Scarlet Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “True enough.” Suddenly Harold took both of my shoulders with both of his hands. Gazing down upon me with a ferocious frown, he said, “Daisy, if you and Sam ever have children, promise me you’ll drown them if they show any signs of becoming like Stacy.”

  “Harold!” But I laughed again.

  It was a jollier Daisy Gumm Majesty who meandered into the kitchen after Harold left. “Want me to set the table, Vi? Or do anything to help. Help that doesn’t require me to cook, I mean.”

  With a cheerful chuckle, Vi said, “I’d never ask you to do anything requiring you to cook, Daisy. But yes, please set table.”

  Naturally—this is really stupid, but it’s true—her answer swept me right back into the dumps. Which is ridiculous, and I knew it. I knew I was a disaster in the kitchen. Yet when Vi acknowledged my inadequacy, my feelings were hurt. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

  “What are we having?” I asked, my voice meek.

  Vi turned around and looked at me. “What’s wrong, Daisy?”

  I shook my head. “Nothing. Nothing, really. I just…I feel bad about not being able to cook. Poor Sam. He doesn’t deserve a wife who can’t even fry an egg. I can fix toast in our toaster, but when we had to use toasting forks, I always burned the toast. To this day George teases me about the time I tried to fix fried chicken for a picnic. The outside was crunchy, and the inside was raw. Why am I such a bad cook, Vi?” I sounded pathetic. I felt pathetic.

  “Daisy!” said my aunt, coming over and giving me a quick hug before she went back to the range. “What in the world brought this on? If you paid as much attention to what you’re doing in the kitchen as you do when you’re at your sewing machine or your Ouija board, you’d be a great cook.”

  She’d told me the same thing before, and I still didn’t believe it. Trying to smile, I said, “You’re probably right.”

  After gazing at me over her shoulder for another couple of seconds, Vi shook her head. “You know, Daisy, not everyone is given the same gifts. You’re a whiz at sewing and everything having to do with sewing. When I tried to sew something as easy as a set of table napkins, I nearly killed myself.”

  This was a revelation. “You did? How?”

  “I ran over my thumb with the sewing-machine needle.”

  “Ow!” I know I made an awful face, because Vi laughed. However, I didn’t think running over your thumb with a sewing-machine needle was anything to laugh about.

  “It’s the truth. And Peggy’s no better at cooking than you are. Yet she’s a whiz with mathematics, and I’m not.”

  “I’m not, either. Getting through algebra in high school nearly killed me.”

  Vi laughed again and continued stirring something in a pot on the stove. “To answer your original question, we’re having creamed chicken and noodles. The chicken’s all made up and in the warming oven. I added green peas to it, and we’ll have cooked carrots on the side. I’m just stirring salt into the water for the noodles now.”

  “Sounds good. Um…why do you add salt to the noodle water?”

  “It’s the only way to flavor the noodles. Without salt, they’re quite bland.”

  “Oh.” I thought noodles were just naturally bland, and that’s why people put stuff on top of them, but I thought it better not to pry further into the mystical art of cookery. Vi’s lessons in same had never remained in my brain for any length of time. And honestly, I’d tried to concentrate on cooking! I’d even been forced against my will—by, of all people, Stacy Kincaid, which now strikes me as typical of that daughter of Satan—to teach a cooking class at the Salvation Army. The lessons went well only because of Vi’s patient, impressive and remarkable tutelage, but her lessons hadn’t stuck with me. No matter what Vi told me about various people’s various gifts, I knew I was a failure, and that was that.

  Needless to say, I’d resumed my state of melancholy by the time Sam and Lou Prophet showed up at the front door. Before they even knocked, Spike had raced, yipping hysterically, to the door. Therefore, I just opened the door when I got to it. Sam had lifted a hand to knock, but he didn’t have to.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said bowing and waving them inside, trying to pretend I felt happy when I didn’t.

  “It is, is it?” grumbled Sam. But he bent over to pet Spike, so I allowed his grumble to pass unremarked upon. Besides, I was in a lousy mood myself.

  “Huh,” said Prophet. He, too, bent over and patted Spike. “Like hell it was good.”

  Very well, then. I decided to stop trying to be cheerful. “Rough day, eh?” I asked.

  “You have no idea,” said Sam, hanging his hat and coat on the hat rack beside the door.

  Mr. Prophet did likewise, only he didn’t speak.

  Spike had stopped leaping on the two men and now merely stood beside them, wagging his tail and looking happy. One out of four beings at the door was happy. Something seemed out of kilter here.

  I asked, “Was your day awful because of what happened at Angie’s place this morning?”

  “Yes,” said Sam. “And what happened yesterday, when Lou shot the man out of the orange tree. Thank God nobody but us knows about the Chinese invasion. But I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff. Can anyone think of anything good that’s happened today?”

  After contemplating his question for a split-second, I said, “Yes. I’d made an appointment to visit Missus Pinkerton tomorrow, but Harold told me she can’t make it.” I shrugged. “Made me happy.”

  Sam laughed, hooked an arm around my waist, and drew me to his side. “Good. You can come with me when I go back to that blasted orange grove. I still have to talk to the woman who fainted.”

  After a mere split-second, I figured out to whom Sam had referred. “Sally?”

  “Is Sally her name?” Sam let go of me with a sigh.

  “Yes. Sally’s the one Li thinks the man Mr. Prophet shot came after.” That sentence doesn’t look right, but it turned out all right because Sam understood.

  “Li’s probably right,” said Prophet. “That curly wolf was a special friend of Sally’s, according to her. Li, I mean.”

  I already knew what a curly wolf was: a bad man. “Does Sally know he’s dead?”

  “Dunno. I ‘spect either Li or Angie might’ve told her.”

  Annoyed and feeling challenged by his tone of voice, I said sharply, “I don’t like the way you say Angie’s name, Mister Prophet. She’s changed her ways. She paid you back your precious money, didn’t she?”

  “Cripes. Yeah, she paid me back.”

  “Well, then, you can at least speak of her respectfully, can’t you?”

  Eyeing me with what I could only regard as deep scorn, he said, “Sure. I can do that.”

  I believed his words about as much as he did. Oh, well. I turned my attention back to Sam. “And you want me to come with you? Gee, Sam, usually you try to keep me as far away from your cases as I can get.”

  “I know. But she might feel more comfortable talking to me if a woman comes with me.”

  Darned if his words didn’t perk me right up again. “Swell! I’ll be happy to go with you.”

  “Figured as much.” Sam sounded the least little bit sarcastic. I let it pass.

  “I’ll go with you, too,” said Prophet. “Li asked me to.”

  When I glanced at him, I do believe he seemed self-conscious. Unless it was my imagination.

  It was probably my imagination.

  “Let’s not talk about work, all right?” said Sam. “I’m sick of the entire city of Tombstone, Arizona, this evening, and I hope nobody from Tombstone ever darkens Pasadena’s doors again.”

  “Amen to that,” said Prophet. It was probably the first time he’d uttered anything remotely resembling a prayer in a decade or three.

  “Sam and Lou! Good to see you.”

  This, from Pa, and he’d just come from his and Ma’s bedroom. I hoped he’d been resting.

  “Evening, Joe,” said Sam. “You’re looking better than you did earli
er in the day.”

  “Thanks. Feel better, too. Took a little nap. It’s heck getting old, Sam.”

  “You ain’t old,” said Lou Prophet. “I’m old. You’re still a pup.”

  “A pup with a harebrained heart,” said Pa.

  My own heart squished.

  “But Doc Benjamin visited you, didn’t he?” Sam sounded anxious.

  “Yes, yes. The good doctor visited me. Daisy was here. She can tell you I’m not fibbing.”

  “He’s not fibbing,” I said, trying to sound jokey. “I even talked to the doctor myself. He said Pa’s doing well, as long as he keeps exercising, doesn’t eat too much, and doesn’t take up cigar-smoking again.”

  “You like a good cigar?” asked Mr. Prophet, interested.

  “He used to smoke cigars,” I answered for my father. To Mr. Prophet I said with a meaningful scowl, “They’re bad for his heart, so don’t you try to get him to start smoking them again.”

  Mr. Prophet held up his hands in an “I surrender” gesture. “Only just asked, was all. Don’t get the fantods and swoon all over the hurdy-gurdy house.”

  After staring at him for a heartbeat or two, I said, “All right. I won’t get the fantods or swoon all over the…what was the kind of house you mentioned?”

  “Never mind,” said Prophet.

  “But—”

  With a laugh, Sam said, “Leave him be, Daisy. He’s had a rough day, too.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “You kill a feller who’s wanted by the law someday and see if you don’t have a hard time of it,” said Prophet. “Hellkatoot. That bastard was wanted in three states, and the cops still treated me like leftover cow shit.”

  “Do you have to use bad language every time you speak?” I asked him, my voice low and fierce.

  He scowled at me. “Reckon I can mind my tongue in Joe’s house.”

  In Joe’s house. Good enough. “Fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Huh.”

  I gave up. “But come on in, you two. Dinner’s just about ready. You can take your places, and I’ll bring out the chow.”

  Rubbing his hands together, Pa said, “Sounds like a tip-top idea to me. Tip-top.”

  “Me, too,” said Sam.

  “Me, three,” said Prophet.

  I squinted at the latter, but detected no underlying message to his words. Crumb. As if things weren’t bad enough, now I seemed to be looking for trouble.

  However, the men took their places at the table. Ma, who had been chatting with Vi in the kitchen, handed me a big bowl of buttered noodles, which I carried out to the table. I set it at Vi’s place, figuring she could dish out the noodles and creamed chicken, and we could pass everything else. Both Vi and Ma seemed to approve of my plan, so I continued, carrying out the bowl of buttered carrots and then a huge tureen of creamed chicken. It smelled delicious. Of course. Everything Vi fixed to eat was delicious. As opposed to… Oh, never mind. I’ve probably already said too much about my lack of skill in the kitchen. My failure plagued me, though. However, I don’t mean to inflict it on anyone else.

  Bother.

  After we were all seated, Vi at the head of the table, Pa at its foot, Ma and Mr. Prophet seated across the table from Sam and me, Pa said his usual short grace, and Vi started ladling out noodles and creamed chicken. So I passed the plates she loaded and then the bowl of carrots, and we all dug in.

  “I’m mighty lucky to have found you folks,” Mr. Prophet said at one point. “I never ate so good in my life before this. You’re a great cook, Missus Gumm.”

  “Thank you, Mister Prophet,” said Vi, smiling and, I think, blushing a trifle.

  Good Lord on high, I hoped to goodness Vi wasn’t going to fall for the elderly but fascinating Mr. Lou Prophet. What power did the man possess that enslaved women? Perhaps “enslaved” is excessive, but golly. Li Ahn, who had thus far in our acquaintanceship been one of the most sensible, feet-firmly-fixed-on-the-ground women I’d ever met, seemed madly in love with him. Heck, I found him attractive, and I didn’t even want to.

  I guess I’d been staring at the man, because he fidgeted for a second and then lifted his head, frowning and peering at me across the table. “What’s the matter, Miss Daisy? Did I use the wrong fork or something?”

  “Daisy!” said my mother, aiming one of her looks my way.

  I swear to heaven, I couldn’t win for losing, as Flossie Buckingham occasionally said. I think it was a saying left over from her stint as a gangster’s moll.

  “I didn’t do anything!” I told Ma, feeling abused and mistreated. “And no, Mister Prophet, you didn’t use the wrong fork. I was just thinking about something. I didn’t mean to stare at you. In fact, I wasn’t staring at you. I was staring past you.” One more itsy-bitsy lie couldn’t hurt anything, could it?

  Prophet looked over his shoulder, then back at me. He said, “Oh.”

  I didn’t say another word all through dinner. Then I gathered up all the plates and serving dishes, flatware and so forth and carried it all into the kitchen. Ma aimed to help me, but I felt an almost punishing need to prove myself good at something, so I told her to go to the living room and chat with Pa and the other men and Vi, although Vi generally retired to her bedroom with a book shortly after we all ate.

  The only thing I managed to accomplish that evening was wash, dry and put away all the dishes and pots and pans and give Sam the list I’d made for him. He, Mr. Prophet and I stood on the front porch at the time.

  He gazed down upon the several pages, his eyebrows climbing. He had thick, dark eyebrows. He also had long, luxurious eyelashes, which wasn’t fair, but what was? “Good Lord. You mean these pages contain lists of people who might have a grudge against Missus Mainwaring?”

  “She probably forgot some of ‘em,” said Prophet, eyeing my notes with disfavor.

  “She and Li both gave me the names of everyone they could think of.” I frowned at Mr. Prophet. “And they both said they’d tell me if they remembered any others.”

  “Good God,” said Sam in a faintish voice.

  “There are quite a few of them,” I admitted.

  “Yes. There are,” said Sam upon a heavy sigh. “Thanks, Daisy. Can you be ready to go about nine tomorrow? I want to talk to that Sally person as soon as I can. I’d like to get to her before Missus Mainwaring and Miss Li can tell her who the dead man was.”

  “Want me to call and tell Angie so?”

  “It’s all right, Miss Daisy. I’ll take care of it.”

  Sam and I watched as Mr. Prophet clumped down the front porch steps, walked to the sidewalk, turned right and headed for Angie’s house. Oh, well. Li would be pleased. Probably.

  “Why do women fall for men like Mr. Prophet?” I asked my fiancé.

  “Beats me,” said Sam, gazing after Prophet. Then he frowned down at me. “You’re a woman. Don’t you know?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  Sam shrugged, kissed me and headed across the street to what would be our house one day. Soon, I hoped.

  Twenty-One

  I don’t know about anyone else, but I slept like the proverbial log Wednesday night. Having lost a lot of sleep the prior night and having had a frightening and eventful day, I was tuckered. Even though Spike hadn’t had as hideous a day as I’d experienced, he slept like a log, too. I think dogs are just like that. They don’t fuss and fume and dwell on things and let stuff bother them. Wish I were more like a dog.

  On Thursday morning, Sam and Mr. Prophet came over to our house for breakfast. I’d risen at my usual time and had already bathed, brushed my hair, powdered my cheeks (only a little, so they wouldn’t shine) and donned a comfortable but pretty, mid-calf length, tan-colored dress with a brown collar and low-waisted belt. I didn’t anticipate having to do any running around or fleeing from this or that, but I’d learned long ago one couldn’t predict what a day would bring. Days in my life had brought a whole lot of unusual things of late, and I didn’t intend to rip anything,
get blisters on my feet or trip because of a too-tight skirt if I had to skedaddle in a hurry. Besides, the brown and tan went well with my auburn hair and my beautiful emerald engagement ring. I plopped my brown cloche hat on top of my brown handbag in my bedroom before I joined the men.

  “You look lovely, as usual,” said my darling father.

  “Yes, you do,” said my darling fiancé.

  “You always look well, Daisy,” said Ma. My mother wasn’t given to flattery, so her comment surprised me.

  “Thank you,” I said to everyone in general.

  “Vi fried up some ham and cream of wheat for us,” said Pa. “It’s in the warming oven.”

  In case anyone doesn’t know about fried cream of wheat, it’s like fried cornmeal mush, only it’s wheat. I mean, you fix cream of wheat as you would if you were going to eat it for breakfast, but instead of eating it instantly when it’s soft and hot, you pour it into a loaf pan and put it in the Frigidaire over night. It sets up just like cornmeal mush does, and then you fry it for breakfast. You notice I didn’t say I fried it for breakfast.

  There I go again, bemoaning my lack of cooking skills. I beg your pardon.

  “Good. I love fried cream of wheat,” I said. “Anybody else want some?”

  Everyone except Ma and Vi, who had already eaten their breakfasts, did, so I dished up breakfasts for all the men in my life and me. Even Spike got a little bite of ham. I tried not to feed him too many table scraps, because the long back of a dachshund is difficult enough for a dog to manage. No dachshund needed to haul extra pounds around on those little short legs. It had occurred to me more than once that dachshunds should come equipped with an extra pair of legs in the middle, but then they would look even sillier than dachshunds already looked with only four legs. Their silly-lookingness (I seem to be making up words right and left, don’t I?) was one of the reasons I liked them so much.

  The men waited for me before digging in, which surprised me. Pa was polite and gentlemanly at all times. Sam had been taught manners and used them every once in a while. I’m not sure what, if anything, Mr. Prophet’s mother had attempted to teach him if he’d ever been a child, but I never expected him to behave like a gentleman. On Thursday morning, he did.