High Spirits [Spirits 03]

by Alice Duncan

  Except for my meeting with Sam at the library and Flossie on the corner of Fair Oaks and Colorado at noonish, I didn’t have a single other thing to do that day. I could almost relax for once in a blue moon. Well, except for trying to talk my family into attending the Salvation Army church the next day.

  And then, all of a sudden, as if a bolt of lightning had struck me, it occurred to me that my entire family didn’t have to go to church with me! I could jolly well tell them that I was going to meet Flossie Mosser at the Salvation Army church, and they could all go to the Methodist church as usual if they wanted to. I’m not that independent as a rule, but even I’m entitled to a day off every once in a while.

  I think my chin must have had a defiant lift to it that morning because when I more or less staggered into the kitchen, Pa said, “What’s the matter, Daisy?”

  “Just tired,” I said, not fibbing. I really was tired. Worn to a nub was more like it.

  Fortunately for me, Pa dropped the subject. “Your aunt Vi left something she called a breakfast casserole on the warming plate for you and Billy.”

  God bless my aunt. “Great. I’ve gotta go check the bathroom mirror first, though. I think I need help.”

  When I got a good look at my frazzled features, I realized how true those words were. I’d already realized my eyes were puffy. That always happened after I’d been crying. But I hadn’t realized how bloodshot they were, or how haggard I looked. Oh, boy.

  Fortunately, my blessed mother always had a supply of boric acid on hand, and a little eyecup. After I’d rinsed my poor, abused eyes, they didn’t look quite so bad. They’d look better if I could lie down with a couple of cucumber slices covering my closed lids, but I’d do that after breakfast.

  I was starving to death. Not literally, of course. In actual fact, I was far from the idealized boyish figure of a woman depicted in the fashion magazines I read religiously in order to gather ideas for my spiritualist wardrobe. I had curves, by gum, no matter how hard I tried to hide them. That’s what comes of living in a household with Aunt Vi. But I’d rather live with Aunt Vi and be a little rounder than was the fashion than live without her and not even have good food to cheer me up.

  And cheer up I did, if only nominally, when I dished out a plate of Aunt Vi’s breakfast “casserole,” whatever that was, and set it before Billy with a sliced orange. He sniffed at his plate and looked up at me quizzically.

  “What’s this?”

  “New dish. Aunt Vi must have found it in a magazine or something. It smells good.”

  “What’s in it?”

  I sat down with my own plate and studied the food thereon. “Looks to me like eggs, sausage and potatoes with cheese on top. It looks as if the potatoes serve as a kind of crust.”

  “Hmm. Just like breakfast, in fact,” Billy mumbled.

  Pa, who was still at the kitchen table reading his newspaper, laughed. “It’s exactly like breakfast. Try it. You’ll like it.”

  He was right. I’m not sure why Vi decided to mix everything together the way she did, but the end result was heavenly. If I could cook, I’d make it a lot. Thank God I don’t have to worry about breakfasts. Or lunches or dinners, either, for that matter.

  “Whatcha doing today, Daisy?” Billy asked as he sipped his coffee. He’d sighed as deeply as he was able when he’d finished his breakfast, a sure sign that he’d enjoyed it.

  I’d enjoyed it too, but Billy’s question brought reality crashing in on me with a vengeance. Shooting a quick glance at the clock—it was only eight o’clock, which meant I had about an hour and a half to get myself ready—I sighed, too, although not with pleasure.

  “I have to meet Sam at the library to tell him what I learned last night.” Frowning, I added, “For what it’s worth. I didn’t hear much.”

  “Oh?” Billy’s eyebrows quirked up with interest.

  Pa laid his paper beside his empty plate. “Oh?”

  With another sigh, I said, “Yeah. I heard Mr. Maggiori talking to somebody on the telephone last night. I have to tell Sam what I think the conversation meant.”

  “You’re being mighty cagey, Daisy,” said Billy with a hint of disapproval.

  If I sighed any more, I’d pass out from hyperventilation. “I know. But ... darn it, these guys are killers. I don’t want my family involved with them.”

  “We’re already involved with them,” growled Billy.

  In an effort to divert us from this tangent, Pa asked, “How can we be involved with them if you only tell us what you heard?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted sorrowfully, “but I’d rather you didn’t know anything. I wish I didn’t know anything. I wish I’d said no when Sam asked me to do this.” Of course, I’d be in jail if I had, but Pa and Billy didn’t need to know that.

  “You’re really scared of these folks, aren’t you, sweetie?” Pa asked.

  I loved my family so much. “Yes. I am. And I’m scared they might come after you if you know anything.”

  “How about you tell us all about it after it’s all over,” Pa suggested. He glanced at Billy. “That all right with you, son?”

  Billy hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I guess that’s fair.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it. I really hate this.”

  And with that, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. I managed a half-hour in a bubble bath with cucumber slices over my closed eyes, but I was afraid if I stayed that way very long, I’d go to sleep, drown, and miss my two appointments. While that didn’t sound like a half-bad idea, I knew I’d have to pay later if I failed to meet Sam, and I’d have sorely disappointed Flossie, who didn’t need any more disappointments in her life.

  Therefore, I was at the library at precisely ten-thirty. Sam and I hadn’t set up a specific place to meet, so I stayed in the courtyard, pacing, waiting for him to show up. He was late, which irked me, as the Pasadena Police Station was pretty much right across the street from the library. All right, so he had to walk around the block and down the street a bit. So what? I’d had to drive from way down the street. Truth to tell, the library, on the corner of Walnut Street and Fair Oaks Avenue, was relatively close to both of our places of origination. Therefore, it was stupid for either of us to be late, and I wasn’t, so Sam was the only stupid one of us that morning.

  Not that it mattered, since he held all the cards in this particular deck.

  Nevertheless, I frowned when I saw him lumber up the steps to the library. I met him under the center arch with a crisp, “You’re late.”

  He glanced at me and grunted. It figures.

  “So what do you have to tell me?” he asked when we were both in the courtyard.

  “Not here. Come to the periodical room.”

  I know he rolled his eyes, although I couldn’t see him do so because I turned on my smart brown heel and led the way into the library, across the main floor, and down the stairs to the periodical room. I’d chosen this room because it wasn’t generally occupied until school let out and all the kids came here to do research for their next term papers.

  Sam followed me into the archives, muttering under his breath. I didn’t care.

  When we got to the stack holding old issues of Vanity Fair, which was toward the back of the room, I turned, grabbed Sam by his coat sleeve, and tugged him into the aisle. He was scowling hideously by that time.

  “It’s somebody in the police department.”

  His scowl got even more hideous. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The snitch you wanted me to discover for you, darn it!” We were both whispering, which limited the amount of rancor I could put into my voice, but I tried really hard. “The bad guy works for the police.”

  Sam paused for a second before whispering, “How the devil do you know that?”

  In order not to holler at him, I sucked in a huge breath and held it for several seconds. It tasted like old paper. After I was pretty sure I wouldn’t throw a tantrum, I growled, “Because Magg
iori told whoever it was that he paid better than the law-enforcement people did.”

  Sam was silent while he mulled over my revelation. “That doesn’t mean the police department. It could be the sheriff. Or a private firm.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Of course, it doesn’t mean the police department, but it gives you somewhere to start, doesn’t it?”

  “What else did you hear?” he asked, not bothering to answer my question.

  “Only that Maggiori told whoever it was that he was opening up on Monday night, and that he’d pay big-time if the guy—or girl—” I modified, in an effort to achieve impartiality, “told him when the next raid would be.”

  “You didn’t get a name?” He sounded as if he thought I’d shirked my duty.

  Through pinched lips, I said, “No.”

  “Huh.”

  I’d had it. “What do you mean ‘huh’?” I snapped. “Darn it, Sam Rotondo, I’m putting my life in danger to tell you this stuff, and all you can say is ‘huh’?’”

  “Your life’s not in danger,” muttered Sam.

  “Oh? I’m having to consort with a pack of gangsters and bootleggers, and I’m frightened to death the whole time, darn it! And it’s all because I’m trying to help you.”

  His eyebrows were pretty formidable when they were drawn down into a V the way they were when he glared at me then. “The only reason you’re trying to help the force is because otherwise you’d have been arrested.”

  “Maybe.” I was feeling mighty sullen by that time. “But that’s only because I was trying to help a friend, and you guys raided the joint.”

  He said, “Huh,” again, clapped his hat onto his head, wheeled around, and started to march off. When he got to the end of the aisle, he turned. “Thank you.”

  Good Lord. I said, “You’re ever so welcome,” in a voice so caustic, I’m surprised my mouth didn’t wither.

  The morning got better after that. Miss Petrie, my friend in the cataloguing department, had saved three new books for me. I decided that, since the last two days and this morning had been so horrid so far, I’d jolly well sit in the reading room and begin one of them. It was great: The Devil’s Paw, by E. Phillips Oppenheim. It had come out a year or so before, but Mr. Oppenheim was from England, and I guess it took a while for books to get across the ocean. Anyhow, I hadn’t read it yet. I was disappointed when time came for me to meet Flossie on Colorado and Fair Oaks, and not merely because I was sick of hanging out with gangsters and their various outriders.

  However, kindness beckoned, so I did my Christian duty and left off reading right smack in the middle of a thrilling chapter. I’d planned to walk to the corner of Fair Oaks and Colorado, so I visited the Chevrolet on Walnut in front of the library, shoved the books into the backseat, and made my way south on Fair Oaks.

  I heard the Salvation Army band before I saw them. They were on Colorado, and when I turned east on that street, I not only saw the band, but Flossie Mosser, too. She stood there gazing with rapture at Johnny Buckingham, who was playing his cornet for all he was worth in a rousing rendition of “When the Saints Come Rolling In,” not a hymn we Methodists sing as a rule, but a lively one. I like it, anyway.

  Which reminded me that I needed to telephone Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director, and tell him I wouldn’t be in the choir the next day. He’d not throw a fit. I mean, I’m a fairly good alto, and I am sometimes selected to sing duets with a soprano, but I fear I’m not indispensable.

  Flossie, I was pleased to see, was demurely clad that day. What’s more, the outfit, a dark green suit with black shoes and hat, wasn’t one that we’d bought at Nash’s, so evidently she’d taken my lesson to heart and had actually picked out a tasteful costume on her own. I felt like a fond grandmother, or something.

  She didn’t notice me until I touched her arm. Then she started like a frightened faun and whirled around. When she saw me, she slapped a hand over her heart and let out a gusty breath. “Daisy! I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “Whom did you expect?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “I was afraid Jinx might’ve followed me.”

  I doubted Jinx had that much interest in the poor woman except as a punching bag, although I didn’t say so. I only smiled and said, “Nope. It’s only me.” I also doubted that Flossie knew much about grammar.

  The last crescendo sounded, and Johnny Buckingham, panting slightly, joined us on the corner while one of his lieutenants or privates, or whatever she was, handed around the tambourine for donations. I plunked in two bits, and Flossie, looking embarrassed, deposited a rolled-up bill.

  “How are you two lovely ladies today?” Johnny asked. He seemed to have eyes only for Flossie.

  “I’m fine,” I said, thinking things were moving along smoothly for once. Well, unless Jinx got a hint of the attraction between these two. Then God alone knew what might happen.

  “Me, too,” said Flossie shyly.

  “Will you be joining us for church tomorrow?” Johnny finally tore his gaze from Flossie and aimed it at me. “It would be great to see you and Billy in the congregation.”

  “You’ll see me, anyhow,” I told him. “I’m not sure about the rest of my family.”

  “Well, I hope you can all come.”

  I had a sudden inspiration. That happens sometimes. “Say, Johnny, if you’re not doing anything for lunch, want to join Flossie and me? We’re going to have a bite at ...” My voice trailed out, since we hadn’t decided on a place.

  “Sure,” he said with marked enthusiasm. “How about we grab a bite at the Crown.”

  “What a wonderful idea!” I’d forgotten all about the Crown Chop Suey Palace on Fair Oaks, which was silly of me since I adored Chinese food. Well ... I adored pretty much all food, actually. “Do you like Chinese, Flossie?”

  She looked at me blankly, as if nobody’d ever before bothered to ask her what she liked, then nodded. “Sure.”

  “Great. Be right back.”

  So Flossie and I waited while Johnny stowed his cornet in its case, spoke briefly with some of his minions, and rejoined us on the corner. “It’s only a block or so away.” And we all walked to the restaurant.

  Lunch was swell. I especially liked the cashew chicken. My sense of duty did not desert me, though, even there and then. As we munched happily, Flossie blushing shyly every time Johnny addressed a comment or question to her, I thought. Thinking occasionally hurts my cranium, but I do it anyway.

  While I was fairly sure by this time of Flossie’s overall, or perhaps that should be underlying, character, I still didn’t think it would be a good idea to entrust her with the nature of my—or rather, the police’s—interest in Maggiori. Not, as I said before, because I thought she was a bad person, but because she clearly wasn’t tops in the decision-making department. She remained a weak vessel and, while I had great hopes for her if she stuck with Johnny Buckingham and Co., I wasn’t ready to trust her with my life. So to speak.

  That being the case, I still might be able to get some information from her. And, as Johnny Buckingham was perhaps the only person in the world whom I’d trust with a secret—well, besides Harold Kincaid—I figured I might be able to do it as we dined.

  “Say, Johnny, did you know that I was doing a séance in a speakeasy when the joint was raided a couple of weeks ago?”

  Johnny almost choked to death on his noodles. Then he laughed so hard, he had to wipe his eyes. I tried not to resent this reaction from an old friend.

  “Oh, my Lord, Daisy, does Billy know about this?”

  I sighed. Johnny knew me too well. “No, not really. He only knows that—” Sweet heaven, I was about to say he only knows I’m working with the police. Sometimes I think I need to be locked away in a safe place and only let out on a short leash. Like Spike. “He only knows that I conducted a séance for Mrs. Kincaid. He doesn’t know where I did it or what happened there.”

  Johnny shook his head, although he looked more amused than censorious. I guess
when you’ve been down as low as Johnny was after the war, you become tolerant of your fellow human beings’ foibles. “You’re really something, Daisy.”

  Flossie broke in. “She’s swell.”

  I appreciated this accolade and decided to take the plunge. “Say, Flossie, I overheard Mr. Maggiori talking on the telephone to someone last night. It sounded as if it was somebody who gives him tips about police raids. No wonder the police have trouble shutting his operation down completely.”

  “Oh, sure,” she said happily. “That’s Pete Frye. He’s one of Mr. Maggiori’s tame coppers.”

  I almost dropped my teeth.

  Flossie misunderstood my reaction. “I know. It’s a shame that some coppers are dirty, but they are.”

  “Um ... I see.” I drank some tea, thinking I could have saved myself a whole lot of heartache and worry if I’d only asked Flossie the name of the rat earlier in the game.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What?”

  I hadn’t expected Sam Rotondo to be overjoyed at my request, but he didn’t have to bellow into my eardrum.

  “I said get over here right now.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.” Curse it! Why was the man so darned dense?

  “Cripes,” he said.

  “It’s one of your very own.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s not me you don’t believe, curse you, Sam Rotondo. I’m only relaying information.” I think I really hated him at that moment in time. “It’s one of your very own people,” I repeated stiffly into the receiver. I didn’t dare be more specific, since the telephone wire wasn’t a secure way to relay information.

  Silence.

  Well, to heck with that. “His name—”

  “Stop!” bellowed Sam.

  If I went deaf after this telephone conversation, I was going to sue the Pasadena Police Department. I said nothing.

  “We’ve got to meet somewhere. I don’t want this to go over the telephone wires.”

  “You can jolly come here, then,” I told him.

  “Well ...”

  “I’m not stepping foot out of this house one more time today, Sam Rotondo.”