Strong Spirits (1)

by Alice Duncan

  I think the noise I heard after I ended my rather loud speech was Harold applauding, but I didn’t look to see for sure.

  Rotondo stared at me as if he wished he could stomp on me and squish me like a cockroach that had invaded his larder. But I was right, and he knew it. He hated knowing it, too. After heaving a huge sigh, he said, “Very well. Mr. Applewood can stay here until the body’s found.”

  “There isn’t any body,” Quincy muttered. He looked rather furious himself.

  “That remains to be seen,” said Rotondo in a voice filled with condemnation. “Right now you’d better take that laudanum and we’ll get your ribs and nose attended to.”

  Quincy gave up arguing about the laudanum after that. Heck, I would have, too. It’s true laudanum tastes awful, but I’d rather take it than be arrested for murder. Quincy must have felt the same way.

  He did try scrunching back in his chair to get away from us, but it didn’t work. Harold held his arms, Edie sat on his feet, and Rotondo pinched his nose shut. I hoped he did it gently, since the nose was broken, but I doubt it.

  Quincy struggled for breath for a few moments until he either had to open his mouth or suffocate, and I thrust a spoonful of laudanum into his mouth then clamped his lips together. Poor guy. We really did treat him roughly. But, darn it, he needed the pain relief!

  Making a terrible face, Quincy said a lot of things nobody could understand, which was probably just as well, given his fondness for profanity.

  “Blech! Ugh! Argh! Damn!”

  At that point, I decided to take charge of Edie, whether she liked me anymore or not. “Let’s go visit Aunt Vi while Harold and Detective Rotondo get those ribs bandaged, Edie.”

  Bandages. Dang it, they’d need bandages. I glanced at the supply left over from those I’d used to bandage Quincy’s head and knew we’d need more. Perhaps I’d been a trifle generous with the head bandages, but I wanted to make sure the pad remained in place.

  “I’ll get some more bandages from Aunt Vi. So keep your clothes on until I get back, Quincy.” I did a fair imitation of one of Harold’s winks.

  “Daisy!” Edie was so shocked, she forgot to be mad at me and burst into giggles.

  “This isn’t funny!” Quincy shouted as I trotted out of the drawing room.

  Gee, I thought it was. I didn’t talk to Edie or try to explain how I’d mistakenly relayed the information about the relationship between her and Quincy, but hurried to the kitchen, deciding explanations could wait. Aunt Vi kept a huge supply of medicaments and bandages in the pantry, since she was used as the family’s nurse as well as the family’s cook, so it took her no time at all to get a roll of gauze and plenty of cotton wadding ready for Quincy’s ribs.

  I ran back to the drawing room with my gear and almost barged in without knocking. But it occurred to me that it would be just like Rotondo to ignore Quincy’s wishes and make him take his shirt off before the bandages arrived.

  Therefore, I knocked on the door and said, “Is everyone decent in there?”

  “Yes!” Rotondo sounded angry, which I didn’t think was fair. I mean, I was only being cautious, for crumb’s sake.

  So I took in the bandages and gauze, and retired to the kitchen, taking a much-needed rest. There wasn’t any more shortbread left, but Aunt Vi still had some petit fours handy. Edie and I drank tea and ate petit fours until Harold meandered through the pantry and tapped on the open kitchen door.

  “Intruders!” he cried jovially. “I’m here to kidnap Daisy. The ribs are bandaged, and the nose is ready for taping.” He winked at Edie. “Your future husband is certainly a strong man, Miss Marsh. We had to tie his hands over his head and I had to sit on his legs before that poor detective could bind and tape the ribs.”

  Edie shook her head. “Quincy’s just not used to being hurt and helpless,” she said, being true to her love. “He’s always been so strong and independent.” She heaved a soulful sigh. I thought, Oh, brother.

  Harold, nicer than I, said, “Of course. I’m sure that’s the answer. But I need Daisy now.” He noticed the petit fours and rushed over to snatch a couple. “Mrs. Gumm, if you ever decide to retire, please let it be at my house.”

  “Go on with you, Mr. Harold,” said Aunt Vi, pleased as punch.

  “Not on your life, Harold Kincaid,” I said sternly. “Vi is my aunt, and I’m not giving her up.”

  “Pooh. You can live there, too.”

  I got the feeling Harold was only half joking. Harold was a man who loved his food. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’d let Billy and me live at his huge house as long as Aunt Vi was part of the deal. Not for the first—or even the million and first—time, I wondered what it must be like to have money by the ton. Ah, well.

  So, as little as I wanted to, I went back to the drawing room. Poor Quincy looked as if Harold and Rotondo had been torturing him with thumb screws and the rack while I was away. His expression held about as much joy as Ebenezer Scrooge’s before he met the ghosts. And the look he gave me would have made me turn and run if I’d thought he was capable of chasing me down and pummeling me.

  But he was injured, I was healthy, and Harold and Rotondo were both stronger than Quincy at the moment. In full health, I’d still put my money on Rotondo over Quincy, but Harold was kind of a cream puff.

  “Hold him down, gentlemen,” I said, sounding to my own ears like somebody who was actually competent at the job she was about to undertake. What a joke.

  “Damn it,” Quincy grumbled, “nobody has to hold me down.”

  “Nuts. I don’t trust you, and Billy wouldn’t like it if I came home with a black eye.”

  I’d managed to outrage him. “I’d never hit a lady!”

  “Yeah? That some sort of cowboy code or something?” I picked up the roll of gauze and cut off a strip approximately three inches long. As I did so, I was thinking that it would be really nice if I knew what I was doing.

  “Yes, dammit, it’s a cowboy code!”

  Oh, dear. Guess I’d offended him again. In what I hoped was a placating voice, I said, “Good. I wish more men operated by it.” I didn’t even look at Rotondo as I said it, although it was a struggle.

  “Huh.”

  I nodded at Harold and Rotondo, and both assumed their assigned positions, Harold holding both of Quincy’s arms, and Rotondo sitting on his feet. With as much gentleness as I could, I wiggled Quincy’s nose, trying to figure out exactly where it was broken. Didn’t do any good. I couldn’t tell a broken nose from a smashed Cadillac.

  Finally, and to my infinite joy, my luck turned. And none too soon, if you ask me. Just as I was approaching Quincy with the strip of gauze, wondering where to put it and if I was going to make it worse or fix it, the drawing-room door opened and Featherstone announced, “Dr. Dearing, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Thank God. I was so relieved, I actually hung my head and whispered a prayer of thanks. I didn’t even ask God why it had taken him so long to send the doctor, either, which I think speaks of remarkable restraint.

  Apparently Mrs. Kincaid and Algie had seen the doctor’s buggy draw up to the front of the house, because they rushed into the room after him. Dr. Dearing claimed automobiles were works of the devil and still drove a horse and buggy. He was a comfortable sort of man, a little chubby, with rosy cheeks, thin hair, and an intelligently funny outlook on life. He went to our church and sang bass in the same choir in which I sang.

  He, being a medical man, inherently disdained my line of work, but he never got ugly about it. He only teased me a little bit every now and then.

  “Oh, Dr. Dearing, I’m so glad you could get here so quickly!” exclaimed Mrs. Kincaid.

  Algie nodded his head and said nothing. Sometimes I wondered if Algie Pinkerton would be happy if he never had to talk again in this lifetime. He was one of those people who preferred others to entertain him rather than to entertain others. Or maybe he was just shy. What do I know?

  After greetings all around, Dr. Dearing said,
“What’s this I hear about Quincy Applewood going fifteen rounds with Jack Dempsey?” He had a booming voice that overwhelmed the drawing room but sounded great in church.

  Mrs. Kincaid looked blank. So did Harold and Algie. My Billy would know who Jack Dempsey was. Just one more difference between the rich and the rest of us, I guess.

  Quincy tried to grin. “It feels like it, all right.”

  “Well then, let’s see what we have here.” He glanced at Rotondo and apparently recognized him as a detective. “Is this a police matter?”

  “It might be,” said Rotondo. He jerked his head my way. “Mrs. Majesty has done a little nursing on the patient and Mr. Kincaid and I bound his ribs, but we figured you ought to check him over.”

  Since he didn’t sound too condescending about my nursing abilities, I didn’t snap at him. I didn’t wait around to watch the examination, either. I’d had enough of bloody wounds for one day. “I’m going home, if nobody minds,” I said, trying for chipper but achieving merely a tone of semi-jolly desperation.

  “Oh, but Daisy! I need you so!” Mrs. Kincaid’s hands clamped at her bosom again. Yoiks. What did this woman think I was, anyhow? Sure, I was a medium and had become some sort of spiritual healer for her, and she was my best customer, but gee whiz, I also had a husband and a family.

  It was Harold who broke this news to his mother, in so subtle and tender a way that he didn’t even hurt her feelings. Every day, in every day, Harold Kincaid was getting better and better in my book.

  Obviously disappointed, Mrs. Kincaid said, “Very well.” She rushed over to me and grabbed my hands. “But please return tomorrow, Daisy. You’re such a comfort to me.”

  “Thank you.” I think.

  It was then I noticed Detective Sam Rotondo frowning hideously at Quincy Applewood, and I remembered he’d brought me here in his police automobile. I supposed I could walk home, but I didn’t want to. It had been an exhausting day already, and a three-quarter-mile walk didn’t hold much appeal. I sidled over to him and he transferred his frown to me. “What?”

  “You know, you’re such a polite and considerate man, Detective Rotondo. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your warmth and courtesy.”

  His mouth twisted into an ironic grin. “Yeah. I get that all the time from the ladies.”

  I decided to give up the sparring match. “Are you able to take me home? I’m done in. And my husband needs me, darn it.”

  He thought for several moments. The man wasn’t one for making snap decisions. I was about to hit him out of sheer frustration and wondered if I’d have to spend the night in jail if I did, when he said, “Your husband’s a first-rate man, Mrs. Majesty. It’s a shame, what happened to him.”

  I’ve seldom been more embarrassed in my life than I was at that moment, when I suddenly burst into tears. “Yes,” I sobbed. “I know.” Because I felt like such a fool, I rushed out of the room, trying to avoid everyone by taking one of the side doors. The door led me into a small sitting room I’d never seen before, and I stood in the middle of it, trying to get my bearings. I couldn’t.

  I nearly screamed when someone put a hand on my shoulder. When I spun around and discovered it was Rotondo, and that he had a sympathetic look on his face, I started bawling again. He put his arms around me awkwardly and patted me on the back. “It’s all right, Mrs. Majesty. You and Billy are doing fine, even though you’re going through some rough times.”

  The man had lost his wife from consumption not long ago, I remembered suddenly. Maybe he wasn’t the rotten bum I thought he was, but only pretended to be one when he was on the job.

  “Th-thank you,” I said at last, when I could talk again. I was completely mortified. Never, in my whole life, had I cried on a stranger’s shoulder. Only minutes earlier I was wishing I’d never have to see a woman cry again, and here I was, having a fit on the shoulder of a man I hardly knew, and one whom I didn’t think liked me.

  He didn’t hold me for long, which was assuredly a good thing because it was beginning to feel too right. Pushing me gently away, he said, “I’ll drive you home now. Mr. Harold Kincaid is going to see that Applewood is set up in a bedroom while he’s laid up.”

  I sniffled pathetically and blew my nose on my handkerchief, still feeling stupid. “He didn’t kill Mr. Kincaid. I know he didn’t.”

  I could feel him mentally rolling his eyes, which actually helped my pitiful condition some, because it made me angry.

  “We’re still working on the investigation, Mrs. Majesty,” Rotondo said stiffly.

  “Have you posted guards at the border?”

  “There are already guards at the border.”

  “There’d better be more of them than usual if they expect to catch Kincaid escaping.” From what I’d heard, there were approximately one and a half people guarding the border between the U.S. and Mexico. In other words, not anywhere near enough.

  “If it will make you feel better—” He wanted to add and shut you up, but didn’t. “Then, yes. We have asked for more guards to be stationed at the Mexican border.” He didn’t like admitting it, because it had been my idea. I began to feel somewhat more chipper.

  “And what about the Coast Guard? Have you been in touch with the Coast Guard?”

  “No. As far as I’m concerned, that’s about the most far-fetched notion anyone’s come up with so far regarding this whole mess.”

  “It is not! It makes tons of sense!”

  “I guess it makes about as much sense as holding a séance.”

  “Oh, so you’re back to that, are you?”

  “Even you’ve got to admit talking to the dead is a grotesque thing to do.”

  “It is not!”

  “If you say so.”

  “Oh, you drive me crazy!”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  In other words, we were back to normal.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I muttered good-bye to Rotondo when he pulled the police car up to the curb in front of my house. I still felt silly for having cried on him, but he was being nice about it and pretending it had never happened, which was more consideration than I’d have expected from this source, especially since he totally disapproved of how I made my living.

  Because I felt stupid, and because I thought it was important, I turned back and leaned in through the window. “I’m not kidding about the Coast Guard, Detective. I know you think the idea is a bad one, but it has to be easier to slip away over water than get through a guarded land border.

  “The man was studying Spanish, for heaven’s sake! There are ports all down the coast of South America where he could catch a steamer to anywhere in Europe or Asia or—shoot, I don’t know. Maybe he wants to buy a Greek island and live on it or something. If you don’t get in touch with the Coast Guard, I’ll bet you’ll be sorry.”

  He looked exasperated. “Right. I keep forgetting you have connections with the other realms.”

  “Darn you! That’s not the reason, and you know it!” Totally irate, which doesn’t happen too often due to the amount of practice in holding my temper I get daily, I stamped down the walk to our cute little bungalow, stormed up the porch steps, and would have slammed the door behind me except that I didn’t want anyone inside, and especially not Billy, to know what had happened. With me, that is. The whole family wanted to hear all the dirt I could give them on the Kincaid affair.

  It was way past dinnertime. I’d forgotten about food (and I suspect the petit fours had temporarily cured any hunger pangs I might have experienced without them) until I sniffed Aunt Vi’s pot roast as I walked through the kitchen to our room. Then my stomach growled as if it belonged to a bear that had been hibernating all winter.

  Billy sat on the sun porch with Pa, Ma, and Aunt Vi. They were all talking softly and watching the lights on Mount Wilson blink. They’d installed—not Pa, Ma, Aunt Vi, and Billy, but some scientists—a huge telescope up there the year before, and we’d sit out there at night sometimes and wonder what disco
veries were being made. The Mount Wilson Telescope was the largest in the world, and we all liked to imagine what it was seeing. Talk about a Great Beyond; now the sky is what I’d consider a Great Beyond.

  “Hey, I’m home.”

  I needn’t have announced myself, since they’d already turned to see who was there. I was grateful for the dark, because I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been crying.

  “What the heck happened, Daisy?” Billy asked. He was mad as heck at me for being away so long, but he was trying to be nice about it because my relatives were with him. Do I know my Billy, or not?

  “It was pretty awful. I’ll tell you everything in a minute. I have to eat something or I’ll keel over.”

  As I might have expected, Aunt Vi jumped to her feet. “I’ll fix you a plate, child. You look all done in.”

  I was all done in, but I didn’t want to put Vi out. After all, she’d worked all day, too. “No, no, please don’t bother. I’ll just get a sandwich.”

  “You’d be better off taking Vi’s suggestion,” Billy said, a hint of a grin in his voice, for which I was infinitely thankful. “It was one of the best pot roasts I’ve ever tasted.”

  Blushing, as was her wont, Aunt Vi said, “Go along with you, Billy Majesty. You say that every time I cook a meal.”

  “It’s because it’s the truth,” my Billy said.

  I guess I was really worn out, because that statement, uttered in his old-Billy voice, made me feel like blubbering some more. Shoot, I had to get over this. And quick. Billy would hate it if he knew I was pitying him. I know it sounds contradictory, because he really did need sympathy and attention, but there’s a fine line I tried never to cross between understanding and pity. It was my bad luck that the line seemed to move from day to day, and I was always stepping on the wrong side of it and aggravating my husband.

  “Please don’t bother with feeding me, Vi,” said I nobly—at that point, I could have eaten the entire cow raw; to heck with the roasted parts. “I can fix myself a sandwich.” And it would be quicker than her fixing me a full dinner plate and warming it up.