Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  I didn't budge from the basement door, though. “You must leave me to deal with this alone.” I lowered my voice to a thrilling whisper. “The spirit walks.”

  “It did more than walk,” Ginger said, sounding more than slightly miffed. “It must have tripped over something to make that awful noise.”

  Darn her. Here I was putting on one of my best extemporaneous performances, and she had to get all practical on me. I eyed her with disfavor. “Please. I know what I'm doing.”

  Very slowly, Mrs. Bissel began backing away from me, toward the swinging door to the pantry, making her staff back up or risk getting squashed under her tread. “We'd better get back upstairs, girls. Daisy's right. She knows what she's doing, and we'd only be in the way.”

  God bless her. Not only did she have the best dogs in the world, but she trusted me. I nodded. “Please, all of you. Go on back upstairs. I'll deal with the spirit belowstairs.”

  As if she were unsure about any of this, Mrs. Bissel said, “Will you let me know what happens, Daisy?”

  “Of course.” What did she think? That I'd run away, like Marianne Wagner, never to be seen again? Not very likely, no matter how much I sometimes wanted to. But more than that, I wanted Billy's puppy--and it was beginning to look as though I'd get it, too, if these people would only go away and leave me to deal with Marianne.

  Unless she'd escaped through the other exit down there as I dealt with Mrs. Bissel and crew. Darn. I wished I hadn't thought about that--or better, that I'd thought about it sooner, so I could have locked the other door from the outside. Impatient now, I repeated, “Please. All of you need to go back upstairs so that I can finish my job here.”

  “I don't know,” Mrs. Cummings said doubtfully.

  Frustration gnawed at me. I looked imploringly at Mrs. Bissel. She was the boss, after all. “Mrs. Bissel?”

  “What?” She blinked several times before she understood, then she jerked. “Oh! Yes, of course, Daisy.”

  She turned and made herding motions with her arms. I must say her appearance was quite . . . remarkable, I suppose is the best and least insulting word for it. Clad in a bright purple dressing gown with a matching purple sleeping cap covering her tightly curled gray hair, she resembled a gigantic eggplant with a growth. Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, and Susan, after sending me a variety of last glances--Ginger rolled her eyes--obeyed their mistress.

  Mrs. Bissel was the last one out the door. I tried to reassure her. “I'll let you know the result of my work as soon as I can, Mrs. Bissel, but that may be sometime tomorrow. Please don't come into the kitchen until you hear from me.”

  “Of course, dear. Please be careful.”

  “I will be. Thank you.”

  I gave them plenty of time to get upstairs. I didn't want anyone barging in on Marianne and me. When I was pretty sure we wouldn't be interrupted again, I grabbed the untouched tray of food Mrs. Cummings had left for me, opened the door, noted with gratitude that Marianne had turned on the light, and charged down the basement steps as fast as I could. By that time, I was positive Marianne had escaped.

  You can imagine my elation when, panting from my headlong dash, I paused at the foot of the staircase to catch my breath and saw her sitting on the mangle, her hands covering her face, sobbing as if her heart was broken. I gulped air and told myself to proceed with caution. Not that I believed Marianne would harm me, but I needed her cooperation, and she wouldn't give it if I handled this wrong.

  “Marianne?” I stayed near the staircase and spoke softly so as not to spook her. “My name is Daisy Majesty, and--”

  “I know who you are,” she interrupted, her voice thick with grief.

  “Mrs. Bissel and her staff thought the basement was haunted and asked me to get rid of the ghost. But the ghost is you. You gave everyone quite a scare.”

  Lifting her head from her hands, she wiped her tears with the hem of her dress. “I didn't mean to.”

  She sounded utterly miserable. Looked it, too. She'd tied her blond hair back from her face with a ribbon before she left home, I guess, but it now straggled from its confinement. It also looked as if it hadn't been washed since before she ran away. Her dress was stained and wrinkled, and her black cotton stockings had ladders as big as my thumb.

  I took a step closer to the mangle, and when she didn't move, I dared come even closer. I didn't want her to bolt. “I have some food for you, Marianne. I'm sure you haven't been eating well.”

  Her glance slewed from my face to the tray I held. She looked as if she'd lost weight since the last time I saw her. Never robust, at the moment she looked as if she were about to expire from starvation. Making no sudden movements and walking slowly, I finished my trek to the mangle and laid the tray down next to her. Then I stepped back a pace or two so as not to worry her. She swallowed as she surveyed the tray.

  Mrs. Cummings had provided me with a variety of small sandwiches (with their crusts removed. Now, I ask you: what's the point of that?), a banana, three apples, an orange, a cluster of fat juicy grapes, and at least a dozen cookies and tiny iced cakes. Because I hoped to soothe her, I took three of four more steps back from the mangle and gestured at the food. “Dig in,” I suggested. “You can eat while we talk.”

  She eyed me sharply for three of four seconds before she reached for the grapes, plucked one from the bunch, and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes closed, and I heard her stomach growl. I felt really sorry for her.

  “Eat up, Marianne. Have a sandwich.”

  Without speaking, she did as I suggested, stuffing a cream-cheese-and-cucumber sandwich into her mouth as if she hadn't eaten for weeks and weeks, which was almost true.

  After watching her jam food between her lips for a minute or two, I said, “Will you please talk to me, Marianne? Your parents are worried about you.”

  She swallowed several more grapes and said, “Ha,” in a dispirited tone.

  Because I thought I understood the nature of her disbelief, I said, “Your mother is worried, anyhow.”

  She heaved an enormous sigh. “Poor Mother. I'm sorry to have worried her.”

  Taking a chance, I said softly, “Your mother has enough burdens to bear, I imagine, without being frightened on your behalf.”

  Her head jerked up, and her eyes widened as she stared at me. She'd have had pretty eyes if they weren't so sunken and tired-looking, with huge black circles under them. “What do you know about my family?”

  Okay, here's the thing: When I'd first considered the possibility that it was Marianne Wagner hiding in Mrs. Bissel's basement, I hadn't thought farther than finding her and taking her back to her parents. When she stared at me with those huge, petrified eyes, as round and blue as robin's eggs, I began to re-think my plan of attack. If she was this scared of her father, maybe I'd have to come up with something else to do with her, rather than returning her to the family manse.

  Oh, boy. I visualized my poor little self being taken into custody by Sam Rotondo. Wouldn't he just love that? And Billy; wouldn't he feel justified? In case you harbored any doubts: Yes. He would. They both would.

  I could scarcely bear to think about Billy's reaction if I should continue to hide Marianne from her parents.

  That being the case, and because I honestly didn't want to incur the wrath of the Pasadena Police Department or my beloved but ever-cranky husband, I decided to question Marianne about her family before I did anything rash. People tended to hide their skeletons and dirty laundry, not wanting to have them flaunted to the world, but this was a special case. I aimed to get the whole truth, even if it was appalling, from Marianne.

  In any case, it couldn't hurt to ask. Because I hoped to make her relax, I hiked myself up onto the mangle beside her, leaving the tray of food between us so as not to spook her. “I don't really know anything about your family, Marianne, although I must admit your father doesn't act like a very nice man. I'm sorry if that offends you.”

  “It doesn't,” she said dully.

  “And your brot
hers, too, never appeared to me to be full of milk of human kindness. I never got the impression they were especially fond of their fellow man. Or woman.”

  “Ha.” Still not a trace of animation. “They're not.”

  “That being the case, and because I want to do what's best for you, it would probably be a good idea to tell me about your family. I gather ran away from home.”

  “Yes.”

  Gutsy of her, and unexpected. I'd have been less surprised to find out she'd been murdered. “Then I assume you're not eager to return to them.” I shrugged and smiled gently. “Heck, you ran away from them. There must have been a good reason.”

  She took a tuna-fish sandwich and ate it before she broke off a small bunch of grapes and put it in her lap. She looked as if she were guarding them. Obviously, she hadn't been eating well lately. I assumed she still wore the clothes she'd run away in, too, because her dress, which had started out in life an expensive number made by a skilled seamstress, was a total loss unless somebody could work miracles. So was she. Well, she wasn't a total loss, but she hadn't bathed for a long time, although I knew from the tiny puddles she'd left in the wash bowl that she'd at least tried to keep her hands and face clean.

  After eating two grapes, she turned and looked directly into my eyes “I hate my father.” At this shocking confession, her own eyes filled with tears that overflowed and trickled down her face again. “He's cruel to my mother and me.”

  Because I was pretty sure she'd run away unprepared for life, even when it came to the tiny things, I dug in my pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Here,” I said gently. “Use this.”

  She did. “Thank you.” Her voice was tiny.

  I waved her thanks away. “Tell me about it, Marianne. Maybe we can think of some way to prevent your having to move back to your father's house.”

  For the first time since I'd caught her in the kitchen, she appeared minutely hopeful. “Really? You'd actually help me?”

  “Of course I will,” I said, committing myself without a second thought. Billy would have said I never gave anything a second thought, but that's not true. Not entirely, anyhow. “If you're afraid of your father, I'll do my best to find something else to do with you.” That didn't sound right. “I mean, do you have any relatives you can stay with? Do you have friends who could put you up?”

  She shook her head and slumped, her one tiny flame of hope extinguished before it had time to grow into a full-blown fire. “No. He'd get me and make me go back. My father, I mean.”

  “I know who you meant.” Tilting my head, I studied her for a couple of moments. “Does he hurt you? Hit you? Beat you?” I kept my voice gentle and low.

  She nodded. “He uses a strap. Always on my back and legs so that the bruises and welts don't show. And he does . . . other things.”

  I stared at her, not understanding. “Er . . . what kinds of things?”

  She drooped a little more, blushed, and shook her head again. “I . . . I can't tell you.”

  Understanding struck. At least I thought it did. “Good Lord! You don't mean to say that he . . . he touches you in--in secret places.”

  Nodding disconsolately, she said, “He says it's for my own good and that it's because he loves me, but I don't believe him. He told me never to tell anyone because they wouldn't understand and wouldn't believe me.”

  “Well, that tears it. You're not going home.” Once my indignation was roused, any remaining shreds of caution flew out the window. If I got arrested for assisting Marianne Wagner to elude her bestial father, so be it. I thought of something else that might help the two of us to collude effectively. “How old are you, Marianne?”

  “Eighteen.” She sniffled unhappily. “If I were twenty-one, I could do anything I wanted, and my father wouldn't be able to touch me ever again, but I'm not.”

  Darn. “True. That's a real shame.”

  “And if I go home again, he's going to make me marry Marcus Finch.”

  I cast about in my memory, trying to place Mr. Finch. Couldn't do it. “Who's he?”

  “An awful man. All he cares about is money.”

  Money was a handy commodity, especially if one didn't have enough of it, but I didn't point out this salient fact to Marianne, who wouldn't have been able to appreciate it. “I see.”

  “Father wants me to marry him because Marcus agreed to give him a lot of money.”

  “Good heavens, you mean to say he's selling you to this man?”

  She heaved a huge sigh. “That's what it amounts to, I guess.”

  “That really stinks, Marianne.”

  She absently popped an iced cake into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, grabbed an apple and crunched into it. “You're telling me.”

  “Well, there's no use in crying over something that can't be helped.” Suddenly I remembered Harold Kincaid, who, because of his own experiences with life, was likely to take a more sensible view of Marianne's problem than most “normal” people. Sitting up straight, I said, “I have it!”

  She eyed me uncertainly. “You have what?”

  “I know what we can do.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I have a friend who'll be happy to hide you in his house--”

  “No!”

  I winced because she'd screeched. “Shhh. Don't bring the gang down on us again, or you'll be shipped back to your father quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.”

  She didn't holler again, but her voice was urgent when she next spoke. “No! Don't tell anyone else. Please, Mrs. Majesty! Nobody must know about me!”

  Deciding a soupcon of common sense wouldn't hurt in this instance, I looked her square in the eye. “Heck, Marianne, the whole of Pasadena knows about your disappearance. Altadena, too. And probably San Marino and Alhambra. Your parents placed an item in all the local newspapers, and your picture has been posted all over everywhere. Unless I can get Harold to help us, it's only a matter of time until you're discovered and sent back home.”

  She buried her face in her hands once more and slumped tragically. “Oh, my God.”

  “That being the case,” I went on, trying to boost her morale, “we need to find someplace to put you until we figure out what else to do with you. You can't stay in Mrs. Bissel's basement for another three years until you're twenty-one.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Harold is a very nice man, and I'm sure he'll be able to assist us. If he agrees to hide you, you'll be living in the lap of luxury, because he has a beautiful home in San Marino.”

  “Oh, my God.” She still had her face buried in her hands.

  I was beginning to get the feeling that Marianne wasn't going to be of much help when it came to rescuing herself. She'd grown up a pampered rich girl, except in certain perfectly ghastly ways, and probably nobody'd ever even bothered to teach her how to take care of herself. If it had been I who'd run away, you can bet I'd have taken as much money as I could with me. And I'd have gone a whole lot farther than three or four miles north into an Altadena basement. Out of curiosity, I asked, “Why'd you pick Mrs. Bissel's basement, out of all the basements in Pasadena and Altadena?”

  She shrugged. “I was tired. I didn't know where else to go or what else to do. I couldn't stand it anymore, and when I found the outside door to this basement open, I climbed in.”

  “Hmmm. I guess I can understand that, but . . . well, never mind.” The poor girl didn't need my criticism on top of everything else. She had enough on her plate. We were silent for several minutes. Marianne started eating again, and I sat on the mangle, thinking.

  After formulating a plan, more or less, I spoke again. She'd polished off the sandwiches and was working her way through the last of the cookies and iced cakes. “What we need to do first is get you out of here.”

  “Where will I go? That man's house?” Her words were mushy because she'd spoken with her mouth full. It was probably the first time she'd done such a thing since her mother taught her manners, and I wondered if Billy was right about me and if I really was
a bad influence.

  “We can't go there until I talk to him about you. I'll do that as soon as I can tomorrow morning.”

  I could have driven her over there that night, but I didn't want to butt in on Harold if he and Del Farrington, were having a tete-a-tete. Although Marianne had been through a lot with her father, I didn't trust her not to frown on Harold's way of life.

  People were odd that way. Let a man do something horrid to a woman, and people shake their heads. Let a man so something wonderful with another man, and people lock them both up and call them perverts and criminals. I'll never understand human nature, even though I made my living by exploiting it.

  “What will I do in the meantime? Stay here?”

  “No. You can't stay here any longer. Mrs. Bissel's staff is getting too edgy, and they might find the courage to come down here and confront you. Right now, they still think you're a spirit. Or a ghost.”

  “Oh.”

  “The thing is, the only place I can think of hiding you until I can talk to Harold is in the basement of our house on Marengo.” I scanned Mrs. Bissel's basement. “It's not as commodious as this one, I'm afraid.”

  For the first time since I'd discovered her in the kitchen, she smiled. “I don't mind.”

  I thought of something else that might throw a monkey wrench into the works. “Nuts,” I said. “I have to go to church tomorrow, because I sing in the choir.”

  “That's very good of you, Mrs. Majesty.”

  “For heaven's sake, call me Daisy.”

  “Daisy,” she said obediently.

  At least the girl was manageable. That was a good thing at the moment. As far as ultimately getting her to be responsible for herself, her strict compliance to other people's orders and evident inability to think for herself might not be such a useful quality. “I guess you'll have to stay in our basement until we get back from church. I'll try my best to make arrangements before I leave the house in the morning, but I can't guarantee anything.”

  “As long as I don't have to go home again,” she said, her voice trembling.