"Huh," I grumbled, sounding a good deal like Sam.

"Oh, get over it, Daisy. It'll be fun, and you know it. Won't it, Gloria?"

He'd asked the last question of Mrs. Lippincott, so I guess her first name was Gloria.

"I believe it will be fun, yes," she said.

"What part will you be playing, Mrs. Lippincott?" I asked. Then I was irked with myself. I didn't want to talk to that woman about The Mikado or anything else.

"I'm Pitti-Sing, one of Harold's wards. Well, Ko-Ko, I mean, since that's the role he'll be playing."

"I see."

I glared at the commotion going on in my church and felt almost betrayed. Perhaps I'm not the most sanctimonious of human beings on this earth, but to bring a musical comedy into church seemed... I don't know. Blasphemous or something. I was probably just being grouchy.

Harold nudged my shoulder. "You're just being grouchy, Daisy. It'll be fun, and you know it. Besides, it's for a good cause."

How come he always knew what I was thinking? Bother.

"What good cause?" I asked, but Harold didn't have time to answer.

"Mrs. Majesty!"

I jerked to attention and saw Mr. Hostetter gesturing for me to join the choir members and the Van der Lindens on the chancel. Or onstage, I guess I should call it at this point. So I did, my feet dragging slightly.

"Good evening, Mrs. Majesty!" Mrs. Van der Linden sounded and looked just as sweet as she had at Mrs. Pinkerton's party. If I didn't watch myself, I might end up liking her.

What a stupid thing to say! Chalk it up to my mood.

"Good evening, Mrs. Van der Linden."

"Oh, call me Connie. Please!" She appeared a little pale that evening, but maybe that was because of the lighting, of which there wasn't much.

Huh. "Thank you. Please call me Daisy."

"Mr. Van der Linden is going to play for us at the piano," said Mr. Hostetter.

I instantly glanced at the piano, prepared to see Mrs. Fleming, our organist/pianist, in a snit. But no. She seemed as smiling and happy as the rest of the choir. Either they were right and I was wrong, or I just didn't want to give up a good grump.

Mr. Hostetter went on, "And we'll have various choir members sing various parts in the operetta."

"Lucy should try out for one of the three little maids," I said instantly. I glanced at Lucy and found her blushing madly. She'd recently become engaged, and I noticed that, as she pressed her hands to her cheeks, she made sure the one with the diamond was foremost. Well, I didn't blame her.

"Very good idea. I understand the role of Pitti-Sing has already been assigned, so why don't you, Miss Spinks, sing from the libretto. You can take... ah..." Mr. Hostetter flipped madly through the libretto. "Ah, yes. You may sing Peep-Bo. Mrs. Van der Linden will sing with you, to give us an idea of how you'll sound together."

So Lucy stepped up, stopped blushing, took the libretto, waited for Mr. Van der Linden to strike a few chords, and she and Mrs. V took off singing. They sounded good together. I could definitely more easily feature the two of them as innocent schoolgirls than I could Gloria Lippincott.

"Excellent," said Mr. Hostetter, going so far as to clap his hands. "Er, what do you think, Mrs. Van der Linden?"

"I think Miss Spinks will make an excellent Peep-Bo," said Connie. That was nice.

Try-outs went on, and pretty much all of the members of the choir who wanted to were tapped to play various roles, most of them in the chorus. They all seemed pleased.

"And now if Harold Kincaid will come up onto the chancel, I'd like to hear him sing with you, Mrs. Majesty. You spend a good deal of time together onstage. I want to make sure you look and sound as good together as I think you will." This, from Max Van der Linden.

Harold, the rat, leapt to his feet and charged to the chancel, taking the steps two at a time. He was such a ham.

I heaved a sigh that was probably bigger than I was. "I haven't even looked at the libretto yet. Well, not since I checked it out from the library, and that was over a month ago."

"Not to worry," said Harold. "Here you go. I got one especially for you. I even marked Katisha's part for you."

"How kind of you," I said in a monotone.

"Heck, I'm Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner. I can do anything."

I only looked at him. But I did take the libretto. He'd opened it to Katisha's first scene, the one in which she interrupts Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum, the two leads, and tries to spoil their fun.

"This looks high to me," I said, frowning at the libretto. I glanced at the back of the booklet. "Hey, it says here Katisha is a soprano! I thought somebody said the part was in my voice range."

"Don't worry about what the libretto says," said Mr. Van der Linden from the piano bench. "The part is generally sung by a contralto."

"And I can sing contralto?" I asked, confused.

"You are one, Daisy," said Harold, the rat. "We've been over this before. I've heard you sing. Contraltos are altos in disguise."

"I'll already be in disguise, as a nasty Japanese witch." Yes, I was being snide. I didn't want to be there, doing what we were doing. It didn't matter. Everyone was out to over-rule me that evening.

"You can either sing it as a mezzo or a contralto. You can sing an octave lower than the score if you want to," said Max-he hadn't said I could call him Max, but what the heck.

"But I don't want to!" I cried piteously.

"Nonsense. You'll be great, Daisy," said Harold.

Nothing mattered. At least nothing having to do with me mattered. By the time I finally managed to creep away from the church, it was ten o'clock at night-choir rehearsals generally ran from seven to nine-and rehearsals for The Mikado were scheduled to begin on the coming Saturday.

At least Spike was awake to greet me when I dragged myself into the house. Everyone else had gone happily to bed.

Phooey.

Saturday arrived, as it had a habit of doing. I wasn't happy to greet the day. Nevertheless, because I knew where my duty lay, after eating breakfast and tidying the kitchen, I took Spike for a quick walk (my father came, too) and headed to the church. "Eager" wasn't even on the list of emotions I entertained that morning.

I didn't want to sing in the stupid operetta. I did wear my juju, figuring I needed all the help I could get.

Gloria Lippincott had a glorious voice, so I guess her name was appropriate. I still hadn't taken to her by the end of our first rehearsal, although I was certainly getting into my part. For more than half my life, I'd pretended to be the sober, serene, slightly mysterious spiritualist-medium. But boy, the role of Katisha brought out a whole 'nother me. I enjoyed it, too.

We practiced my first entrance, which came just as Nanki-Poo (Mr. Van der Linden) and Yum-Yum (Mrs. Van der Linden) were celebrating their undying love for each other (and a month's worth of marriage before they both died, but never mind that detail). I stepped from the sidelines, held up the arm that wasn't holding the score, and sang as loudly as I could, " 'Your revels cease! Assist me, all of you!' "

Connie and Max leapt apart as if the hand of God had separated them. They were wonderful in their parts. I assumed they'd played them before. They both cringed away from me as if I were a witch. I could get used to having this much power over people. Too bad it was all make-believe.

The chorus sang, " 'Why, who is this whose evil eyes rain blight on our festivities?' "

And I sang, " 'I claim my perjured lover, Nanki-Poo! Oh, fool! to shun delights that never cloy!' "

And on it went. We fumbled around quite a bit, but it was only our first rehearsal. The contralto part was perfect for my alto self. A mezzo-soprano is a notch lower than a coloratura soprano, if anybody cares, and a contralto is, as Harold said, what the hoity-toity opera aficionados call an alto. At least I didn't have to sing the part an octave lower than the score. It is, however, a good thing that old Katti was a contralto and not a mezzo, or I'd probably have collapsed.

Harold made a superb Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner. He reveled in his part, and when he sang "I Have a Little List," everyone laughed.

Our first rehearsal had begun at ten a.m. It was now a little past one, and I was hungry. I was gathering up my score and my coat and hat, aiming to head home, eat something, and take a nap if I was lucky, when Harold stopped me.

"You were wonderful, Daisy."

"Thank you. So were you, Harold."

"I honestly didn't know you could sing that well."

I gave him an evil-eyed squint. "Then you lied to your friends."

"Don't be nasty. I do believe you're taking this role to heart."

"It's fun being unpleasant," I said. And I meant it. I'd never been cruel before.

"I've always found it fun to be unkind," he said, smirking.

"You said this operetta is for a good cause. What's the good cause?"

"Besides giving the Van der Lindens a step up in their effort to establish a local operatic ensemble, the proceeds of this particular operetta will go to Belgian war orphans."

"Hmm. I guess that's a good cause."

"The best. Don't forget what those nasty Germans did to Belgium."

I glowered my gloweriest glower at Harold. "How could I ever forget what those nasty Germans did to anyone, Harold Kincaid?"

"Oops. Sorry, Daisy. I know the war's aftermath was hard on you."

I humphed. "It was a lot harder on Billy."

Harold cleared his throat, then said, "You're being a good sport, Daisy. But I want to talk to you about something. How about I buy you a sandwich and an ice-cream soda, and we can chat over luncheon at the counter at the Rexall."

This time I gave him a real stink-eye. "What are you talking about, Harold Kincaid? If you've lured me into singing in this stupid operetta under false pretences, I'll... I'll... well, I don't know what I'll do, but you won't like it."

He grinned. "Nonsense. You know me better than that."

"I don't, either. I don't trust you. You've tricked me before."

"I have not."

Casting my gaze to the ceiling, I thought about that. Had he tricked me before? He'd shot a man in Turkey in order to rescue Sam from some nasty kidnappers. I guess I still owed him for that.

Nuts.

"Oh, very well, but I'm not going to do anything else I don't want to do for you."

"You won't have to. Come with me. We'll hit the drug store."

"I'd rather not. Hit it, I mean."

"Funny."

I'd walked to the church for rehearsal, since it was only a few blocks north of where I lived, but Harold had his Stutz Bearcat with him, so we rode in that to the Rexall Drug Store on Colorado near Marengo. The day was a cold one, and he'd put the top up on his machine. I was still cold, however, when he found a place to park his car, and we got out and huddled in our coats and hats into the drug store.

When we'd made it to the counter and sat, I said, "I'm too cold for ice cream. I want a cup of cocoa." I thought about food for a minute, looked at the sandwich menu chalked on the blackboard behind the counter then added, "And a chicken-and-almond sandwich."

"Sounds good to me, although I think I'll take a roast beef sandwich with horseradish." When the soda jerk appeared, Harold said, "Two hot cocoas. Heavy on the whipped cream. One chicken-and-almond sandwich for the lady, and a roast-beef sandwich with horseradish for me."

"Coming right up," said the counter boy, and he loped off to fill our orders.

"Now, what's up that you need to talk to me about, Harold? I'm not sure I want to know."

"Gloria Lippincott thinks somebody is trying to kill her."

After goggling at Harold for at least thirty seconds, I said, "I knew I wouldn't want to know!"

He only chuckled, the soda jerk set steaming mugs before us, and Harold began to explain. Evidently Mr. and Mrs. Lippincott didn't get along. Mr. Lippincott, according to his missus, had begun an affair with a married lady in the upper realms of Pasadena's society. Mrs. Lippincott claimed her husband didn't believe in divorce, and that he'd been trying to kill her through various despicable means. Clearly, he hadn't yet succeeded.

"What about her? She's a definite flirt. Has she had any affairs?"

"Darned if I know. I also don't know if it matters. She still claims someone is trying to kill her."

Hmm. I'll admit here that I didn't much care for Mrs. Lippincott, mainly because she was pretending to be bored and languid and... well, not my type of person, but I thought murdering her might be an excessive reaction to a nominally unpleasant personality. I said, "Hmm." I sipped my cocoa thoughtfully, and had come to no firm conclusion about anything before the soda jerk reappeared and set our sandwiches before us.

I ate as thoughtfully as I'd drunk my cocoa, and after a couple of bites I said, "What do you think I can do about Mrs. Lippincott's suspicions? I'm not a bodyguard, I'm not a policeman, and I'm not a private detective or a food taster. If she really thinks her estranged husband is out to get her, she should call on somebody else. Like the police. I'm only a phony spiritualist."

"She doesn't want to call attention to her suspicions."

"That's stupid."

With a shrug, Harold said, "Maybe, but she still won't call the authorities or a private investigator. However, you're a keen observer."

He was dead wrong about that. I never observed anything. "That's rubbish. Things can happen right in front of me, and I won't even notice." I shuddered, remembering an incident in which someone had leaned out of a car window and taken a potshot at me. I guess I'd observed him, but it was at the very last minute. If I'd been a split-second slower, I'd have been left bleeding on the sidewalk. "Anyhow, if he wants to get rid of her so badly he'd pay somebody to kill her, wouldn't divorce be cheaper?"

"Probably not. Maybe he doesn't want to pay alimony or something. If she dies, he won't have to."

"Hmm."

Harold patted the hand not holding the sandwich. It was pretty darned good, that sandwich. I'd never have thought about mixing toasted, chopped almonds into a chicken sandwich filling on my own.