Strong Spirits [Spirits 01]

by Alice Duncan

  Oh, but the homes were something special. Henry Huntington, the railroad robber baron, had a place there with acres and acres of gardens and rolling lawns, fancy lights and exotic plants. He even had peacocks wandering around to give the place atmosphere. Not that it needed them. Shoot, even without peacocks, the Huntington place had atmosphere enough for me.

  I knew about it first-hand because Mrs. Huntington had hired me to play fortune-teller at a Halloween benefit she’s given to raise money for the hospital they were building. Gladys Millbrook, one of my friends, had graduated from Pasadena’s Sawyer Business School, and worked there as her secretary. Gladys had taken me all through the house and over the grounds. You could get lost there if you wanted to, which didn’t sound like a half-bad idea.

  Not long after that, the Huntingtons donated their house and grounds to the city of Pasadena to be used as a museum and art gallery. I thought that was a very generous thing for them to do, although I also wondered what they were getting out of it. Probably because I was born and reared a Gumm, I tend to be skeptical about rich people doing charitable deeds for no reason.

  Harold’s house wasn’t a mansion like his mother’s or Mr. Huntington’s. It was a swell place, though: two stories, Mediterranean style, huge lawn, gorgeous garden with tons of roses, and a little orange kitty cat named Marmalade. Harold said peacocks squawked more than cats, and he didn’t like the racket. I suppose he was right.

  Marmalade was okay as cats go, but she made me want a dog. Not a big dog; a smallish dog that would sleep on Billy’s lap and give him something to pet. I know Billy got bored sitting in his wheelchair all day. He and Pa got along fine, but Pa was much older than Billy. Also, Pa could still get around, even though his ticker wasn’t so good anymore. He had his friends and clubs and card games, and made the most of them. Although he generally asked Billy to join him when he went out and about, Billy’s interests ran more towards baseball and automobiles than cards and old men’s chatter.

  Poor Billy had such a difficult time getting around that he was stuck at home most of the time, a lot of it by himself. I’d always thought it was a shame that he didn’t like to read more, although he did enjoy some of my detective novels. Which made one thing he didn’t complain about regarding my personal self and habits.

  A dog would be company for him. Besides, I’ve always wanted a dog. Lots of the rich people I worked for in Pasadena had special, fancy dogs. Mrs. Longworth had her poodles that were pampered, groomed, and better cared-for than most of the people I knew. Mrs. Frasier bred little high-strung dogs called miniature pinschers that were incredibly light on their feet. They also yapped a lot and made me nervous. Mrs. Frasier was on a rampage to have her chosen breed of dog recognized by the Westminster Dog Show, whatever that was.

  And then there were Mrs. Bissel’s dachshunds. They were my favorites, because they were so . . . I don’t know. They had these noble, expressive faces, and fiercely protective instincts, and all of those characteristics were attached to those ridiculously long bodies on teensy, weensy legs. I think I loved them so much because they were so funny looking. Anything that can make me laugh is okay in my book.

  Shoot, how did I get on the subject of dogs? I’m supposed to be talking about Harold’s séance and the conversation I overheard. Actually, I don’t need to say much about the séance, because it was just another séance.

  When I pulled up in front of Harold’s house, I was surprised to find Quincy there, parking cars for the rich folks. And even me. He grinned broadly as he raced over and opened my door.

  “Hey, Quincy. What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Harold Kincaid borrowed me from his mother for the evening.” Bowing smartly, he swept the cap from his head and darned near brushed the sidewalk with it. When he recovered from his bow and plopped his cap back on, he gestured at his snappy uniform. “Pretty keen, huh?”

  “I’ll say.”

  Leaning closer, he whispered, “I wouldn’t have done this if I had to be inside with all the faggots, but I can stay outside, enjoy the moon and the stars. Plus which, I get to drive a whole lot of fancy cars, even if it’s only up the driveway.”

  The word he’d used to describe Harold and his friends caught my attention. “Were you in the army, Quincy?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. I wanted to enlist, but my mother’d already lost two of my brothers, and she begged me not to. Besides, she needed help on the ranch until the rest of the family got home.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. There was a lot of that going around, I guess.”

  Quincy saluted. “Have fun.”

  “Thanks.” I walked up the front walk to the porch, which was dripping with bougainvillea blossoms, and grabbed the brass knocker, which hung from a brass elephant’s trunk. When you’re rich, you can do all sorts of things you couldn’t get away with if you were poor. I mean, an elephant?

  After Harold introduced me all around, he led me to what he called his “den,” which would have been anyone else’s back parlor. It was a cozy room, and Harold had it set up just right, with a big round table and seven chairs. I positioned my cranberry lamp in the middle of the table, and prepared to do my job.

  As a séance, it was nothing unusual. Oliver Pittman, the dead uncle of one of Harold’s friends, spoke to Harold’s friend through Rolly and assured the young man that he (the uncle) was doing well on the Other Side.

  One of Harold’s dead ancestors from the 1500s popped up to tell Harold that he loved what he’d done with the front room (there had been lots of ooohs and aaahs about the front room among Harold’s friends before the séance. Those guys really enjoyed interior decorating). A deceased sister of another man made the poor fellow cry, and I felt terrible until afterwards, when the man rushed up to me, wrung my hand nearly off, and told me I’d eased his mind.

  “I was so afraid Cissy would hate me, you know, because of—well, because of what I am, you know, and I can’t tell you how overjoyed I was to hear that she doesn’t!”

  Then he kissed me on both cheeks and rushed off to tell somebody else how wonderful I was. That was sweet of him, although I wasn’t used to men gushing quite so much. I didn’t mind it, though. These men were very congenial, and they were much more polite and friendly than most of my clients’ husbands. I was also encouraged to know I’d made the poor fellow happy. It didn’t make any sense to me that people didn’t like men of his ilk just because they were a little different. They sure didn’t hurt anybody that I could see.

  Harold was so good to me. I have to admit to thinking it was a shame he didn’t like women, because he’d make some girl a swell husband. Then again, maybe if he was like other men he’d be . . . well . . . like other men. If you know what I mean.

  I noticed that Mr. Farrington (I really oughtn’t to call him Lieutenant Farrington any longer, since he’d been out of the army for years) seemed more subdued than he’d been the first time I’d met him. He was as courteous and considerate as ever, and as handsome, and I didn’t think much about it until long after the séance was over, when I was fetching my hat and coat from the room where I’d left them.

  Two men were speaking to each other in a room next to the coat room. I didn’t pay any attention, not being an eavesdropper by nature, even if I am a snoop, until I heard the word “bank” plunk itself into the conversation. Then I started listening with both ears.

  “I know there’s monkey business going on, Harry.” I recognized Delroy Farrington’s voice, and he was obviously worried.

  “You’re probably right. Banks contain money, people always need money, and they’re apt to perform monkey tricks to get it.”

  This pithy comment had been uttered by Harold, who didn’t seem worried at all. In fact, he sounded quite chipper. That’s probably because he didn’t have to worry about money. Most of the time, I found it difficult to find anything at all funny about money.

  “When I was auditing the books—you know, we do periodic audits in order to make sure things are runn
ing smoothly . . .”

  “No, I didn’t know, but I’ll take your word for it, Del. I don’t know anything about banks, and I care even less.” Laughter from Harold, not joined by Del.

  “It’s not funny.”

  This attitude undoubtedly accounted for Mr. Farrington’s shortage of good humor.

  More serious now, Harold said, “I’m sorry, Del. Go on. What’s the trouble?”

  “I know the books have been doctored. When I tried to reconcile the books with the assets, I couldn’t find thousands of dollars worth of bearer bonds.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “It’s worse than bad, Harry. It’ll be catastrophic if the bonds don’t turn up. Those bonds can be cashed by anyone. Anyone, Harry! I can’t even stand to think about what’s going to happen to the bank when news of this gets out.”

  I couldn’t catch the next several exchanges, because the two men had lowered their voices or shut a door or ducked behind a curtain or something.

  “What’s worse,” I heard Mr. Farrington say a few moments later, “is I . . . God, I hate to say this, Harry.”

  “Spit it out, Del. You know you need to get it off your chest, and if you can’t talk to me, whom can you talk to?”

  “I love you, Harry.”

  “I love you, Del.”

  I really wish I hadn’t heard that part. And the next almost-quiet, smoochy seconds didn’t do much for my peace of mind, either. All right, so I know the two men were—I guess they were lovers, actually—but I didn’t necessarily want to hear about it first-hand. I wouldn’t want to overhear such carryings-on between a male-female couple, for that matter. Fortunately, the kissy interlude didn’t last long.

  “But, Harry, I . . . Oh, God, I hate to say this! But I’m afraid your father is involved.”

  I was shocked.

  Harold manifestly wasn’t. “Wouldn’t surprise me, Del. The old man’s a dedicated scoundrel. I thought Mother ought to have left him years ago.”

  I was even more shocked.

  “I don’t know what to do, Harry.” I could picture poor Mr. Farrington sinking his head in his hands and running his fingers through his pretty blond curls.

  “You’re doing all you can, Del.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to be a matter for the police pretty soon, though, Harry, and then what will happen? The outside auditors are scheduled to come to the bank for three days the week after next. If those bonds don’t turn up, I’m terrified of what’s going to happen to the bank. And me. They’ll blame me, as chief cashier. I know they will.”

  “I’ll protect you, Del.”

  “I love you, Harry.”

  That was enough for me. I didn’t want to hear any more lovey-dovey stuff from a couple of men. I grabbed my coat and hat and scrammed out of there.

  Harold gave me twice what we’d agreed upon as my fee for conducting the séance. I tried to refuse the money—not that I didn’t need it, but I didn’t think I’d earned it—but he wouldn’t let me. Taking my hand and pressing the bills into it, he said, “Daisy Majesty, you’re the best medium I’ve ever met in my life.”

  I laughed at that. “And exactly how many mediums have you met in your life, Harold?”

  He laughed, too. “One so far. But I’m sure you’re the best in the world. If I really believed in this stuff, I swear I’d have you contact my dead Uncle Pete. I’d love to know why he never married.” Harold winked. “I have my suspicions, but nobody in the family will talk about it.”

  “Oh.” Shoot, what does a person say to something like that? “Well, I’m glad you were satisfied.”

  “More than satisfied. Enchanted. And I’m so glad you like my front room. I did it myself, you know.”

  “It’s beautiful, Harold.” It was, too. Maybe I could get Harold to help me if I ever had enough money to redo our living room. The possibility was remote, but if I could get enough of these guys to have me conduct séances for them, who knew? They all seemed to have good jobs and no kids, so there was a lot of money in that quarter to throw at spiritualists.

  “Indeed, you were smashing, Mrs. Majesty.” Mr. Farrington had come up and was smiling down upon me like a benevolent godlet. He’d have made a keen preacher, except that I’m not sure churches approve of people like him being ministers. But he had a soothing way about him, a tenderness I guess you could call it, that would have sat well on a pastor. I could feature being ministered to by so kind and caring a man.

  Lord, wouldn’t that give the Methodist Episcopals conniption fits? Life absolutely baffles me sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But enough of that.

  Harold walked me to my automobile, which embarrassed me a little, since it was only a junky Model T, and all the other cars parked in his huge back yard were wildly expensive, fancy machines. But Harold was so at ease about everything, I stopped worrying almost immediately. I sensed that he wanted to talk to me about something.

  “Harold, do you want to talk to me about something?”

  He grinned. “Actually, yes, I do, but I’m not sure how to do it.”

  What did this mean? Beat me. “Just spit it out, why don’t you.”

  Sticking his hands in his pockets, thereby ruining the line of his gorgeous Palm Beach suit, he pursed his mouth, then said, “Why not?” His gaze became intense. “Daisy, have you ever noticed anything not quite right about my father?”

  Huh? Did Harold think I was in cahoots with his father in cleaning out the bank? I only wish. However, as long as he’d asked, I figured I might as well hint at the Edie problem. “Er, not exactly. I mean, he’s never done anything to me, but—” I’d promised Edie I wouldn’t tell. Darn it. “I believe he has bothered at least one of the housemaids.” There. That wasn’t telling, was it?

  “Aha. That wouldn’t surprise me in the least. The man’s a monster.”

  Good Lord. I’d never heard anyone talk about a parent this way. “Oh.”

  “He’s always been a nasty old man.” Harold’s sudden grin caught me unawares. “To tell the truth, I’d always hoped I’d one day discover that my mother had been playing around on him before I was born and he wasn’t really my father at all.”

  Good Lord! If I was surprised before, I was flabbergasted now.

  “Oh, dear, I’ve shocked you.”

  “No, no. Not really. I mean . . .” He’d shocked me, all right. The worst part, though, was that he’d also tickled me so much, I couldn’t suppress my laughter. I was still giggling when Harold handed me off to Quincy, who’d run to get my car as Harold and I had said our farewells.

  “What’s so funny?” Quincy wanted to know.

  I wiped my eyes, which were streaming by that time. “Nothing, really. Harold’s funny, is all.”

  “Yeah? I’ve never talked to him much.” Quincy gave an expressive shudder, and I knew the reason for his reticence with Harold. I didn’t think it was fair, either.

  “He’s a great guy, Quincy. You’d like him.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “He’s ever so much nicer than his father.”

  “That wouldn’t take much.”

  I laughed again. “And he never chases women, either, so he wouldn’t give Edie a bad time.” I could have kicked myself as soon as the words left my mouth.

  Quincy stiffened up like one of Mrs. Garland’s spotted pointers eyeing a duck. That’s another dog I liked, but not as much as the dachshunds. “What are you saying, Daisy?”

  I waved it away. “Nothing. I just meant that Harold isn’t the sort of man who’d chase women.”

  “That’s not what you meant, and you know it.”

  Nuts. “I didn’t mean anything Quincy.”

  He glared at me. “Is that bastard Kincaid bothering Edie?”

  Darn my big mouth, anyhow. “How should I know?” I put on an act of annoyance, hoping Quincy would stop questioning me. It worked, but I sure didn’t like the expression on his face when he cranked up the Model T for me.

  # # #

  Th
e next day, I did my duty and visited Detective Rotondo at the Pasadena Police Department. I’d thought about calling him on the telephone but decided a visit would be more discreet. You never knew about Mrs. Barrow. I always tried to shoo her off the party line, but I didn’t think it would be prudent to convey confidential information of a police nature over the telephone wire.

  Before the end of the decade, Pasadena City Hall was going to be replaced by a splendid new building on Garfield Avenue, just north of Colorado Boulevard, and the Police Department would take up new quarters on Walnut and Raymond. In 1920, City Hall sat on Fair Oaks Avenue at Union, and the police station occupied space at the rear of the building.

  I parked the Model T at the curb and felt funny walking up to the door of the police station. I hate to admit it, but I even glanced around to see if anyone I knew was watching. As far as I could tell, nobody was. A few of the old cats in Pasadena would have loved to see me heading into the police station, and would assuredly have the news all over town before my business with Rotondo had concluded.

  It goes without saying that Detective Rotondo was nowhere in sight when I entered the building. I should have expected as much from the disobliging man. A uniformed officer sat at a desk and looked up when I entered. He smiled at me, which was nominally encouraging. I smiled back.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  “Um, I need to speak to Detective Rotondo.” I glanced around uncertainly. I’d never been in a police station before, and it made me nervous, like I was a crook or something. It even crossed my mind that this might be some kind of ruse on Rotondo’s part to lure me into his clutches so that they could clap the cuffs on me and fling me in a cell to rot for telling fortunes.

  I gave myself a mental shake. There was no sense getting hysterical about this. I was only doing as Rotondo had asked me. He ought to be glad of my cooperation, not yearning for my capture, for heaven’s sake.

  Still smiling, the uniform said, “Yes, ma’am. If you’ll follow that hallway, Detective Rotondo’s office is the second one on the right.”