“I’m glad,” I told him. What’s more, I meant it. To Mrs. Rattle, I said, “May I help you?”

  “No, dear. You just sit yourself down at the head of the table. You can serve.”

  Surprised, I said, “Aren’t you going to join us?”

  With a little laugh, Mrs. Rattle said, “No, dear. I’ve got men-folk of my own to feed, so I’ll leave dinner with you and head on home.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know why it had never occurred to me that Mrs. Rattle might have a life and a family of her own. True, I knew her son, Stephen Doan, worked as a policeman and often accompanied Sam on cases, but I guess there was a Mr. Rattle still extant. And maybe even other children. “Good. Thank you so much for helping us out, Mrs. Rattle.”

  “Happy to help, dear. And don’t give me too much credit. Your adorable fiancé is paying me, remember.”

  “Adorable, am I?” came a rumbling bass voice from the door leading from the hall to the dining room.

  Mrs. Rattle tittered. “Maybe you’re a trifle too big to be adorable,” she said, heading back into the kitchen to fetch her handbag and hat and hang her apron on a hook on the service porch.

  “You are,” I agreed, tilting my head and eyeing Sam up and down.

  “I think you’re cute as a bug,” said Mr. Prophet in his wrinkly old voice.

  Everyone laughed, and I, feeling odd about doing it, went to the head of the table, where Mr. Prophet held a chair out for me. “Thanks,” I said as I sat.

  “Sure thing, Miss Daisy.” He took his accustomed chair on one side of the table next to Ma, and Sam took his next to what would have been my place on the other side. Pa sat, as usual, at the table’s foot.

  We all said farewell to Mrs. Rattle, as she left the house via the side door. “See you all tomorrow,” she said in a cheerful voice as she shut the door.

  “There’s an extra place setting,” observed Ma.

  “I thought Mrs. Rattle might stay and take dinner with us.”

  “I’ll just pick it up and put it away.”

  “I should have thought to put it away before I sat,” I said, feeling guilty. I felt guilty a lot in those days, although not quite as guilty as I had when Billy still lived and I knew I failed him every day. Abysmal thought. I opted to stop thinking. I wasn’t very good at it anyway.

  “What’s for dinner?” asked Pa as Ma put the flatware away. The plates had already been stacked at Vi’s place.

  “Mrs. Rattle only said it’s a concoction made with chicken and rice.” I peered into the serving dish. “Looks like it also contains peas and carrots and…I think I see bits of onion in there, too.”

  “Well, stop analyzing it and let’s eat,” said Ma, sitting again.

  In fact, we all sat and glanced at Pa, who recited a short grace. Then we settled our napkins in our laps, and I began serving. “How much would you like, Mr. Prophet?”

  “A good hunk,” he said.

  “Very well.” I served him a big mound of chicken and rice and whatever else was in the dish and handed it to him. Then I peered up at Pa. “What about you, Pa?”

  “A good hunk,” said he, grinning.

  So I served everyone healthy mounds of the dish Mrs. Rattle had prepared, passed a basket of rolls, and dipped into my own portion of dinner. Tilting my head, I savored my bite for a second and then decided, “This is good!”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” advised Sam. “Mrs. Rattle has cooked for you before, and nobody complained.”

  “I know. And I’m not really surprised. It’s just that Vi is so…so…well, she’s the best.” And darned if a lump didn’t form in my throat. I had to swallow twice to dislodge it.

  Observing this phenomenon, Mr. Prophet—after first shooting me a disgusted glance—said, “Say, Joe, will you let Sam and me have the keys to the church so’s we can let the ladies into the hall for their class tomorrow morning? That way, you won’t have to go up there. We aim to stay and watch the ladies exercise.” He waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

  My mother—my mother—giggled.

  “Oh, you’re going to start the class tomorrow?” Pa, ignoring Mr. Prophet’s eyebrow waggle, sounded surprised.

  I answered him. “Yes. I know Vi is our first consideration, but we think—well, I think—one of the women who will be at the class has something to do with someone who might be involved in Vi’s kidnapping. Did that make any sense?”

  “Yes,” said Sam.

  “Really?” said Pa.

  My juju gave a quick and painful confirmation of my theory. Slapping a hand to my chest, I said, “Yes. Sorry. Something went down the wrong way.” Then I smiled like the idiot I was and looked at Sam, who, as I should have expected, was in the process of rolling his eyes. I heard Mr. Prophet’s rusty cackle, blast the man.

  “Oh,” said Pa. “I guess…Say, Sam, you don’t think there will be any trouble at the church, do you? I don’t want to put Daisy in jeopardy. She’s been through enough this year.”

  “Joe!” cried Ma, plainly horrified. “Sam would never put Daisy in jeopardy!” She squinted at Sam. “Would you, Sam.” It wasn’t a question; in fact, she sounded almost lethal.

  I love my parents.

  “No, no,” I hurried to say. “There’s not going to be anybody there but a bunch of church women and— Bother! I forgot to call Flossie and tell her the class will be held tomorrow at one! Doggone it, I rang Regina and totally forgot about Flossie!”

  “Don’t worry about telephoning her,” said Sam, stopping me as I started pushing my chair away from the table. “I talked to her and Johnny today. Went over there after I picked up those papers at the department.”

  “You did, did you?” I asked, narrowing my baby blues at him. I also settled my chair back into place.

  “Yeah. The Buckinghams have been with us from the beginning. I want as many people as possible helping us without bringing in any outsiders. Besides, Mrs. Buckingham wants to go to the class, for some reason.”

  I thought about getting mad, decided to do so would be not merely counterproductive but stupid, and said, “Thanks, Sam. Everybody seems to want to go to that class except me.”

  “It’ll do you some good,” said Mr. Prophet. “A little exercise never hurt anybody. Why, I used to do me some dancin’ in the old days. And ridin’. Me and ol’ Mean and Ugly put in some miles.”

  “Bet you made other people dance some, too,” I muttered at him.

  With a shake of his old gray head, he said, “You been readin’ too many o’ them yaller-back books, Miss Daisy.”

  “You’re probably right,” I admitted with a sigh.

  “This is quite tasty,” said Ma, effectively changing the subject.

  “Yes, it is,” said Sam.

  “Yup,” said Mr. Prophet.

  “Very tasty,” said Pa.

  “It’s really good,” I said, adding my approbation to the crowd.

  “There’s tapioca pudding for dessert,” said Ma.

  I liked tapioca pudding, so that was nice. “As soon as we finish our chicken and rolls, I’ll fetch the pudding,” I told everyone. “Her rolls are almost as good as Vi’s.” And they were. Almost.

  “Mrs. Rattle told me she left some cinnamon rolls for our breakfast tomorrow,” said Ma. She added tentatively, “She said all we have to do is set the oven to medium and put the baking pan in the oven for fifteen or twenty minutes. She said she left the pan with the rolls in the Frigidaire. She also said she covered the pan with a damp towel so they won’t dry out.”

  “Do you know how to set an oven to medium?” I asked my mother with trepidation.

  “Not really,” she admitted. “Do you?”

  “I inherited my cooking skills from you, Ma,” I reminded her.

  “We’re all doomed,” said Pa with a guffaw.

  “I can set the oven to medium,” said Mr. Prophet. “Fer cripe’s sake, I never knew two ladies as helpless in the kitchen as the both of you.” He grinned at Ma as he said it, and she only laughed. I didn’t, even though I knew he was merely speaking the truth.

  “We’ve never had to be,” I said. “We always had Vi.”

  Mr. Prophet said, “I’ll come over early and fix breakfast. I’ll fry up some bacon, too, if there’s any left. Pretty sure there is.”

  “Thank you!” I said, sounding as surprised as I felt.

  “Thanks, Lou. Appreciate it,” said Pa.

  “Yeah, Lou. You’re good for something, after all.”

  I thought Mr. Prophet might take exception to Sam’s comment, but the two men only grinned at each other.

  I’ll never understand men for as long as I live.

  Twenty-Three

  Mr. Prophet was as good as his word. When I left my room at around seven o’clock Wednesday morning, there he was, standing over the range with a spatula in his hand and an apron on as if he cooked for people every day. Actually, he had cooked for us two days in a row. I hoped this wouldn’t last long, although so far, he’d only fed us tasty stuff.

  “Mornin’, Miss Daisy,” he said, nodding at me.

  Glad I’d brushed my hair and donned my newish blue robe—I wasn’t trying to impress Mr. Prophet, but I didn’t want him to think I was slovenly, either—I responded, “Morning. Did you set the oven to medium?”

  “Yup.”

  “Would you mind showing me how to do it?”

  After giving me a long, narrow-eyed look, he said, “Naw. C’mon over here, and I’ll show you.”

  So I did, he did, and then I knew how to set the oven to medium. By golly, people are right when they say you’re never too old to learn new things.

  Ma and Pa walked into the kitchen together, and I decided to get dressed. It didn’t look to me as if breakfast would be ready in a flash. A knock at our door made me veer away from my intended destination. When I peered through the peephole, I saw Pudge Wilson standing on our porch. A trifle apprehensively, I opened the door, hoping to heaven he hadn’t come over to play “Reveille” for us.

  My relief when I saw him grinning at me and holding out our morning newspaper was profound. “Thanks a lot, Pudge,” I said, taking the paper from his freckled, skinny hand.

  “You’re welcome. The paperboy was late this morning, so I thought you might want to know it came.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Pudge stood there, gazing up at me with adoring eyes. Don’t ask me why, but the kid had been sweet on me for-blooming-ever.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin when from behind me Sam’s voice boomed, “Thank you, Pudge. I was just going out to see if the paper had been delivered yet.” Actually, I jumped a little bit, too. Sam was big, but he could be stealthy when he wanted to be.

  “Y-you’re welcome, Detective Rotondo.” Now Pudge’s gaze switched to Sam, and it still held worship. I guess he admired lawmen as much as he admired me. Fine by me. “Well, I’ve gotta go eat breakfast. It’s still Easter vacation, so I don’t have to go to school. Maybe I’ll practice playing my bugle some more. See ya!” He waved as he trotted down the front porch steps and headed north to this house.

  “Got his good deed done early this morning,” muttered Sam as he and I walked back to the kitchen.

  “Yes. Now he can cut up for the rest of the day.”

  “Gotta admire Boy Scouts, especially when they’re not bearing bugles,” grunted Mr. Prophet.

  “True, but he did give us fair warning.”

  “I’ll be saved because I have to go to work,” observed Sam

  “I almost miss Mrs. Pinkerton.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No,” I agreed. “I don’t.” I laughed and turned to give my own big lug a hug and a kiss, which he returned.

  “I spoke with Mrs. Bissel yesterday,” said he, getting back to business almost immediately.

  “Why’d you do that?” I asked, tugging the belt to my robe tighter. It had come undone a little during that too-brief hug.

  “Do what? Hug you?” asked Sam who could be annoying as heck without half trying.

  “No! Why’d you call Mrs. Bissel?”

  “Wanted to know if she can host a séance on Thursday night.”

  “Thursday night is choir practice,” I reminded him.

  The look he gave me should not be bestowed by a fiancé on his fiancée. “I was only saying!” I said.

  “You want to get Vi back?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, then, do you think you can skip choir practice for one night?”

  “Yes. I’ll call Mr. Hostetter and tell him…Gee, I don’t know what to tell him. I hate lying to the choir director.”

  “Tell him something unusual has come up, you need to miss choir practice, ask him what the anthem and hymns will be, and then say you’ll practice them at home on Friday.”

  “Oh. Great idea.” For someone who lied for a living, I could be remarkably dense when it came to lying in my daily life. “I hope he doesn’t ask what’s come up, and can he put someone on the prayer list.”

  “If he should ask what came up, you can say a friend is sick and needs your help. If he asks who, tell him it’s Flossie Buckingham. If he asked if he should put her on the prayer list, say yes.”

  “Is Flossie sick?”

  “Of course, not! She’s expecting again, though, so she’s probably sick in the mornings.”

  “Is she really? How come she told you and not me?” I was kind of hurt, although my reaction even at the time struck me as selfish and silly.

  “She didn’t tell me. Buckingham did. He said you and your folks don’t need anything to think about now except finding Vi. Is that all right with you? You’re going to see her at one today, anyway, so you can…I don’t know. Take her aside and tell her you’ll make baby clothes for the kid when it comes.”

  “True. I hope she’ll be all right to exercise. I mean, do women have to rest a lot when they’re…expecting?” I swear, there were so many euphemisms for pregnancy. We were supposed to be free-thinking and enlightened in the 1920s, but I couldn’t even make myself say “pregnant” to my own fiancé. This might bode ill if we ever had children of our own, which I hoped we would.

  “If she can’t exercise, she can watch. Buckingham said she’s healthy as a horse and happy as can be. He’s happy, too.”

  “Aw,” I said, thinking of little Billy Buckingham, named after my own beloved late husband. “Billy will have a little brother or sister soon.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “Lucky kid.”

  He sounded as if he felt sorry for little Billy. Then again, Sam was the oldest member of an Italian family featuring Sam and his five sisters). I absolutely adored my own two siblings, Daphne and Walter, but I often got the feeling Sam wasn’t quite as enamored of his own large family. Of course, his thick-headed nephew might have something to do with his opinion.

  “Soup’s on!” came a rusty call from the kitchen.

  “Thanks, Lou,” said Sam. “Come on, Daisy. I’ll give Joe the paper.”

  So that’s what we did. Mrs. Rattle’s cinnamon rolls weren’t quite as good as Vi’s, but they were pretty darned good. And Mr. Prophet was an expert at cooking bacon. He’d told me before that, when he was on the trail of a bad guy during his bounty-hunting days, he ate bacon and beans all the time, which sounds boring.

  After breakfast, Ma went on to work and I donned an apron and washed up the dishes. Sam went to work, and Mr. Prophet walked back across the street to the little cottage behind Sam’s bungalow. At least I guess he did. He might have taken a detour down the street to visit with his lady love. Scandalous old man.

  After Pa handed the church’s key over to Sam, he remained in the kitchen looking through the morning paper while I did the dishes. “Want to take Spike with a walk for me after I take a bath and get dressed?” I asked him.

  “Sure.”

  For the record, I felt free speaking openly about walks with Pa because Spike was currently occupied in sniffing stuff in the back yard. He occasionally found something with which to entertain himself out there, but we didn’t get, like, wild game in Pasadena. The Wilsons’ cat, Samson, was about his only real opportunity to chase something. Earlier in the year, Mr. Prophet had shot a man out behind the hibiscus bushes, but that was a one-time-only thing. I hoped.

  “Good Lord, Daisy, did you know about this?”

  I turned from slathering soapy water on breakfast plates and looked at Pa. “Know about what?”

  “A policeman was shot to death last night!”

  Oh, dear. Should I tell my wonderful father I already knew all about it? Easy question.

  “No! Really? I wonder if Sam knows.” Sinful, fibbing Daisy! Oh, well. It was for Pa’s own good. He didn’t need to know Vi was in the hands of truly dangerous people. Although, come to think of it, anyone who’d kidnap a woman had to be dangerous, if not insane. Maybe both.

  “Says here, his name was Costello, and he’d most recently been in charge of a work gang of prisoners. He was off duty at the time of his death.”

  He’d been off duty, all right. He’d been fired, the evil toad. No disrespect to toads intended. “Good heavens. Where’d it happen? I didn’t hear any sirens or anything last night.”

  “Neither did I. Says here it was near the Arroyo Seco Bridge.”

  “Some wags have started calling that bridge ‘suicide bridge.’ Is the newspaper sure he didn’t jump?”

  “He didn’t jump. He was shot.” Pa glanced up from the newspaper and mused for a second. “I suppose he might have shot himself and fallen off the bridge. The paper doesn’t have any details. Just says a policeman was found shot to death near the Arroyo Seco Dam’s spillway.”

  “That’s not good,” I said, thinking to myself it actually was good. Maybe. We didn’t have Vi back yet, so I wasn’t sure what might or might not be considered good.

  “No, it isn’t. You don’t expect things like that to happen in Pasadena. Chicago or New York, maybe.” He lifted the paper, flapped it once, and resumed perusing it.

  So I continued washing dishes and wondering. Why the heck did Sam want me to conduct a séance for Mrs. Bissel tomorrow night? Did he know something about those wretched kidnappers I didn’t? Well, of course, he did. Darn the blasted man.