And then, after the last bite had been swallowed and folks were beginning to moan slightly from over-stuffedness, Mrs. P rose to lead the ladies out of the room. This act was a relic of the past, when the ladies would leave the gents to their port and cigars. This evening, I imagine the port would be replaced by tea or lemonade or some other non-alcoholic beverage. They'd probably smoke cigars, though.

Because I knew the first floor of the house by heart, having been practicing my trade there for lo, those many years, I made my way down the hallway to the kitchen. I didn't want to annoy my aunt, but I did want to let her know how much Mrs. P's guests had enjoyed her fabulous dinner. I gave the swing door a tentative push and saw dishes piled up everywhere and my aunt more or less collapsed at the kitchen table, as many minions washed up. She held a glass of iced water in her hand and took a swig before turning to frown at the door. When she saw me, she smiled.

I scooted in and sat beside her. "Oh, Aunt Vi, you're the best cook in the world. That was the most delicious meal I've ever eaten."

"It was probably the biggest you've ever eaten, at any rate," said my aunt, who must have been exhausted, because she wasn't given to irony as a rule.

"You're right about that. Shoot, I'm glad we don't eat like that at home every day. We'd all blow up like balloons."

"Not even the Pinkertons dine like that every day, Daisy. This was a special party, and Mrs. P put it on for you and Sam, so you'd better get yourself out there and mingle."

"I will. I just wanted you to know how delicious everything was."

"Thank you, sweetie. Now, get going."

So I went.

The men must have been released from durance vile-or cigar smoke vile, at any rate-because by the time I entered the drawing room, everyone had gathered there. Harold spotted me at once, as did Sam, and they both converged on me.

"Where the devil did you go?" Sam demanded.

"Oh, Daisy, come over and chat with Connie and Max for a minute," said Harold.

"I went to thank my aunt for her superb meal," I snapped at Sam. To Harold I said, "Are they going to make me sing? I don't think I can sing in front of a bunch of people, Harold."

"You sing in front of a bunch of people every Sunday," said Sam, still sounding grumpy. Then again, he almost always did.

"Yes, but I don't sing solos," I pointed out.

By that time Harold had begun dragging me across the drawing room floor, dodging people here and there. Like a Saint Bernard-or maybe more like an elephant-Sam clomped along behind us. He loomed large, did Sam Rotondo.

"Fiddlesticks," said Harold.

I looked a question over my shoulder at Sam. He only shrugged as if he didn't know what Harold was talking about, either.

"Connie and Max!" cried Harold at the couple standing before the fireplace. "Here's Daisy. Do your worst."

"Harold!" I cried, aghast. I wasn't going to be roped into doing something I didn't want to do, darn it!

"Don't pay any attention to him," said Connie Van der Linden with a smile for me and then one for Sam. "We're not going to lock you up and force you to sing or anything. But Max and I-and Mrs. Pinkerton-are interested in putting on The Mikado, by Gilbert and Sullivan, and Harold said you'd be perfect to sing the role of Katisha."

My mouth dropped open. I read music and liked playing the piano in our living room at home. I'd also checked out the score of The Mikado from the Pasadena Public Library not long ago. I'd played the music and loved it, and I thought Mr. Gilbert was exceptionally clever with words and Mr. Sullivan equally clever with music, but... Katisha?

I turned on Harold. "Harold Kincaid, Katisha is an old, ugly, mean-tempered, nasty, vindictive, horrible person!"

Sam mumbled, "Sounds perfect for you."

I shot him a glare.

Before I could say more, Harold said, "But the part is in your vocal range. I've heard you sing, Daisy."

"You have?" I was astonished. To my knowledge, I'd never sung a note in front of Harold.

"Yes, my dear. Perhaps you aren't aware of it, but you sometimes sing when you think you're alone. I've heard you. Right here in this room. A couple of times. When you've been waiting for my mother to show herself so you can conjure up Rolly for her."

A word of explanation is called for here. I made up Rolly at the same time I made up my role as spiritualist-medium. He's supposed to be my spirit control, and he's a Scottish chap who lived in about the eleventh century. According to the story I made up to go along with him, Rolly and I were soul mates who'd been married in Scotland in ten-something, and we'd had five sons together. He'd followed me through all my incarnations to this very day. Rolly had been a soldier in life, also according to my story, and had never gone to school, so he couldn't spell worth beans. That had been more than ten years ago, and I'd since learned how to spell quite well, but I couldn't change the story now, so Rolly remained illiterate.

Back to the drawing room.

"I... I didn't know that."

"You sing duets with that other woman at church all the time," said Sam.

Sam's comment annoyed the heck out of me. "Sam Rotondo, I've introduced you to Lucille Spinks fifty million times! You can't even remember her name?"

"It hasn't been fifty million times," he grumbled. "And you sound good together."

"So you're against me, too?" I all but hollered at him.

"I'm not against you. I just think you have a good voice. That's all."

"Well..." My voice trailed off. What could one say to that? I mean, it was a nice thing for him to have said. I couldn't very well be mad at him for having said it, could I?

"We really don't want to apply pressure, Mrs. Majesty," said Mrs. Van der Linden, smiling sweetly. "And you certainly don't look like Katisha."

"Pish-tosh," said Harold. Then he laughed. "Which is the name of one of the characters, actually."

"It's Pish-Tush, but you're close," said Mr. Van der Linden with a chuckle of his own.

"But the fact that you don't look like Katisha is why God invented makeup," the irreverent Harold plopped into the conversation. "I think you'd be swell in the part. I," he said, preening slightly, "am the Lord High Executioner." He took a poker from the fireplace-implements thing and brandished it. I had to leap out of his way. " 'I have a little list,' " sang he. I remembered the song well. Harold replaced the fireplace poker and smiled at me. "You and I get married in the end," he said.

"Is that meant to be an inducement?" I asked, snarling a bit. I instantly reminded myself that I was a spiritualist-medium, and that spiritualist-media-or mediums. I don't know which is correct under the circumstances-didn't snarl. It was hard, though.

Harold only laughed.

"Will you at least give us a try?" asked Mrs. Van der Linden with another sweet smile.

Frustrated and feeling as though the whole world were turning against me, I said, "Where will this operetta take place?"

Mrs. Van der Linden and her husband exchanged a guilty glance.

"Um..." said Harold.

"Well..." said Mr. Van der Linden.

Good heavens, what did this mean? Perhaps they really were plotting against me.

"You guys are ganging up on me," I said, trying to maintain my spiritualist persona, but feeling like hitting someone.

"Actually, we've received permission to stage the show at the First Methodist-Episcopal Church you attend," said Mrs. Van der Linden.

My mouth fell open yet again.

"Mr. Floy Hostetter has agreed to play the role of Pooh-Bah, the Lord High Everything except the executioner, which is who Harold is."

"M-Mr. Hostetter? He's going to be in the show?" Mr. Floy Hostetter was our choir director. He was my choir director, for crumb's sake!

"Yes, indeedy," said Harold, rubbing his hands with glee. "And another member of your choir... what's his name?" He glanced at Mrs. Van der Linden.

"George Finster," she supplied with alacrity.

"Yes. He's going to be the Mikado. He's got a good bass voice, or so I've been told."

"Yes," I said weakly. "He does."

"So you'll consider it?" asked Mrs. V with strong appeal in her voice. The woman was a good actress; I'd give her that.

I glanced at all the people ranged against me: Harold, Max Van der Linden, Connie Van der Linden, Sam. Sam? Good Lord! Even Sam wanted me to sing in the stupid operetta! And I gave up.

"Yes," I said, feeling as though my heart were being squeezed by a giant's fist. "I'll consider it."

To judge by the joy emanating from my companions, you'd think I'd just achieved world peace. I felt as though I'd just sold my soul to Satan.

Chapter 4.

As Sam drove his big, black Hudson from the Pinkerton palace to my humble abode on South Marengo Avenue, I was still sulking.

"Darn it, Sam Rotondo, that was a sneaky thing to do, agreeing with the Van der Lindens and Harold like that."

He shrugged. "It wasn't sneaky. I think you have a good voice, and if the part is in your voice range, why not do it?"

"I'm not a soloist!" I cried.

Another shrug. "Give it a try. Broaden your horizons. Who knows? Maybe you'll enjoy performing."

I'd once told Billy I wanted to broaden my horizons. He'd looked at my hips and told me my horizons were broad enough. But that's not the point.

I wasn't sure precisely what the point was. In actual fact, I did enjoy performing. In truth, I earned my considerable income performing. Only I was comfortable in my spiritualist act. I didn't mind singing duets with Lucille Spinks, who had a beautiful soprano voice and who sang in the choir with me, but I'd never sung a solo before. At least not before anyone but my family. And, according to him, in front of Harold, but that was by accident. If it were true, and I didn't know it for a fact. Harold didn't mind stretching the truth from time to time.

"Give it a try," Sam repeated. "Can't hurt. You might enjoy it."

"Will you try out for a part in the chorus?"

"Hell, no. I can't sing."

"I don't know that! In fact, you just lied. I heard you sing when you came to our house on Christmas Eve. You sang with the rest of the family when I played the piano." I crossed my arms across my chest and glared at what I could see of him, which wasn't much, the night being dark and all.

"That's not singing. That's just playing around the Christmas tree."

"Piffle."

"Pish-tosh."

I glared at him harder. But it was no use. Sam was impervious. "Maybe Pa would like to sing in the chorus."

"He might. He has a pretty good voice, too."

Sam was right about that. My father liked to sing, and he did so with abandon around the house. Guess I'd inadvertently picked up the habit from him. If you wanted to believe Harold.

Just then Sam pulled his machine to a stop in front of our bungalow, so I dropped the argument. There was no point to it anyway.

However, because I was still peeved, I opened my own door and didn't wait for Sam to do it for me. A small rebellion, but it felt good-for about a second and a half, and then it only felt petty. Nuts. I couldn't win.

"Feel better now?" asked Sam as he walked me up the pathway to our porch. He knew I'd been rebelling, the rat.

"No."

All at once, a racket began in the front room of our house. Spike, the absolutely perfect black-and-tan dachshund I'd got to keep Billy company during his final years-I never admitted to myself that they were his final years, even though I knew in my heart they were-started barking as if the house were on fire. I loved Spike. He was not merely a darling, loyal, friendly, playful dog, but he was smart as a whip. Approximately a year and a half prior to that evening, I'd taken Spike to one of the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club's obedience classes. They were held in Brookside Park every Saturday morning for several weeks running during the summertime, and Spike had come in first in his class!

Thanks to Spike's greed, Pa and I had also taught him to add, subtract, multiply and divide. I'm only kind of kidding. I'd begun by asking him, "Spike, what's two plus two?" When Spike began barking, I'd make a big gesture when he barked four times and thrown him a piece of food-Mrs. Hanratty, the woman who taught Spike's obedience class, called these treats "bait"-and Spike would stop barking and grab his goodie. He'd become so good at spotting signals that by this time, I could barely wiggle my little finger, and Spike would stop barking at the appropriate time. I hadn't yet dazzled Sam with Spike's mathematical genius, but I'd do so one of these days. I was too mad at Sam that night to give him any treats. No matter how much he barked. So to speak.

I opened the front door and cried, "Spike!" I bent down and caught Spike as he leapt at me, happy to be with a being that didn't want anything from me but affection. Well, and food. "I'm so glad to be home!"

"Rough night?"

I looked up to see Pa smiling down upon my dog and me.

"Harold Kincaid is making her sing in an opera," said Sam by way of explanation.

Naturally, Pa looked puzzled.

I said, "He is not! Well, he's not making me. I just... well, I agreed to try out for a part in Gilbert and Sullivan's operetta, The Mikado. It's not an opera. It's an operetta, which is different, although I'm not sure how. He did apply a little pressure," I admitted because I saw Sam open his mouth and wanted to beat him to the punch.

"The Mikado? Isn't that the music you brought home from the library a couple of weeks ago? The one set in Japan?"

"That's the one, all right." I excused myself to Spike and rose from the floor. I did so with a grunt, and embarrassed myself, but that meal had been huge.

"That sounds like fun," said my father, grinning broadly. "You like to sing. You should do great."

"That's what Harold and Sam said. Mr. Finster's going to play the role of the Mikado." I thought of something and brightened minimally. "Oh! Maybe Lucy Spinks can be in the play. That would make it not quite as awful as it might be."

We all, including Spike, strolled into the dining room and sat at the chairs surrounding the dining room table. Well, Spike sat on the floor, but we all took turns petting him. The dining room led to the kitchen, which led to my room. The other bedrooms were on the side opposite the kitchen, down a hallway. Aunt Vi had a darling little two-room suite upstairs. Our bungalow basically looked like a house with a very tiny other house on top of it. Several of Pasadena's bungalows did, too. Ours wasn't unusual or anything.