by Alice Duncan
“Any time.” I hung up and saw Billy glowering at me from his wheelchair.
“I thought you just got through meeting with that woman.”
Fiddle. I’d sort of fudged on the detail that it had been Harold I’d met at Kress’s. When Billy had assumed it was Harold’s mother who’d arranged for her son’s séance, I hadn’t felt the need to correct his false impression. No matter how hard I tried to protect Billy—or myself, if truth be known—I always got caught somehow. “Um, no. Actually, it was Harold I met.”
“I see. In other words, you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie, Billy. If I’d told you I’d gone to meet Harold, you’d have been even angrier than you were when I told you about the séance he wanted.”
His lips curled in a bitter smile. I hated when they did that. “Sins of omission are no less deadly than sins of commission, Daisy.”
I heaved a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t a sin, Billy. He’s a faggot, remember?”
“You didn’t know that when you met him.”
He had me there. “Maybe, but I knew good and well he wasn’t interested in anything but my job.”
“Huh.”
“Anyhow, that’s not the point. The point is that Mrs. Kincaid has asked me to go to her house, because she’s in terrible distress and she thinks I can help her.”
“You could help me if you’d stick around more.”
There was no good answer for that one, I supposed. “Well, I’m sorry you don’t think I’m a good wife, Billy, but Stacy Kincaid has just been arrested, and Mrs. Kincaid is in an awful state. She needs me more than you do at the moment.” I didn’t know that for a fact, but hoped Billy would go for it.
“Arrested? Good God, Daisy, what sort of people do you work for, anyhow?”
Good question. “Mrs. Kincaid is a very generous and considerate lady. Her son is a nice man. Her daughter is a stinker. She got picked up in a raid on a speakeasy.”
“Huh. Fine set of people you hang out with.” And with that last snipe, he wheeled himself out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. I decided I didn’t have to change clothes again, mainly because I didn’t fancy changing clothes with my husband glaring at me as if he hated me. Maybe by the time I got home from the Kincaids’, Billy would be over his sulk.
It was still too early for Pudge to be out of school, so I had to fight the Model T by myself again. When the weather was warm, as it was on that day, the thing started pretty easily. I drove slowly so as not to disarrange my hair and hat, and by the time I got to the Kincaids’ mansion, the gate already stood open. Either Jackson had anticipated my arrival, or the entire household was in too much of an uproar to follow normal rules.
Although this could probably be considered an emergency, I didn’t pull up in front of the huge porch, but drove around to the stable area, mainly because I wanted to say hello to Quincy Applewood and Aunt Vi.
Quincy ran to open the door for me, which was polite of him, although I’d have rather he hadn’t. The Model T didn’t have a driver’s side door, and it was kind of awkward sliding across the seat to get out on the right-hand side of the car when one wore a skirt. When someone stood there holding the door, it could also be downright indelicate. I managed to keep my skirt from bunching up, however. Billy would have been happy with me. Actually, he probably wouldn’t have been, because he’d have resented my being there in the first place. Nuts. I couldn’t win.
“Did you hear?” Quincy asked as I shook out the wrinkles from my skirt.
“That’s why I’m here. Mrs. Kincaid asked me to come and bring my Tarot cards.”
He rolled his eyes. I didn’t take offense. Quincy and I were in the same boat; we both did what we had to do to get by. I took his expression to mean what I felt: I wish I had enough money to enable me to believe in Tarot cards. When you’re struggling to make a living, you tended to focus on tangible things and leave the spirits to take care of themselves.
The back door of the house opened, and Edie Marsh hurried outside. I knew it was Edie even before I turned around to look, because the expression on Quincy’s face softened to one of imbecilic adoration. “Hey, Edie!” I said, friendly.
“Oh, Daisy, have you heard?”
It seemed to me that everyone had heard. “Yup. That’s why I’m here. Mrs. Kincaid asked me to come.”
“Oh, Lord, it’s just awful.” Edie’s eyes sparkled. I got the impression she was about as fond of Stacy Kincaid as I was. “Poor Mrs. Kincaid is so upset.”
“I don’t blame her.” Quincy looked as if he thoroughly disapproved of young ladies getting caught in speakeasy raids.
I did, too, for that matter. “Neither do I.”
Edie and Quincy exchanged a speaking look, although they didn’t touch or kiss or even talk to each other. I guess they saved demonstrations of affection until after working hours, which was both prudent and sensible.
“Come on, Daisy. Mrs. Kincaid’s in the drawing room, walking in circles and wringing her hands. She asked me to keep an eye out for you.” She hooked a hand around my elbow and we walked to the house together.
“How about Mr. Kincaid?” I spoke softly, since I didn’t want Quincy to overhear anything either of us had to say about Mr. Kincaid.
Edie’s nose wrinkled and her mouth pruned up. “Who knows? He’s such a devil. I don’t think he cares about anyone in his family, if you want to know the truth.”
Made sense to me. “If he did, he wouldn’t do the things he does.”
“Absolutely.”
It came out as sort of a huff, and I wondered if Mr. Kincaid had cornered her again today. I didn’t ask, but it occurred to me that I might compare Mr. Kincaid to Harold for Billy’s sake. At once, I nixed the idea. If Billy thought Mr. Kincaid was the sort to trap stray females with his wheelchair, he’d never allow me to visit the Kincaid place again.
When we traipsed through the service porch into the kitchen, I saw Aunt Vi kneading dough. She glanced up, and I noticed that she looked worried, too. Aunt Vi was a light-hearted lady under normal circumstances, and she, too, was very kindly disposed toward Mrs. Kincaid, and this scandal had clearly rattled her. I hurried over and kissed her cheek. Aunt Vi was as plump as a Christmas pudding, which made sense. After all, who’d want a cook who didn’t like to eat her own food?
“Whatcha cookin’, Aunt Vi?” I smiled, hoping to make her feel better.
“Parker House rolls.” She didn’t stop kneading, but her glance was intense. “Do your best for the poor thing, Daisy. She’s in a terrible taking.”
“Yeah, she was crying over the phone.”
A tear dripped down Vi’s cheek, carving a pink path through the light dusting of flour on her cheek. I wiped it away for her, since her hands were occupied. “Try not to worry, Aunt Vi. I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, Daisy. You’re a good girl.”
I supposed I’d always be a girl to Ma and Aunt Vi. That was okay with me. I gave her a cheeky grin and braced myself to meet with Mrs. Kincaid.
“I’m not going to go with you, Daisy, because I don’t want to see that awful man.”
By which, I presumed Edie meant Mr. Kincaid. That was okay with me, too, since I knew my way around the house. “Sure, Edie.”
I found the Kincaids in the drawing room. Mrs. Kincaid had a handkerchief pressed to her brow and sure enough, she was pacing in circles before the huge fireplace. Mr. Kincaid sat in his wheelchair glowering out a window overlooking a magnificent rose garden and vast acres of scythed green grass. I wouldn’t have guessed from Mr. Kincaid’s expression that he was looking at anything more interesting than mud. In short, he looked extremely irritable. He turned around when I entered the room and transferred his glower my way. I didn’t take it personally since I’d never seen him do anything else.
As soon as Mrs. Kincaid saw me, on the other hand, she wheeled around and dashed straight at me, her arms outstretched. I caught her in a hug. What the heck. Even rich people need someone to hug them e
very now and then, and I doubted that Mrs. Kincaid received many hugs from her husband—or if she even wanted them from that source. I did wonder where Featherstone was, but didn’t think too much about it. He was probably off doing something butlerish.
“Oh, Daisy! It’s so awful!”
As if to answer my unspoken question, Harold Kincaid and Featherstone entered the room. Harold had clearly been driving, because he hadn’t removed his goggles or scarf, and looked like some dangerous creature from under the sea. “I’m back,” he said unnecessarily, throwing his hat at Featherstone and going to work on the rest of his driving gear. Featherstone stood like a statue, as if he was accustomed to being used as a coat rack.
Mrs. Kincaid left off hugging me and veered over to her son. She threw herself into his arms next and cried, “Oh, Harold! What’s happening with her? Did you see her? Is Mr. Pearlman with her? Is she all right? Did they hurt her?”
Throwing his goggles atop the pile of clothes in Featherstone’s arms, Harold began patting his mother’s back. He tried to shrug, failed, and said, “Nobody’s hurt her, Mother. She was being interviewed by a policeman when I got to the station. Mr. Pearlman is there. Try not to worry. I’m sure it will turn out all right.”
I was impressed with Featherstone yet again. Although he must be dying to learn the dirt on the Stacy situation, he turned around and left the room, carting Harold’s stuff off. Now there was dedication for you. If it had been me, I’d have stood outside the door and listened, but I’ll bet anything that Featherstone didn’t. He was a pro at butlering, by gum.
“For the love of God,” grumbled Mr. Kincaid. “The child ought to be horsewhipped.”
Gee, I hated having anything in common with Mr. Kincaid. Too late now.
“Probably,” said Harold dryly.
“No, no!” cried Mrs. Kincaid. “Oh, no! The poor child! How can you say such a thing?”
Oh, brother. Fortunately for me, she didn’t expect an answer from the hired help. Harold muttered that he didn’t mean it, his tone belying his words. Mr. Kincaid only growled some more.
Guiding his mother over to the sofa, Harold said, “There’s a police detective coming to visit us soon, Mother, so try to get yourself under control. You don’t want to be crying when he gets here.”
I didn’t know why not. I mean, if a kid of mine were to be arrested, I don’t think I’d care if a policeman saw me cry. Yet another difference between rich people and the rest of us, I supposed.
Sniffling into her hankie, Mrs. Kincaid whispered, “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Harold.”
After ridding himself of his mother, Harold grinned at me. “Hello, Daisy. How nice to see you again so soon. Sorry for the circumstances.”
Mrs. Kincaid sobbed again, dabbed at her eyes, and said, “I asked her to come, Harold. I need some sort of comfort.”
“Ah, I see,” said Harold, who plainly didn’t.
I didn’t either, if it came to that, but I’d do pretty much anything Mrs. Kincaid asked me to do since she was by far my best customer.
Harold’s mother lifted tear-dampened eyes to her son. “Will you please go fetch my Ouija Board, Harold darling? Daisy said she’d help me by consulting Rolly for me.” She turned the eyes my way. “Did you bring the cards, Daisy dear?”
I held up the deck. “Right here.”
“Swell,” said Harold brightly. He definitely didn’t share his mother’s fear for his sister’s overall welfare, and I wondered if he was as sick of her outlandish behavior as I was. “Be right back.” He winked at me as he dashed out the door.
“Um, would you like me to deal the cards while he gets the board, Mrs. Kincaid?”
“Oh, yes, dear. Thank you so much.”
Mr. Kincaid sneered at both of us, which was nothing new. I ignored him and dealt out a Celtic Cross pattern with the Tarot cards. I’d brought my best deck, bought from a lady I’d met in Chinatown in Los Angeles when I was doing some research. She (the lady) claimed to be a Gypsy, but they all did. I never took claims like that seriously.
As I’d half expected, the cards decided not to cooperate with me that day. The very first hand I dealt contained more swords than I’d ever seen, bless it. I sighed inwardly, not wanting to upset Mrs. Kincaid by letting it show. Darn the swords, anyhow. They were the scariest cards in the whole blasted deck.
Evidently I didn’t hide my distress well enough or didn’t speak quickly enough or something, because Mrs. Kincaid gasped. “Oh, Daisy! Please tell me they don’t predict disaster.”
I ignored Mr. Kincaid’s snort of disgust. “Disaster? Why, no, Mrs. Kincaid. No such thing.” Thinking fast, I said, “They do indicate that you’re facing a time of uncertainty.” That was good. “There’s going to be a period of—chaos.” Was that too strong a word? Glancing at my victim—I mean my subject—from under my lashes, I saw that the poor woman had gone pale, so I hastened on. “This is to be expected, of course, under the circumstances.” Her lips lost their straight-line rigidity, and she nodded. Good. That had worked pretty well, so I played up the temporary aspect of the period of chaos. “We all go through difficult times.” I gave her one of my stock of gracious smiles, and she seemed to appreciate it.
“Yes. Of course.”
I kept dealing, hoping a couple of wands would show up soon. The darned swords predominated, though, and failing wands, I hoped Harold would jog back into the room with the Ouija board.
At last the Empress landed face up on the coffee table. Thank God for small favors. I smiled harder. “Oh, there. You see? It will all work out in the end.” Which was a silly thing to say. I mean, everything works out somehow in the end. Fortunately, people like Mrs. Kincaid didn’t ever stop to consider the nonsensical nature of fortune-telling, or I’d be out of a job.
“I’m so glad,” she breathed.
Bless his heart, Harold trotted into the room, holding his mother’s Ouija board under his arm. I gathered the cards together without further explanation of the dismal nature of their predictions and smiled at Harold, who winked back at me. “Let’s consult Rolly, shall we?”
“Oh, yes! Let’s do.” Mrs. Kincaid clasped her hands at her bosom and beamed. “Oh, Daisy, I can’t even begin to tell you how this is helping me cope with this tragedy.”
She said no more, which was probably just as well, since I got embarrassed easily.
Harold grinned harder.
Her husband snorted again.
Chapter Seven
Rolly had just told Mrs. Kincaid that the Stacy problem would, after a period of strife and confusion, resolve itself happily (something I myself didn’t half believe, given Stacy’s snotty nature) when Featherstone appeared at the drawing-room door. Nobody heard him until he was there, and my admiration for him swelled anew. The guy should have gone in for spiritualism instead of butlering, he was so good at appearing and disappearing silently. When he saw that we were all staring at him, he announced that the police had arrived.
“Detective Rotondo,” Featherstone announced in a voice that would have sounded right at home on the Grim Reaper.
Harold jumped to his feet. Mrs. Kincaid looked as if she might faint. Mr. Kincaid scowled at his butler, who didn’t look down his nose far enough to see. I just sat there, trying to be as invisible as possible. Not possessing Featherstone’s skill at the art, I imagined anyone coming into the room would see me just fine.
A large, dark man in a brown tweed suit loomed up behind the butler. Flanking him were two uniformed police officers. I recognized one of them as Johnny Liljenwall, son of the woman who made Mrs. Kincaid’s clothes. We’d gone to school together. I smiled briefly at him, but I wasn’t sure he saw me. He looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. Couldn’t say as I blamed him, since I felt the same.
Featherstone stepped aside, allowing the police contingent to enter the room. The man I assumed to be Detective Rotondo, the large, dark man in the tweed suit, appeared to feel right at home. I was impressed. Heck, even I, who’d first en
tered these hallowed portals at the tender age of ten, had been vaguely intimidated during my first several visits.
Detective Rotondo nodded at the assembly without visible pleasure. He glanced at the Ouija board, passed over it, and jerked his gaze back to it. From the board, he squinted at me. I thought I recognized disfavor, so I lifted my chin a little to tell him he could lump it if he didn’t like it.
He spoke first. “How do you do?” Training his dark eyes on Mrs. Kincaid, he said, “Mrs. Kincaid?”
Mrs. Kincaid lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, let it drop to her lap, and whispered, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to have to disturb you, ma’am.” He glanced at the man in the wheelchair and his eyes narrowed. “Mr. Kincaid?”
“I’m Kincaid,” said he grumpily. “This won’t take long, will it?”
Detective Rotondo cocked his head slightly. “As to that, sir, I can’t say until we get started.”
“It had better not take long. I won’t stand for being bothered.”
Ignoring Mr. Kincaid, which I considered a sensible reaction, the detective turned to Harold. “And you are . . .?”
Harold, evidently opposed to his parents’ not-awfully-polite welcome of this officer into their home—after all, it wasn’t the police department’s fault his sister was a nitwit—walked over to Rotondo, his hand outstretched. “I’m Harold Kincaid. Stacy’s brother. Have a seat.”
Mr. Kincaid looked as if he’d have objected except that he didn’t want to make a fuss. Detective Rotondo seemed to relax under the benevolent beam in Harold’s light hazel eyes. Rotondo’s eyes were as dark as the rest of him. He looked like he ought to be posing for statues in parks somewhere in Europe. He’d removed his hat, and his hair showed black, glossy, short-cropped curls. He hadn’t spoken much yet, but I thought I detected the kind of accent Mrs. Barrow had, only not as extreme. From this, I gathered he’d originated somewhere back East, perhaps even New York City.
“Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.” Detective Rotondo bestowed a fleeting smile upon Harold, nodded to his two police cohorts, and sat on a chair across from the Kincaid congregation. And me. He eyed Mrs. Kincaid’s Ouija board suspiciously, then eyed me the same way. “And you are?” He was no longer being as polite as he’d first been, probably because he could tell I didn’t belong there.