"Anyhow, what about her? She doesn't seem like the innocent maiden to me. Maybe her husband doesn't want her infidelities to get out any more than he wants his to."

With a shrug, Harold said, "I don't know. I doubt that Gloria is pure as the driven snow, but from what she's told me about her husband, he's a real poop."

"Nuts. I don't want to do any snooping."

"Dear Daisy. Don't fret. Just keep your eyes and ears open and let me know if you see or hear anything you think is strange."

"Heck, Harold, I think singing in an operetta is strange."

He only laughed again. He should have known better.

Chapter 6.

Pa and Spike were there to greet me when Harold dropped me off in front of our Marengo bungalow. I pretty much staggered into the house, more tired than I could remember being in a long, long time. Singing in an operetta takes a lot more out of a person than singing in a church choir does. And here I'd always thought of myself as a lowly alto, but I was actually a bona fide contralto. Would wonders never cease?

As I knelt to greet my darling dog, my father smiled benevolently upon the both of us. "How'd rehearsal go? I expected you home before this time."

I got creakily to my feet. "Harold took me to lunch at the Rexall drugstore. It's cold out there." I shivered.

"That was nice of him. Both your aunt and your mother are taking naps. You look bushed, too, Daisy. I was going to ask if you want to take an s-t-r-o-l-l with the d-o-g, but I think you need your rest first."

"I'd love to go for an s-t-r-o-l-l after I nap a bit, Pa." That wasn't much of a lie. At the moment, I wanted to fall down right where I was and sleep for a hundred years, but I knew my state of exhaustion wouldn't last. Heck, most of it was due to strain and not lack of sleep anyway. Doing new things-like singing a contralto role in a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta-always takes more energy than one expects it to.

So Spike and I headed for my bedroom, I removed my clothes, donned an old, worn-out day dress, and flopped onto the bed. Spike jumped up to join me, and the two of us snoozed contentedly for an hour and a half. My eyes opened at last, and when I looked at my bedside clock, I saw it was 3:30. Yawning, I decided that left time enough to go for a walk with Pa and Spike before I had to set the table for dinner.

So I put on heavy socks and shoes, pulled on an old, lumpy, stretched-out cardigan sweater, and grabbed my warmest coat and an old felt cloche hat that I could pull down to cover my ears, and grabbed my gloves. Spike and I exited the bedroom...

And ran smack into Sam Rotondo chatting at the kitchen table with my father! And me, looking like a war refugee! Darn it all, anyhow!

Pa and Sam glanced up, and I swear I saw Sam's lips twitch.

"I see you're awake," said Pa mildly.

"Yes," I said. Then, glaring at Sam, I demanded, "What are you doing here?"

He stopped trying to hide his amusement and grinned at me. "Just wanted to find out how your first rehearsal went."

"It was all right," I said, sounding sullen.

But really. It wasn't that I wanted to look good for Sam. I only just wanted to look... not like I'd grabbed my outfit from a ragbag. If you know what I mean.

Sam eyed my gloves and hat. "Going somewhere?"

"Pa and I were going to take Spike for a-" I caught myself before I could say the word walk. Spike knew that word. "A ramble around the neighborhood."

But Spike wasn't fooled. I think he caught on to the "take Spike for" part. He woofed, wagged, and raced over to where his leash hung from a hook on the service porch. Smart dog, Spike.

"Mind if I tag along?" asked Sam, sounding deceptively pleasant.

I squinted at him, but didn't detect any subterfuge. Then again, I've already admitted I'm not a keen observer. I said, "Sure. The more, the merrier."

"Maybe I should just stay here today," said Pa.

"No you don't!" I all but yelled at him. "You're the one who said you wanted to take Spike out in the first place!"

My father held up his hands, as if in surrender. "Very well. Very well. Just... thought I'd see if you'd give me a reprieve from the cold, cruel world."

"Nuts. It's not that cold out." Actually, it was, but I'd never admit it.

So Sam and Pa and I and a deliriously happy Spike, who never minded what the weather was like, left our house via the side entrance, and walked down to Belvedere, around the block, and came back to our house. I don't know about the men and Spike, but I was darned near frozen by the time we got back home. And I was dressed for winter in Siberia, for Pete's sake.

Naturally, Sam stayed for dinner that night. Sam very nearly always stayed to dinner when someone asked him to. This time it was Vi, who was up and about and preparing some kind of feast for our dining pleasure. We Gumms and Majestys-well, I was the only Majesty left by that time-always dined at six p.m. We weren't posh.

Before I set the table, I hurried to my room and put on a more suitable day dress, stockings and low-heeled shoes. I even brushed my hair. I didn't mind walking around the neighborhood bundled to the teeth, but I didn't want Sam to think I dressed like that often. Not, of course, that I cared what he thought of me.

Oh, very well, that's a flat-out lie. I did care what he thought of me. I just didn't want to.

Dinner that night was delicious. Everything Vi makes is wonderful. That night we had roast chicken and mashed potatoes.

"I love these mashed potatoes, Vi," I said, as I munched on a forkful of them contentedly. "They taste a little different tonight. Really, really good."

"I put some cream cheese in with the butter and mashed everything up together with a clove of chopped garlic."

I lifted my head and stared at my aunt, awe-stricken by her creativity. "Goodness gracious, Vi. You're a genius in the kitchen. I love everything you make."

"I know you do, sweetie. How did your first rehearsal go?"

"Oh, yes!" cried my mother, who worked half days on Saturdays at the Hotel Marengo. "Was it difficult for you to sing that part? Was it too low for you?" She frowned. "Or do I mean too high?"

"The role of Katisha," said I, as if I knew what I was talking about, "traditionally is sung by a mezzo-soprano or a contralto. Mr. Van der Linden, our director, who plays the role of Nanki-Poo, the hero of the story, told me I could sing it as a contralto, which is lower than a soprano. So far it seems to be perfect for my voice range. According to Harold, contraltos and altos are basically the same."

Ma blinked at me. Not the most imaginative woman in the world, my mother, but a dear soul. Plus, she was good at mathematics, which, in my book, makes her a certified brain. Algebra in high school had just about done me in. "Why do they call you an alto in church if you're a contralto?"

"Beats me," I said in all honesty.

"When's your next rehearsal?" asked Sam.

"Tuesday evening. Seven to nine." Then I looked at him, suspicion clouding my mind. "Why?"

"No reason. Just wondered, was all."

Hmm. I wasn't sure I trusted this meek demeanor of his. Had he heard about the domestic trauma extant between the Lippincotts?

"I was thinking, if I got off work early enough, I'd like to see a rehearsal or two," he added.

"That would be fun!" exclaimed my mild-mannered mother, surprising me. "Perhaps we can all go."

"I'd enjoy that," said Vi.

"Me, too," said Pa.

Aw, criminy. "I'd rather you wait a while. We're just learning our roles, and we don't have the blocking down yet." A feeling of panic began to gnaw at my innards. I didn't want Sam Rotondo to see me making a fool of myself, darn it!

"What is blocking?" asked my mother. Good question.

"Blocking is determining where everyone will stand on the stage, and where to move and when."

"Oh." Ma shrugged. "Wonder why they call it blocking."

"I have no earthly idea," I told her in all honesty.

The telephone rang before I could think of any good reasons for my family and Sam not to watch our rehearsal on Tuesday night. Bother. Because the telephone was almost always for me, I got up from my roasted chicken and mashed potatoes (with cream cheese, butter and garlic, by golly) and gravy, walked into the kitchen, and picked up the receiver.

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

"Daisy, Gloria just called me. She's hysterical. She said somebody tried to run her down when she went to Nash's Department Store after rehearsal." Harold sounded quite rattled.

I was silent for a couple of seconds, then said, "Why is she calling you about her problems? Are you bosom buddies or something?"

"No! I scarcely know the woman! She just seems to have attached herself to me as a sounding board. And she just called to tell me someone tried to run her down!" I could almost see Harold wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

Nuts.

"And you're telling me this because... because... Why? What do you think I can do about it? For that matter, what does she think you can do about it? She should telephone the coppers if she thinks somebody tried to run her down, whether she wants to or not."

"I know, I know." Now Harold sounded harried. Harold Kincaid didn't care for ructions in his routine. Can't say as I could fault him for that, especially if they were as idiotic as this one seemed to be. "But she begged me to help her."

"Oh? And how do you aim to do that?" I'll admit my voice held a hint of acid.

"I'm calling you," said Harold. Before I could point out the futility, not to mention the idiocy, of his action, he said, "Which is stupid, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

"Sorry, Daisy. I don't know why Gloria's got me so upset about her problems."

"I don't, either."

"You were probably eating dinner, weren't you?"

"Yes. We dine early. We're peasants."

Harold laughed and said, "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. I think I'm going to have to tell Gloria she needs to hire a private eye."

"That's the best idea you've had in days, Harold Kincaid."

"Don't be snide, Daisy. You're supposed to be a soothing spiritualist, remember?"

"I remember." In my most syrupy voice, I repeated, "That's the best idea you've had in days, Harold Kincaid."

Harold gave another bark of laughter and hung up his receiver. I did the same at my end of the wire and went back to the dinner table. I must have looked annoyed, because Pa said, "Something wrong, sweetie?"

With a sigh, I sat at my place and picked up my fork. "Not really. Just Harold. He... he wanted me to help him with something I can't help him with. If that makes any sense."

"My goodness," said Vi. Harold was one of Vi's special pets. Kind of like Sam, actually, drat it. "What's the matter with the dear boy?"

"Nothing's the matter with him," I said after swallowing. My mother scolds me if I talk with my mouth full.

"Then why'd he call?" Sam. The detective. Rats.

"To ask if I could help him with a problem. I can't."

"What problem?"

I eyed Sam without benevolence. "It's nothing, Sam. It concerns another person entirely, and I don't even know why Harold asked for my help to begin with. There's nothing I can do for the person in question."

"My goodness. You sound very mysterious," said my mother.

"I don't mean to be. But Harold said the other person doesn't want a lot of people to know about this problem."

Ma sniffed. "It's not as if we're in daily contact with people like the Pinkertons. Well, you are, Daisy, but the rest of us sure aren't."

"Ain't that the truth?" said Pa. In case you wondered, the only time he ever uses the word "ain't" is when he's making that particular comment.

"Me, neither," said Vi. "I see Mrs. Pinkerton every now and then, and Harold more often, but they're the only rich folks I talk to on a regular basis."

"True, but I promised Harold," I said, feeling beleaguered.

Then I thought about what I'd just said. Had I promised Harold I wouldn't mention Gloria Lippincott's perceived problem to anyone? Pondering our conversations at the Rexall drug counter and recently on the telephone, I realized I hadn't promised him a darned thing. I'd told him I was unable to help him, why, and hadn't said anything about not telling anyone. So I decided what the heck and said, "Gloria Lippincott thinks her estranged husband is trying to kill her. That's what Harold's call was about. She thinks somebody tried to run her down outside Nash's Dry Goods and Department Store after rehearsal today."

If you ever want to stop a conversation dead in its tracks, drop a comment like that before the assembled guests. Everyone at the table sat as if suddenly turned to marble, forks, knives or spoons suspended, and stared at me.

I stared back and smiled at them all.

Then I ate more chicken.

Chapter 7.