Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  When I glanced at the woolen lump on the floor, I noticed it was moving in spots, as if Marianne had taken my advice and was scratching her itchy skin. I'm not really heartless; I'd have been glad if the blanket hadn't been made of wool, but gosh, a body can't have everything, can she?

  Sure enough, the automobile turned out to be Harold's snazzy, jazzy, bright-red Stutz Bearcat. It was a great motorcar, although I didn't envy Harold too awfully much. A bright-red Bearcat would seriously compromise the image I'd so carefully crafted of myself as a serious spiritualist--if that isn't a contradiction in terms. A sober-hued, closed-in Oldsmobile or Chevrolet would be better for my purposes.

  Harold made a U-turn in the middle of Colorado Street. I held my breath and scanned the neighborhood, waiting for a copper to whiz out and give him a ticket. No such animal appeared, and I breathed more easily. After climbing over Marianne and trying my best not to step on her, I ran over to the driver's side of his machine.

  “Harold! I don't see Mr. Grenville anywhere!” If he'd backed out of our deal, I didn't know what I'd do with Marianne.

  “That's because the cottage is behind his store,” Harold said, pushing his goggles up so that they rested on top of his head. I've never felt the need to wear motoring goggles. The Ford couldn't go fast enough to whip up very much wind or dust, unless the Santa Anas were blowing, and when that happened, nothing helped. “Follow me.”

  “Right-o.” I raced back to the Model T, jumped over Marianne's still-huddled form, and put the car into gear. With a cough and a chug, the old Ford pulled away from the curb and followed Harold around the corner and into the bumpy, unpaved alleyway. Harold and I pulled up in front of a tiny doll's-house of a cottage.

  After parking, Harold vaulted over the Bearcat's door, and trotted over to me. “Where's the girl?”

  I pointed to the woolen heap on the floor. Marianne's voice floated to our ears. “Is it safe to get out yet?”

  “She's allergic to wool,” I explained to Harold.

  “Too bad,” he said. “Wait just a minute longer, Miss Wagner. I've got to see if George is in the house. I don't have a key.”

  He walked up to the door of the tiny abode. Before he got there, the door was flung wide, and George Grenville stood there, smiling, his wire-rimmed spectacles gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Darned if I didn't nearly swoon from sheer relief. “He's there!”

  “Can I get up yet?” Marianne asked again. She was beginning to sound a trifle desperate.

  “Just another little minute,” I promised her.

  George walked over to the Model T. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Majesty. I understand you have a delivery for me.” He chuckled, as if he thought this was a good game. I thought that, as a game, the entire situation stank.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Grenville,” I said with absolute sincerity. “We didn't know what to do.”

  “Glad to help a damsel in distress,” he said gallantly, if a wee bit tritely. He peered into the automobile. “Er, where is the damsel?”

  I looked up and down the alley. “Are you sure it's safe?”

  “Sure,” said Mr. Grenville. “The whole town rests on Sunday afternoons. There's nobody around for miles, and there won't be until around seven, when evening church services begin.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” I leaned over and grabbed the blanket. “Okay, Marianne. Scoot.”

  She did exactly that, tumbling from the automobile, pushing off from the running board, and streaking to the open door of the cottage, crouched low for fear someone might notice her. Harold followed her into the cottage, and I got out of the automobile and folded the blanket. I was about to put it back in the rumble seat where we kept it, when I thought about something. “Will you need this, Mr. Grenville?” I sniffed the blanket. “It smells a bit like gasoline.”

  “I don't believe so, Mrs. Majesty. I've stocked the place with blankets and linens.” He was enthusiastic and set to enjoy his part in our melodrama. I silently wished him luck and hoped he'd remain sanguine for as long as we needed him.

  “Thank you awfully, Mr. Grenville.” I guess tension and nerves had been keeping me alert because as soon as rescue appeared on the horizon, I suddenly felt as if I was about to drop in my tracks from fatigue. A yawn took me by surprise, and I slapped a hand over my gaping mouth, embarrassed. “So sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night.”

  “I can well imagine.” Mr. Grenville rubbed his hands. “Please, Mrs. Majesty, let me show you the amenities. I fear there aren't many of them.”

  “You're a peach to allow Marianne to stay here. Believe me, the girl needs help.”

  I guess I sounded grave because he lost his smile. He was an apple-cheeked fellow, slim and of medium height. He looked much too healthy and athletic to be a book-seller. His hair was dark brown, and he didn't cut it as often as he ought. At the moment, it curled around his ears and kissed his collar, looking as if it might tickle. His gray-green eyes owlish behind his specs, he said, “I'm sorry she's in distress. Can you tell me about it?”

  Hesitating, I walked to the door of the cottage where I turned to face the port in Marianne's personal storm. “Maybe I'd better leave that to Miss Wagner. Please know, though, that she really needs your help. Heck, she wouldn't have run away without a good reason.”

  “I'm sure that's true.”

  “She's not flighty,” I went on, fearful lest he believe Marianne to be one of those modern-day “lost youths,” who were always defying everybody and getting into trouble. “She's not the sort of girl to do anything drastic without good cause.” And if that wasn't the truth, I didn't know what was. “She's actually quite shy. She's definitely not one of your 'I'll-say-she-does' girls.”

  “I see.” Mr. Grenville's gray winter suit was a trifle baggy, although it looked as if it had cost a pretty penny before he'd rumpled it beyond salvation. At the moment, he had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and was staring at the ground, a serious expression on his face. “It's a shame she felt it necessary to run away from home.” Lifting his head, he stared me straight in the eyes. “But if you believe her reason was adequate, I'm sure it was.”

  I nodded. “It was. Truly.”

  “Very good, then. I'll do what I can to help her.” Reaching behind me to open the door like the gentleman he was, he gestured for me to enter, saying as he did so, “I must say, I don't care for her father, based on the few times he's been in the store.”

  “You're a discerning individual,” I said darkly.

  “Ah. I see. Her father, was it?”

  “Her entire home life is rotten,” I said, trusting Mr. Grenville to forgive me the slang.

  He seemed to. He closed the door behind the both of us, and we stood there, looking at Harold and Marianne, who looked back at us, Harold with a grin, Marianne as if she were set to meet her executioner.

  Thinking it might relax her, I made a small joke. “Heck, Marianne, I drove you here in a Ford, not a tumbrel.”

  Harold's grin broadened.

  George Grenville chuckled.

  Marianne continued to stare at me at me blankly, and I deduced she wasn't a big reader. “That's what the fellows in the French Revolution used to haul the aristocracy in when they took them to the guillotine.”

  “Oh.” Her knees gave out on her, and she sat with a plop on the sheet-covered sofa behind her.

  From the boxes of books stacked everywhere, I deduced Harold was right about the cottage being where Mr. Grenville kept new shipments and extra copies of the volumes he sold. The small sofa upon which Marianne sat had been shoved against a wall and had indentations in it that looked as if they'd come from boxes, undoubtedly also filled with books. There were bookcases, too, stuffed with books, and books lay stacked on the bar counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. From where I stood, it looked as if the man's whole life was built from books.

  Thinking a formal introduction was in order, I said, “Marianne Wagner, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Harold
Kincaid and Mr. George Grenville. Harold is one of my very best friends. Mr. Grenville owns and runs Grenville's Books which is, in my humble opinion, the best bookstore in Pasadena, if not the entire state of California.”

  “Happy to meet you,” said Harold, grinning at Marianne, who stared back, wide-eyed.

  After giving me an embarrassed nod, Mr. Grenville executed a polite bow. “It is my sincere pleasure to be of assistance to you, Miss Wagner.”

  She lifted her head slightly, but didn't seem to want to look directly at him or get up off the couch. In a tight voice, she murmured, “Thank you so much, Mr. Grenville.”

  Mr. Grenville swallowed and goggled slightly.

  “And you, too, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Any time,” said Harold.

  “Oh, no!” cried Marianne. “This will never happen again, I'm positive.”

  I decided then and there that a lack of imagination isn't exclusive to my mother.

  “Are you absolutely certain you don't mind? Are you sure it's all right for me to stay here?” Marianne gulped and allowed herself to take a peek at Mr. Grenville. Her gaze fell immediately, and she started wringing her hands.

  It was all right for her to stay there as far as I was concerned, at least in the short term. Thinking it was up to Mr. Grenville to reassure the girl, I glanced at him.

  He gathered up the conversational tatters and ran with them, rather like Spike pulling Billy's wheelchair across the living-room floor by means of Sam's handkerchief. He went so far as to rush over to the sofa (approximately two long strides; it was a very small house) and plunk himself down beside her. “Please, Miss Wagner. It's perfectly all right that you're staying here. I gather you've had a rough go of it, and I'm more than happy to help.”

  She turned her baby-blues upon him, lifted her clenched hands to her bosom, and whispered, “Thank you so much.”

  He swallowed and gazed back at her. Shoot, the two of them were gazing into each other's eyes as if they were long-lost lovers reunited after battling hordes of Cossacks and then trampling over a couple of swarms of Visigoths and Vandals for the right to be together. I took a peek at Harold, and I'm ashamed to admit that I cast a sarcastic glance at the ceiling. He looked back and winked, grinning like an imp the while.

  “Please,” said Mr. Grenville, “you needn't thank me. It's little enough I'm doing for you.”

  “Oh, no,” she said, still whispering, sounding as if she were on her last legs and he'd just pulled her from the jaws of a ravening crocodile. “You're saving my life.”

  That was a teensy bit dramatic, but I'm sure she meant it. I didn't doubt but that she'd had an awful time, thanks to her scaly old man, although to dismiss my part in her rescue and devote her entire attention to Mr. Grenville was a bit much. I figured I was only tired; that's why I was crabby.

  I cleared my throat, thereby breaking the spell. Both sofa-sitters jumped slightly and turned to look at me. “Would you like me to do some shopping for you, Marianne? I'm sure Mr. Grenville--”

  “Call me George, please, Mrs. Majesty.” He rose from the sofa, embarrassed, although I'm not sure why. Probably because I'd caught him gawping at Marianne. She'd been gawping back, so I didn't think he needed to fret that anyone might consider him silly. Frankly, I doubt if Marianne had an ounce of judgment in her. She'd been taught never to think for herself, she'd been an apt student, and I gathered that she was already beginning to look upon George as her hero.

  “Only if you call me Daisy,” I said with a smile. “Turn-about's fair play, after all.”

  “Of course. Daisy.” He had a very nice smile; not quite as great as Billy's in his earlier days, but nice. Friendly.

  Back to Marianne. “Anyhow, I doubt that George here had much of a chance to stock the pantry shelves. I'll be happy to bring you some groceries and so forth.” I turned to Harold. “And what about clothes? Marianne doesn't have a thing to wear, and she's a lot taller than I am.” It's kind of embarrassing, but my wardrobe was extensive, thanks mainly to my skill with Ma's White Side-Pedal Rotary Sewing Machine. I loved to sew, and I'd have been happy to supply Marianne with duds from my vast collection, but they wouldn't have fit her.

  “I'll take care of that problem,” Harold promised. “I'm a costumer, after all. I have access to scads of ladies' clothing.”

  Marianne rose from the sofa, and I saw her lower lip tremble. She seemed to be a trifle shaky on her pins, too. “Please,” she begged, sagging a little and steadying herself with a hand on the couch's arm. “I can't allow you two men to go to this much trouble on my account.”

  Oh, brother. She'd never said anything like that to me, the one who'd rescued her from Mrs. Bissel's basement. I chalked it up to her having been browbeaten into believing men were the only truly capable people in the world. And this was in spite of her own experiences with yours truly, I might add.

  “Please, Miss Wagner, don't give it another thought. It's no trouble,” George said. “It's no trouble at all.”

  Easy for him to say. He didn't have a husband at home, wondering what he was up to and spoiling for a fight as soon as he showed up. Not to mention a policeman sitting there with him, longing for a reason to slap him behind bars.

  “Absolutely,” agreed Harold, sounding less heroic than George, probably because his voice was high-pitched and rather thin.

  “Be that as it may,” said I, trying to get everyone to pay attention to the important matters before I collapsed and died from lack of sleep, “do you need any foodstuffs, Marianne?” Because I knew Marianne to be useless when it came to the practicalities of life, I turned and directed a questioning glance at George. “George?”

  “I've stocked the kitchen with bread and eggs and milk,” he said, proud of himself. “I'm sure Miss Wagner can make do until one of us goes to the grocery and dry-goods stores on the morrow.”

  “Great,” I said. “And you sure won't get bored with all these volumes to read.” I gestured at the tons of books.

  George grinned broadly. “Absolutely. I'll be happy to recommend reading material if you'd like, Miss Wagner.”

  Marianne bowed her head and blushed scarlet. “Thank you. Please call me Marianne.”

  “Thank you.” George gazed at her as if she were a chocolate ice-cream cone and he a starving man. “Please call me George.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “George.”

  I'd never considered George a particularly musical name until that second. Marianne's tongue caressed it as if it were a furry cat she was petting.

  When I glanced at Harold again, I saw him staring at the ceiling as if he found the two young people as maudlin as I. Actually, I think I reacted negatively to George and Marianne's obvious attraction to each other because I was so darned pooped. All I wanted to do was forget all about Marianne Wagner, drive home, and crawl into bed.

  “Okay,” I said, a trace too loudly, making Marianne and George, who'd taken to gazing raptly at each other once more, start, “let's look around, shall we? We can see what I'll have to bring tomorrow. I brought some clothes.” I lifted the small sack I'd packed. “My stuff's sure to be too small, but I'm also sure you'd like a change of clothes, Marianne.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, sounding as if she didn't mean it. I knew she did; it was only that she was unused to having people other than servants hand her clothing. I'll bet they never handed her used stuff in sacks, either. “Thank you.”

  “You're welcome. Harold can bring you more duds tomorrow.” I made my way past the sofa to another room. “Say, this is a nice kitchen for such a small place.”

  “I used to live here,” George explained. “When I first moved out to Pasadena, I did my own cooking. Marianne can fix some scrambled eggs and toast for supper tonight, and I'll stock the place more fully tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  When I glanced at Marianne, she was staring at the two of us as if we'd been speaking a foreign language. I sighed. “Um, that's right. I forgot you don't know h
ow to cook very well. Have you ever scrambled an egg, Marianne?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “I'm afraid I don't know how to cook anything at all,” she said, clearly ashamed of this deficiency.

  George blinked at her. “Oh. Well, I'll be more than happy to scramble some eggs for you this evening. In fact, I'll dine with you, if you can call eating such a meal dining.” He laughed as if he thought that was a great idea.

  I wasn't so sure. I mean, I was relatively sure George was a true gentleman and all that, but it was still kind of shocking for a young, unmarried woman and an slightly older, unmarried man to be sharing a house all alone without a soul to chaperone them. I didn't care what the bright young things in F. Scott Fitzgerald's books did with each other. This was Pasadena, California, where stricter rules prevailed.

  “I have another idea,” George exclaimed brightly. “I'll lend you a couple of cooking books! There are several of them in the shop, and maybe you can teach yourself how to cook!” He added, still smiling, “You probably won't have too much else to do for awhile.”

  Again Marianne clutched her hands together at her bosom. When she did that, she bore a striking resemblance to Mary Pickford in one of her more insipid roles. “Oh, George, would you? That would be so kind of you.”

  “It's nothing, really.” George dug the toe of his shoe into the braided rug under his feet. “I'll be more than happy to help you learn, as well. I'm quite the cook, when it comes to eggs and toast and cheese sandwiches and so forth.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Yeah,” I said to George, attempting to sprinkle a dose of reality on their fairy tale. “That's great, George, but don't get too carried away. Marianne's in danger of being discovered, and your bookstore's situated on the busiest street in Pasadena. You've both got to be careful that nobody sees her. Her picture's been in the papers, and her family's got the police out looking for her, don't forget.”

  Considerably sobered, George nodded. “Of course. I shan't lose sight of our objective.”