Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  No. This company was nothing like that, more's the pity. When I entered our snug little bungalow that evening, I saw that Billy and Pa were playing gin rummy with Detective Samuel Rotondo, from the Pasadena Police Department.

  Nuts, I thought. If my luck wasn't running true to form--that is to say, uniformly bad--I didn't know what was.

  Chapter Three

  Detective Sam Rotondo and I had met a few months earlier at Mrs. Kincaid's place, first when Stacy Kincaid, Mrs. Kincaid's awful daughter, had run amok, and later when Mr. Kincaid had stolen several thousand dollars' worth of bearer bonds and tried to hot-foot it out of the country. His fell plan hadn't succeeded, primarily because I had forced Sam to listen to my well-reasoned theories. He hadn't wanted to. He'd resisted my suggestions at every turning in the road. Eventually my theories had been proved absolutely right. He still hadn't gotten over it, either.

  We didn't get along, Sam and I. It was my rotten luck that Billy and my own father, whom I'd always considered a true gem of a man until then, had decided they liked Sam a lot. I had once hoped that Billy's friendship would soften Sam's attitude toward me, but it hadn't happened.

  Sam was always coming over to our house to play gin rummy with them and eat my aunt Vi's good cooking. I didn't think he deserved Aunt Vi's cooking any more than I thought he deserved Pa and Billy's friendship.

  To be fair, I was glad for Billy's sake that he had a friend who treated him as if he wasn't a cripple. For my own sake, I wish Sam Rotondo would take a long walk off a short pier.

  Sam's profession and mine were destined to collide, no matter what. I'd known from the minute I met him that he had no use for fortune-tellers (because he'd told me so). When I'd explained that I wasn't a fortune-teller, but a spiritualist, he'd rolled his eyes. He and Billy were as one on the spiritualist issue, darn it. The fact that Pa liked him, too, made me feel left out and abused even in my own home.

  Because I'd be slowly roasted over Mrs. Bissel's barbeque pit before I showed Billy how little I wanted Sam there, I sauntered over and surveyed the card table. “Who's winning?”

  Billy grinned up at me. “Me.”

  It was an effort, but I grinned back. “Glad to hear it.”

  I know it sounds petty, but I resented the fact that Sam Rotondo, a man who didn't like me and whom I didn't like, was able to cheer Billy up when I couldn't. All I ever seemed to be able to do was irritate my husband. The sad, not to mention foolish, truth was that the situation made me want to cry again. I wondered if my monthly was due. I'm not a weepy person as a rule, and only get moody during that time of the month.

  “Will you boys just look at my beautiful daughter,” Pa said, winking at me. “That's a pretty dress, Daisy. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Sure did, Pa. Thanks.”

  “You look like you've just been to a funeral.”

  I glared at Sam, from whose lips the above comment had issued, annoying but not surprising me. “Thank you.”

  “She's been up to Altadena,” Billy told Sam. “She's turned into an exorcist. She's trying to get rid of a ghost in some rich lady's house.”

  “It's Mrs. Bissel's house. And it's not a ghost,” I said, pushing the words through clenched teeth.

  “What is it?”

  “I don't know yet.”

  “Good God,” said Sam.

  He laughed. So did Billy and Pa. I wanted to conk someone over the head--maybe three someones. Instead, I said sweetly, “I'll go change clothes. Have you fellows had supper?”

  “We're waiting for your aunt,” said Pa. “She called to say she's bringing leftovers from Mrs. Kincaid's house.”

  This news cheered me up. Every time Aunt Vi cooked, no matter where she did it, we ate well. “Does she know there's an extra person to feed?” I shot another good glare at Sam. He wasn't looking at me, which figured, not that my glares ever seemed to affect him to the least degree. He might as well have had elephant hide, his skin was so thick.

  “Pa told her,” Billy supplied. Ever since his own parents died during the influenza pandemic of 1918-1919, he'd called my father “Pa.”

  I guessed that left nothing more for me to do, so I took myself off. I stopped to chat with Ma, who was in the kitchen looking confused as she gazed at a recipe card. “What's up, Ma?”

  “I don't understand this.” She pointed at the recipe card. It was a good thing Aunt Vi lived with us, because neither Ma nor I could cook worth beans. “I was trying to make a raisin pie using this recipe that Vi copied out of the last issue of Good Housekeeping, but I don't understand it. What does a capital T mean?”

  I looked at the card. “Um . . . I don't know. Teaspoon?”

  “I think that's a small t-s-p.”

  “Oh. Tablespoon?”

  “I think that's a capital T-b-s-p.”

  “Oh.” I read the rest of the recipe. “Sorry, ma. Beats me. The pie sounds good, though. Did you have to buy a lemon?” The recipe called for a cup of lemon juice and a teaspoonful of lemon rind.

  “No. Mrs. Longnecker gave me a lemon from her tree.”

  “Ah. I'm surprised she had any left.”

  We both stared at the recipe card for a couple of moments, neither of us knowing what the heck a capital T stood for.

  At last Ma spoke. “Well, I guess I'll put in a tablespoon-full of baking powder and see what happens.”

  “Sounds logical to me.” It sounded as if the pie filling was going to take the lid off the oven, actually, but I was too depressed in spirits to question Ma's judgment on the recipe issue, especially since I knew my own was just as bad, or worse. All I wanted to do was change into something comfortable, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over my head. Such a blessed escape was not in the cards for me that evening.

  Sometimes I got to wondering if Billy was right about me. Maybe what I did for a living really was evil and wicked. I know for absolute certain that I wished I could communicate with spirits and read the future in the Tarot cards or communicate with Rolly through the Ouija board. I'd have liked to know if life was ever going to get better for Billy and me.

  Of course if the spirits, the cards, and Rolly all told me I was doomed to remain unhappily married to Billy for as long as I lived, I don't know what I'd have done about it. Resigned myself to an miserable future, I suppose.

  Nuts. There was no quick answer to my problems. I decided to make the best of them, at least for the evening. Then I told myself I was being stupid, and that it didn't matter what I decided or didn't decide; my circumstances were what they were, and whatever was destined to happen would happen.

  Brother. Sometimes I wondered if my job wasn't getting under my skin a bit too much.

  I was in a truly blue mood when I hung up my pretty black dress, eyed the puppy-claw snag with disfavor, put my hat away, rolled down my stockings, stowed my shoes, threw on my pink-and-white-checked house dress, stuffed my feet into a pair of floppy slippers, and went back to the kitchen. The pie was in the oven, and I hoped the capital T had meant “tablespoon,” but it didn't matter a whole lot. If the worst thing to happen in the world was a bad pie, life would be good.

  Aunt Vi had just arrived with jars and plates of food, so I got to help her unload. The thought of food made my stomach growl, and I realized I'd forgotten to eat lunch, which tells you what kind of state I was in, because I never forget to eat. Virtually never. Clearly, I'd forgotten that day.

  “Go on with you, Daisy,” Vi said. “You've been working all day, too. Go set the table while your mother and I get the food heated.”

  Aunt Vi was trying to be nice. Vi knew, and Ma knew, that the cooking gene had missed me. I could boil a fair pot of water, but that was about it as far as my culinary talents went. Because of my lousy mood, I felt as if she were kicking me out of her kitchen because I was no good. Telling myself not to be an idiot, I said, “Okay,” and went to the dining room.

  Billy rolled in as I was laying out the silverware. I glanced over at him and produced a smile from
a reserve stock I kept for such occasions. I didn't feel like smiling. I still felt like crying. “How much did you win, sweetie?”

  “Fifteen cents.” Billy grinned at me.

  “Wow. Don't spend it all in one place.”

  “I won't. I'm adding it to the fortune I've already won from Sam.”

  The only good thing about this day so far was that Sam Rotondo was apparently a very bad gin rummy player and Billy kept winning pennies from him. I was pretty sure Sam wasn't letting him win, either, because Billy wouldn't stand for that.

  “I think your husband cheats,” came a grumbly voice from the living room.

  When I glanced over Billy's head and into the living room, I saw Sam and my father folding up the card table and putting the cards away. I'm sure Sam was joking, but I took instant exception anyway, which again shows what kind of humor I was in. “My Billy would never cheat,” I said coldly.

  “Heck, I don't have to cheat when I'm playing with Sam,” Billy added, laughing.

  I scolded myself for being a drip. I ought to be grateful to Sam for taking Billy away from his pain and misery for a few hours a week. I tried to produce a smile, failed, and said, “There you go,” which meant nothing.

  Pa and Sam trooped into the dining room just as I'd laid out the last plate. I was reaching for glasses when I felt a large presence behind me.

  “Here, Mrs. Majesty, allow me.”

  I felt stupid when Sam's voice, so close at my back, made me jump. I pretended to be simply moving out of his way. “Thanks.”

  My Billy was a tall man when he stood up, which wasn't often because he was so badly crippled. He'd always been lean and lanky, though, and had never, even when he'd been in perfect health, made me feel small.

  Sam Rotondo was big. He was not only tall, but much more heavily built than my Billy. He made me feel small no matter where he was in relationship to my shortish self. That day, I resented his bigness almost as much as I resented Vi for kicking me out of the kitchen, and chalked up another score for the bad guys.

  I'm usually a lighthearted, optimistic person. Honest Injun, I am. It's only that life had been batting me around fairly savagely in recent weeks that I was in such sorry shape that day. I suppressed a powerful urge to kick Sam Rotondo in his big, hairy shins, and retreated to the table where I sat and awaited events. If nobody needed me, fine. I'd just stay out of the way.

  “What are you doing, Detective Rotondo?” Ma. Glancing askance from Sam to me. “I thought you were setting the table, Daisy.”

  I felt my mouth pinch into a wrinkled bud of its normally serenely shaped self. “The good detective took over for me.”

  “Oh.” Ma looked blank for a second, shrugged, and set a steaming bowl on the table.

  Sniffing, I detected the aroma of mashed potatoes. I love potatoes. Sometimes, when I'm feeling low or sick, I'll even make potato soup. I'm sure there a better recipe somewhere, but my kind of potato soup only requires potatoes, onions, water, salt, pepper, butter, and milk. Not even I could mess up potato soup. Well, except for the one time I forgot about it, and it burned, and we had to throw the pot away because we couldn't get the burned parts scraped off its sides and bottom.

  Aunt Vi appeared at the dining room door with another platter. She smiled broadly. “Roast pork. I know that's Billy's favorite.”

  “Anything you cook is my favorite, Vi,” said my darling Billy. See? He was still my darling Billy, in spite of our differences.

  Roast pork was my favorite, too, but obviously nobody cared about me.

  As soon as that thought floated through my head, I knew I had to do something, and fast, to repair my sense of proportion, not to mention my mood. In an attempt to accomplish this goal, I smiled at my aunt. “I love roast pork, Vi. It's my favorite, too. Along with your pot roast, roast lamb, and various other dishes, especially some of the ones with chicken.”

  “Go along with you, Daisy. I can't understand why you're not as plump as I am, the way you like to eat.”

  I shrugged. “I'm not going to get fat as long as I keep forgetting to eat lunch, I guess.”

  Both Aunt Vi and Ma turned to stare at me. “Are you sick?” Ma rushed over and put a palm against my forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

  “I'm not sick.” This was embarrassing. “I just forgot to eat lunch, is all. It's because I got a call from Mrs. Bissel and went to her place before lunch. Once I got there, I got busy and forgot all about food. Anyhow, she fed me a piece of gingerbread.”

  “I've never understood how people can forget to eat,” said Pa musingly. “You'd never catch me forgetting food.”

  One of Pa's troubles, in fact, according to Dr. Benjamin, was that he enjoyed his food too much. He'd recently suffered a small heart attack, and we all worried about him. All of us except Ma tried not to bother him with comments about food, though. He knew what he was supposed to eat and what he wasn't, and if he chose to eat it anyway, no matter how much we wished he wouldn't, we didn't complain. Besides, Ma complained enough for all of us.

  Ma said, “Pish-tosh, Joe. You know you're supposed to be cutting down.”

  See what I mean?

  “I know, I know,” said Pa. He didn't mind about Ma pestering him. I guess he figured it was part of her job as his wife. “But I still never forget to eat.”

  “Me, neither,” said Sam.

  I could believe it. Sam Rotondo wasn't fat, but he was perhaps the least little bit on the hefty side. I bit my tongue to keep myself from saying something unkind.

  “Of course,” Sam continued, smiling winningly at Aunt Vi, “I don't usually get to eat such delicious meals.”

  “Aunt Vi's the best cook in Pasadena,” said Billy matter-of-factly.

  “In the United States,” I amended. For the life of me, I couldn't make myself smile at Sam. I have a feeling the look I gave him was more like a glower or a grimace, because he appeared slightly startled. To heck with him.

  The roast pork was delicious, as were the mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, applesauce, and salad. Ma's pie turned out okay, too, which was a surprise to me. I think Ma was a little surprised herself. Like I said, neither one of us could hold a candle to Vi when it came to cooking.

  Conversation around the table was lively. Billy asked me about Mrs. Bissel's spirit (or ghost), and I told everyone my suspicions about stray cats or mice. I left out the spaghetti tin and the sheet, blanket, and wet bowl. I also left out my fears about bears, lions, lunatics, and escaped criminals, although I did ask Sam if he knew of any escapees who might live in the Pasadena area. He grinned at me.

  “Not that I know of.” He shoveled another bite of pie into his mouth. “If we knew where an escapee was living, he wouldn't be an escapee for long.”

  Billy and Pa laughed.

  “Good.” His news didn't make me feel appreciably better, although it was rather comforting to know I was safe from any known criminals. Then again, the only way a body becomes a known criminal is to be nabbed and jailed. Who knew how many unknown villains were skulking about Mrs. Bissel's neighborhood? It was a good neighborhood and full of rich people and mansions, but that's the logical place for a criminal bent upon theft or worse to hang out, wasn't it?

  “But,” Billy said, grinning, “one of Pasadena's finest families has misplaced a daughter.”

  We all stopped chewing and gazed at Billy. “I beg your pardon?” I didn't really want any raisin pie, which is a little rich for me. I wanted more roast pork--so I had seconds.

  “It's true,” said Sam. He was grinning, too. He passed a plate full of pie to Billy.

  I didn't think losing a daughter was anything to grin about, although I didn't get nasty yet. I'd learned that a hasty temper often led to embarrassment, and I didn't want to jump the gun. Besides, I figured they were teasing me in an attempt to make me get mad and then feel foolish. I resented that. Lately, I resented everything.

  “There's got to be more to the story than that,” I said. Then, to make sure I didn't hol
ler at Sam for being snide and uncaring, I jammed more roast pork and gravy into my mouth and chewed viciously.

  “There is,” said Billy. “But Sam had better tell you about it. I can't remember it all.”

  “My goodness,” said Ma, fascinated. “How can a family misplace a daughter? I'm sure I never misplaced Daisy or Walter or Daphne.” Walter and Daphne are my siblings. They were both married and rearing their own families in 1920. “Children are too important to misplace.”

  Have I mentioned my mother's lack of imagination? She also doesn't have much of a sense of humor. Although she's probably the sweetest, nicest human being in the entire world, she can't appreciate nonsense the way Pa and Aunt Vi and I can. “I think Sam was joking, Ma,” I told her gently.

  “Oh.” She looked blankly from Billy to Sam to Pa, who winked at her. She colored slightly.

  This exchange between my parents made me want to cry some more. Shoot. I knew I was in bad shape when I got mushy and sentimental because my parents loved each other.

  “I didn't mean to be flippant, Mrs. Gumm,” Sam said, sounding chastened, although I didn't believe it. Sam Rotondo didn't give a rap about other people's feelings. Except maybe Billy's. I know for a certified fact that he never once had a thought to spare for my own personal feelings.

  I said, “Hmmm,” and ate more pork. I was making up for my missed lunch and then some. “I thought you coppers weren't supposed to talk about your cases until they were solved.” I'd gleaned this information from the detective novels I loved to read.

  “That's true, for the most part,” said Sam after swallowing a bite of pie. “This time, the entire city of Pasadena's going to know about it tomorrow, because the family's placing an item in the newspapers.”

  “My goodness.” I shoveled up more mashed potatoes and gravy, interested in spite of myself. I think I even forgot to frown at Sam.