Unsettled Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  "Well, then, does he have any family?"

  Mrs. Wright and Mrs. Pinkerton exchanged glances, and Mrs. Wright looked at me. "I... don't know. I haven't gone through his things."

  Oh, for Pete's sake. "Why not?" I really wanted to know. Heck, if Sam disappeared, I'd break down his cottage door—he lived in a little cottage in a court on South Los Robles Avenue—and rifle through everything I could pick up if it would help me locate him.

  "It... I don't know. It seems so intrusive somehow."

  Mrs. Pinkerton nodded vigorously. As for me, I was getting more than a little bit tired of the both of them.

  "Mrs. Wright, it's entirely possible that Evans got hit by a car or something. Perhaps he's languishing in the Castleton Memorial Hospital with a severe case of amnesia. Perhaps he collapsed with a heart problem. You need to talk to everyone who knows him, and to the police, if you truly want to find him. And if he does have family somewhere, I'm sure they'd like to know he's missing. Or maybe he's with them. Unless you get in touch with someone, how are you going to find out where he is?"

  The two women exchanged another glance or two, then Mrs. Pinkerton said, "I knew Daisy would know what you should do, Vera. She's so wise for a woman of her tender years."

  Oh, boy. I was glad neither my mother nor Sam was there to hear that. They'd both have doubled over laughing. Anyhow, an idiot would know to call the family and/or the police when someone vanished. Common sense was a faculty most of my extremely wealthy clients didn't need to have, I reckon, because they had enough money to hire other people to think for them.

  "I suppose you're right," said Mrs. Wright, doubt plain to hear in her voice. "Still... the police?"

  "If you don't have information on how to get in touch with any of his family members, then yes, you should call the police," I said, and firmly too.

  "I have it!" cried Mrs. Pinkerton, going so far as to clap her pudgy hands. "Daisy can do it! You know that policeman fellow, Detective Ro... Ro... Whatever his name is, don't you, dear? You can ask him!"

  She'd known Sam for as long as I had, yet she claimed never to remember his name. And she'd even thrown a party for him not long back. Well, the party was for me, too, but honestly. "Detective Rotondo generally works on homicides, Mrs. Pinkerton. I don't know if he'd be the correct person upon whom to call about handling a missing-person case."

  "But he could direct you!" Mrs. Pinkerton was sure proud of herself for thinking of Sam, even if she refused to learn his name.

  Mrs. Wright seemed happier, too. "Oh, my, that would be so kind of you, Mrs. Majesty. Would you mind awfully?"

  Darn it anyhow! What was it with these rich people refusing to do the least little thing for themselves or their servants? But I knew upon which side my own personal bread was buttered, so I smiled spiritualistically and said, "Of course. I'll be happy to talk to Detective Rotondo for you, Mrs. Wright."

  She thanked me profusely, and then I got out the Ouija board. Rolly conveniently manifested himself through my fingers, and he spelled out (did I mention he was a poor speller? Well, he was, mainly because I was ten when I thought him up, and it was too late to change his illiterate status now) the same advice I'd given Mrs. Wright. Mrs. Pinkerton sat by, staring at the planchette moving across the board, her hands clasped, in awe of my mysterious ability.

  After Rolly was through dispensing advice via the Ouija board, Mrs. Wright asked for a tarot-card reading, so I dealt out a five-card horseshoe pattern, and interpreted the cards precisely the way I'd had Rolly interpret his advice.

  When I was finished with Mrs. Wright's reading, Mrs. Pinkerton said, "Oh, my, Vera, it looks as if Daisy was absolutely correct. You need to go through Evans' room and see if you can find any relations of his to get in touch with. And the police, of course, although Daisy has kindly offered to do that for you."

  I hadn't either. I'd been coerced into telling Sam about the missing Evans. I didn't point out Mrs. P's mistake.

  "Thank you so much, Mrs. Majesty," said Mrs. Wright. "Madeline is right about you." Madeline was Mrs. Pinkerton's first name. "You're wise beyond your years."

  Oh, brother.

  However, she gave me a big wad of money and, since Mrs. Pinkerton begged me to deal out a tarot pattern for her, too, I went home that day fairly floating in mazuma. All in all, I considered my morning a success. I guess the evening was, too, although Sam, who came to dinner again, didn't seem to care much that the Wrights' butler, Evans, had disappeared.

  Eyeing me with disfavor, he said, "What does she want me to do about it?"

  I shrugged. "Tell the people in charge of missing persons, I guess." I had, after several minutes of questioning Mrs. Wright, determined that Evans' first name was Daniel, so I gave Sam that information, too.

  "She does realize that calling the police means she and her staff will be questioned, doesn't she?" Sam had dealt with rich people before, and his experiences with them hadn't been as enriching as had mine. That's because wealthy people just hated to have police cars in their yards and uniformed officers in their houses. Besides, they didn't hand him wads of money, as they did me.

  "Probably not." I couldn't help myself; I smiled. The notion of uniformed police officers invading the Wrights' mansion and questioning the personnel and family therein tickled my funny bone.

  "It won't be any fun," said Sam, who seemed to know what I was thinking even when I wished he didn't.

  "Not for you, it won't," I said. "I'd like to be a fly on the wall when they do it, though."

  My mother said, "Daisy."

  But my father and Aunt Vi both laughed.

  Chapter 6

  The rest of that week passed peacefully enough. Ma, Pa, Aunt Vi, and I had piled the library books we'd read on the table beside the front door, so on Thursday, since I had no appointments, I decided to visit the library after Pa and I walked Spike. We had a lovely neighborhood to walk in. Marengo Avenue itself was lined with pepper trees that fairly dripped leaves and peppercorns at certain times of the year. In February, their branches still sort of dripped, but they weren't shedding anything in particular. Spike loved his walks and left little liquid remembrances of himself wherever we went.

  When I got to the library my favorite librarian, Miss Petrie, was back on duty, and she was as delighted to see me as I was to see her. After dumping my stack of already-read books on the returns table, I scurried over to her little booth. Or whatever you call those things where reference librarians hang out. I guess one could call it a cubicle, but that doesn't sound any better than a booth. Oh, never mind.

  "Oh, Mrs. Majesty, I've saved so many books for you!" Miss Petrie said with a big smile. She was... well, kind of homely, actually, with big glasses and mouse-brown hair, which she knotted in a bun on top of her head. I think she could be quite good-looking if she went to some effort, but I guess she didn't feel like it. I couldn't fault her for that. Most days I didn't want to fix myself up, but I did it anyway for the sake of my image.

  "Thank you! I always love the books you save for us. And so does my family. I've missed you."

  "Thank you. I spent a couple of weeks with my parents in Oklahoma." She frowned. Originally from the Tulsa area, she still had family there. While I'm sure her parents were fine people, she also had some family members whom she'd just as soon everybody forget about. After having been peripherally involved with a couple of them, I didn't blame her. "The good side of my family," she added because she and I both knew about the other side.

  "How nice. I'm glad my parents live here in Pasadena and I don't have to travel to see them."

  "Hmm," said she, frowning slightly. "If I had your family, I'd probably wish they lived closer to me, too. But never mind families. Look at these." She bent down—she was sitting on a high stool—and hauled out a pile of books I was surprised she could lift, what with her being sort of skinny and all. She plopped them on the desk and smiled proudly.

  "Oh, my goodness! Look at all of those!" I whispered, but I was del
ighted and whispering was a strain.

  "There are several westerns for your father," said Miss Petrie. "And then I'm not sure you'll enjoy this one, but figured you might give it a try. It's Sleeping Fire, by Gertrude Atherton."

  "Ah," said I, thinking nerts on that one. Not that I didn't appreciate Miss Atherton's creativity and so forth, but her earlier books hadn't been to my taste which, I guess, is low, because I prefer Mr. P.G. Wodehouse and other funny stuff like his.

  She laughed softly. "You never know. You might like this one better than her last couple. But look here! Two new books by Mr. P.G. Wodehouse."

  And, lo and behold, there appeared before my eyes The Inimitable Jeeves and Leave it to Psmith. "Oh, thank you!"

  "And here's another one for you. It's a children's book, but it's truly darling. It's called The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle, by a fellow named Mr. Hugh Lofting. Dr. Doolittle is a most interesting character, and he meets up with some fascinating creatures."

  What the heck. "Thank you. I'll give it a read."

  "I think you'll like it. And here are a couple of Edgar Wallace novels. We just got in his last Lieutenant Bones book, Bones in London, and I do believe we're going to be getting Bones of the River soon. It takes so long for books to travel from Great Britain to us, you know."

  "Yes. I know. And there are so many good British authors, too." I decided there was no real need for the note of sadness in my voice. After all, some Americans wrote good books, too. As if to prove it, Miss Petrie lifted One of Ours, by Willa Cather. "Here. You might enjoy this one."

  "Thanks." Truth to tell, and I know Willa Cather is an American icon these days, but I'd found her books a trifle flat. But please don't tell anyone that. My favorite American author was Mrs. Mary Roberts Rinehart—or she had been before she began writing books about the war.

  "And I know you'll like this." And she lifted a book called The Secret Adversary, by Mrs. Agatha Christie.

  "Oh!" I cried, perhaps a trifle too loudly, because Miss Petrie glanced around the library. More quietly, I said, "Is this another one with that little Belgian fellow in it? I loved Murder on the Links and The Mysterious Affair at Styles."

  "Monsieur Poirot? No. This is one features a married couple, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. They're spies. Of a sort."

  "Oh. Well, I'll give it a try." I wasn't much excited by spy stories, but I expected Mrs. Christie would have given her characters and plot a nice twist or two.

  "Here's another one I think you'll enjoy. It's The Film Mystery, by Mr. Arthur B. Reeves. It's not a new book, but we just got this copy in. I know you enjoyed his Professor Craig Kennedy books."

  "Yes, I did. Thank you!"

  "And here are two newish Edgar Rice Burroughs books for your father," said Miss Petrie in her normal librarian's voice. "I know he likes Mr. Burroughs." She set out Tarzan the Terrible and Tarzan and the Golden Lion.

  "He might have read this one," I said, holding up Tarzan the Terrible, "but Pa probably won't mind rereading it. I love rereading books." A case in point was Mary Roberts Rinehart's The Circular Staircase, which I must have read a dozen times by that particular day.

  "Speaking of that," said Miss Petrie as if she'd been reading my thoughts, "at last Mrs. Rinehart has left the war behind."

  And she set The Breaking Point on the desk before me. I gasped and clasped my hands to my bosom. "Oh, I'm so glad! The Amazing Interlude about did me in. I'm so glad she's through with war stories." I had too many of my own that yet haunted me. I didn't need to read about anyone else's. "Thank you so much, Miss Petrie! These will keep my family and me happy for days and days."

  "I've saved the best for last," said Miss Petrie, a gleam in her eye. Again, she reached under her stool where, I presume, a shelf had been built into the booth. She revealed her next selection with quite a bit of élan, for her.

  "Oh, thank you!" I felt like gasping and clasping my hands to my bosom again, but restrained myself. There, before me in Miss Petrie's smallish hands, was The Great Roxhythe, by Miss Georgette Heyer, another British lady writer. I hadn't read many of her books, mainly because she hadn't written many, but I'd adored every one I'd read.

  "You'll love it. It's really... wonderful." Miss Petrie sort of breathed the last word on a soft sigh.

  I understood. Miss Heyer wrote the best, most thrilling, and most romantic books I'd read to date.

  Whatever would the world be without books in it? I didn't even want to consider the possibility.

  "Well, drop by any time," she said, in a wistful sort of voice. "Just to chat, if you feel like it."

  I'd gathered for some time by then that Miss Petrie led a rather lonely life. But I loved chatting with her, so I'd be in again soon. I silently promised her that. Then I figured, what the heck, and promised her aloud, "I will." Then I scooped up my treasure trove of books and staggered to the check-out desk with them. Oh, happy day!

  That afternoon, after I'd dusted and dust-mopped the house, carpet-swept the carpet, and set the table for dinner, I lounged on the sofa in the living room with Spike curled up on my lap and read. Miss Petrie was absolutely correct. The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle was charming. So, after reading that one, I sank more deeply into the sofa cushions and buried my nose and imagination in The Great Roxhythe. Oh, my. There I was, in Restoration England, in the very court of King Charles II. I was almost sorry when Vi came home, fixed dinner, and I had to put the meal on the table.

  Not that dinner wasn't as delicious as ever, what with Vi teasing our palates with spaghetti and meatballs, a great big green salad, and some garlic bread she'd made with sourdough French bread (which she'd also made). Yum.

  "This is so good," I managed to say between bites.

  "The sauce is Sam's recipe," Vi told us.

  "Speaking of Sam, where is he tonight?" asked Pa.

  Everyone at the table looked at me. A trifle annoyed, I said, "I don't know. I didn't see him today. Anyhow, I'm not his keeper." I was engaged to marry him, but they didn't know that, darn it.

  "Daisy," said Ma in a mildly reproving tone of voice. "I know the two of you sometimes have little tiffs—"

  I sat up straight in my chair, dropped my fork and interrupted my mother, something I seldom do. "Little tiffs? The big galoot drives me crazy!"

  "Piffle," said Ma. "I know the two of you are... Well, let's say you're friends." She gave the word a deeper meaning and I understood perfectly. Crumb.

  "Huh," I said, reminding myself of Sam. Oh, well. I saw my dinner companions exchange a series of glances and knowing looks and figured I was doomed. So I just kept eating.

  Along about the end of dinner—we all had seconds. Actually, I think I had thirds—a knock came at the door, and Spike went into his usual "a friend has come to call" frenzy, wagging his tail like crazy and barking fit to beat the band. Because Spike was so happy, I assumed the caller to be Sam, and I was proved correct when I opened the front door and saw him there, looming and glowering.

  "C'mon in," I told him, ignoring his ominous mood.

  "Thanks."

  "Want some dinner? There's plenty left, and it's delicious." We were generally through with dinner and cleaning up by the time Sam's knock came at the door. But as I said, we'd had seconds. And thirds.

  He removed his hat, coat and scarf, hung them on the coat rack next to the front door, and said, "I didn't mean to come during dinnertime. I figured you'd be finished by this time." His stomach growled and he slapped a hand over it. If he'd been anyone else, he'd have been embarrassed.

  "Dinner was especially good tonight," I said, ignoring his growling tummy. Poor guy. A bachelor had a rough time of it, I reckon. "Your recipe for spaghetti sauce."

  He sniffed the air. Since the mouth-watering aroma of Italian sauce had permeated the air hours ago, he didn't require a large sniff. "Ah. Smells great."

  "Come and have some."

  "I didn't come here to eat," he said, sounding grumpy, which wasn't unusual.

  "Pooh. You're hungry. We have
food. Tons and tons of food. So come eat. You can tell us why you visited us as you dine."

  "You sure?" He peered down at me as if he were truly concerned that we'd think he was taking advantage of our good natures.

  "Of course! Come on, you big lug." And I dragged him to the table, where everyone greeted him with cheer and helpfulness. Ma had already set another place for him. Beside me. Any time I set the table when I knew Sam was to join us for a meal, I sat him across from me. My mother, the matchmaker. Bless her heart. I think I mean that in the southern sense. Or maybe not.

  "So glad you joined us, Sam!" said Pa. "I wondered where you were, but Daisy said she didn't know."

  Ma sniffed meaningfully.

  "This is your recipe, Sam, so you really should eat it with us," said Vi, dishing out a lavish portion of spaghetti and meatballs for the family detective. I handed him the bread basket after he'd taken his plate, and Ma set a bowl full of green salad before him.

  "Thank you very much. I honestly didn't mean to interrupt. I figured you'd be through with dinner by this time."

  "Yes, yes. We know," I said. "We're kind of late this evening. But why are you here, if it's not to eat?"

  "Daisy," said Ma. She would.

  After swallowing his first bite of spaghetti, complete with half a meatball, Sam closed his eyes in rapture for a second, and said, "No, but I'm here about Evans."

  "Who's Evans?" asked Pa.

  "Who's Evans?" asked Ma.

  "Did you find him?" asked Vi.

  "Oh, Sam, how wonderful! Tell us all about how the Wrights reacted to a police presence in their grand home!" said I.

  Sam scowled at me. But honestly, can you blame me?

  "They weren't pleased."

  "I can imagine." I couldn't help grinning.

  "Who's Evans?" asked Ma again.

  "Oh, is he the butler who disappeared?" said Pa.

  "That's the one, all right," I told him, all but rubbing my hands with glee. "So, tell us, Sam. What happened to Evans? And what did the Wrights and their servants tell you?"

  "We don't know, and not much," said Sam, taking a bite of garlicky sourdough bread.