High Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Maybe I was wrong. I hoped so, as I toted Spike back to the kitchen.

  “Who was that at the door?” Billy wanted to know. He would.

  “Pudge. He wanted to know if he could do a good deed for us before school.” It almost wasn’t a lie.

  Both Billy and Pa chuckled. “That’s Pudge, all right.” Pa swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Get it over with first thing, and then cut up for the rest of the day.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Billy.

  Mine, too. “Here, Billy, hold your dog. He wants to go with me badly.”

  “Don’t blame him.” Billy’s smile was wistful.

  I gave him another quick kiss, wishing it were he leaving the house to earn our daily bread instead of me. Not that I didn’t enjoy my line of work, but I’d have preferred being a normal wife. And mother. I tried not to think about never having children, but sometimes I couldn’t help it. “I’ll be home as soon as I can be, and we can go for a walk, sweetheart.”

  “That’ll cheer Spike up.”

  True. I only wished our attempts to get Billy’s legs and lungs working again did more to cheer him up.

  As soon as I shut the front door behind me, I hustled Flossie to our Chevrolet, which was parked in front of the house. “Get in quick.” I hadn’t been mistaken about the bruises, unfortunately. The poor kid’s face was a mess.

  She got in, sliding into the machine with great care, as if more of her was bruised than just her face. I suspected it had been Jinx who’d delivered the blows, and my distaste for the man blossomed into full-blown loathing. “Don’t say anything until we get away from the house.” I don’t know why I told her that. Probably too many crime novels. All I know is my nerves were twanging, and I didn’t want Pa or Billy—or Jinx Jenkins or Vicenzo Maggiori—to see me with Flossie.

  “Sure.” She didn’t sound happy.

  When I glanced over at her, she didn’t look happy either. Her hands were strangling each other on her Halloween-orange skirt, and she had her head bowed, staring at her fingers as if she’d never seen them before. Her whole aspect was that of a woman who knew nobody wanted her because she was no good.

  My heart gave a hard spasm of sympathy. I told myself not to judge her too lightly too soon. I didn’t even know her. And, although I had pegged her the night before as a woman more sinned against than sinning, I might well be wrong. It wouldn’t have been the first time my judgment had turned out to be faulty, and that’s putting it mildly.

  Not to mention the fact that my imagination often soared into incredible flights of fancy. For all I knew, Flossie had just got herself lost and only wanted to ask me directions to the public library. Unlikely, but not impossible.

  Besides all that, even if she did turn out to be only a victim—of fate or stupidity, or anything else—I didn’t really want to get involved. I’d had experience in rescuing a damsel in distress once before, and it hadn’t been any fun. It had also caused me no end of trouble and worry. I sure didn’t want to get involved with another one.

  The Chevrolet had been aimed downhill when we got into it, so I continued south on Marengo until Bellefontaine hove into view. I turned right, figuring neither Billy nor Pa was likely to catch us there, and pulled over to the curb. Then I turned to take a good gander at Flossie. And then I flinched.

  “Gee whiz, Flossie, what happened to you?”

  A big sob escaped her before a word did, and then it was, “Jinx.”

  I knew it. The fact that I was right caused no triumph to rise within me. “The lousy bum.”

  She nodded.

  “Gee, kid, I’m really sorry.”

  She opened her shiny black bag and pulled out a hankie. Mopping tears from her cheeks, she said, “Thanks.”

  That took care of that. I didn’t know what to say next. Neither, it soon became clear, did Flossie. I knew what I should do, however. So, as much as I didn’t want to get involved in anyone else’s problems, figuring I already had plenty of my own, I took a deep breath and spoke.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you, Flossie?” It sounds mean-hearted and petty, but I was hoping she’d say no.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you,” she said, sniffling pathetically.

  I wanted to ask why she’d done it if she didn’t mean to, but didn’t, knowing such a question would be unkind. “Don’t be silly. It’s not a bother.” Liar. But what’s a kind-hearted, moral, upstanding spiritualist supposed to do when faced with such a dilemma? If I really could chat with spirits, I might have asked one of them to snatch Jinx out of this world and hurl him into Hades, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t the first time in my career that I’d wished I wasn’t a fraud.

  “It’s only that you was so nice to me last night.”

  She thought I’d been nice to her? I’d only spoken a couple of words to her. Shoot, how did people treat her normally, if she thought that was nice? Another peek at her veiled face answered that question.

  “I probably shouldn’t’ve come.”

  Her voice had turned thick with tears, and my soft heart squished. I took it as an omen and groaned inside. I’d been gripping the steering wheel with my gloved hands so tightly that my fingers had begun to ache. With a sigh, I released the wheel and sat back. “You’d better lift that veil and let me get a good look at you, Flossie.”

  She shook her head. Even as she did so, she lifted the veil. When she turned to stare me in the eyes, it was all I could do not to cry out in distress. But honestly! How could Jinx do that to a person who must have weighed a good fifty pounds less than he did and was female, to boot? Both of her eyes were black and swollen, her lip had been split and was also swollen, and there were finger marks on her throat. “Geez Louise, Flossie. Why’d he do that?”

  “He was mad about the raid.”

  “And he took it out on you?” My mind boggled. It did that a lot.

  “Yeah. He gets mad and hits me. He don’t mean it.”

  Oh, boy.

  If he didn’t mean it, why’d she look like that? “You’d better stay away from Jinx from now on.”

  Tears dripped from her swollen eyes. She dabbed at them with her handkerchief. “He’s my fellow. I love him.”

  I gaped at her for several seconds before bursting out, “How can you love a man who does that to you?” I made an effort not to shout, but the words came out in sort of a bellow.

  Poor Flossie shrank back against the seat of the automobile. Grabbing the door handle, she whispered, “I’m sorry I come, Mrs. Majesty. I should oughta go now.”

  I reached out and latched on to her arm. “No! No, don’t go. Listen, Flossie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Other people have said it before you.” She sounded utterly defeated. “I guess I’m too dumb to believe it.”

  I didn’t want to delve into that subject. “Have you been to a doctor?”

  She shook her head. “I’m all right.”

  Like heck she was. Speaking slowly and thinking a good deal harder than I usually do before I say anything (sad, but true), I said, “Flossie, no man has the right to beat anybody the way Jinx beat you. It’s against the law.”

  Was it? I didn’t know. If it wasn’t, it should be. I decided to ask Sam. Since I had to deal with him anyway, thanks to our accursed bargain, I might as well get some useful information out of the situation.

  She sat like a lump, neither moving nor speaking, so I continued on the same theme.

  “You deserve someone who treats you well, Flossie, not some thug who slaps you around.”

  This time she reacted. She shrugged. “Naw. I don’t, really. I’m no good.”

  Shocked, I shouted. “Nuts to that! You are, too! Everyone’s worth being treated well, for heaven’s sake. Everyone!”

  Her poor mouth, which had already undergone tortures, twisted up and she sobbed again. “No I’m not. I’m trash. Jinx knows it. I know it. Everybody knows it.”

  “That’s nonsense.” It would take more than a brief
conversation in a Chevrolet, however new and shiny, to convince her of it, though, and I had other things to do that morning. Nevertheless, I couldn’t just let her go back to Jinx. Not without a fight. Well, I didn’t mean a fight, but ... Aw, nuts.

  Thinking fast, I said, “Say, Flossie, I’ve got to do a job right now, but we need to talk some more. You deserve better than Jinx. Jinx is nothing but a big stinker and a bully, and you’re a good person whose shoes he doesn’t deserve to lick, and I’m going to prove it to you.”

  Apparently, nobody had ever mentioned these salient facts to Flossie before or told her she was worth anything and that Jinx wasn’t. If her eyes weren’t such a painful mess, they’d have popped open wide. She only whispered, “Oh!”

  “But I can’t talk now because I have a job I have to go to.” My hands went to the steering wheel again, and I engaged in another bout of hard thought. “Let me pop into the grocery store and buy some potatoes and onions and beans, and then you can go to the library with me.”

  “The library?” She said the word as if she’d never been in one and didn’t know what a body was supposed to do there.

  “Yes. You can wait for me there.”

  “With a bunch of books?”

  “Books are better than Jinx,” I pointed out.

  She nodded slowly, as if she didn’t quite believe it but was willing to give it a try.

  “They have lots of magazines there, too.”

  She brightened slightly. “That’s good. I like looking at magazines.”

  “I’ll pick you up there as soon as I’m though with my job, and we can go to the Tea Cup Inn. We can have a bite to eat there and talk.” The Tea Cup Inn was a little teashop on North Marengo, close to home. I was pretty sure Jinx wouldn’t show up there. It was much too refined for him.

  “You’re awful kind, Mrs. Majesty,” she whispered.

  “Nuts. Call me Daisy. You need a friend, Flossie, and Jinx isn’t it.”

  She covered her face with her hankie and her shoulders shook. I sighed, pressed the starter button, drove to the little corner grocery store and then the library, thinking all the way, which did no good, as usual. By the time I left Flossie in the reading room next to the magazine rack, I still didn’t have a clue how to help her. She’d seemed to like the idea of magazines. Maybe she could find something interesting to read in one—maybe, say, an article on how to type, so she could get herself a job and give Jinx the boot.

  Then I went to the front desk, didn’t find any books set aside for me by Miss Petrie, toured the book racks, and picked out two new-to-me mystery books and an old favorite, The Spiral Staircase, by Mary Roberts Rinehart. I loved that book; it always comforted me to read it. And, believe me, I needed comfort right then.

  As I drove from the library to Mrs. Kincaid’s mansion on Orange Grove, I pondered how the heck I was supposed to help Sam Rotondo shut down Vicenzo Maggiori’s speakeasy. When I’d worked that one to a standstill without reaching any conclusions, I concentrated on how to instill self-respect into a woman who had none. Sounded like a daunting task, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t up to it—and I was even more sure that I didn’t want to tackle it.

  Chapter Six

  Smiling broadly, Jackson waved to me as I tootled on past him and up to the front door of the Kincaid mansion. I was dying to ask him about his son in the speakeasy but didn’t dare. If Sam ever found out I’d blabbed, he’d have my hide.

  Our shiny new Chevrolet didn’t look quite as out of place in such an elegant setting as our old 1909 Model T Ford had, but a Pierce Arrow or a big Packard would have looked better. Or Harold’s Stutz Bearcat.

  On the other hand, the Chevrolet was a lot better than our old horse, Brownie, who used to haul me around. Brownie had gone to his reward the year before, and I kind of missed him, even though he’d always been a reluctant beast of burden.

  Since this was Southern California, even though it was technically still winter, vibrant irises and gladioli lined the semicircular drive in front of the porch. Mrs. Kincaid’s gardening staff made sure things bloomed all year long. That day there were even a few early roses showing their pretty blossoms here and there.

  Looking around and sniffing the sweet fragrances, I sighed happily, glad that my profession allowed me access to the homes of rich people since they were the only ones who could afford huge fancy gardens—and a full gardening staff. I enjoyed gardening, and our modest home on Marengo boasted a pretty little garden, but it sure wasn’t anything like this.

  Because I didn’t want the Chevy to feel inferior in such grand surroundings, I patted it on its hood before I bounced up the huge marble steps, past the huge marble lions guarding the door, onto the huge marble porch, and pressed the doorbell. The door was huge, too, although it wasn’t marble. I think it was mahogany.

  Featherstone, Mrs. Kincaid’s butler, opened the door to me. I adored Featherstone. He was the most elegant man I’d ever seen in my life, and was absolutely perfect for his job, as stiff and humorless as the marble lions outside. I admired him tremendously. “Good morning, Featherstone.” I gave him a broad smile.

  He never, ever smiled back. “Good morning, Mrs. Majesty. Please come this way.”

  The thing about Featherstone that impressed me so much was that he never showed any emotions at all. I’d been in a room with him when Stacy Kincaid was throwing a full-blown temper tantrum, and he’d stood there like a statue, not even watching the action, but staring over it with cool indifference, as if it neither interested nor concerned him. He was, in fact, rather like an automaton. He must have been the most perfect butler God ever created. Sometimes I thought that if old Featherstone ever died, someone ought to stuff him and stand him in the hall. He wouldn’t look a bit different. I’d miss his British accent, though.

  “Thank you, Featherstone.”

  His head high, his back straight, his gait steady, he preceded me along the hall to the drawing room. I did my best to perfect my own spiritualistic persona before we reached the door where Featherstone stood aside, held out a hand to accept my handbag, hat, and coat, and marched off to the hat rack while I entered the drawing room.

  As soon as she saw me, Mrs. Kincaid jumped to her feet and rushed over to greet me, her hands held out to grasp mine. Unlike Featherstone’s, Mrs. Kincaid’s emotions were always right there on the surface, often spilling over.

  A good-looking, slightly overweight woman, Mrs. Kincaid was always as beautifully groomed and coifed as if she’d just stepped out of a magazine. According to my friend Edie Applewood, who worked as a housemaid for her, Mrs. Kincaid employed a personal maid to do nothing but take care of her person and her clothes. Every single morning of Mrs. Kincaid’s life, the maid applied her makeup, fixed her lovely graying hair (which I believe owed a good deal of its beauty to regular bluing), and made sure her clothes were cleaned and pressed. That morning Mrs. Kincaid wore a simply smashing day dress of royal blue silk.

  She was also in a frenzy, which wasn’t unusual. She had a good reason for it that morning since her daughter had almost been arrested the night before.

  “Daisy! Oh, my dear, I’m so glad to see you! I’ve been in such a state!”

  I could tell. “I’m so sorry,” I purred, trying to waft to the sofa while she clung to me. It wasn’t easy since she wasn’t a small woman, but wafting was part of my act, so I wafted.

  After depositing her on the sofa, I pulled over a beautiful chair, settling it across from her. I don’t know what kind of chair it was—one of the French Louis-es, I think—but it had a medallion back and a plush red velvet-covered seat. I wouldn’t have minded having a couple of chairs like that, although I’m sure they’d have cost more than our entire bungalow.

  “Shall we start with the cards?”

  “Oh, yes, please.” She hauled out a hankie and dabbed at her eyes. It looked as if my entire day was going to be full of weeping females. At least this one paid me to put up with her tears.

  With a quick move, she reac
hed across the table and grabbed my hand just as I was about to withdraw my tarot deck from the embroidered velvet pouch I’d made for it. I glanced at her quizzically.

  She swallowed, squeezed my hand, and gave me a deeply penitent look. “First I must apologize to you, Daisy. I’m so sorry for all the trouble you’ve been through on my behalf.”

  She didn’t know the half of it. I smiled with gentle condescension. Clients loved that smile.

  “I had no idea that horrid place was going to be raided last night.”

  That was a darned good thing, for both of us. If she had known and hadn’t told me, I might just have had to find another best customer, which would have been a real pain in the neck.

  “And Stacy said you were already in your trance when the police barged in.” She squeezed my hand again, and tears seeped from her eyes. “Oh, my dear, that might have been so dangerous for you. You might have been trapped in your trance. And it’s all my fault!”

  True. I’d been feeling a little testy about it, too. Smiling graciously, I said, “The spirits treated me better than might have been expected. It’s always tricky when a séance is interrupted.” Her face was a study in misery, but I pressed on, figuring she deserved it for begging me to break the law in the first place. “My soul might have been lost in the netherworld forevermore.” I bowed my head soberly as Mrs. Kincaid gasped, released me, and pressed her hands to her bosom.

  “Oh, Daisy!” Her voice wobbled. “I’m so, so sorry. It was outrageous of me to ask you to risk yourself that way.”

  Now, here’s the thing. I’d had a rough night, and it had been followed by a rough morning. I was sick of Stacy Kincaid, annoyed with Mrs. Kincaid, apprehensive on my own account, mad at Sam Rotondo, sorry for Flossie, and worried to death about Billy. Therefore, my mood was neither jolly nor forgiving.

  Because that was the case, and because I couldn’t shake the selfish notion that many of my problems were basically Mrs. Kincaid’s fault, I said in my softest, most serious and portentous medium’s voice, “I must tell you that which was brought home to me last night, Mrs. Kincaid. Rolly has told me that I must divulge all to you. That speakeasy is an evil place. The people who operate it are vicious criminals who deal in crime and murder. The emanations are wicked there. Rolly hates it.”