Strong Spirits [Spirits 01]

by Alice Duncan

  The wink nearly did me in. As often as Billy drove me crazy with his crankiness and whining, there were other times, like today, when he could drive me to the brink of tears by acting like the Billy he used to be. Since I’d never, ever, in a million years, demonstrate how much pity I felt for him, I winked back. “Thanks, sweetie.”

  I did sometimes worry that my voice would deepen as I got older. It would be mortifying to have to sing with the men in the tenor section. If that ever happened, I’d just have to garner good will through some other church activity, I supposed. Maybe I could work in the kitchen, feeding the poor. If somebody was poor enough, he probably wouldn’t cavil too much at eating my cooking. It was a sad fact, but I hadn’t inherited my aunt’s culinary talents.

  We arrived at the church in a good mood, communally speaking, and greeted friends and neighbors with gusto. I love people. Billy used to be a friendly fellow, too, although his cheery nature had suffered debilitating injuries along with his body in late years. Today, though, he smiled and chatted with as much evident pleasure as I did.

  I had to leave him in Ma’s care while I nipped to the choir room to don my robe. I was looking forward to singing the duet with Lucy because, truth to tell, I’m kind of a performer at heart. That’s undoubtedly another reason I enjoyed my line of work so well and was so good at it.

  Lucy, a blue-eyed blonde who was pretty enough to make up for her lack of brain power, claimed to be as nervous as a sparrow being eyed by a hawk. She sure fluttered around enough to prove it, although I didn’t buy it. It was my opinion, and I’ll bet I’m right, that Lucy had been taught from the cradle how to act like a helpless female. She’d been a good pupil, too. She was about my age, maybe a year or two older, and I swear to goodness, the woman couldn’t walk across the street without a male escort.

  I’m sure she figured some nice man would marry her and take care of her for the rest of her life. I wished her luck. Although my parents were too smart to have taught me to be helpless, I’d harbored the same fantasy about marriage once. Show’s how much anybody can tell about life before it happens. If I ever had children, and the prospects looked mighty dim back then, I aimed to teach them all, male and female, how to get by in the world with or without help, because you just never knew what life had in store for you.

  There I go, rambling again. Sorry.

  Anyhow, Lucy and I and the rest of the choir members put on our robes. To the strains of “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” (I learned later that this is traditionally the first hymn in all Methodist hymnals, although I still don’t know why), the choir climbed the stairs to the loft above the pulpit. I loved sitting there, because I could see everyone in the congregation and study the ladies’ best clothes.

  Apparently I’d been paying too much attention to the new summer fashions that day, because I didn’t see Detective Sam Rotondo lurking in the congregation until Lucy and I descended the stairs and approached the front of the podium for our solo. I almost died then and there.

  What the heck was he doing here? I couldn’t think of any answer to that question that might auger good for me. It was all I could do to subdue my shock and nervousness enough to start my part of the duet on the right note. I think I did okay, in spite of the detective glowering at me from the third pew from the back, but it was hard.

  After our pastor, Reverend Merle Smith, spoke the last “Amen” of the day and the choir had sung a parting benediction hymn, I raced down to the choir room and threw off my robe. I prayed like mad that I could get to my family and the other hungry Methodists munching cookies and punch and hide amongst them well enough so that Rotondo wouldn’t be able to find me.

  No such luck. I’d even positioned myself with my back to the door, behind Billy and his wheelchair, and had begun an animated (on my part, at any rate) conversation with Mrs. Smith, our pastor’s wife, about the relative merits of cherry punch versus lemonade, but it was no good. I sensed Rotondo approaching, kind of like I imagine a field mouse senses the approach of a hungry fox. I gave up, turned around, and saw him looming over Billy, staring directly at me. Billy was gazing up at him, and he appeared puzzled. Small wonder, as the detective was frowning pretty fiercely.

  Peeved, I frowned back. “Detective Rotondo.” I was proud of the gritty tone of voice I achieved.

  “Mrs. Majesty.” He sounded about as overjoyed as I felt, which was not at all.

  Billy continued to peer at the detective and still looked puzzled. Seeing no other alternative, I introduced the two men. “Billy, this is Detective Rotondo. Detective Rotondo, my husband, Billy Majesty.” I should have introduced him as William, because it was stuffier, but it was too late now.

  “How do you do?” my polite Billy asked. I could tell he wouldn’t give a wooden nickel to know how the detective did.

  “Very well, thank you. And you?” By the same token, it was clear that Rotondo didn’t give a rap about Billy’s state of wellbeing.

  I couldn’t conceive of any reason for a representative from the Pasadena Police Department to appear at my church unless he aimed to arrest me for fortune-telling. That was frightening, but seemed unlikely. Didn’t you have to be caught in the act for them to arrest you for that sort of thing? Nobody from the police department had been present at the séance. And that wasn’t fortune-telling anyway.

  The memory of my Tarot cards and the Ouija board lying on the Kincaids’ coffee table when Rotondo entered the parlor wormed its way into my brain, and I went cold. I’d never let on. “Detective Rotondo is investigating the problem with Miss Kincaid, Billy.”

  “Oh?”

  My husband was clearly annoyed that the police had pursued me all the way to church to talk about Stacy Kincaid. I was, too. No money had changed hands during the Tarot episode. Or the Ouija board one, either. I’d only been at the Kincaids’ out of a sense of goodwill and fellowship. They couldn’t arrest me for that, could they? My palms started sweating.

  “May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Majesty?” Rotondo sounded stern, which scared me.

  He’d never get my goat if I could help it. “Of course.” I waved a hand, gesturing at the milling throng of Methodists. “Be my guest. Speak to me.”

  I saw his jaw bunch as he gritted his teeth. “In private?”

  “Why on earth do you want to talk to my wife in private?” demanded Billy. Bless his heart.

  “Yes,” said I. “Why do you need to talk to me in private?”

  I figured that if his teeth ground together any harder, his jaw would break. I wondered if I could annoy him enough to achieve that result. Probably not. He must be used to dealing with tougher cookies than I could ever be.

  “It’s about the Kincaids,” Rotondo said. He didn’t want to say that much; I could tell.

  Billy and I exchanged a glance. He shrugged, as if to give me his blessing. I turned back to Rotondo. “All right, but I don’t want to leave my family for long.”

  “This won’t take long,” he promised.

  “I’ll make sure of it.” I know I sounded kind of snotty, but I didn’t care. “I guess we can talk in the kitchen.” A glance at Mrs. Smith confirmed my guess. She looked as if she’d like to come along and eavesdrop, but I whispered that I’d explain everything later, and started for the kitchen. I felt Rotondo behind me like a bear about to swat me with a paw and eat me for lunch.

  I waited until we were both inside and Rotondo stood next to the wood-burning stove (we were collecting money for a new stove, but you know how church projects go. We’d probably have enough money for a new stove by 1930) before I closed the door. I didn’t even slam it, and was proud of myself.

  I did, however, slam my hands on my hips when I turned to face him. “Okay, what the heck do you mean by following me to church?”

  He wasn’t intimidated. Figured.

  “Frankly I’m surprised to see you in church, Mrs. Majesty. I shouldn’t think church would be compatible with your occupation.”

  I think I sneered at him
. I strove for a sneer at any rate. “I’m not surprised that you’re surprised. So many people have no understanding of my work. Unless that’s what you want to talk to me about, let’s drop it.”

  “Very well.”

  Thank God. “How’d you find me, anyhow? Don’t tell me you have spies watching me.”

  “Why the devil should I put spies on you?”

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  He huffed. “I asked one of your neighbors. Mr. Wilson said you’d gone to church, and which church, so I came here.”

  “Huh.” I glared at him.

  He glared back.

  Because I wanted him to know how much I resented what I considered an intrusion into my private life, in case he’d missed it from my reaction so far, I added, “I don’t appreciate being accosted by a police detective at church.”

  “I needed to talk to you.”

  “Be that as it may, I don’t know any more about Stacy Kincaid this morning than I did yesterday, and I already told you that much. I don’t know anything about her. What’s more, I don’t want to.” Now that I was confident that he didn’t aim to arrest me, I felt comfortable getting mad at him.

  “I’m not here about Miss Anastasia Kincaid,” Rotondo said, sounding something like I’d always sort of figured the Oracle at Delphi might sound—like a portent of ill fortune, if not death and destruction. “This might be said to concern Mr. Eustace Kincaid, Miss Kincaid’s father.”

  I perked up. “Oh! Do you mean to tell me Edie finally complained?” What a brave woman, to tell the cops. I was impressed.

  “Who’s Edie?” Rotondo asked, bursting that happy bubble.

  Shoot. Maybe he was going to arrest me. “Never mind. Why’d you chase me down here? What have I done wrong? I am not a fortune-teller.”

  “No? What are you, then?”

  “A spiritualist. I am a spiritualist, Detective Rotondo. Many people appreciate the work I do. If you don’t, that’s not my problem, and I don’t relish having you suspect me of being a crook.”

  “I don’t suspect you of being a crook, for the love of God!”

  “Huh. You look as if you suspect me of any number of awful, illegal things.”

  His lips tightened. It was an interesting phenomenon to watch since his skin tone was olive and when his lips pinched like that, the wrinkles were kind of yellowish. When I got home from church, I was going to see what color my wrinkles were. I suspected they’d be more white than yellow, which pointed out fascinating differences in people’s diverse ethnic backgrounds. Which was totally irrelevant.

  “The fact that I disapprove of your business isn’t at issue at the moment,” he said, plainly irked, which pleased me doubly. “The reason I came here today is that you seem to be friendly with the Kincaids.”

  “I told you everything I know about Stacy Kincaid last night.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything about Stacy Kincaid. You only related what happened after your séance.”

  I watched him when he said the word “séance,” but didn’t detect any signs of derision. Good thing.

  He went on. “I need to know as much as you can tell me about the Kincaids as people. The family. All of them.”

  I didn’t want to tell him anything. Since I didn’t know much, however, I figured it wouldn’t hurt. “I don’t know a single thing about the Kincaids except that Mrs. Kincaid is nice and Mr. Kincaid isn’t, their daughter’s a pill and their son’s a peach, and that they all seem to have more money than sense. If you want me to tell you anything else, you’re going to have to tell me why.” That was good. I was getting better at these verbal sparring matches with Detective Rotondo.

  Rotondo didn’t want me to get any better at it. He looked as if he’d like to turn around and march out on me, but couldn’t because of his job. That made me feel much more cheerful.

  “Mrs. Majesty, irregularities have been reported to us regarding the records at Mr. Kincaid’s bank.”

  I’m sure I looked as blank as I felt. “So what? I mean, you can’t possibly suspect me of stealing from the Kincaids’ bank? How the heck could I do that?”

  “No, no, no. I don’t suspect you of banking irregularities. I’m not accusing you of anything. Will you please get that through your head?”

  “Huh.”

  “The reason I’m here today is to ask you to listen and watch when you visit the Kincaids. I want to know if any of them mention anything about the bank.”

  “What? I’m not going to spy—”

  “I’m not asking you to spy!” he interrupted. “All I want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open when you visit the Kincaid home. There are problems at the bank, and Mr. Kincaid is the bank’s owner and president. He might mention his worries at home. Right now, we’re looking at Mr. Farrington—”

  It was my turn to interrupt. “No! He’s too nice to do anything illegal.”

  Rotondo’s response was a pitying smirk. Okay, so I know that nice people can steal things as easily as mean people can, and probably do from time to time, but I didn’t want Lieutenant Farrington to be guilty of theft. I wanted Mr. Kincaid to be acknowledged as the villain I knew him to be. Discovering and proving that he was a thief as well as a lecherous old goat would be a perfect way to do it. “All right, I know his being nice doesn’t mean anything. But I really don’t believe Mr. Farrington is a criminal.”

  “You never know what motivates people to do the things they do. Perhaps he’s had financial troubles. Maybe he’s been gambling. You can’t know everything that goes on in a person’s life.”

  “I suppose not.” Betcha I could tell Rotondo more about Mr. Farrington’s life than he knew already, but I’d never do it. I liked Mr. Farrington too well.

  “So, are you willing to do this? I’m not asking much of you, Mrs. Majesty. And if you really want to save Mr. Farrington’s skin, maybe you can discover something to his credit.”

  He said it as if he didn’t believe it, but I knew he was wrong about Farrington. Darn it, I made a living out of studying people, and Delroy Farrington was no thief. He might be a depraved fiend, according to my husband, but I’d bet money that he was an honorable one.

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you raid the bank or something? Or go talk to Mr. Kincaid?”

  Again I saw the phenomenon of an olive-skinned man wrinkling his lips. And his nose. I got the feeling Detective Rotondo didn’t like me much, which suited me fine. “The Kincaids are a prominent Pasadena family, Mrs. Majesty. We don’t want to ruffle their feathers if we don’t have to.”

  I know I managed a sneer that time. “Yeah. Money talks. Even to the police.”

  He didn’t like that at all. “I can assure you that we don’t play favorites, Mrs. Majesty. But even you must realize that we have to tread softly in this situation.”

  “Right.” I sounded completely disgusted, which is what I’d intended.

  “Besides, their daughter is giving them enough trouble. We don’t want to add to their troubles.”

  I squinted at him. “Darn it, you already know that’s the only thing you could have said that would make me go along with spying on the Kincaids, don’t you?”

  “I’m not asking you to be a spy!”

  “That’s right. I forgot, I’m only supposed to be a sneak and an eavesdropper.”

  He sucked in a deep breath and held it, probably to keep from bellowing at me. All in all, I was quite gratified that I’d managed to upset him. I still resented the way he’d bully-ragged Mrs. Kincaid the other day. Not to mention the way he overtly disapproved of my line of work. And chasing me down at church was pure-D mean, if you ask me.

  “So you agree to keep an open mind about this, and to let me know if you hear anything that might be of interest to the police regarding the banking problems?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”

  “This matter needs to be kept quiet, Mrs. Majesty. I’m sure you can imagine how many people might be affected by problems with this bank,
and many of them aren’t in any shape to swallow monetary losses. We need to keep it under our hats until we know what’s going on. Can you keep this matter to yourself? The alleged bank irregularities? It won’t do to broadcast anything too soon, and might even be considered slander, if no irregularities are discovered.”

  Oh, brother. This was just swell. I wouldn’t be able even to tell Billy about it. Feeling beleaguered, I snapped, “I don’t gossip.” That was a lie, but Rotondo didn’t have to know it. “Anyhow, I can’t imagine the Kincaids yakking about bank problems in my presence. We aren’t exactly bosom buddies, you know.”

  “I thought you were a friend of the family.”

  “I am a friend of the family, but they don’t blab to me about their deepest, darkest secrets, for heaven’s sake!”

  “We’ll see.” It looked like it cost him a lot to tack on a surly, “Thank you.”

  I huffed and retreated to the security of my family. They were all huddled together along with Mrs. Smith, glancing at the kitchen and muttering with each other. I knew they could hardly wait to hear whatever our conversation had been about. And I couldn’t tell them a single thing. Nuts.

  Chapter Nine

  I was wrong about not being blabbed to or around by a Kincaid about the family’s banking woes. The very next night, Monday, I conducted the séance for Harold and his Hollywoodland friends, and darned if I didn’t overhear a worried conversation between Harold and Delroy Farrington about the very matter Detective Rotondo had asked me to listen for.

  Harold had a house of his own in San Marino, a community a few miles south of Pasadena. Boy, what a beautiful area that was. Huge mansions with gigantic lawns, lined with flowering shrubs and fragrant trees, and fabulous gardens, not to mention Duesenbergs, Daimlers, Cadillacs, Stutzes, and about a billion other expensive automobiles.

  My Model T felt out of place there. I could tell. I offered it comfort as it chugged down Lake Avenue, and thanked my lucky stars I had the machine instead of the pony cart, since Brownie didn’t play favorites. He’d have been just as likely to poop in San Marino as in Pasadena, and I’d have felt obliged to pick it up. I wasn’t dressed for that.