"It'll help my sister. She doesn't need that son of a... dog dragging the family name in the dirt."

"And you think it would help her if you killed her child?"

"He's headed straight to jail or getting shot down with a Tommy gun."

"Oh, that's awful. But your poor sister. Wouldn't she be grieved by her son's death?"

"Probably, but it would cause her less trouble in the long run if someone just did away with him now."

"That's terrible, Sam."

"Yeah, well, I don't know any Johnny Buckinghams back in New York City, so options are limited."

He had a point there.

Chapter 26.

Saturday morning's rehearsal of The Mikado went quite well. Again, Gloria wasn't well enough (she said) to endure the entire rehearsal. That was all right by me. Flossie, Lucy Spinks, and Connie sounded great together. I decided that Flossie made a better Pitti-Sing than Gloria, anyway, because she wasn't such a sophisticated snob. Or maybe that's only my imagination. About Flossie being a better Pitti-Sing, I mean. Gloria was still a sophisticated snob. And a murderous one, if Sam was correct, and I could think of no reason to doubt him.

It just occurred to me that I didn't doubt him on the Gloria issue because I didn't like Gloria. If he'd told me Flossie was an evil murderess, I'd doubt him to the skies. Which just goes to show how much one's emotions have to do with one's common sense, I reckon.

At any rate, rehearsal ended about one o'clock, and Sam treated me to lunch at a little soda fountain in Altadena at Webster's Pharmacy. I had a tuna-fish sandwich, and Sam had roast beef on pumpernickel. I didn't believe I'd ever seen pumpernickel bread before that day, and I told Sam so.

With huge eyes, chewing, he stared at me. After he swallowed, he said, "Are you telling me the truth?"

"Well... Yes. In fact, until you ordered that sandwich"-I pointed at same-"I'd never even heard of pumpernickel bread. It looks dark. Does it taste like... what's that other bread that we had at the Tea Cup Inn? Rye?"

"You don't eat rye bread either?"

"Well, only at the Tea Cup Inn when we ate there with Harold. We just eat Vi's bread at home," I told him. "She makes good bread."

"And your family is from Massachusetts?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I guess." He sighed. "You know, I don't much care for New York City, but you can get every kind of food known to man there. Rye, pumpernickel, white, whole wheat, pita"

"Pita? Is that a joke?"

"It certainly is not. In fact, you had pita bread in Egypt and Turkey."

I cast my mind back to my not-awfully-successful trip to Egypt and Turkey. "I don't remember," I told him.

"Huh. You stayed at tourist hotels."

"Yes, Sam. Harold took me, remember? Only the best for Harold Kincaid."

"I remember." From the tone of his voice, he didn't like remembering, either. "You never had anything rolled up in a flat piece of bread? That's pita. The bread. Not the stuff inside it."

"Nuts. Now I feel as though I missed something during that horrible trip. Is pita bread tasty?"

"Tastes like bread. Chewy bread. The good stuff is inside it. My buddy Jamir used to invite me to his place for lunch, and his mother made us falafel sandwiches."

"Ah. I think I remember you telling me about falafel once. What are they made of?"

"Garbanzo beans, garlic. Stuff like that."

"No meat?"

"No meat. Although you can get lamb on a pita, too. That's delicious."

My mouth watered, so I took a bite of my sandwich, which came complete with a pickle spear. I love dill pickles. I kept eyeing Sam's sandwich, however, and almost wished I'd been more daring.

Sam must have noticed, because he took his knife, carved a corner off the sandwich half he hadn't yet bitten into and transferred it to my plate. "Try it. It's good. Got mustard."

"Thanks, Sam!" Mustard wasn't my favorite food, but what the heck. I picked up the sandwich tidbit and popped it into my mouth. "Oh, my, this is good!" I exclaimed once I'd swallowed. But honestly. How was I supposed to know that roast beef and pumpernickel bread would go so well together? I was a Southern California girl, for Pete's sake.

"Maybe your aunt can make pumpernickel. Or rye bread." He shrugged. "Can't be too difficult. All the Germans and Poles and Rumanians in New York make the stuff."

"Rumanians?" The only thing I knew about Rumania was that it was near Hungary, and Count Dracula lived there, according to Mr. Bram Stoker. I loved that book, Dracula. It was really creepy.

"I'd bet, if I were a betting man, which I'm not, that you can find someone of every country on this green earth somewhere in New York City. Oh, the Rumanians have this kind of cured meat called pastrami that's delicious. Pastrami on rye used to be my favorite."

"Pastrami, eh? I think I'll have to go to New York City someday, just so I can stuff myself with new food."

Sam grinned a little and said, "Maybe we can-Never mind."

What had he been going to say? That maybe he and I could go there together someday? Did that mean he still loved me? Bother. I was too tired to think about deep stuff anymore that day, so I reverted to my normal self.

"I'll go to the library and check out a cooking book for Vi," I said, feeling determined and more sorry than ever that I hadn't dared pumpernickel that very day. Or pastrami on rye. Not that Webster's carried such exotica as pastrami. Ah, well. Learn something new every day, is my motto. Actually, it isn't, but it seems appropriate regarding foodstuffs.

So Sam took me home after our delicious lunches, and I lay down with Spike for a bit, in anticipation of the seance to come later on that day. I wanted to be fully fresh and alert so I could remember it all later and be able to tell Ma, Pa, and Vi precisely how the police and I thwarted two dirty crooks.

The seance was set to begin at eight-thirty, and I had to drive myself to Mrs. Bissel's house, because Sam would be there on professional duty, doing policemanly things. I could hardly wait to find out the identity of Gloria's evil assistant. Of those who were going to be present, I didn't feel inclined to choose one. I didn't want it to be Max. And, however much I loathed Lawrence Allen spurning his own wife in favor of Gloria Lippincott, he was merely a weak-minded male, after all. Gloria seemed adept at spinning her web. If Lawrence got caught in its sticky tendrils, he'd learn a hard lesson this evening. Whether Sylvia would forgive him or not was anyone's guess.

I knew the cohort wasn't Dennis Bissel because he just wasn't the type. Whatever the type is. But I had yet to detect a malicious bone in his body. Not that I knew anything about his body; I'm only using a figure of speech.

I drove into Mrs. Bissel's circular driveway in back of her house at about seven-thirty that evening. I figured that would give me lots of time to get any instructions Sam might want to impart. I wore one of my lovelier black ensembles. Feeling a little silly, but not awfully, I also wore my juju, which I tucked discreetly out of sight. The skirt reached my ankles, so I also wore black shoes with a Louis heel and carried my black bag. I'd stuck a couple of black feathers in my hair in lieu of a hat for a change.

Keiji Saito, Mrs. Bissel's houseboy, met me at the back door. He'd taught me all sorts of stuff about his own Japanese culture and was at this time attempting to teach me a way of folding paper into interesting objects via an art form called origami. Keiji'd made me a charming origami crane. Just by folding paper! I wasn't great at it yet, but I was trying. My mother would say I'm very trying, but I think she means it as a joke. Ma isn't a great jokester as a rule, but I'd walked right into that one a time or two.

"You look very nice this evening, Daisy," said Keiji.

"Thank you," I said.

"You look like a black crow," said Sam Rotondo, who stood right behind Keiji. "What are those feathers for?"

Trust Sam. "Why, thank you very much, Sam. Say anything else rude, and I'll peck your stupid eyes out."

Sam smiled, drat the man.

Keiji tried not to laugh.

"But you'd better come with me, and I'll show you what's going to happen when," said Sam.

"Let me take your shawl and handbag, Daisy," said Keiji, doing same. At least he was nice to me.

"Thanks, Keiji." I turned to my nemesis. "All right, Sam. What's going to happen when?"

"Come here." He walked from the sunroom, where the back door was located, to the right, where sat the breakfast room. A suite of rooms leading from the breakfast room was where Mrs. Bissel's housekeeper/cook lived. Sam turned the knob and walked right in, from which I assumed he'd confiscated Mrs. Cummings' quarters for the evening. I felt kind of sorry for Mrs. Cummings, the housekeeper/cook, but oh, well. The police had a job to do and so did I.

"Buckingham will come out of this room at the appropriate time," Sam told me.

"When's the appropriate time going to be?"

"Whenever you get around to conjuring him."

I frowned at him. "You're not very helpful, Sam. Can you give me a hint? What do you want me to say?"

"Hell, you're the spiritualist. Do it when it feels right. Don't you go through some rigmarole first and then swoon or something?"

Blast the man! "All right. I'll follow my instincts."

"Don't get carried away," he said in a warning tone.

"I do not get carried away, Sam Rotondo! I'm a professional spiritualist-medium, and I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say."

Sam Rotondo could drive me crazy in less time than any other human being on earth. Johnny Buckingham showed up at that moment, so I couldn't tell Sam so.

"Hey, Johnny."

"Hey, Daisy. How-do, Sam," said Johnny.

They were on a first-name basis, were they? Hmm. Not sure how I felt about that.

"Doing great here, Johnny," said Sam. "Did you bring the makeup and powder?"

"Right here," said Johnny, holding up a cardboard box.

"Good. Daisy, will you help Johnny use makeup to look approximately like this fellow, only dead? This is Michael Lippincott." He handed me a photograph.

Michael Lippincott had been an ordinary looking bloke. Not awfully handsome, but he had kind eyes. Unless that was my imagination, which leaps to unwarranted conclusions from time to time. Just by looking at this picture, however, I sensed I'd have liked him a lot better than I like Gloria. Poor guy.

"I'll do my best," said I. "Although I really don't know much about makeup. I only use white rice powder on my face to make me look the part of a spiritualist-medium."

"Which you do to perfection," said Johnny, giving me a good once-over.

I think Sam snickered, darn him.

"Maybe you should have had Flossie help you with this, Johnny. She's ever so much better at makeup than I am." As soon as I spoke those words, I wished them unsaid. I'm sure neither Johnny nor Flossie liked remembering the bad old days.

Thank goodness Johnny had a good sense of humor. He only laughed. "Flossie's got baby duty tonight, Daisy, so it's up to you. Make me look like a ghoul."

"White powder should do the trick," said Sam. "It works on you, Daisy."

Shooting him a hot scowl, I said, "I do not look like a ghoul, Sam Rotondo. For your information, I cultivate the pale and interesting look for my job."

"Whatever you say," said Sam, holding up his hands as if in surrender.

"Let's get this show on the road," said Johnny, interrupting our little spat. "Flossie told me to put on a little greasepaint under the powder so the powder will stick, and to make sure my eyes look sunken. She gave me some of this gunk for that." He reached into the cardboard box and lifted out a small jar filled with what looked like black cream.

"My goodness. I wonder what Flossie ever used this for," I said as I took the little jar from Johnny.

"She said it was all the rage to draw black lines around a lady's eyes," said Johnny, sounding not in the least embarrassed by his wife's tawdry past. Well, there was no reason he should be embarrassed; after all, he knew all about Flossie, and she probably knew all about him and how he hit the gutters after the war, addled from shell shock, bitterness and alcohol. That happened to a lot of men who fought in that ghastly conflict.

Pooh. I was almost in tears. I screwed on the little jar's lid and began ordering Johnny about. "Go into the dressing room there, Johnny, and sit on the bench. I'll see what I can do."

The first thing I did was stick Michael Lippincott's photograph under the upper frame holding the mirror to the dressing stand so I could study it as I worked on Johnny.

Perhaps I missed my calling and should have pursued a dramatic career, because, by the time I was through with him, Johnny looked as though he were Michael Lippincott, and he'd just climbed up the stairway from hell. I stood back, proud of my efforts.

"There," I said. "What do you think?"

Shaking his head in admiration, Johnny said, "I've never looked worse in my life."

"Wish I had one of those Kodak cameras. I'd take your picture so you could show Flossie."

"That's all right. I wouldn't want to scare her," said Johnny, chuckling.

"We can have a newshound snap your photo if you like," Sam offered.

"No, thanks. My flock would disown me if they knew I was mixed up in this adventure."

"Why would they do that?" I asked, indignant. "You're looking like a ghoul for a good cause!"

"I'm ribbing you, Daisy. My flock pretty much always gives other folks the benefit of the doubt, mainly because they've been in some bad fixes themselves."

"I really admire the work you do," I told Johnny sincerely.