Unsettled Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  "Domingo Ghirardelli," Sam said.

  "That's it!"

  "He changed his name. His real name is Domenico Ghirardelli. He changed Domenico to the Spanish Domingo."

  I plunked myself down on a chair, removed my gloves and hat and plopped them onto the table. "Jeez, you'd think he'd change his last name to something pronounceable instead of his first name. I mean, Domenico is as easy to pronounce as Domingo, but Ghirardelli is just weird."

  "For you. For an Italian, it isn't," said Sam. Oddly enough, he was smiling rather than frowning as he said it.

  "I guess. Anyhow, I suppose anything's better than Gumm." I glanced at my father, feeling guilty. Again. "Sorry, Pa, but we really do have a laughable last name. I got teased all the time in school."

  "I know, sweetie. I did, too."

  "I went to school in New York City," said Sam. "Everybody had strange last names. The folks who got teased the most, though, were the Irish."

  "Really? Why was that?"

  With a shrug, Sam said, "Beats me. I guess the Irish came over in droves during the potato famine, and everyone was mad at them for taking other people's jobs. Same thing happened in San Francisco. And then there were the Chinese. They had problems, too."

  I thought about that. "We human beings aren't very nice to each other, are we?"

  "Not as a rule," agreed Sam. "The Irish in New York also had a bad reputation as far as drunkenness, crime and thuggery were concerned."

  "Thuggery?" I liked that word, but I think Sam just made it up.

  "You know what I mean. There were a lot of corrupt Irish cops in the force during the last part of the last century." He shrugged. "Probably still are."

  "That's discouraging." Some of the elation I'd absorbed from Lucy abated. "Are you going to Lucy's wedding with us, Sam?"

  "Am I invited?"

  "Everyone from the church is invited. Since you've taken to going to church with us on Sundays, that includes you."

  "Well, then, sure. Why not?"

  "Why not, indeed? If you come to the reception afterwards in Fellowship Hall, you'll get a good meal, too."

  "Then I'll definitely attend. That means I'll get a good meal on Saturday and Sunday, too, as long as nobody commits any crimes I have to investigate." He appeared guilty at once. "If I'm invited to Sunday dinner here, I mean."

  "You know you are," said Pa, grinning at the two of us, as if he thought we were just so adorable he could hardly stand it.

  I wished he wouldn't do that. I mean, yes, Sam and I were engaged, but Pa didn't know that. Nobody knew it except Sam and me. I patted the juju I wore under my dress and thought maybe I should wear Sam's ring around my neck, too. On a chain, I mean, not the woven fabric string Mrs. Jackson had created for my juju.

  Evidently Sam had thought the same thing, because when we walked out to his automobile, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a little packet. "Here. I got this for you. If you ever decided to put my ring—or Billy's, for that matter—on a chain around your neck, here's a little gold-link chain for it."

  "Thank you, Sam! I was just thinking I should do that."

  "Which?"

  I glanced up from the golden chain I'd just unwrapped to his face. "What do you mean, which?"

  "Which ring will you wear on the chain?"

  "Oh." At once I thought I'd never take off Billy's ring from my finger. I didn't want to tell Sam that. So I said, "Well..."

  "You'll wear my ring on the chain," said Sam before I could.

  "Um... Yes. I think so. Just until I can get used to being engaged to you. You know, for a little while. Until—"

  "Never mind explaining. I understand. It will be ten years, won't it?"

  "I... I don't know, Sam. I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

  He could tell I was becoming emotional, so he wrapped his arms around me.

  "It's all right, Daisy. I really do understand. I've had two years longer to recover from Margaret's death than you've had to recover from Billy's. If you ever can recover from losing a beloved mate."

  I sniffled. "Yes. If you ever can." I recalled the conversation Sam and I had with Robert Browning at Mijares and felt sorry for all of us.

  Sam left then, and I wandered back into the house in a much less buoyant mood than I'd entered from choir practice several minutes earlier.

  Why was life so complicated?

  Don't bother trying to answe. I'm sure you don't know, either.

  However, that evening, I reached into my underwear drawer and carefully picked up the box holding the ring Sam's father had designed and Sam had given to me. I slipped it onto the golden chain and clasped it around my neck. I clutched it as I went to sleep that night.

  Chapter 24

  I didn't sleep awfully well that night. I guess Lucy's wedding and Sam's disappointment that I couldn't yet let myself wear his engagement ring sort of kept me tossing and turning. Spike finally got sick of my twitching and jumped down from the bed to sleep on the rug. Sorry, Spike.

  In spite of my tiredness on Friday, that evening's wedding rehearsal went well. I could tell both Lucy and Mr. Zollinger were madly in love with each other, and that made me happy.

  Lucy had asked an operatically inclined couple, Connie and Max Van der Linden, who'd staged The Mikado at our church not long back, to sing at the wedding. Connie had fully recovered from an ordeal visited upon her by another couple, not so nice, that had tried to slowly poison her. But that's another story entirely. Connie and Max both had gorgeous voices, and they sang "The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" so beautifully, I think everyone at the rehearsal had to wipe away tears. What a beautiful song. I almost envied Lucy. Her wedding was going to be spectacular.

  Billy and I had married in haste, so to speak. Not that we hadn't had a nice church wedding, but our wedding hadn't been expensive and smothered in flowers and stuff. Billy'd worn his brand-new army uniform, and I'd worn a gown I'd made myself. Our wedding had been pretty, but it was not nearly as elaborate as Lucy's was going to be. Not that it matters.

  A wedding supper was then held at the Spinks' home, and I attended it along with all the other bridesmaids and groomsmen, Pastor Smith, the Van der Lindens, Mr. Hostetter, and our organist, Mrs. Fleming. Connie and I had a nice chat about another operetta the duo aimed to stage. I told her I'd enjoyed being Katisha in The Mikado, but she'd have to drug and hog-tie me before I'd sing in another one of their productions. She laughed.

  Little did she know. I meant it. That darned operetta had nearly killed me. It had killed a couple of other people. I'd come to the conclusion that my unimaginative mother had been right when she'd told me she thought theater people were a bad lot. Not that Connie and Max were, but a whole bunch of the rest of them were. Look at Fatty Arbuckle. Look at William Desmond Taylor. Look at Wallace Reid. Look at... Oh, bother the rest of them. But there are examples galore, and my one experience had dampened any slight enthusiasm I'd once had for performing onstage.

  The rehearsal supper was simple enough: deviled eggs, sausage rolls, little sandwiches, a fruit plate, a vegetable plate, etc. It was nice, and Connie and Max agreed to sing some more while I played the piano. We might have become slightly rowdy, but not very. Everyone laughed when we played and sang "The Cat Came Back."

  "Old King Tut" was the most undignified song of the evening. Connie did an amusing thing with her hands, which she set at an angle next to her shoulders, and I'll never understand how she got her neck to do that back-and-forth thing. I've tried it in the mirror and failed miserably. At any rate, the movements looked vaguely Egyptian, and we all applauded.

  I was tired but happy when I got back home. Spike was elated and not at all tired when I returned. Everyone else was in bed, and Sam hadn't come to visit, so I just washed my face, took off my rehearsal clothes, popped my raggedy nightgown over my head, and collapsed onto the bed, Spike at my side. I slept like the proverbial log and awoke refreshed and happy on Saturday morning.

  That was a busy day for everyone in
volved in Lucy's wedding. Every single one of the bridesmaids came to my house to be sure their dresses fitted properly—they could hardly fail to, since they were in the fashionable, straight up-and-down style then in vogue. The only girl who didn't look perfectly flat in her dress was Gladys Pennywhistle Fellowes, who was in approximately the third month of her pregnancy and was beginning to show. But she didn't show that much. Gladys, by the way, had always awed me. She not only understood algebra when we were in high school, but she married a genius professor, Homer Fellowes, who taught at the California Institute of Technology. Still, even with all her brains, she was nice.

  "I don't look fat?" Gladys asked, peering at her profile in the mirror hanging on my door and pressing her dress over her itty-bitty lump.

  "Not at all. I've made your dress a little looser than the others, and anyway, you'll be holding flowers, won't you? Just hold them over your tiny little bump." I envied her that bump. Billy and I had wanted children.

  Nuts.

  The rest of the girls weren't in any way chubby, and they all looked swell in their blue dresses, made to match the soft blue of Lucy's satin under-dress. I'd also made everyone's hats. Well, except for Lucy, who was wearing her mother's tiara. The original lace descending from the tiara was yellowed with age, so I did make her a new veil, but I managed to find some lace that almost precisely matched that worn by her mother, so everyone was happy.

  The wedding was to take place at two p.m., but the people in the wedding party had to show up at noon. I had a little sandwich made with Aunt Vi's delicious bread and some peanut butter. I was beginning to think of peanut butter as sort of a salvation food. If you didn't have time for anything else, you could always eat peanut butter. You didn't even necessarily have to spread it on bread. You could scoop it right out of the jar. Providing you remembered to buy a jarful at the local grocery store down the street, and I usually did. In those days, the grocer scooped out however much of the stuff you wanted from a wooden barrel and crammed into a jar. When the jar was empty, you could wash it out, take it back to the grocer, and he'd cram it full again.

  Naturally, the ladies of the church arrived early, too, because they had to prepare the meal in Fellowship Hall that would be served to the wedding attendees after the wedding vows had been spoken. Vi brought in a roasted turkey and a baked ham, lots of her delicious dressing (not stuffing, because it wasn't in the bird) and gravy, and a superb sauce for the ham. Other ladies brought salads and side dishes and potatoes and I can't even remember what all else. Then there were the desserts, but I won't go into them. Actually, I did go into them, but I won't do so now.

  By the way, Albert Zollinger made sure the ladies of the church were reimbursed for the money they spent in order to create such a spread. I'm sure the church ladies would have done a spectacular spread even without his generosity, but they appreciated his thoughtfulness.

  The wedding, according to everyone who witnessed it, was lovely. What I could see of it from my position as one of the bridesmaids looked pretty keen. Connie and Max sang "The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" gorgeously again. In fact, I even saw men in the congregation wiping their eyes during that one. The women crying was a given, so we'd all brought our hankies with us.

  To tell the dismal truth, I was weepy during almost the entire service. Memories and thoughts of the future, I reckon. Mainly, I was just an emotional wreck. Happy for Lucy. Happier for Albert (not that I didn't think he was a nice guy, because I did, but I've already mentioned the paucity of younger men in the world), but also in a state of vivid remembrance.

  When Lucy and Albert walked down the aisle as man and wife, with all the folks who'd served during the ceremony walking behind them, everyone stood and applauded. I guess that's what always happens at weddings, but I didn't remember the applause after my own wedding to Billy, so I was kind of surprised. However, being surprised cured me of my weepiness, so that was a good thing.

  The reception following the wedding rites in Fellowship Hall was lovely. The ladies on the decorations committee outdid themselves with the white streamers and paper flowers and stuff, and the food was absolutely magnificent. What's more, one could go back for seconds if one wished. This one was stuffed to the gills after the first round at the buffet table. Anyhow, when I entered Fellowship Hall, I found my family and Sam, and we all sat together at a table close to the bride and groom's.

  Since Prohibition was in full tilt—and also because we Methodist-Episcopals were, for the most part, dry as old bones—lemonade flowed like water. Albert Zollinger's best man, who was a fellow I'd never seen before, made a very nice speech to toast the couple. Then Lucy's father rose and gave another nice speech. And then Mr. Smith, our pastor, gave yet another nice speech, which ended with a titter (our pastor doesn't titter as a rule) and an announcement that Mrs. Fleming would play the Fellowship-Hall piano for waltzes and polkas after we finished our meal. Methodist-Episcopals were about as keen on dancing as they were on drinking distilled spirits, but I guess an exception was going to be made for Albert and Lucy. I was glad of it. Heck, if Pastor Smith had allowed The Mikado to be staged in his church, why shouldn't folks dance to celebrate a wedding?

  It was fun. Just plain fun, and I danced with Sam, who waltzed rather like a wooden soldier, but that didn't matter. He even tried a polka, but we gave up after ramming into two other couples. They didn't mind, but only laughed. So we resumed our seats at the family table, and I fanned myself with my napkin, which wasn't too stained with the remains of my dinner to be non-functional.

  "You two looked good together, dancing like that," said Vi, smirking slightly.

  Oh, dear. I was afraid this would happen.

  "Thanks."

  "I can't dance very well," said Sam. Unnecessarily, in my opinion.

  "You did fine," I told him. "Oh, look. There's Miss Powell waltzing with Mr. Kingston. They look mighty comfy together, don't they?"

  "Who?" said Sam. "Oh, that woman who screams all the time? Is that the Powell dame?"

  The Powell dame? "Are you trying to sound like Dime Detective Magazine, Sam Rotondo? Powell dame, my foot. Yes, that's Miss Betsy Powell, the one who had hysterics after both deaths in the church. The gentleman with whom she's dancing is Mr. Gerald Kingston. Both of them work at the Underhill plant, and I've noticed they've been hanging about together lately."

  "Hmm," said Sam.

  "Hmm what?"

  "Nothing. Just hmm."

  "Do you suspect Mr. Kingston of murdering Mr. Underhill?" I asked, moving closer to Sam and whispering so nobody else could hear.

  Sam turned his big head and stared at me? "Huh? Are you nuts?"

  Guess that answered my question. "Sorry I asked," I said stiffly and moved away again. He grabbed my chair and pulled it closer to him. "Stop that," I growled.

  "No," he growled back, and then he grinned. The big lug.

  And then it was I noticed Aunt Vi, Ma, Pa, and several other church people smiling at Sam and me, and I know that I blushed to the roots of my hair and beyond because I felt the heat creeping up my neck, into my cheeks, and so forth. Drat! Why were people so nosy?

  Asked Daisy Gumm Majesty who'd just speculated about the meek and mild Gerald Kingston being a murderer.

  I swear, fate doesn't play favorites, does it?

  However, just about that time, I was saved from further humiliation by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Albert Zollinger, who must have slipped out sometime during the reception and gone and changed clothes in an office somewhere. Now they stood at the head of the table in Fellowship Hall, beaming like a couple of minor suns, all dressed up in their traveling duds.

  Mr. Zollinger held up his hands, and the music and noise stopped.

  "My bride, Lucy, and I want to thank you, all of you, for making this day a special one for the both of us. We'll always appreciate every one of you." And then he and Lucy turned and, holding hands, skipped out of the Fellowship Hall.

  The entire congregation, or most of it anyway,
followed them down the hallway, through the back door of the church, and to a waiting black automobile—Mr. Zollinger's, I presume—that had been decorated with ribbons and tin cans and all sorts of other fun rubbish. Mr. Zollinger ushered his blushing bride—clad in a brown crepe georgette dress fashioned by my very own skillful fingers as a wedding gift for Lucy—into the waiting automobile. The dress was gorgeous, with a high collar and bishop sleeves slashed to points at the wrists and infilled with cream-colored silk. It had a low waist with silver buttons lining the front from the collar and wrapping around the hips. The dress came to Lucy's mid-calf, and it was perfect for traveling via motorcar to San Francisco. I hoped. I also hoped Mr. Zollinger had extra tires in the tonneau along with the honeymoon luggage, since automobiles ran over stuff and tires went flat at the most inconvenient times.

  "Golly, that's an Essex Coach," said Pa to Sam, tugging my attention from Lucy's spectacular costume to the two men in my life.

  "Nice machine," said Sam, a touch of longing in his voice.

  "What's an Essex Coach?" I asked.

  "Hudson Motor Car Company," said Sam. "Expensive model."

  "Hmm. Well, I believe Lucy's dress is nice," said I, thinking it would be just like Sam and my father to look at the car instead of the couple. Then it occurred to me that Billy, if he'd been there, would have been talking autos with them, and I sighed.

  "You did a beautiful job on Lucy's dress, dear," said Ma, placing her hand on my arm, as if she understood. She probably did.

  "Did you make that?" asked Vi, sounding surprised. "It's gorgeous! I thought maybe she'd gone to a Los Angeles couturier or something. It's magnificent. I knew you were a good seamstress, Daisy, but that gown is... well, it's truly lovely."

  "Thanks, Ma. Thanks, Vi. I copied it from a Jeanne Lanvin dress I saw in Vogue, and I thought it would flatter Lucy, if anything would."