Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  “Good.” I walked over to Marianne and put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you'll be all right, Marianne? I'll be happy to drive you back to your parents' house if you want me to.”

  Her blue eyes got even bigger, and she stared at me in horror. “No! Please don't do that!”

  “I won't,” I assured her. “Don't panic. I'm only offering you the option. I don't want you to feel obliged to remain in George's cottage if you're afraid or anything.”

  “I don't bite,” George teased. “And I'd never do anything untoward.”

  From the blank expression on Marianne's face, I gathered she had no idea what we were talking about. I sighed heavily, wishing I'd assisted a slightly more worldly specimen of womankind to run away from home. Poor Marianne was liable to be found out because she didn't have enough sense to keep her curtains drawn.

  That being the case, I opted to get rid of the gentlemen for a few minutes while I had a woman-to-woman chat with Marianne. “George, will you go hunt up a cooking book? Harold can help you.”

  “What?” George looked startled.

  Harold, who was a good deal brighter, or perhaps merely more sophisticated, than George, took him by the arm. “Come on, George. Let's find a how-to-cook book.”

  “Oh.” George's expression of befuddlement went better with his spectacles and his calling in life than his ruddy complexion. “I see. Certainly, I'll be happy to do that.”

  The two men skedaddled, and I gestured for Marianne to walk through the house with me. It didn't take long. The house consisted of four rooms: living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The kitchen was about as big as a postage stamp, but I didn't suppose it mattered since Marianne couldn't cook anyway.

  I couldn't cook worth spit myself, but there's a difference. You see, I'd at least been taught the rudiments of the cookery arts by my aunt and my mother (although Mother was a lousy cook, just like me). I knew how to cook, more or less; I just didn't like to cook. This was especially true because my aunt Viola was the world's best cook, so there was no real reason for me to trouble myself in the kitchen.

  Marianne, on the other hand, had grown up being waited on hand and foot by a house full of servants. I had a feeling she didn't know how to wash her own clothes, either, or maybe even wash her hair. It sure needed a good scrubbing.

  That being the case, I figured I'd better ask her a few pertinent questions. “You've never cooked anything at all before, have you, Marianne?”

  We were standing in the tiny kitchen, perusing the stove, I with approval, Marianne with awe. It was a nice stove, actually, albeit small. But it was a self-regulating gas range, and it would be really easy to cook on, if one knew what one was doing.

  She shook her head and murmured in a despairing tone, “I can't do anything.”

  “That's got to change, and soon, if you expect to learn how to live away from your parents' house. If you were to, say, get a job as a typist or a clerk in a department store, you could have your own room in a boarding house or an apartment building or something like that.”

  Her eyes got big again. “You mean live all by myself? Support myself?”

  “Well . . . Sure. Isn't that what you ran away for? So you could live by yourself?”

  She stared at me. “Um . . .”

  I sighed. “I think I understand. You didn't think about that sort of thing when you did it. You just wanted to get away. Is that about right?”

  She nodded. “I was stupid, wasn't I, not to think about those things?”

  Well, yeah, I guess she was. Since I didn't want to crush her, I said, “Not necessarily. You can learn how to do the things you'll need to do in order to subsist on your own.” With a chuckle, I waved an arm at the mountains of books. “This is about the best place I can think of to do it in, too.”

  “Yes.” She wasn't one teeny bit sure of it. “I wish I didn't have so much to learn.”

  “Okay, I can understand that. But now that you've made your escape, we have to think of some way for you to support yourself. Do you know how to use a typewriter, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  I'd figured as much. “And you don't know how to cook.”

  She shook her head. “I can play tennis.” There was a hopeful note in her voice.

  Tennis? Good Lord. “I don't believe you can earn a living at that.”

  “Oh. I guess not.”

  Giving a thought to my mother, who was the head bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo and made darned good money, for a woman, I tried again. “Are you any good with numbers?”

  “You mean adding and subtracting?”

  “Well, sort of. I was thinking of bookkeeping and accounting.”

  She remained silent for a couple of seconds. “Um . . . I'm not sure what those things are.”

  “But you can add and subtract, can't you?”

  “Of course. I've been to finishing school.”

  How come was it, I wondered, that this child of wealthy parents had gone to school to be finished and ended up as useless as a bump on a log? My own alma mater was good old Pasadena High, and I could at least scramble an egg. Heck, I could even make potato soup, and I earned a darned good living on nothing more than my wits and other peoples' gullibility.

  I don't know why things like that continued to astonish me. I'd known for years that life wasn't fair. Which didn't mean a blessed thing and never had.

  “I only ask about addition and subtraction because sales clerks, like those who work in Nash's Grocery and Department Store or Hertel's, probably need to know a little bit about such things. You know, they have to write up sales slips and the like.”

  “Sales clerks? Sales slips?”

  Her voice had sunk to a weensy little squeak. I could tell she didn't like the idea of getting a job, although I acquitted her of laziness. I think she was just scared and unaccustomed to the idea--which meant she was unaccustomed to using her noggin, too, as if I needed further proof of that particular quirk in her personality.

  I tried not to let my frustration show. It wasn't really this poor dud's fault she didn't know how to do anything. “Have you ever given any thought about what kind of work you'd like to do if you had to get a job?”

  Another head shake. “I never thought about working at all.”

  I couldn't help myself. I sighed again. “It would probably be a good idea to start thinking about it now. If you expect to keep away from your family, you're going to have to have something to live on, and that means you'll need to be able to earn some money. And it will probably have to be somewhere other than Pasadena, since you're not of age yet.”

  There went her eyes again, opening wide and goggling at me. “You mean . . . you mean I'll have to move?”

  “How else do you expect to remain undiscovered by your family, Marianne? If you were to start working in a store in town, they'd find you, sure as shooting.” I knew I was too tired to be doing this much rational contemplation when I blurted out, “Obviously, you've not put any thought into your situation. I'd suggest you consider what you're doing here. If you aren't willing to learn a skill that will enable you to take care of yourself, you'd probably better go back home and marry Mr. What's His Name. I doubt that George will want to support you indefinitely, and I can't.”

  I felt rotten when her eyes filled with tears that overflowed and trailed down her cheeks. “I'm such a failure,” she hiccupped, turning her back on me and covering her face with her hands. “I'm so sorry, Daisy. I don't mean to be a burden.”

  Heaving another weary sigh, I patted her on the back. “I'm sorry, Marianne. I didn't mean to snap at you. It's just that I'm so tired.” And I'd been working for money since I was around six or seven years old. The Gumms and the Wagners didn't have a whole lot in common, in other words. “Don't worry about it tonight. Just take a warm bath and wash your hair and change into something clean. George will cook dinner for you, and you can start becoming self-sufficient by learning how to cook simple meals. We'll work on the harder
stuff later. Okay?”

  She whirled around and threw her arms around me. She was considerably taller than I, who am kind of a shrimp, but I didn't topple over backwards. Instead, I braced myself, patted her on the back some more, told myself to shape up and show some sympathy for the poor goose, and said, “There, there. Everything will work out all right. I'm sure it will.”

  Lies, lies, lies. Unless Marianne learned to fend for herself, and quick, she was doomed. I'm sure that if I weren't so exhausted, I'd have been able to relieve her anxiety more appropriately.

  Oh, well. Might as well leave the reassurance part of this fiasco to George, who seemed to want it. As for me, I was going home.

  Chapter Twelve

  You'd have thought I was an armed burglar intent upon mayhem from the reaction I got from Spike when I opened the front door of our tidy little home that evening. He'd been sitting on Billy's lap, but as soon as I poked my head in the door, he flew off as if he were a bird, his front and back legs spread wide, and raced over to me as soon as he hit the floor, barking as if he aimed to murder me from the toes up. He couldn't reach any higher than mid-calf, but that didn't daunt him.

  Staring down at him, I murmured, “My word, Spike. You're sure a good watch dog.” When I knelt in front of him, he jumped on me and started licking every part of my person he could reach, his entire body wiggling. I'd been feeling kind of glum when I drove home from Grenville's Books, but Spike made me laugh. Maybe I should have got a dog years before if they were this good for one's spirits.

  “He's a scrapper, all right,” came from the card table set up in the living room.

  I glanced up and saw Pa, Billy, and Sam Rotondo all grinning at Spike and me. “He sure is. Has he been outside recently?” And that was another thing. Spike had piddled on my enemy's shoe. If that didn't show loyalty and a keen perceptive ability, I don't know what did.

  “Better take him out again. He hasn't been outdoors for a half-hour or so.”

  “Has he gone inside?” I didn't mean it as a joke, but the men laughed.

  “Naw. He's been a good dog. But let's not press our luck.”

  “Good idea, Billy.” So I scooped Spike up and carried him outside.

  While Spike did his duty, I sat on the front porch steps, my chin in my hands, my elbows on my knees, and pondered what to do about Marianne. The situation was perilous, and not merely for her. If my role in her continued absence from her family's home was ever discovered, I was sure to be in hot water.

  I wondered if the Wagners could sue me. Was there some sort of law to discourage people from helping out other people if the other people were under age? For that matter, I was under age, being only twenty. I was married, though, and I think that made a difference. So far, I hadn't found too many pluses to being a married woman, although I'm sure I would have had Billy not suffered his grievous injuries.

  If the Wagners could sue me, I wondered if they would. Probably. Dr. Wagner didn't strike me as open-minded, forgiving gentleman.

  And then there was Sam, who'd already threatened me with a charge of obstruction of justice. Could he do that? Exactly what kind of justice was I obstructing? Marianne hadn't been charged with anything, at least not to my knowledge, and in my own mind I had a hard time convicting her of breaking any laws. She didn't have the initiative. Not that I think criminals are to be admired, or anything, but . . . Oh, never mind.

  I suppose she had broken and entered Mrs. Bissel's basement, although she hadn't really broken anything except a jar of something. I'd forgotten to ask her about the mysterious crash in the nighttime. Anyhow, she'd swept it up and trekked out to the garbage cans by the garage in the middle of a violent rainstorm so as not to leave a mess for somebody else to clean up. Somehow I doubted that Marianne's tidiness would sway a judge. Or Mrs. Bissel, for that matter, although she was pretty easygoing as a rule. Marianne's problem was a knotty one, and I was getting nowhere close to solving it as I sat on the porch watching the puppy.

  I think it was against the law for a father to use a child as Marianne's father had done, but I doubted that Marianne would be willing to set the law on Dr. Wagner. And I'm sure her mother would object. Nobody liked to have their dirty secrets laundered in public, even those of us who didn't have millions of dollars and society editors writing about us all the time. Marianne and her set hated scandal. She wasn't one of rebellious youths, like Stacy Kincaid, who thrived on sensation and debauchery.

  Spike had done his doggie duty and was scampering around the front yard sniffing at the hibiscus bushes and the hibernating day lilies and generally becoming better acquainted with his new home when the door opened behind me. I knew who it was even before I turned my head and looked, because I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Unless that was the weather. It was darned cold out there.

  But it wasn't the weather. It was Sam. I was unable to contain a deep sigh.

  “How's the pup?” he asked, sitting on the steps beside me. I scooted over a couple of inches. I'd have gone farther, but the porch rail was in the way.

  “He's having fun getting used to his new home.”

  “How'd the séance go tonight?”

  Holy cow, that's right; I'd said I was going to conduct a séance. I'd forgotten all about that particular lie, and now wondered if I'd allowed myself enough time before returning home. I thought I had, but wasn't positive. Not that Sam knew how long séances lasted.

  That being the case, I said, “It went okay. I'm too darned tired to be conducting séances, though. Next time, I'll be sure to stay home the night before I have to give one.” There. That should cover all bases.

  “Where'd you hold it?”

  All bases except that one. If Sam were just anybody, I'd have believed he was merely showing polite interest in my work. I knew better. He still thought I was somehow involved in Marianne Wagner's disappearance. The fact that he had become correct all of a sudden didn't make me feel more kindly disposed toward him.

  Since helpful and generous Harold Kincaid at least knew what was going on, I decided to give him a bigger role in my knot of deceptions. “Harold Kincaid's place in San Marino. Some of his friends came over. You know, it was the same old thing. Summon dead relatives. Talk to them. Reassure everyone that all's well. That sort of thing.”

  Sam grunted. He didn't like Harold, not for any reason involving rational thought, but because Harold was what he was. I guess prejudices come in many forms. “I don't suppose you've heard anything about Miss Wagner, have you?”

  I gave him a squinty-eyed stare. “No, I haven't, and I can't conceive of why you keep asking me about her. I don't know her from Adam. Or Eve. Anyhow, I expect she's buried in the foothills somewhere. Have you bothered looking there? Or in Dr. Wagner's garden?”

  He was squinting back at me as if he hadn't believed a word I'd said so far and didn't anticipate the truth bursting from my lips any time soon. “Men are combing the foothills. So far, they haven't come up with any trace of her. There's not a shred of evidence pointing to Dr. Wagner being the means of his daughter's disappearance. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  This time, it was I who grunted. Spike bounded over to sniff at Sam, and I thought about asking Sam to take his feet off the second step and put them on the walkway in the hope that Spike would decorate his shoe again. I decided it would be prudent not to.

  “I,” Sam went on, “am of the opinion the girl's hiding out somewhere in town.”

  “How do you figure that?” I didn't look at him, but picked up a twig and, after showing it to Spike, threw it across the yard. Elated, the puppy bounded after it. It's so easy to please a dog. I wished husbands were as easy to amuse.

  “It's a feeling,” said Sam. “That's all. When you've been a policeman long enough, you learn to pay attention to your hunches.”

  “Is that so?” I glanced at him. The porch light had been turned on while I'd been gone, probably by Pa or Ma or Aunt Vi in anticipation of my return home from my fictitious séance. Sam's face looke
d craggy, with the shadows of night battling with the illumination from the porch fixture. The light picked out the planes of his face and accentuated his deep-set, dark eyes. They were glittering now, those eyes, and he didn't stop staring at me. It was disconcerting, primarily because he looked big and solid and dependable, and I had a treacherous urge to throw myself into his arms and beg him to take care of me.

  The very idea disgusted me. I mean, what kind of married woman, even if her husband is crippled, has thoughts like that about another man? The worst kind, is what. Moreover, this particular man was perpetually out to get me and didn't like me at all.

  Because I was so irked with myself, I said sarcastically, “I hope the majority of your police work is based on considerably more than your hunches, or the citizens of Pasadena are in big trouble.”

  He didn't say anything for several seconds, which doesn't sound like much time unless you're the one telling lies to the copper. My heart started jumping around like it was doing Swedish exercises, and that line of Sir Walter Scott's slithered through my brain: “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

  Darn it, how come I remembered poetry at the most inconvenient times? Besides, none of this was my fault. My only sin so far was in being too tender-hearted for my own good. My temper climbed. “Don't look at me like that, Sam Rotondo! I'm not the one who kidnapped Marianne and slit her throat!”

  That brief but impassioned speech took both of us aback. I couldn't believe I'd said it, and neither, evidently, could Sam. “Slit her throat? What do you know about someone slitting her throat?”

  Totally out of sorts now, I picked Spike up and tried to settle him in my lap. He didn't want to settle; he wanted to play. Blast it, I ought to have known better than to get a male dog. Men are all alike. Perverse creatures. Never do what you want them to do. After wiggling like a fiend for several seconds, the puppy jumped from my lap and streaked across the grass once more, chasing God alone knew what.