Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  In a way, I looked upon the count's bracelet rather as if it were a treat for all of us, if only because it was unusual for such an item to appear in the Gumm household. And if the count one day rued his generous impulse and demanded the bracelet back, that would be interesting, too.

  How many other people would have turned a talent for manipulating a Ouija board into a fascinating, full-time, and very remunerative, job? Not very darned many, I'll bet. Even if you didn't approve of how I earned my living, you had to give me credit for ingenuity.

  The word made me think of Marianne, who didn't have any, and I sighed. Ma, who had been staring at the bracelet as if it were a holy vision, tore her gaze away from it and glanced at me. “What's the matter, dear?”

  “Not a thing, Ma.” I tried to look as perky as I sounded. “Just thinking about what I'm going to do today.”

  I usually didn't have to work during daylight hours unless people made appointments to come over for Tarot or Ouija board readings, so I took it upon myself to keep the house clean and tidy. As a rule, I did the job on Saturday, with occasional forays into various rooms with the dust rag, mop, and vacuum cleaner during the week. Once every six months or so, we all washed windows. Even Billy got into the act during window-washing time, because he could reach the lower ones from his wheelchair.

  That day, after Ma and Vi had admired the bracelet until they were both almost late for work, I put it away, threw on my oldest house dress, tied a big white apron over it, wrapped a scarf around my head, put on my ugliest and most comfortable shoes, and grabbed the dust mop. I actually enjoyed cleaning house. The chore made me feel like a real housewife instead of a phony spiritualist whose husband didn't appreciate her.

  The day didn't work out exactly as I'd planned. I should have anticipated as much, since my days seldom went the way I wanted them to. I was actually humming the choir's Sunday anthem, “How Great Thou Art,” when the phone rang, almost startling me out of my skin.

  Although it was our ring, I was in the living room and didn't make it to the kitchen until the entire herd of party-line people had already picked up. Billy grinned over his toast and eggs as I shooed them off the line. Mrs. Barrow was particularly tenacious that day, but eventually even she hung up.

  With a wink for my husband, I finally got to talk to Mrs. Kincaid, the calling party. I was surprised to hear from her, since she'd only just come home from wherever she'd been visiting, and I knew she was preparing for a large engagement party in a few days' time. The fact that she was practically hysterical jarred my composure.

  I've already mentioned (probably too often) that Mrs. Kincaid's daughter, Stacy, is a first-class drip. Stacy fancies herself a member of the “lost generation” when she isn't fancying herself one of the “bright young things” everyone was talking about in the early twenties. As far as I was concerned, she was a pain in the neck, and the USA's favorite expression, “I'll say she does,” might have been coined for her alone. She did just about everything she could think of, as long as it annoyed her mother.

  That day, Mrs. Kincaid sobbed at me about how Stacy had been drinking and carrying on (her words, and I'm not sure exactly what she meant) at a speakeasy on South Fair Oaks Avenue. The place had a Pasadena address, but was technically in the county, so the Pasadena Police Department didn't have jurisdiction over it, according to Mrs. Kincaid, as if the news would interest me, which it didn't.

  I also didn't know what she expected me to do about it, but I listened. Couldn't do anything else, since she was one of my best clients and a lovely lady, if the tiniest bit dim.

  “And oh, Daisy, she's taken up with a female named Flossie! Can you imagine it?”

  “Um, I believe Flossie is a nickname for Florence, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  “Flossie? Flossie? What kind of woman calls herself Flossie?”

  I couldn't answer that one, although I suspected I knew what Mrs. Kincaid assumed. In the gently soothing tone I adopted when attempting to calm down bereaved or hysterical clients, I purred, “Would you like me to read the cards for you, Mrs. Kincaid? The spirits might offer some suggestions or a bit of comfort.”

  She sniffled loudly and swallowed. “Yes. Oh, yes, if you can, dear. I'd so appreciate it. I'm so worried about Stacy.”

  “I understand.” Which was true. Stacy'd been causing Mrs. Kincaid palpitations of one sort or another for years.

  “I wish one of your spiritual contacts would suggest something to be done about her.”

  I've never voiced my own personal suggestion, that Mrs. Kincaid should deliver a couple of hearty smacks to Stacy's rear end, and I never would. Mrs. Kincaid would have been shocked and appalled. Not only that, but if she took my suggestion and started treating her daughter like the bratty kid she was, Stacy might reform, and that would cut into my Kincaid business.

  All right, so maybe Billy might have had some small reason to worry about my overall moral character, but I wasn't that bad. Anyhow, it was probably too late for Mrs. Kincaid to begin acting the stern parent. If she started in on Stacy now, the monster child would probably just run away from home. Unlike Marianne Wagner, Stacy wouldn't have felt the slightest qualm about breaking her mother's heart.

  “She asked me to call you.”

  This bit of news so astounded me, I nearly dropped the receiver. Billy had been watching, grinning, and I guess he saw my eyebrows shoot up, because he tilted his head and stopped grinning. I shook my head to let him know there was nothing for him to worry about.

  “Um . . . Do you mean Stacy asked you to call me?” I gave Billy an incredulous grimace. I thought of something that was probably stupid but not quite as unbelievable as the notion of Stacy Kincaid asking her mother to telephone me. Stacy didn't like me any more than I liked her. “Or do you mean Flossie asked you to call me?”

  “Flossie?” Mrs. Kincaid shrieked the name. “Good heavens, no. I don't know the woman and don't want to.”

  “I see.” Needless to say, I didn't see a thing.

  “Stacy asked me to call you because a man named Jenkins--oh, Daisy, Stacy calls the man Jinx--wants to hold a séance, and she recommended you.”

  Nuts to that! If there was one thing on God's green earth not even I would do, it was hang out in a speakeasy and conduct a séance for a bunch of lousy, murdering bootleggers. I didn't yell at the woman because I liked her and needed her business, although I refused her request so firmly, I doubted even she could misinterpret my feelings on the matter.

  “I'm afraid I can't do that, Mrs. Kincaid. My spirit guide is extremely particular about the ambience in which he reveals himself. The atmosphere in such a den of iniquity wouldn't be appropriate.” It wasn't the first time I'd wished I'd chosen a more elegant name than Rolly for my spirit control. But what can one expect from a ten-year-old?

  Another sniffle. “I told her that,” said a subdued Mrs. Kincaid. A pause ensued, probably because I couldn't think of anything to say, and she was trying to come up with some way to persuade Rolly that it would be perfectly all right for him to show himself in an illicit gin joint. I knew Rolly better than she did, though, and I knew she couldn't do it. “Are you sure, dear?”

  “Absolutely,” I said firmly. I resisted the urge to say something about speakeasies already being full of spirits and not needing mine.

  “Very well.” Now she sounded sad.

  I thought that was a shame, given the fact that she was getting married to a really nice man soon, and almost wished Stacy were present so I could slap her for her mother's sake. I couldn't wait to tell Harold about this. Harold had about as much use for his sister as I did.

  As soon as I hung up after having my ears abused by poor Mrs. Kincaid for several more minutes, I told Billy all about the call. He shook his head. “This isn't the first time I've thought one of your clients needed a psychiatrist more than she needed you,” he muttered dryly.

  I sighed. “You're probably right.”

  I'd no sooner resumed dust-mopping than the doorbell rang,
so I trotted to the door and scooped up Spike before he could chew a hole through the door and attack the foot of whoever was standing there (he couldn't reach any higher than that). You can probably imagine my embarrassment when, clad in my house-cleaning clothes, I encountered an entire regiment of Salvation Army members, holding out their tambourines in the hope that I'd donate to their cause.

  Mind you, I appreciate the Salvation Army. Not only do they serve a truly noble purpose, but they provide the community with a lot of music, and I love music. You couldn't walk down Colorado Boulevard in those days without encountering a Salvation Army band playing up a storm on some street corner or other.

  Also, my late cousin Paul's best friend, Johnny Buckingham (who was leading the contingent at my front door), had just been promoted to Captain in the Salvation Army. Paul and Johnny had gone off to war together. Johnny had come home. For the first couple of years after that, as had happened to so many other young men, he'd gone to the dogs--no disrespect to Spike intended.

  It was the Salvation Army that had dragged Johnny out of the gutter and given him a new purpose in life. I honored any institution that didn't give up on people. Besides all that, I'd always liked Johnny and was glad to see him, even if I was also embarrassed by my dowdy appearance.

  “Shoot, Johnny, you caught me at my absolute best, as you can see.” I patted the scarf tied around my head as if I were a showing off the latest fashion in chapeaus.

  He chuckled. “It's all right, Daisy. I know you're a hardworking girl.” He must have spotted Billy behind me, because he waved and said, “Howdy, Billy. We're just out collecting for the Army.”

  Billy returned Johnny's greeting. “Happy to donate to your army, Johnny. The one I joined, I'm not so sure about.” He dug in his pocket even as I ran to the kitchen to get a couple of dimes out of the sugar bowl.

  After I'd dropped them into the tambourine and shut the door, the phone rang again. This time it was Mrs. Bissel. As soon as I heard her voice, I froze, the awful possibility that she had yet another visitor in her basement having struck me. Hard. Thank God, it wasn't that. She only wanted me to conduct a séance for her.

  Rolly had no misgivings about appearing to a house full of silly people and dachshunds, so we arranged a date, and I resumed cleaning . . . and the telephone rang.

  I dropped the dust mop and uttered a low growl, which startled Spike, who ran, yipping, under the sofa. I guess Billy had heard us, because he said, “I'll get it.” It wasn't easy for him to reach the telephone, and I wondered why he was still being nice to me. This was the fifth or sixth day in a row during which he hadn't been snide or fussy or grumpy once.

  A terrible notion occurred to me, and I vowed to check on Billy's supply of morphine syrup before the day was out. If I found that he'd either started hoarding it or drinking even more of the stuff than I already knew he drank, I was going to have another talk with Dr. Benjamin.

  Maybe--sweet Lord, have mercy--I'd even talk to Sam. Billy liked Sam, and Sam liked Billy. What's more, and as much as I resented Sam's almost-constant presence in my life, I knew he'd have a better chance of talking sense into Billy than I'd ever have.

  The possibility that Billy might be saving his medicine in order to do away with himself scared the wits out of me. It was infinitely worse than the possibility that he was becoming addicted to the stuff.

  But Billy would never do that. He was . . . he was . . .

  Oh, Lord, he was a shell-shocked cripple who had no use for the life he was forced to live, and I loved him more than I could bear.

  I was standing in the living room, the dust mop at my feet, staring through the dining room into the kitchen and wondering how to protect my husband from himself, since nobody'd protected him from the damned Germans, when Billy rolled his chair from the kitchen to the dining room. Seeing me standing there, staring at nothing, he stopped rolling and gazed at me quizzically. “What's the matter, love? Anything wrong?”

  Yes, there were tons of things wrong. I forced myself to smile. “Nope. Just wondering who was on the 'phone.”

  “Don't know, but it's for you.”

  “It would be.” Leaving the dust mop on the floor, I went to the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest like a funeral march. I wished I could stop imagining horrible things.

  This time the caller was George Grenville. My heart did another sickening dip, and I prayed that Marianne hadn't done anything stupid. Anything else stupid, I suppose I should say. “What's up, George?” I asked.

  My voice must have betrayed my worry, because George hastened to reassure me. “Not a thing, Daisy. I only wanted to know if you believed it would be out of line if I dined with Mar--with the person in-- Oh, you know what I'm talking about.”

  “I know.” Jeepers, I guess he'd taken my tantrum of a few days before to heart. He'd never asked before if he could take a meal with Marianne; he'd just up and done it. “I should think so, as long as everything remains on the up and up.” I expected him to take exception to my condition, and he did.

  “I am not a scoundrel,” George declared.

  “I never said you were.” Actually, if one were merely to look at George, about the last thing in the world you'd expect him to be was a scoundrel. A football player, maybe. A teacher, even. You'd probably even come up with bookstore owner before you'd think scoundrel. The fact remained, however, that he was supposed to be protecting Marianne Wagner, an unmarried female with no worldly skills, and I didn't want there to be a hint of scandal attaching to either one of them.

  “You act as though you consider me the lowest of the low,” George said sulkily. “That's why I called you today. I didn't want you to jump to any unsavory conclusions.”

  I glanced around to see where Billy was in the overall scheme of things. I didn't want him to know about Marianne, because then he'd be part of the conspiracy. Collusion. Whatever it was. He wasn't too close, but I still thought better of naming names over the telephone. “I'm sure you're a virtual knight in shining armor, George. But the person we're talking about is a babe in the woods, and she needs our help. She doesn't need more problems to contend with, even those that come about through misinterpreted kindness.”

  “Granted.” His tone was resentful, but at least George was admitting that I might have a valid point, which was a step in the right direction.

  “That being the case, and knowing you to be a gentleman, I'm sure that your dining together would be appropriate.”

  “Wonderful!” Relief blew through the telephone wires along with the word. “And tomorrow, too?”

  I sighed again. “Tomorrow, too.” What the heck. If they were destined for each other, perhaps proximity would prompt George to spring the question. That would get the girl out of my hair quite nicely.

  Of course, there was also the possibility that continued socializing with each other would give George a clue as to how much work he'd have to do if he aimed to marry the wench. She didn't know how to do a darned thing, and he'd have a job of it to bring her up to snuff. I could have told George how difficult it would be for him to earn the bacon and keep house, too, because I did it all the time. And I even had Aunt Vi to cook for me.

  After that, I managed to get through the remainder of my house-cleaning duties without any more interruptions. When I was done cleaning house, Billy and I took Spike for a walk, and then I took a jaunt to the bookstore to check up on my charge. It was a fair hike, but the day was beautiful, and I felt like walking.

  A brisk breeze blew the leaves around, and I noticed that the cheeks of my fellow pedestrians were pink with the weather and exertion. Everyone was in a Christmas mood, and everyone I passed greeted me. I returned the compliment. Cheer was in the air, by gum, and I had a hard time worrying about anything, even Billy.

  Marianne was fine. George was fine. Heck, even I was fine. After I returned home, I became even finer when Aunt Vi came home with our supper, left over from the dinner she'd fixed for Mrs. Kincaid. That night it was chicken a la king.
God bless my aunt. If I ever had to cook for Billy and me without her, we'd surely starve.

  The next day after church, I took another toddle to the bookstore. I was pleased to find Harold there, measuring Marianne's frocks with an eye to making them fit better.

  “Daisy, my love!” Harold cried around a mouthful of pins. He was on his knees on the rug, taking tucks in a creamy-white bodice. “Long time, no see.”

  “It's only been a few days, Harold.” I missed him, though, when I didn't get to talk to him all the time. Harold Kincaid was the only person in the whole world in whom I could confide anything and everything. He was the only one besides Dr. Benjamin who knew how much I worried about Billy.

  “True, true,” said Harold. The fabric slipped and he muttered, “Get in there, you little fiend.” I loved to watch Harold work. He treated fabrics as if they were naughty school children. Being quite the seamstress myself, I understood.

  “Where's Del, Harold? I thought maybe he'd come visiting with you.”

  I liked Del Farrington, although Del and I weren't as close as Harold and I. You'd think it would be the other way around, since Harold could be critical and sarcastic, while Del was never anything but polite and sweet. Or maybe Harold's biting side was the reason we got along so well. He thought my line of work was a hoot, he appreciated me for being good at it, and he also knew how difficult life could be if your situation was out of the ordinary. So there you go. Who can tell about these things?

  “Del's attending mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Malice.” Harold glanced up and winked at me.

  I'm sure I looked as astounded as I felt. “He's where?”

  Grinning, Harold elaborated. “Actually, he's at Saint Andrew's. I like my name for the place better.”

  “Oh. I didn't know Del was a Roman Catholic.”

  “Mercy, yes. He'd go to mass every day in the week if he could. He can't, because he has a bank to run, but he's tres religious, you know.”