wanted to? Too late now. I smiled at the two most important women in my life and said, "Someone shoved a big paving stone off the roof of the church, but it didn't hit anyone. It sure rattled everybody, though. I wasn't there when it happened. Sam had just dropped me off at home, and we both drove back to the church after Harold called to tell me about it." I was pretty sure even my unimaginative mother could follow that speech.

Ma shook her head. "I'm not sure I approve of such goings-on at our church."

"I don't approve of such goings-on anywhere," I replied, meaning it sincerely. "That stone might have killed someone if it had hit him or her."

"Says here it was aimed at that lady whose husband was killed the other day," said Pa, pointing to the paper.

I sighed. "Well, it didn't hit her."

"I'm glad of that," said Ma. "But still..." She shook her head. "At our church."

"Pa's going to take it up with the worship committee," I told her.

"I expect Pastor Smith will have something to say about the matter, too," said Ma.

Oh, dear. I hated that my church was involved in an attempted crime. Well, the church itself wasn't, but... Oh, you know what I mean. Darn Mr. Floy Hostetter and Harold Kincaid both!

And, as if on cue, the telephone rang. I sagged slightly in my chair, but I knew where my duty lay, so I got up from the table and walked to the 'phone. It was early, dang it. Too early for people to be telephoning me. Not that the time of day had ever stopped anyone before.

I sucked in a gigantic breath and picked up the receiver. "Gumm-Majesty Res-"

"Dennis Bissel wasn't arrested."

Sam.