High Spirits [Spirits 03]

by Alice Duncan

  He said softly, “I’m awful sorry, youse guys, but Jinx and me, we gotta go. But I want to do dis again later.” On my other side, Jinx, too, let go of me, and there I was, supposedly in a trance and communing with spirits, but with no living human being connected to me.

  Well, golly! Since, to all intents and purposes, the séance was over, I made up my role of a medium deserted in mid-trance extemporaneously, having had no practice in the part. No one was seated next to me, so I remained slumped over, wondering how long I should take to recover my senses.

  The matter was taken out of my hands when all of a sudden the door burst open, lights flared on in the room, and a booming voice hollered, “Cheese it! Da cops!”

  In less than a second, Harold, Stacy, Flossie, and I were alone in the room, blinded by a flood of light, and trying to shade our eyes against it. I don’t think I spoke a single word, being too astounded by events. I remember Harold saying something like “Shit!” or “Damn!” but I didn’t hold his bad language against him. If I’d thought of it, I’d probably have sworn, too.

  The lousy place was being raided!

  * * * * *

  Approximately an hour later, Harold, Stacy Kincaid, Flossie Mosser, and I sat in Detective Samuel Rotondo’s office at the Pasadena Police Station, which was situated behind the Court House on the corner of Fair Oaks and Walnut. I was still shaking with leftover panic and trying not to cry. Harold was grinning, Stacy was pouting, Flossie seemed resigned to her fate, and Sam looked like a volcano about to erupt. Where Jinx and Vicenzo Maggiori were was anybody’s guess.

  And I was done for. My goose was cooked. I was a goner.

  “I-I thought you didn’t get involved in County matters.” My teeth chattered, my voice shook, my heart raced like a greyhound chasing a rabbit, and I was pretty sure I was going to die from fright any minute. I didn’t feel like fighting with Sam. But darn it, it was the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department that was supposed to watch out for things in the area where we’d all been arrested. Yet here we were, in the Pasadena Police Station, being glowered at by Sam Rotondo, my worst nightmare.

  “We cooperate,” he growled. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”

  Meaning me. I’d have argued, but I was too rattled. Plus, I was still straining not to cry. We Gumms are made of tough stuff. If I cried in front of Sam, I’d hate myself. Of course, since I already hated myself, there was probably no point to the struggle. Nuts.

  After skewering me with a hideous frown fully long enough for me to wish I was dead, or at least visiting my father’s relatives in Massachusetts, Sam jerked his head at a policeman who stood behind Stacy and Flossie. “Take those two to the lobby, Joe. I need to talk to Mrs. Majesty and Mr. Kincaid for a minute.”

  Oh sweet heaven. I watched them go, wishing for the first time since I’d met her that Stacy wasn’t leaving a room in which I existed. As soon as the door shut behind the two women and the copper, Sam turned on me.

  “Damn it, Daisy Majesty, does Billy have any idea where you were and what you were doing tonight?”

  “St-stop shouting at me.” My protest was feeble. I’d done a terrible thing that night and deserved to be shouted at. Sam was quivering like the aspic on one of Aunt Vi’s preserved chickens. Ignoring Harold in favor of berating me, he loomed over me like a mountain, and he was doing a darned good job of making me feel like a crawling bug or a plague-infested rat.

  “Damn it, how could you do this to your husband? Don’t you feel any sense of responsibility at all?”

  That hurt a lot, mainly because my sense of responsibility regarding Billy was as large as an alp—and also because I thought I’d treated my husband shabbily by agreeing to help Mrs. Kincaid. I didn’t want Sam to know how much his words stung. Still, the shock of hearing him shout them made me suck in a gulp of air.

  “Really now, Detective Rotondo. There’s no need for that sort of thing. Daisy has felt terrible about this job ever since my mother talked her into accepting it. She was absolutely petrified the whole of the evening and could speak of nothing but how ashamed she was to have misled her husband.”

  Bless Harold Kincaid’s sweet heart. Sam didn’t buy it, which is no less than I’d expected of him, but I appreciated Harold’s attempt to make him see the truth.

  Sam swung around to face Harold, making poor Harold start. “Misled? That’s a fine word for it, I’d say. She lied to him! Damn it, why did she do it, if she was so damned miserable?”

  “Because she’s a kind-hearted woman who tries to help people. She feels obliged to my mother—don’t ask me why—and she agreed to take this job even though she didn’t want to.”

  “Nuts. Your mother’s got more money than God. Mrs. Majesty’s got a family that needs her a lot more than Mrs. Kincaid does.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. But don’t you see that working at her job as a spiritualist is taking care of her family?” Harold sounded irritated, which was unusual for him.

  “She doesn’t have to work in speakeasies, for God’s sake!”

  I flinched. Harold proved his mettle. He hollered right back at Sam, “She had to work in a speakeasy this time!”

  I’d covered my ears at Sam’s bellow. With Harold’s, I decided I’d cowered enough. Gumms aren’t supposed to cower. Lifting my hands (which still trembled, by the way) from my ears and sitting up straighter, I frowned at Sam. “Stop shouting, both of you.” I turned to Harold. “I appreciate the support, Harold, but Sam knows darned good and well that I have to work for a living. He just doesn’t like how I do it.”

  “No more does your husband,” Sam said, shoving the words through his clenched teeth. I’d seen Sam angry lots of times, but boy, I’d never seen him that mad. Unfortunately for my humble self, I couldn’t fault him for his ire that night.

  Harold tried to help again. “Honestly, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Detective Rotondo. Daisy was merely performing a séance. Neither of us took a drop of alcohol.”

  If I hadn’t been so upset, I might have found the sight of Sam going through the various stages of fury interesting. I’d noticed before that his olive skin, which wrinkled up as when he pursed his mouth when he got mad at me, made yellowish lines, as opposed to the white lines my own fair skin made when likewise engaged. That night I was too miserable to increase my knowledge of which colors olive-skinned Italians turn when infuriated.

  Sam included both Harold and me in his next glower. “And you think that because you weren’t drinking, that makes visiting an illegal gin joint right?”

  “Oh, stop it! Harold didn’t mean that, and you know it. He meant that the only reason we went there was because of the séance. Harold only went because I was too scared to go alone.”

  The full heat of Sam’s continuing fierce glare focused on me. It would. “And why do you suppose that was?”

  Crumb, it felt as if a boulder had lodged in my throat. I knew I was going to cry pretty soon, and I just hated to show Sam how upset I was. I managed to swallow my lump for the nonce. “Stop being so darned sarcastic. I’m not an idiot, you know. I didn’t want anything to do with those awful people.”

  I was beginning to remind myself of Mrs. Kincaid. That was bad because I knew Mrs. Kincaid to be a fluffy-headed nitwit. If there was anything on earth that could have made me feel lower than I already did, it was that.

  But you did it anyway, Sam said flatly. “How much sense does that show, do you think? Did you give a rap about your family while you were fulfilling Mrs. Kincaid’s wishes?”

  That was it. The tears came spilling out. I felt so stupid. “Yes!” I blubbered. “I knew Billy would hate it! That’s why I didn’t tell him.”

  Harold, bless him for a saint, handed me a clean white handkerchief, and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I looked at Sam, wishing I was one of those women whom people feel sorry for when they cry—you know, the fairy-tale princesses of the world who look even more gorgeous than usual when teary-eyed. I’m not. My ey
es get red, my complexion gets blotchy, and my nose runs. Not a pretty sight.

  “I never wanted to hurt Billy, Sam Rotondo, and if you don’t know that by this time, you’re an idiot yourself.”

  My pathetic aspect didn’t affect Sam noticeably. He frowned at me for another couple of seconds, then turned to Harold. “Would you mind leaving us alone for a few moments, Mr. Kincaid? I need to talk with Mrs. Majesty.”

  Harold squinted at Sam and then at me. “Daisy?”

  What the heck. Maybe Sam was going to shoot me and put me out of my misery, although I didn’t expect such a happy ending to that awful day. “It’s all right, Harold.”

  Still, Harold hesitated. “Are you sure?” He cast a glance at Sam that I would have resented had it been directed at me. Sam’s hide was tough as an elephant’s, and he didn’t even seem to notice it. His attention was centered on me—and not in a kindly way, either.

  I heaved a gigantic sigh. “Yeah. I’m sure. Thanks, Harold.”

  “I’ll wait for you right outside the door,” Harold assured me.

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “I’ll take you home,” Harold said.

  “Not until we’ve concluded our business here, Mr. Kincaid. Don’t forget that you’re both still facing booking and arraignment.”

  I think I whimpered.

  “I’ll still take her home,” Harold said firmly.

  “I can take her home, for God’s sake,” said Sam.

  Harold and I exchanged a glance. If I looked as doubtful as Harold, it couldn’t have boosted Sam’s ego any. Harold said, “I don’t know ...”

  The volcano erupted at last. “Oh, for God’s sake! Get the hell out of here, Kincaid. I’m going to talk to Daisy whether she likes it or not, and if she doesn’t, I may just let the two of you spend the night in the slammer instead of letting you out on bail. It’s what you deserve!”

  Afraid he might mean it, I said, “It’s all right, Harold. Sam will take me home.” I made a valiant effort and came up with a grin. “And if he doesn’t, please have the coppers scour the foothills tomorrow.”

  Neither Sam nor Harold thought that was funny. I guess I didn’t, either.

  Chapter Four

  The door closed with a click, and I was alone with Sam. Abandoned. Bereft. Scared out of my wits. Although I was pretty sure he didn’t have one, I attempted an appeal to Sam’s softer side.

  “Do you have to tell Billy about this, Sam?” I sounded pathetic. I felt pathetic.

  My pathos didn’t phase him one little bit, exactly as I’d expected. “I’ll be hanged if I’ll aid and abet you in deceiving your husband, Daisy Majesty. Billy’s my best friend, and he deserves better.”

  Better than me is what he meant. Fearing I’d cry again, I didn’t answer him or try to defend myself. I was well and truly up the creek now. Not only would Billy doubt me forevermore, but I was going to have a criminal record, and my career as a spiritualist to wealthy Pasadena matrons would be ruined. Since I was the chief breadwinner in the family, this was a true catastrophe. What’s even worse was that it was all my own fault, and I couldn’t blame it on a single soul but myself.

  And my only hope of escape from vilification, condemnation, and poverty was Sam Rotondo, a man who considered me only slightly less noxious than cholera. I was done for.

  Silence filled the room like an evil emanation. Unless that was my guilty conscience. While I continued to cower in my hard wooden chair, Sam stood on the other side of the room, his arms folded across his chest, his bushy black eyebrows almost meeting over his dark, angry eyes, which were, naturally, fixed upon yours truly.

  He stood there like a rock, immobile, furious, glowering, until I finally got too antsy to take it any longer. I straightened slightly—my energy level had slumped like a deflated balloon, probably due to my mood of total despair. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

  Silence.

  My perturbation finally burst out into words. “Darn it, Sam, what? Stop staring at me! If you’re going to lock me up, just go ahead and do it! I’m sick of this room and of being glared at by you! I feel bad enough without that!”

  He moved so quickly, I cringed back in my chair, thereby loathing myself as a coward and a craven. Grabbing another hard-backed chair, Sam plunked it down right in front of me with its back facing me. Then he straddled the chair, sticking his face close to mine. This time, with reason, as opposed to the first time when I was merely being cowardly, I recoiled as if he were a bulldog about to attack. “Don’t do that! You startled me!”

  “Listen, Daisy, maybe there’s a way out of this for you—without your having to go to jail. And without ruining Billy’s life.”

  What about my life? I wanted to ask but didn’t, knowing Sam didn’t give a fig about that. Instead, I muttered, “I’d never ruin Billy’s life,” still sounding pitiful. I was also afraid I was lying, so I added, “On purpose.”

  “Huh. Maybe not on purpose. But the way you persist in doing stupid things isn’t geared to help him any.”

  “I’m not stupid!” I cried, stung.

  He said “Huh,” again. Clearly he didn’t believe me. I didn’t either, for that matter. Not after this evening’s debacle.

  I knew I wouldn’t win a verbal battle with Sam, so I said resentfully, “Well? What can I do?”

  “You can help the Pasadena Police Department shut down Vicenzo Maggiori and his outfit.”

  I know I blinked at him. Probably my mouth dropped open, too, although I don’t remember that part. I do know I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Well?” he asked. He did it snappishly, too, as if I was supposed to know what he was talking about, which wasn’t fair.

  I cleared my throat. “Um ... how?” I had a mental image of me strapped with those crisscrossing bandolier things and shooting it out with Jinx and the monster. Machine guns at thirty paces. I couldn’t think of another way I could help. Giving me a gun wouldn’t help, either, of course, unless I used it on Stacy Kincaid, and I was pretty sure Sam didn’t mean that.

  He waved a hand in my face, as if to shut me up, which I thought was rude although I didn’t point it out to him, thereby showing good sense for perhaps the first time all day. He was in a bad enough mood already. “I’m thinking.”

  All sorts of testy retorts sprang to my mind. I didn’t utter them, either. I did murmur, “Let me know when you’re through.” If your brain doesn’t explode.

  He shot me another frown, which I didn’t think I deserved. Much.

  I’m not sure how long we sat there, me quivering with dread inside and Sam thinking so hard I expected to see smoke plume out from his ears, but it seemed like forever. After the end of time or maybe a little longer, he sat back, pressed his lips tight, and took to glaring at me once more. I endured this as long as I could, but I finally blew up.

  “Doggone it, stop staring at me! I’m not a fiend, Sam Rotondo, and you know it! I’m only trying to earn a living. And I don’t know what you think I can do to stop those lousy bootleggers!”

  “I do.”

  I blinked again. “You do?”

  “Yes. Now shut up while I think it through.” He gave me an especially hot scowl. “It’ll do you good to stew for a while longer. Think about Billy and what you’re doing to him while you’re out consorting with criminals.”

  “I wasn’t consorting,” I keened, crushed.

  “Like hell. Shut up.”

  Although I didn’t appreciate being told to shut up, and I really hated that he thought I was a bad wife, even though I thought it, too. I shut up, understanding that discretion was, under the circumstances, the better part of common sense. I did huff once or twice. Couldn’t help myself. Sam didn’t seem to notice, which was probably just as well.

  After another eternity or two, he looked me in the eye and said, “All right, here’s what I want you to do.”

  I swallowed hard and didn’t speak. Every once in a while reason will overtake my innate Gumm passi
on for expressing myself.

  “You need to hang out with Maggiori as much as you can for as long as you can.”

  My eyes popped wide open, and I regret to say I screeched at him. “What? I can’t do that! I hate that man and never want to see him again! You just accused me of being a criminal and a bad wife because I did exactly that!”

  He flapped his hand in my face again. This time I swatted it away without giving a thought to discretion. “Stop doing that!”

  “I’m not through explaining my plan to you yet,” he growled.

  It was my turn to “Huh,” so I did.

  “What I want you to do is gain the confidence of Maggiori and Jenkins and their hoodlum cronies and tell me everything—and I mean everything—you learn while in their company.”

  I sucked in approximately ten gallons of stuffy police-department air and let it out in a whoosh. “You’re crazy.”

  His grin made my stomach ache. “It’s the only way you’re going to get out of this without a criminal record, Daisy. You don’t want Billy to think you’re more of an idiot than he already does, do you?”

  I gasped. “Stop it! Billy doesn’t either think I’m an idiot.”

  “He certainly doesn’t approve of the way you work.”

  “The way I work is totally aboveboard and always has been, darn it. I’m good at what I do.”

  Sam looked at me with such a sour expression on his face, I’d have sworn he’d been drinking vinegar. “You’re quibbling, and you know it. Billy disapproves of what you do to earn money.”

  My gaze dropped. “I know it.” What’s more, up until that evening, I’d thought Billy was being too hard on me. After what I’d done that night, I wasn’t so sure any longer.

  “Then you can think of this as a way to redeem yourself.”

  “Redeem myself?” I tried to give Sam a cynical grimace, but it didn’t work the way I wanted it to. “I’ll probably end up dead.”