"What I found out is a police matter."

I darned nearly slammed the salt cellar onto the table. I'm glad I didn't, because I not only would probably have broken the salt cellar, which was a cute blue thing with curlicues around its top, but salt would have gone everywhere. "That's not fair! Here you come asking me all sorts of questions, to which I'm supposed to give honest answers, yet you won't tell me what's going on! I know Dennis Bissel didn't kill that harpy's husband! I want to know what you're doing to prove it, Sam Rotondo."

Sam's mouth opened, I'm sure in order to give me a piece of his mind, but I ran over anything he'd been going to say not unlike a freight train running over a cow. Erk. Don't know what made me think about a dead cow.

"For instance, I'll bet you anything that Gloria Lippincott is in cahoots with the man who stole Dennis's car and ran down Mr. Lippincott and then returned the machine to Dennis's driveway. I drove past the junior Bissels' house after I left Mrs. Bissel, and there's no fence or gate or anything. Naturally, the auto wasn't in the drive, because-"

"The forensics people still have it."

"Precisely. But it would be dead easy for someone to have taken it that Wednesday evening. Patsy and Mrs. B were at St. Mark's knitting or sewing stuff for orphans in Europe, and Dennis had taken a taxicab to work because he knew he'd be dining at his club that night."

"So he says."

"I believe him. He said parking is difficult to find near his club, so it's easier to take a cab."

From the frown on Sam's face, I concluded I'd introduced a salient point. Therefore, I pounded on it for a bit. "And that's something you can check in to without bestirring yourself. You can telephone the stupid club from your stupid office and find out if Dennis's story is true. And don't the men who belong to the club have to sign in and out or something? Betcha they have a record of who was there when on that fatal night."

"We're looking into-"

"And while you're at it, you can check with the taxicab company, can't you? Don't they have records of whom they take where?"

"We know our job, dammit."

"Pooh. And then there's Lawrence Allen, who was all over Gloria Lippincott last night after that stone thing fell. Sylvia Allen was livid. Have you checked Lawrence's alibi? And what about other men in Gloria Lippincott's life? According to gossip, she's after Dennis Bissel. Who else is she after? Could she have connived with one of her lovers to do away with her husband? And why? Did he have a big insurance policy on his life? There has to be a good reason for someone to murder someone else! It couldn't have been so she could marry Mr. Allen, because he's already married, and I can't see Sylvia giving him a divorce for Gloria's sake."

"Why?"

Drat. He would have to ask me that, wouldn't he? "I don't know! I don't know anything! But you should know! You should be finding out these things, instead of coming over here and harassing me!"

Sam put his big hands on the table and leaned over so that he was almost face-to-face with me, as I stood on the other side of the table. I kind of wanted to back up, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"I'm not here to harass you," he whispered savagely. "I'm here to ask you questions about various cast members of that operetta." He shot a peek at the kitchen door, and lowered his voice. "And to get a decent meal, dammit. Do you know what it's like to be a single man in the city? A home-cooked meal is like a Christmas present for a guy like me."

"Oh."

Sam straightened and fiddled with the silverware, which didn't need it.

"Um. Can you join a club? I guess they serve meals at clubs. At least they do at the one Dennis and Mr. L belonged to."

"A rich man's club, you mean? I don't think so, but thanks."

"Oh. Well, surely there are other single men on the police force. Can't you dine out with them from time to time?"

"Do you know how boring Chinese food gets after several days in a row? Anyhow, dining out all the time is expensive." The police department was within walking distance of the Crown Chop Suey Parlor on Fair Oaks Avenue, so I understood his reference to Chinese food.

"I know. I'm sorry, Sam. But you know you're welcome here any time, don't you?"

"Am I?" He gave me a searching look that made me want to squirm.

After several seconds, I told the truth, dropping my gaze to the table as I did so. "Yes. You are."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Sam huffed out a sigh and then said, "Is the table set to your satisfaction? May we retire to the living room so I can ask more questions about members of the Mikado cast?"

After surveying the table and finding it set to a T, I said, "Sure."

So we took ourselves to the living room, where I sat on the piano bench and Sam sat on a chair near it. I purposely avoided the sofa, because I didn't want to sit next to him on a piece of furniture and be discovered there by my parents or aunt. They might get the wrong idea. Or maybe it was the right idea. Whatever it was, I didn't want to think about it.

Spike jumped up onto Sam's lap. Traitor. On the other hand, the piano bench wasn't even comfortable for me to sit on, and Spike had his priorities straight. He didn't give a yip what anyone thought about him.

After absently petting Spike for a moment, Sam pulled a small notebook and pencil from his inside coat pocket. "All right. Let me see if I have this right. Mr. and Mrs. Van der Linden are the producers of the play, right?"

"The producers? I'd never thought about them as producers, but I suppose they are. It was all their idea, anyway."

"Right. So they're responsible for getting the operetta staged in town."

"Right."

"And they also act the parts of the two lovers in the play, right?"

I nodded. "Yes. Mr. Van der Linden is Nanki-Poo and Connie is Yum-Yum."

Sam's nose wrinkled. I saw it. "Crazy names."

"It's a comic opera."

"I guess. So that takes care of the Van der Lindens. Insofar as their relationship goes, I mean. They're married."

"Correct."

"Good. Harold is the Lord High Whatever he is, right?"

"Yes. He's the Lord High Executioner."

"Right. Then there's the Mikado. Who plays him?"

"Mr. George Finster. He's also in the choir."

"Right. And Mr. Floy Hostetter is..." Sam squinted at his list.

"Besides being our choir director, he's Pooh-Bah, the Lord High Everything Else. Except executioner. Harold's in charge of executions."

"Criminy. These names are crazy."

"Gilbert and Sullivan were two crazy fellas. They were what the press at the time called the kings of topsy-turvydom."

"If you say so. So then this Lawrence Allen guy is a noble lord named... Go-To?"

"That's right."

"Sheesh. Who are the three little maids?"

"Connie Van der Linden is one of them. She's Yum-Yum, and Yum-Yum is not only the heroine of the piece, but she's also one of the three little maids. The other two are Lucille Spinks and Gloria Lippincott, who's about as little maidish as Lucrezia Borgia."

"I see."

Sam had been writing names on his pad as fast as he could. "Anyone else I should know about?"

"I don't know! How should I know? I don't know what you're looking for. For pity's sake, Sam Rotondo-"

Sam held up one of his big hands, and I stopped hollering at him. "I just needed to get the names straight. So Dennis Bissel isn't in one of the starring roles?"

"No, and neither is Patsy, his wife. They're both in the chorus, along with just about everyone else in the church choir."

"Got it. Thanks, Daisy."

"You're welcome."

Sam frowned at his notebook for a moment or two. "Um... You said Dennis and Patsy and people from the choir are in the chorus. Are Dennis and Patsy members of your church?"

"Lord, no. They're rich. They go to St. Mark's Episcopal Church in Altadena, right across the street from Mrs. Bissel's house. I think if you're rich, you have to be either Episcopalian or Presbyterian."

Sam squinted at me. "Are you serious?"

I thought about it. "Sort of. I don't suppose there's any rule or law about it or anything, but most of the rich folks I know are either Episcopalians or Presbyterians. There are a few wealthy families in our Methodist Church, I reckon, but you don't find too many rich Baptists in Pasadena."

Still squinting, Sam said, "What about Roman Catholics?"

That's right. Sam, of Italian extraction, was probably a Roman Catholic. I'd never asked him about his religious beliefs before, and he'd showed up at our Methodist-Episcopal Church a few times. "I don't think there are too many wealthy Catholics in Pasadena, either. What about New York?" I was honestly curious.

"How the hell should I know?"

Darn him! "Well, you're Catholic, aren't you?"

"I was. I'm not much of anything now. And my family isn't rich."

"I thought your family owned a jewelry store in New York City."

"Yeah. But it's just a family business. We aren't railroad magnates or millionaire industrialists or anything like that."

"And you no longer consider yourself a Catholic?"

With a shrug, Sam said, "I don't really consider myself much of anything. Margaret went to the Congregational Church, so I attended there with her."

Margaret was Sam's late wife, who'd died of tuberculosis shortly after they'd moved to Pasadena. They'd hoped the move to a warmer climate would be good for her health, but tuberculosis evidently doesn't care what the weather's like. It kills you, no matter where you live. Which was a melancholy thought. So I changed the subject. In a way. "Weren't the Congregationalists big supporters of abolition and women's suffrage?"

"Yeah. But I went there anyway."

Trust Sam. "I think there's a Congregational Church in Pasadena."

"West Side Church," said he. "Margaret and I attended there while she still could. They've started uniting themselves with the Universalists."

It was all too much for me. "Why does the Christian Church have so many different offshoots?"

With a shrug, Sam said, "Human beings have never been able to get along with each other. Even when we claim to hold a common belief, we're always arguing. And fighting each other and everyone else, especially people of other faiths. Look at the Crusades and the Christians versus the Saracens. Killing for Christ."

"Sam Rotondo! That sounds awful," I said; then I thought about his words. "But I suppose you're right." I heaved a sigh.

He shrugged, and I thought a little bit more. "But it's not just Christians. Remember when those Turkish Moslems slaughtered all those Armenians in nineteen fifteen?"

"No, I don't remember that far back." He eyed me slantways. "And frankly, I'm surprised you do."

"Well," I admitted, "I don't really remember, but I read an article about it recently."

"The Turks probably thought the Armenians would defect to Russia, since Russia was a supposedly Christian nation, too, and Armenians are Christians as a culture, aren't they?"

"I think so."

"I thought you liked Turkey when you were there with Harold," said Sam.

"I did. And you were there, too, don't forget."

"How could I ever forget?"

"Harold shot a man for you."

"Thanks for reminding me. But all those young Turks must have over-reacted to a perceived threat, don't you think? After all, Russia bowed out of the war a couple of years later, didn't they?"

"Yes. In nineteen seventeen, but that's because the Tsar abdicated and the citizens were revolting."

"Aw, they're probably not that bad."

"Sam!"

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, and then we both burst out laughing. I had to grab a hankie from my pocket and wipe my eyes.

With a small gasp, Sam said, "But enough philosophy for one day." He gave himself a little shake, kind of like the way Spike would shake himself every now and then. "What time does rehearsal begin tomorrow morning?" He stuck his notebook back into his pocket.

"Ten. Why?" I peered narrowly at him, not liking the question a whole lot.

"Good. I'll pick you up at a quarter of and take you there."

"You don't need-"

"I'm going to the damned rehearsal. All of my suspects will be there. So I might as well pick you up, since you're right on the way."