Spirits United

by Alice Duncan

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  If she said so. Personally, I had my doubts.

  Chapter 16

  Because I figured I should, I went to Mrs. Pinkerton's house before I returned home. I mainly wanted to see if Vi wanted a ride home, but I also felt slightly guilty about having been away from the telephone most of the day and unavailable should Mrs. Pinkerton have had a nervous collapse or something. She had those sometimes.

  When I knocked at the back door—I didn't necessarily want to announce my arrival to Featherstone, because if Mrs. P were home, she'd surely have cornered me and, unless she was in true distress, I didn't want to deal with her—I was surprised when Harold opened the door.

  "Harold!" I cried. "What are you doing, opening the door to the servants' entrance?"

  "Daisy!" said Aunt Vi disapprovingly, loading up a cardboard with, I presumed, our dinner. I was still full from lunch, but whatever was in that box smelled awfully good.

  "Very funny," said Harold, sounding almost as cantankerous as Sam.

  "Rough day?" I asked him, trying to sound sympathetic. Well, I was sympathetic. Having spent the entire day with his emotional wreck of a mother couldn't have been any fun.

  "You have no idea," said he. "Picture Mother at her most hysterical and having to travel from attorney to attorney all over the city of Pasadena with me riding shotgun and talking to each gent in turn, and you might get an idea. A vague idea of what my day's been like. I think poor Jackson was more upset by her antics today than he was when those Klan goons shot him."

  "Poor Jackson? I thought you were going to drive and leave him here."

  Harold's glower was at least as good as any one of Sam's. "I'd planned to do the driving, but Mother said she needed me to hold her hand. So Jackson got to drive, poor man."

  "Oh, dear."

  "Yeah. He and I endured more tears and cries of woe than any two men should endure in a lifetime. And Mother's rich. Poor Jackson is just a good fellow trying to help his employer. He didn't deserve to be wept upon. Well, neither did I, but at least I'm her son and have a certain responsibility. Jackson's duties should end at the gate, or at least the front seat of the Rolls."

  I took a deep, sustaining breath and then asked cautiously, "Um... Does she need me?" I silently prayed hard she wouldn't.

  "I'm sure she wants you," said Harold. "But I gave her some Veronal and told her to lie down and rest until dinnertime. Then I escaped into the sanity of the kitchen."

  Vi chuckled. "Harold Kincaid, you're a caution."

  I wasn't sure what "a caution" was, but Aunt Vi used the word to describe me from time to time, too.

  "It's true," said Harold. "I swear, Daisy, your aunt and Featherstone are the only two sane people in this entire house. At least Jackson gets to stay in the gatehouse. Algie isn't too bad, but Mother's got him wrapped around her little finger."

  Mr. Algernon Pinkerton, a round, rosy man with a charming disposition and a huge bank account, was Mrs. Pinkerton's husband. Everyone who knew him well called him Algie, although I wasn't fond of the name myself, since it reminds me of pond scum and other icky, slimy things.

  "Your stepfather is a good man, Harold."

  "He's a saint," said Harold, plopping himself into a kitchen chair with a huff of exhaustion.

  "Did you find a lawyer for your ghastly sister?"

  "Yes. We're using the man in Mr. Pearlman's office. Cecil Grant. The one we interviewed first. I was all for hiring him on the spot, but Mother wanted to shop." Harold heaved a heartfelt sigh. "God."

  "Does he think he can get Stacy off?"

  "Good Lord, no. She's in too deep." A smile crept over Harold's face. He was almost as pleased as I that Stacy's evil career had been cut short. At least for a while. "But he's probably the best man to tackle the job. He'll try to get her as light a sentence as possible."

  "That's a shame," I said.

  "Daisy!" said Aunt Vi again.

  "I think it's a shame, too, Mrs. Gumm. My sister is a worthless piece of garbage."

  "Goodness," said Aunt Vi, taken aback, although why she should be was a mystery to me. She'd known Stacy longer than I had. And Stacy had never been worth spit. If you'll excuse the disgusting choice of words. Somehow, Stacy and disgusting just sort of go together.

  "I know she's been a sore trial to your mother," Vi admitted.

  "That's one of the bigger understatements of the year," said Harold. "And the year's almost over."

  "It's only October, Harold. Oh! That reminds me. Can you come to my house at ten-ish tomorrow morning? Gladys would like us to visit her home at ten-thirty, if that's agreeable to you."

  "Sure. I enjoy planning parties. I'll be able to make catering arrangements with the Castleton as soon as I know how many people will attend the party and how big the house is. We should be all set. The Castleton can provide a serving staff, too, if it's needed."

  "I guess it will be, unless Dr. Fellowes and his cohorts want to have students in charge of the serving. That's what they do at that restaurant at the university. Guess they make money waiting on tables in between classes, and it helps pay for their education."

  "I doubt the doctor and his missus would enjoy paying for students to serve them, but students will probably come cheaper than the staff of the Castleton."

  "Probably."

  "We can ask tomorrow," said Harold.

  "Excellent," said I. "Need me to help you carry stuff, Vi?"

  "No, thank you, dear. Harold has kindly offered his services."

  "You're a good man, Harold Kincaid."

  "Huh," said Harold.

  But he was. In spite of his proclivities.

  As we were driving home, I sniffed the air in the Chevrolet appreciatively. "Whatever you're giving us for dinner sure smells good, Vi."

  "It's not very fancy, although it looks more elaborate than it is. I'm serving Russian cutlets with a brown mushroom sauce and a variety of roasted vegetables."

  "What's a Russian cutlet?" I asked, never having heard of one before.

  "It's ground chicken molded on a bed of Russian pilaf. And before you ask, Russian pilaf is a rice dish. You had something like it in Turkey, I imagine."

  "Oh. I loved the food in Turkey," said I, having fondish memories of that trip, even if I had been sick most of the time and Harold and I had become embroiled with a nest of vicious criminals.

  "And the brown mushroom sauce is self-explanatory," said Vi.

  It might have been to her. I decided not to ask. Oh, and for the record, I'm not necessarily a big fan of mushrooms, either, but I trusted Vi to make even a mushroom edible.

  "And so are the vegetables," I said, grinning.

  "Yes. Banana squash, green beans, carrots and cauliflower."

  "Colorful."

  "Exactly."

  "What's for dessert?" I asked, thinking fondly of that bygone slice of chocolate cake.

  "Chocolate cake," said my marvelous aunt. "With vanilla ice cream."

  "Oh, Vi, you're wonderful!"

  "Thank you." She gave me an odd look, but I didn't explain my enthusiasm as we had made it home by that time. I helped carry in the cardboard box, Vi unloaded it, and I took the box back out to the car, thinking it would come in handy another day. Providing I could drive my aunt to work again soon.

  The time was approximately four p.m., so I removed my wool velour suit and replaced it with a nice, comfy day dress. Ordinarily when I get home, I'll slap on any old thing, but I wanted to show Regina that she could look nice even at home. If she wanted to. For all I knew, she liked to loaf around in her bathrobe and slippers during her time away from the library, although she didn't strike me as the loafing type of woman. I hoped she'd come extra early, so we could sneak into my bedroom and I could have at her hair and face and give her some clothing tips. So to speak.

  I was in luck! At five p.m. on the dot our doorbell—well, it wasn't really a bell, but one of those things a person twists from the outside, and it makes
a scratching noise—sounded, and Spike and I raced each other to the front door. Spike won, but that's only because he has four legs. He sat and stayed at my command, marvelous pooch that he is.

  And there she was, standing on our front porch, a drab black hat on her drab brown hair, wearing a drab suit of mud brown and low-heeled black shoes. She carried a drab black handbag in both of her black-gloved hands, and I swear she'd have blended in with the porch itself if we didn't have an outside electrical light to help keep our visitors from tripping. Not that there was anything to trip over.

  "Regina!" cried I. "It's so good to see you!"

  "It's so good of you to invite me over and help me," she said, sounding timid. But then, she almost always did.

  "Come in, come in! This is my dog, Spike." I gestured to Spike and said, "Good boy, Spike. All right." For the record, "all right" was the signal between Spike and me that he could cease being still and welcome our visitor. He was such a well-behaved dog. Maybe Sam should take his nephew to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club. Naw. They'd probably kick him out as a hopeless case.

  That wasn't very nice. I'm sorry.

  "Oh! What a lovely dog," said Regina. She didn't look as if she meant it. I don't think she was accustomed to dogs greeting her so enthusiastically. Or maybe she was. I knew nothing about her personal life, except that she had a whole crew of criminal relations.

  "If you don't want him to bother you, I can send him into the living room."

  "Oh, no! He lives here! I couldn't be rude to a member of your family. I'm... just not used to dogs." She leaned over, released one of her tightly clenched hands from her handbag, and held it out to Spike.

  He licked it happily. Regina snatched her hand back. "Oh. I didn't know he'd lick me." She didn't sound as if she'd enjoyed the experience, but he'd only licked her glove, for pity's sake.

  "He only kisses people he likes," I told her.

  "Oh. How... nice."

  I laughed. "I won't let him bother you. But he pretty much owns the house and considers us his personal servants, you know."

  "I thought only cats thought of their owners like that."

  "Nope. Spike is king of the house."

  "Well, he's lovely."

  We hadn't just been standing in the doorway as we chatted, but I'd led her into the house. "Thank you. I think so, too. And he's the smartest dog I know."

  "Really?"

  "Really. I'll show you some of his better tricks later, but right now, let me take your hat and coat, and we can hang them on the coat tree here."

  Regina slipped out of her coat and handed it to me. She hung her hat on the rack by herself. Then she removed her gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of her coat. "This is so nice of you, Daisy. I... Well, you probably already know that I'm not accustomed to men paying attention to me, and I'm not quite sure why Mr. Browning is doing so, but I don't want to embarrass him or anything when he takes me to luncheon next week."

  "Nonsense. Robert Browning is a prince of a man, and he wouldn't have invited you to take a meal with him if he didn't like you. I hope you get to know each other well in the coming days."

  "Is that your guest, sweetheart?"

  Pa emerged from the dining room and walked into the living room, smiling broadly. Pa generally liked everyone, and he, like Vi, loved having company.

  "Indeed, Pa." I turned to Regina. "Regina Petrie, please meet my father, Joe Gumm. He's an avid reader, and you've supplied him with lots and lots of good books to read during the past couple of years."

  Pa came up to us, and Regina tentatively held out her hand. He took it in his and shook heartily. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Petrie. Daisy is always bringing us books you've put aside for us, and we appreciate it greatly. I don't get out as much as I used to, and we depend on Daisy and you."

  "Mrs. Majesty and I have become good friends over the past few years," Regina said, smiling up a storm. Then she looked guilty. "At least, I feel as though we have."

  "We have," I said firmly, meaning every syllable. Well, I guess there were only two of them, but I meant them sincerely. "But we have some business to take care of before we dine on Vi's delicious Russian... Well, I can't remember what they are, but they're Russian."

  "Fascinating!" said Regina. "My diet is so dull and unvarying, probably because I live alone and it's no fun to cook for one."

  "It's not fun for me to cook at all. For anybody."

  Regina appeared rather unnerved by my statement, but Pa said, "She's right, you know. If either Daisy or her mother had to prepare the meals in this house, we'd be in sorry shape."

  "We'd probably all have died of ptomaine poisoning by this time," I added.

  "Goodness gracious." Regina sounded rattled.

  "But never mind that. My aunt is the best cook in the world, and we're lucky to have her."

  "Yes, you've told me so. I haven't had much experience with cooking, since, as I said, I've lived alone since my mother passed away."

  Well, we'd just see what we might be able to do about that, thought I to myself. If Robert Browning and Regina Petrie got together, it would make me, for one, a happy person. As long as Regina didn't leave the library.

  Heavens! I hadn't thought of that dire prospect. I'd have to have a stern talk with Robert Browning about women's rights if he and Regina started to get serious about one another.

  Not that their relationship—or lack thereof—was any of my business.

  However, as Sam would probably have said, that had never stopped me before.

  Chapter 17

  I shut the door to my bedroom, Spike jumped up on the bed, and Regina looked around. "This is a charming room," she said.

  "Thank you," I said, waving her to a pretty little chair for which I'd made a quilted cushion. I'd sewn curtains out of the same fabric I'd quilted for the chair but refrained from padding and quilting it for the curtains. If you understand what I mean. "I like it. Since Billy was so badly injured, we took this room because he didn't have to climb stairs to get to it." I heaved a sigh. "The upstairs has two nice rooms that would be swell for a married couple, but Vi lives in them. And she deserves them. Of course, I also have a sewing room. Actually, the whole family uses it from time to time for various projects, but that's where I keep the sewing machine and all my fabrics and so forth."

  "You sew?" asked Regina, eyeing me with interest.

  "Oh, goodness, yes! You didn't actually think I could afford to buy all the clothes I wear, did you?"

  "I... I don't know. I never thought about it. You always look marvelous, and your clothing is beautiful. I guess I just thought you made a lot of money in your rather odd profession."

  Opening the closet door, I grinned. "Well, that's true. I make a lot more money chatting with dead people than I could as an elevator operator or a clerk in a store. Or a person who works on the production lines at the Underhill Chemical Factory." I shuddered. "Robert Browning took me on a tour of the plant last year, and I wouldn't want to work there. I don't have the education to be a teacher or a librarian."

  "Yes. I did have to go to college and get my degree in order to be hired as a librarian."

  "I probably should have gone to college, but I was young and stupid and madly in love with my Billy, so we married right after I graduated from high school. He'd just enlisted, and we didn't want to wait... which turned out to be a good thing, considering what happened."

  "I'm so sorry. What a terrible war that was."

  "Yes. So many young lives lost to one man's vanity and greed. Makes me angry to think of it, so I try not to."

  "I don't blame you. Um, Mr. Browning told me he and Mr. Underhill—the younger Mr. Underhill, I mean—are attempting to make working conditions more pleasant for their employees."

  "Yes, I can believe that. I don't think Mr. Underhill's father cared a snap of his fingers about his employees, and he was quite... unsavory in other ways, too." My thoughts slipped back to Miss Betsy Powell, a stupid woman who'd actually believ
ed Mr. Underhill would divorce his wife and marry her. Humbug. Some men are too awful for words.

  "Um... I think you're right. Mr. Browning doesn't speak highly of him, although he's great friends with Mr. Barrett Underhill."

  In case you wondered, the older Mr. Underhill, the founder of the chemical company, had been foully murdered a year or so earlier. He'd deserved it, so don't waste any sympathy on him. Aside from seducing silly young women, he also committed many other dastardly deeds, and his son and Robert Browning had worked like slaves to save the company from utter ruin.

  "Yes. I liked the younger Mr. Underhill when I met him. I disliked his old man a good deal. And I know you're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I didn't speak well of him when he was alive, either, so I don't think it matters. Besides, he was a stinker."

  I heard an odd sound, turned my head, and saw to my amazement that Regina was laughing! She was trying to do so silently by pressing a hand over her mouth, but she couldn't quite manage.

  "I'm sorry, D-daisy. But you're so funny sometimes."

  "I am?" I didn't know that.

  "Yes. And you always tell the truth."

  If she only knew. But I wasn't about to enlighten her.

  "Do you know where Robert plans to take you to lunch on Tuesday?"

  "No, I don't. I... didn't feel comfortable asking. I have absolutely no experience with men, Daisy. I really don't know how to act around them. Except for my father, all the men in my family are loathsome creatures, and I wasn't one of the popular girls at school or anything, so this is all new to me."

  "We all have to begin somewhere. I think we can do something about that. Of course, it helps that Robert Browning is a fine man."

  "Um... Is he really? I mean..." Her voice trailed off.

  I looked over my shoulder again. "What? He really is a wonderful man. He was in Billy's class at high school, but then he went on to college and so forth. Billy went to war." My voice had taken on the bitter edge it always did when I referred to that nasty war.

  "That's good to know. Um... You don't think he had anything to do with Mary Carleton's death, do you? I mean—"