"You're sick, you said. Perhaps you have what Connie Van der Linden has," I said, attempting to sound practical and not as though I wanted to wring her neck.

"But that's just it!" she cried, further muddying the conversational waters.

"What's just it?"

"I know why I'm sick, and I think it's a criminal matter." By golly, she got out that whole sentence without once breaking down or chopping it into little pieces for me to drag out by asking various questions.

"Well, then, you should call the police."

"The... the police?"

"Yes."

"But I can't do that." Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

"Why not? The police are investigating your husband's death. If you think someone killed him and has now deliberately... What? Poisoned you?" Hmm. Maybe my poisoning idea wasn't so daft after all. "You should call the police."

"No! I can't! It's... It's too complicated to explain."

All right. That was it for me. "I see. Well, I'll be happy to arrange a seance for you, but you really need to telephone the police if you suspect criminal activity."

She whimpered. "But what should I do?"

I'd just told her what to do, for Pete's sake! "Call a doctor and then call the police," I repeated. And my voice was still sweet and spiritualistic, too.

"But... But I don't think the police like me."

I prayed for patience again but, again, my prayer was not granted. So I sucked in a deep breath and used it to say, "The police are there to protect and serve all the citizens of Pasadena. They investigate crimes, no matter against whom they're perpetrated. And if you truly believe someone is out to get you, you need to call the police. I'm sure they don't dislike you in particular."

"What about that detective friend of yours?"

Aha. Perhaps this was the real reason of this idiotic telephone call. She wanted to seduce Sam. Huh. "Detective Rotondo? He works primarily on murder investigations, and I don't believe he's at the station at the moment. If someone really is trying to kill you, he won't be of any help until after you're dead."

"What? No! That's a terrible thing to say!"

I kind of liked it myself. I didn't say so. "What you need to do is telephone the police department and report what happened to the officer who answers the telephone. The appropriate people will be sent to your residence to collect evidence and... do whatever needs to be done."

"Oh, but... Oh, Mrs. Majesty, can you come here and be with me when they come? I'm so afraid!"

"Of the police?"

"No. Not the police, exactly. It's just that so many horrible things are happening to me and the people around me, and I'm frightened."

If I didn't think she had collaborated with someone to do away with her husband and was now perhaps collaborating with that same person to kill Connie Van der Linden, I probably wouldn't have faulted her for being afraid. It occurred to me to tell her Harold Kincaid had a gun and knew how to use it and suggest she call him, but I didn't. I'd be sure to tell Harold about my restraint, because he'd appreciate my thoughtfulness. Maybe he'd even treat me to another luncheon.

After contemplating Gloria's bizarre request for several seconds, I said, "I'm sorry. I can't come to your house right now. I have family matters to attend to." Very well, I'd just lied to a frightened woman. A perhaps-frightened woman. Please scold me later.

"You can't?" she said pleadingly. "Then what should I do?"

Back to that, were we? "Um, well, don't you have any other women friends who can come over and stay with you until the police leave?"

"W-women friends?" She sounded as if she didn't know what a woman friend was, which was probably true for her.

"Yes." An idea struck me then, kind of like a baseball to the head. "What about Mrs. Warden? Or Mrs. Van der Linden? You and Connie are close, aren't you? And you both seem to have the same symptoms. Maybe you can come up with a solution between you."

"Faith? Connie?" she squealed. "I-I don't know. Yes, I've known Faith and James and Connie and Max for a long time, but..." Her voice trailed off.

"Well, isn't one of them a good-enough friend that you could call her?" Was I a sleuth, or was I not a sleuth? It's probably better if you don't answer that question.

"But Connie's been sick lately."

"Yes," I said, purring a bit. "She has been sick, hasn't she? And now you claim you're sick, too. Do you have any idea what's the matter with the two of you?"

"I? How should I know?"

"I thought you just said you did know."

"Well... I don't. Really. It was just a... a thought."

"Then why not ask Connie to visit? You're friends with the Van der Lindens. You said so yourself." Then, greatly daring, I added, "Or perhaps you should call Sylvia Allen. You and Lawrence were pretty cozy at rehearsal yesterday." They'd winked at each other, according to Lucy. Oh, well.

"Lawrence and me? Whatever are you talking about? Lawrence and Sylvia are dear friends. I don't know what you mean about Lawrence and me being cozy together. In fact, that sounds like slander."

I gathered she no longer wanted me to visit her and hold her hand through the police investigation of her symptoms. "It wasn't meant to be slanderous. I only reported what was told to me."

"Well, for your information, whoever told you that was misinformed."

"Or she didn't see what she said she saw?"

"What?"

"I didn't see what the person who told me about it saw, so this is second-hand information." Did that sentence even make sense? Oh, who cares?

"It's also incorrect. Now what am I supposed to do about being so damned sick?"

"Your symptoms, you mean?"

"Yes! What else do you suppose I'm talking about?"

"I already told you what to do. If you're sick, call a doctor. If you suspect you're being poisoned or something like that, call the police and report your suspicions to them. I'm only a spiritualist-medium. I can't do police work, and I can't cure the ill. However, I can set up a seance for you, if you still want to do that."

"What?" she asked again, not screaming this time. "Oh. Oh, yes, the seance. Yes, yes. I want to do that."

"Very well. Let me look at my calendar." I already knew my schedule, but I figured it was best to let people think I was going out of my way for them. It made them want me more. Maybe. Therefore I let the receiver dangle for a moment or two so she could think I was trying to make room for her seance in my incredibly crowded schedule-I'm joking. When I put the receiver to my ear again, it sounded as if Gloria were talking to someone. A man, if I were to judge by the background grumbles. "Mrs. Lippincott?" I said.

"Thanks. But I'll get back to you later about that. Right now, I guess I'd better-" She stopped speaking so suddenly, I thought we'd been disconnected.

I said tentatively, "Mrs. Lippincott?"

She sounded scared to death when she whispered, "I can't talk right now."

And I guess she hung up on me. Well!

Chapter 19.

I hadn't even made it out of the kitchen when the telephone rang again. I paused and listened and, sure enough, it was our ring. With a sigh, I walked back to the telephone and plucked the receiver from the cradle.

"Gumm-Majesty residence. Mrs. Majesty speaking."

"Mrs. Majesty?" a nasal New-York voice said.

"Mrs. Barrow?" I asked, astonished. The very nosiest of our party-line neighbors, Mrs. Barrow was the last person on the face of the earth from whom I'd expect to receive a telephone call.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Barrow," she said, not in her usual scolding tone.

At a loss to account for this call from the party-line neighbor who complained the most about my use of the telephone, I stammered slightly. "Um... May I help you?"

"No. But I might be able to help you. That lady who just called you?"

She'd been listening, the meddlesome old bat! Ah, well. My fault for not shooing her off the line before I conversed with Gloria. "Mrs. Lippincott. Yes?"

"Well, I think something's wrong with her."

I already knew there was something wrong with Gloria Lippincott. She was man-stealing seductress and, I believed, as near as she could come to being a murderess. However, I sensed that's not why Mrs. Barrow had telephoned.

"You do?"

"Yeah. Right before she said to you that she couldn't talk right now? You remember that?"

"Yes. I remember." I didn't holler at her for remaining on the line and listening in on other people's telephone calls, for which instance of self-control I believe I should be applauded.

"Well, right before then, I heard a door open on her end of the wire, and a guy, he says, 'Who're you talking to?' Real nasty-like, if you know what I mean. And then she says, 'Oh, it's just...' Well, I can't remember what name she said, but it wasn't yours."

"Oh. How odd."

"Yeah, I thought so, too. But she sounded scared. And the guy, he sounded mean."

Interesting. Was Gloria Lippincott's partner in crime turning against her? Who could it be? "Did you hear any names?"

"Only the one I don't remember that she called you, but it wasn't your name."

"So you didn't hear Mrs. Lippincott and the man call each other by name?"

"No, but I thought you might could do something. If she's that scared of the guy, maybe he's gonna do something bad to her."

"Yes. Maybe so. Thank you, Mrs. Barrow. Please let me know if you remember anything else."

"Yeah. Will do."

And she hung up on me, too. I didn't mind this time.

But what should I do with this sketchy bit of information relayed to me by our intrusive party-line neighbor? Call Sam? I didn't have much to tell him.

On the other hand, Gloria had sounded frightened. Even Mrs. Barrow thought so. And she'd also described the same symptoms Connie had relayed to me only the day before yesterday. Was someone poisoning the both of them? And Mrs. Barrow had heard a man speak in a mean manner to Gloria, and Gloria had sounded afraid, even to me, who believed her to be a villainess. It was possible, I supposed, that if Sam or some other police person drove immediately to her home, he or they might catch whoever was threatening Gloria. If she were being threatened.

Bother! I didn't know what to do.

Therefore, feeling as though I were taking my life in my hands, I got the Pasadena telephone directory and looked up Sam's home number. He was probably napping at the moment-I didn't buy the paperwork excuse for a minute-but Gloria's call and Mrs. Barrow's information might be important.

Picking up the receiver for the third time in a half-hour, I pressed the cradle several times. A voice I remembered well answered.

"Medora? This is Daisy." Medora Cox and I had gone to school together.

"Hey, Daisy. What can I do you for?"

"You can connect me to Colorado five-two-five-six, if you don't mind."

"Sure thing."

Clicking sounds commenced, and after a few seconds, I heard a telephone ring on the other end of the wire. It rang for so long, I despaired of Sam being home. Maybe he'd been called out on another case. Maybe he was in the bath. Maybe- "Rotondo," he growled.

"Sam! I'm so glad you're there." Very well, I'm not usually so enthusiastic when I telephone the grouchy Gus.

"Daisy?"

"Yes."

"What the devil do you want?"

Oh, boy. The man was such a cheerful specimen. "I don't want anything. But Gloria Lippincott just called me, and she claims she sick with the same symptoms as Connie Van der Linden, and-"

"What the hell am I supposed to do about it?" he snarled.

"Will you just listen for a minute?" I exclaimed, irked.

"Go on."

"Well, Gloria sounded shaky when she first called, and she hemmed and hawed and wouldn't get to the point, until at last she said she wanted me to schedule a seance so she could find out who killed her husband because she thought whoever it was is now trying to kill her, but I didn't believe that for a second."

"Go on," Sam said again, even more gruffly.

"I'm telling you! She blathered on about her symptoms, which are just like Connie's, and I said she should go to the doctor, and she said she thinks she knows what's wrong, and that somebody's doing something to harm her. So then I said she should call the police, and she hemmed and hawed some more. Then I offered to schedule a seance for her and let the receiver dangle for a minute so she'd think I was so busy that I had to look at a calendar. Then, when I got back on the wire, she sounded strange. Sort of like she wasn't talking to me anymore, but to someone else. Then she said she couldn't talk, and hung up. I guess. I didn't hear the receiver plop into the cradle."