High Spirits [Spirits 03]

by Alice Duncan

  Although you’d think she didn’t have another tear in her, having cried pretty continuously since about nine o’clock the previous evening, Flossie began leaking again. “Oh, Daisy,” she whispered. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you. For everything.” She sniffled, and I handed her one of my clean hankies.

  “It’s okay, Flossie. Johnny will be sure that you’re safe and have a place to stay and ...” My voice trailed off because I didn’t know what else to say. That Johnny’d help her get a job? That Johnny would find her a place to live? Well, I suppose he might do those things, but I didn’t know it for certain, so, recollecting that discretion is the better part of valor—although I don’t know what valor had to do with the current situation—I shut up. Mercifully, I might add.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Sure.” I patted her arm some more. When I drew my hand away, I noticed I’d managed to make a handprint in the dust on her sleeve. Oh, boy, the two of us were truly a couple of messes. “Say, Flossie, would you like to wash up a little bit before Johnny gets here? We’re both pretty dusty.”

  “Could I?”

  She sounded so pathetic, I darned near started crying. “Sure. I’ll show you to the bathroom.”

  I decided that after Flossie cleaned herself up as much as she could, Sam finally left for wherever he lived, and everybody in my family went to bed, I was going to treat myself to a long, hot bath with some of those sweet-smelling bubbling bath salts Billy had given me for Christmas.

  And I did.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning was Saturday and everybody except Ma got to sleep later than usual. Poor Ma, even though she’d stayed up until almost three in the morning, still had to go to her job at the Marengo Hotel. Fortunately, she only worked a half-day on Saturday.

  Billy and I were silent as we dressed and I made the bed. The silence wasn’t fraught with any sort of emotion; we were both merely worn out. I didn’t even glance at Billy when he opened his dresser drawer, although my heart lurched a tiny bit when I heard the cork come out of his morphine solution. I told myself that morphine was simply a part of Billy’s life and that there was nothing anyone, least of all Billy, could do about it. My heart gave another brief ache, but it was too exhausted to ache for long.

  When we were dressed, I staggered out to the kitchen and plopped myself on a chair while Billy went to the bathroom. It was around ten in the morning, hours later than we usually awoke and got moving.

  “’Lo, Vi,” I said to my aunt, who was preparing breakfast as she always did. We were so lucky to have Vi living with us. “Where’s Pa?”

  “He went for a walk.”

  I glanced at the floor, where Spike sat, eagerly waiting for food to drop from heaven. Or me, which was a more likely scenario. “He didn’t take the dog.”

  “He thought you needed the dog more than he did this morning.”

  My darling father. “That was nice of him.” I did need Spike, especially that morning. “I guess Ma’s gone to work.”

  “Yes.”

  Short and snappy. I sensed my aunt wasn’t happy with me that morning. I guess Ma or Pa had filled her in on all the excitement. Oh, dear.

  My suspicions were confirmed when Vi said sternly, “Your mother doesn’t need this grief.”

  True, but neither did I. Sensing it would be unwise to say so, I aimed for a repentant tone when I said, “I know.” In truth, repentance was easy to achieve, since I felt so very guilty about worrying my family.

  Aunt Vi only harrumphed. Then she placed a plate of waffles and bacon in front of me, along with a sliced orange—we had two orange trees in our backyard, and we had tons of oranges almost all year long—so I guess she wasn’t too mad at me.

  “Thanks, Vi. This looks delicious.”

  Billy rolled himself out of the bathroom along about then and came into the kitchen. Vi blessed him likewise. “Thanks, Vi. What’s the occasion?”

  “According to Daisy’s father,” Vi said stiffly, “Daisy has helped to capture an entire gang of bootlegging crooks. That detective friend of yours telephoned early this morning.”

  “Sam?” Billy looked up, surprised. “What did he have to say?”

  “He wanted to talk to you or Daisy, but I said you both needed your sleep. So he said he’d come over around three this afternoon to give you some important information.”

  Billy and I looked at each other, and it seemed to me that Billy was as dismayed as I about this news. I think I whimpered. I know I said, “Oh, no. Now what?”

  Billy patted my hand and forced a grin. “It’ll be all right, Daisy.”

  “I doubt it.”

  Although weary and sorry that I’d put my family at risk, I’d thus far during the approximately forty minutes I’d been awake that day, figured my problems, as regarded bootleggers at least, were at an end. Sam’s impending visit not only made me wonder about that, but it successfully killed my appetite. Boy, that doesn’t happen often. I ate my orange and shoved the bacon and waffles around on my plate for a few minutes.

  “Daisy Gumm Majesty, you’re too old to be playing with your food,” Vi snapped.

  I regret to say that I burst out crying and ran from the table, flinging, “I don’t want to do any more work for the police!” over my shoulder as I did so. Vi and Billy both probably thought I was crazy, although Billy finished his breakfast before he joined me in our bedroom. By that time I was face down on the bed, Spike at my side, wishing I were dead. Again.

  “Hey, Daisy, it’ll be all right. Sam’s probably only going to tell you what they’ve done with the crooks.”

  “Huh.”

  He took the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Spike. “Come on, Daisy, get up and get dressed. It’s Saturday, and maybe we can take Spike for a walk. The weather’s not too cold, and it’s sunny out.”

  Wiping my eyes, I pushed myself to a sitting position, beginning to feel guilty for being such a sissy. Billy was probably right, and Sam was probably going to do exactly what Billy expected him to do. My heart didn’t buy it, but I knew I owed it to my husband, the only man I’d ever loved and ever would love, to get control of my emotions.

  “Sure,” I said, the word as thick as mud. “Yeah. You’re right.” Deciding to forego wallowing for another little while, I surveyed my spouse.

  Poor Billy still hadn’t gained what little strength he’d had before his recent illness, but his color was better, and he seemed to be looking a little healthier every day. A walk sounded like a good idea.

  “Let’s go for a walk!” I said it brightly so that Spike would understand.

  He did, all right. At the word walk he bounded off the bed, ran around in a circle twice, and raced out to the service porch where his leash hung.

  I sighed. “Just let me get my coat.”

  “I’ll get my jacket,” said Billy.

  The telephone rang just before Billy, Spike, and I got to the front door. I glanced back at Aunt Vi, indecisive.

  Vi didn’t suffer from such wishy-washy sentimental claptrap. She waved us off imperiously and said, “I’ll tell whoever it is that you’re not home.” Then she added, “And that you won’t be home until Monday morning. In fact, I’ll tell everyone who calls that.”

  An entire weekend free. Sounded like heaven to me. Provided, of course, that the telephone call was for me. As I opened the front door and pushed Billy’s chair through it, attempting to hold Spike at bay at the same time—he always lunged for the wide open spaces as soon as they were revealed unto him—I heard Vi say, “Mrs. Majesty is unavailable until Monday morning. Please telephone again then.”

  Billy chuckled. “Saved by your aunt.”

  “Thank God for aunts.”

  Therefore, it was with a relatively light heart that I pushed Billy’s chair down the ramp on our front porch that fine morning in early March. Spring was just about to burst forth, and I no longer had to consort with bootleggers and gangsters. Sure, I still had an ill husband, a s
ick father, and a whole host of nutty clients—and Sam Rotondo—but I was used to dealing with those things. It was the criminal part of my life I was thrilled to be rid of.

  “Oh, Daisy!”

  The warbling cry came from across the street when I was not more than a house down from our bungalow. It was more difficult to convince Spike to stop than it was to halt the forward motion of Billy’s chair, particularly since we had one of those newfangled wheelchairs that Billy could operate himself via the oversized wheels. Therefore, I only had to struggle with Spike in order to see who had hailed me thus.

  “Mrs. Killebrew!” I was surprised to see our across-the-street neighbor waving at me.

  She came over to us and, avoiding Spike through some means known only to her, she grasped my leash hand. “Oh, Daisy, I can’t tell you how much Jerome and I appreciate what you’ve done for us!”

  Jerome was her husband, but that’s about the only part of her speech I understood. I opened my mouth to say so, when she rushed on.

  “I just think you’re wonderful, and I wanted you to know it. I’m baking a chocolate cake right now—it’s in the oven—and I’ll bring it over as soon as it’s frosted.”

  “Uh ...” I was, as they say, at a loss for words.

  Billy said, “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Killebrew.”

  Bursting into tears, Mrs. Killebrew flapped her hand in the air, whipped out a hankie, and said, “No, no. It’s we who should be thanking your heroic wife.”

  And she dashed back across the street. I stared after her, completely baffled. Then I looked down at Billy, who was likewise impaired.

  Not so Spike. He wanted to go. So we went.

  Our walk was interrupted another couple of times by neighbors, however. They all came up to thank me. For what, I didn’t know, although I suspected it had something to do with the raid on the speakeasy.

  “Shoot, Billy, I hope word hasn’t gone around that I’ve been consorting with those horrible people at the speak.”

  He shrugged. “If it has, it looks as if folks don’t mind.”

  Neither one of us could figure out how anyone could have learned of my involvement so fast, although we didn’t dwell on it a whole lot. We walked clear around the block that day, which isn’t as meager a walk as it might sound, since those were long blocks. It felt good to be out and about on a gorgeous day instead of crammed into a stuffy, smoke-filled speakeasy. I felt free for the first time in a month, at least. And Billy was as healthy as we could expect him to be, although not forever, I hoped. He might even begin trying to walk again one of these days.

  Thus it was that I felt relatively rested and happy when Sam Rotondo showed up at our house, as threatened, at about three o’clock that afternoon. It was he who explained our neighbors’ odd behavior.

  “You didn’t read the papers this morning?” he asked incredulously after he’d parked himself on a chair in the living room with my family and me scattered here and there in the room, staring at him. He looked pointedly at Pa, who grinned sheepishly.

  “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, so I hid the paper.”

  “Huh. So that’s why I couldn’t find it,” muttered Billy.

  I seldom glanced at the newspaper, so I hadn’t missed it.

  Sam held up the morning’s copy of the Pasadena Star News. To my utter horror, a big black headline across the top read: LOCAL PASADENA MATRON FOILS BOOTLEGGERS.

  My mouth fell opened and stayed that way. It was probably just as well, or I’d have screeched at Sam.

  Sam didn’t seem to care. “Listen here,” said he. “‘Local matron, Daisy Gumm Majesty, wife of war hero William Majesty, assisted the Pasadena Police Department in the arrest of several criminals who have been operating a speakeasy in various locations throughout our fair city and surrounding areas. Before Mrs. Majesty agreed to assist with the investigation, the police department had been stymied in their attempts to capture the vicious gang.’”

  “Good Lord,” I whispered, more appalled than flattered. What would this do for my business? What would this do to my family? What would this do to me, for crumb’s sake?

  Relentlessly, Sam read on: “‘Hailed as a heroine for undertaking such a hazardous endeavor—’”

  I squealed an incoherent protest. It was an undignified noise, but I couldn’t help myself. It had been hazardous, blast it! Even the newspaper said so. Then I buried my face in my hands.

  Sam read even more: “‘Detective Sergeant Samuel L. Rotondo, who worked closely with Mrs. Majesty during the execution of this case, hailed Mrs. Majesty as a true heroine.”

  “Ohhhhh!” Me, again. And I really didn’t like that word “execution.”

  “‘The acting Chief of the Pasadena Police Department, Mr. O’Dell, declared that the department intends to honor Mrs. Majesty with an award for meritorious service, as well as present to her the reward that attaches to the capture and conviction of the criminals.’”

  A word in that part of the narrative caught my attention, and I stopped moaning. Looking up at Sam, I said, “Reward?”

  He grinned. He would. “Reward. There’s a big reward on these guys. One originating in Detroit and one from New York City.”

  My entire family, including Ma, who’d napped after returning home from work, turned to stare at me. I stared back, only managing to whisper, “Oh, my.”

  “Mind you,” Sam said, cautioning me not to become too ecstatic, “you won’t get the reward until the creeps are convicted.”

  I said, “Oh.” I still couldn’t quite take it in.

  “However,” he went on, “the Chief wants to have a ceremony next Wednesday at one-thirty. All the papers will be there, and you’re going to get a certificate suitable for framing to hang on your wall.”

  I swallowed hard, something ugly having occurred to me. “And you’re sure none of Maggiori’s associates will come after me with Tommy guns? I’ve heard these guys are vicious.” Heck, I’d seen how vicious some of them were with my own very eyeballs.

  “They won’t dare. You’re a heroine. If they go after you, their bosses will be furious. The gangs don’t shoot women.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” I said darkly. In fact, the reason I stopped looking at newspapers was that I got tired of reading about all the innocent victims of these so-called gangs back East.

  “Well,” Sam said, amending his statement. “They don’t go after women on purpose.”

  Somehow that didn’t make me feel a whole lot better, although that other word, reward, softened my worry some.

  Billy took my hand. “Hey, Daisy, this is good! I didn’t realize what an important thing you were doing. Sorry if I was crabby a couple of times.”

  Turning to gaze at my husband, I thought, a couple of times? I said only, “Thanks, Billy. I was really scared.”

  He pulled me into a hug, which surprised me almost more than anything else that had happened to date. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you were scared.”

  And then everyone except Sam stood up and rushed me. I was overwhelmed with hugs and congratulations from Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi, all of whom beamed fondly at me. Poor Aunt Vi told me she’d been fielding telephone calls for me all day long, and that I’d probably be spending all of Monday on the ’phone.

  I didn’t mind that. In spite of my remaining misgivings, it appeared that my misery was over. And evidently it wasn’t merely over, but I’d come out of the whole thing smelling like the proverbial rose. It truly boggled my mind.

  My mind being boggled did not, however, prevent my entire family and me from piling into the Chevrolet and riding up to City Hall the following Wednesday afternoon at one-thirty. There, while flashbulbs went off all around us, one of the two men who were handling the affairs of the police department since the resignation of Chief McIntyre, Captain Louis O'Dell, handed me a lovely parchment certificate acknowledging my “bravery and valiant efforts in service of the citizens of Pasadena, California.” Wow. I never in a million years expected anythin
g like that.

  The two acting police chiefs, Captain O’Dell and Mr. Harley Newell, both shook my hand. The mayor shook my hand. Sam Rotondo—who shocked my socks off by appearing in full uniform for the ceremony—shook my hand. A whole bunch of other people shook my hand, too, and my picture showed up in both the evening editions and the morning editions of all the newspapers. The neighbors not only brought chocolate cakes, but flowers and presents and all sorts of other things. My business, which was already good, boomed until I wasn’t sure I could handle it all.

  Boy, you just never know about these things, do you?

  * * * * *

  I didn’t discover what had thrown Mrs. Kincaid into a tizzy about Stacy until we attended the engagement party for Miss Florence Mosser to Mr. Johnny Buckingham, which was held in the Fellowship Hall of the Salvation Army Church about three weeks after I’d been feted by the city fathers.

  The whole family attended this function, too. I was ever so happy for Flossie and Johnny, who looked great together. Flossie had a glow about her I never expected to see, and she looked positively charming in her Salvation Army uniform.

  As soon as she saw us enter the room, me pushing Billy’s chair, and Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi trailing behind us, Flossie squealed and rushed over to us. Her easy tears were flowing, but since she didn’t wear makeup any longer, they didn’t stain her cheeks—devoid now of any hint of bruising—with dark streaks.

  “Oh, Daisy, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me!” said she.

  Johnny was hot on her heels. “And I can’t, either. You’re the best, Daisy.” He shook my hand warmly once Flossie released me. She’d had me in a bear hug for a second there.

  “Shoot,” I gasped—Flossie’s bear hug had been fierce— “I didn’t do anything, really.”

  They both said, “Ha.” I guess they didn’t believe me. They were captured by well-wishers then, and my family and I proceeded merrily into the room.

  And then I nearly fainted dead away. “Billy!” I whispered, agog.