Hungry Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Hmm. Sam had talked a little bit about corruption in the big back-East cities. He didn’t like it at all, which was another one of the reasons he’d moved to the glorious West. Still unsure what to say, I murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

  She stopped sobbing after a moment or two, swallowed hard, and continued her narrative. “It’s partly Eugene’s fault. He’d fallen in with some low company.”

  Aha. Now we were getting to the nub of the issue. “That happens sometimes,” I muttered, wondering if it were true, or if likes were attracted to likes. Had Eugene fallen into low company because he’d started out low himself? Or had he allowed himself to be seduced by low company because he possessed a weak character?

  It beat me.

  “But he didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs. Majesty. I know he didn’t.”

  She’d already told me that. Several times, in fact. “I see.”

  “You probably wondered why I ran away during our first class.”

  Boy, did I ever! “I was curious,” I said sweetly.

  “It was because I thought that policeman had come for me.”

  “Why would he come for you? I thought it was your brother who was in trouble.”

  “If they connected me with Eugene, they’d try to get at him through me.” There was more than a trace of bitterness in her voice, as if she had experience related to what she’d just said.

  “Ah. I see.” I tried to recall my brief meeting with Eugene. He didn’t especially look like a crook, but I suppose the same can be said for a lot of crooks. Heck, if criminals all looked evil, they’d be easier for the coppers to spot and catch, wouldn’t they?

  “I . . . I just wanted you to know why I’m nervous, I guess,” Gertrude said lamely. “I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do to help us.”

  I didn’t suppose so, either, although I decided that saying so would come across as unnecessarily cruel. “Well, if you think of anything, please let me know. I’d be happy to help.” Thinking I’d better, I added, “If I can.” I don’t think that was a lie; I mean, if Eugene truly was innocent of wrongdoing, I’d be happy to help prove it. It still seemed to me that he was in the wrong part of the country for such an attempt to be made, but what did I know about crime and punishment? Not a blessed thing is what, although Sam had talked to my family a little bit about some of his more intriguing cases.

  “Please don’t tell anyone we had this chat today, Mrs. Majesty. I’m afraid that if anyone knew, they’d get in touch with the authorities in New Jersey, and that would mean Eugene’s capture. We can’t allow them to know where we are until we can secure evidence of his innocence.”

  There she went again. “How are you attempting to find this evidence?” I asked in genuine curiosity.

  “I’m in constant touch by mail with friends in New Jersey who are trying to help us.”

  Hmm. Odd way to go about it, if you ask me. But you didn’t, and neither did Gertrude.

  “And you think you can do this at such a distance?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes! Our friends are doing everything they can to find proof of Eugene’s innocence.”

  “How kind of them.” I probably sounded rather dry, because what they were doing sounded nuts to me. Then again, I’d never been falsely accused of a crime. Well, except by Sam Rotondo once or twice—but the crimes he accused me of were a whole lot less vile than murder. Perhaps the Minnekes were taking the proper course of action.

  “They’re being very kind and . . . and helpful,” said Gertrude firmly.

  “Very well,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.” Why should I? There wasn’t a single reason to do so that I could think of at the moment.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Majesty.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  And with sniffles and a drooping demeanor, Gertrude left the hall. I sighed, re-collected my personal effects, and did likewise, only without the sniffles and droop.

  Lucky me, Sam Rotondo was playing gin rummy with Billy and my father when I got home.

  “Hey, Daisy,” said Billy, sounding more cheerful than usual. “Sam’s staying for dinner.”

  What a surprise. I walked over and kissed my husband’s cheek, smiled at my father, and even gave Sam a halfhearted facsimile of a smile. “Hello, all.”

  “What’s that you’ve got, Daisy?” Pa asked.

  “What? Oh, this.” I uncovered my baking dish. “This is scalloped cheese bread. It actually tastes pretty good.” I’m sure they could all hear the astonishment in my voice.

  Billy grinned. “Maybe you should make that for breakfast, then.”

  I gave him a playful swat on his shoulder. “Maybe I should.”

  Pa laughed softly.

  Sam said, “Gin!”

  He would.

  I didn’t really mind Sam’s presence too much, especially when I smelled the delicious roast-pork aromas issuing from the kitchen. After I greeted the men and gave Spike the pats he craved—holding my scalloped cheese bread far out of his way as I did so. Spike didn’t care if I was a lousy cook. He’d eat anything—I carried my pitiful contribution to the meal to my aunt, who was paring potatoes to roast. Oh, boy. This was one of my very favorite meals in the world.

  Mother, Aunt Vi and I chatted as I set the table for dinner. Ma worked half days on Saturdays as the chief accountant for the Hotel Marengo. It was a good job for a woman in those days. Actually, it was a good job for anyone, but my mother had it!

  Dinner was superb, as usual, and it got me to musing about things. I didn’t understand why only one person in my family had been blessed with the ability to cook well. Wouldn’t you suppose such a talent to permeate the whole family? Heck, you expect the children of musicians to possess a sense of rhythm and so forth, don’t you? And don’t artists spawn artists? So how come I couldn’t cook? Perhaps I’m mistaken about the qualities of families. Heck, I must be. Ma couldn’t cook any better than I could.

  It occurred to me then that the wretched cooking class I was teaching might cure me of my incompetence. That happy outcome didn’t seem likely, but stranger things had happened, I reckoned.

  At the table, I considered telling Sam about Gertrude’s confession, but I didn’t, figuring it wouldn’t do any good. Also, if Gertrude was correct and Eugene hadn’t done anything wrong, I’d be doing both Minnekes a disservice by blabbing. Besides, I’d promised. I didn’t feel comfortable keeping the secret, though. I didn’t know Eugene or Gertrude Minneke. Maybe they were both guilty as sin. Maybe I should ask Johnny Buckingham about the two of them. Johnny would probably think I was crazy for my interest. Phooey.

  “Did that student show up today?” asked Sam.

  His question firmed my resolve not to relate Gertrude’s tale to him. Darn him, if he wanted my help, he could at least tell me what dire deeds he suspected Gertrude of committing! “Yes, she did.”

  “Did you ask her why she runs away every time I show up?”

  I said a short, “No.” Then, in an effort to divert the discussion from Gertrude, I said, “Have you been in touch with Lucille Spinks, Sam?”

  He gave me a puzzled look from across the table. “Who?”

  Good Lord. I said, “Lucille Spinks. I thought you and she were forming a fast friendship.”

  I guess my words held an edge, because my mother looked at me sharply. I smiled at her to show her that my intentions were honorable, even if they weren’t.

  “I can’t place her,” Sam admitted after mulling over my question for several seconds.

  “Gee whiz, Sam! She’s the one I sang the duet with at church.”

  “Ah, is that her name?”

  “Sam Rotondo, the woman practically fawned all over you at church last week!”

  By gum, Sam blushed! I never thought I’d see the day. “I believe you’re mistaken about that,” he said stiffly.

  “Honestly! I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

  Billy chuckled.

  “Well, I didn’t,” said the stolid Sam�
��stolidly, of course.

  I rolled my eyes but decided to give up on that topic, which was just as well. I didn’t like to think about Lucy taking Sam away from Billy—which sounds stupid, but I’m sure understandable.

  Anyhow, after I’d helped Ma wash and dry the dishes, it was time for me to prepare for Mrs. Bissell’s séance. Autumn had arrived and the night air was nippy, so I selected a sober black evening dress I’d made with some fine woolen material I’d got on sale at Maxime’s. I liked the costume a lot. It had a straight, tubular, hip-length top—that is to say, it was supposed to be straight. I had some unfortunate curves I couldn’t get rid of even when I bound my breasts, but I did my best. What with my black handbag and stockings and shoes, and my subdued black woolen coat, I probably looked like a funeral director, although my purpose was opposite to that of an undertaker, whose job it was to plant dead people. Mine was to revive them long enough to communicate with the séance’s participants. It actually felt good to know I was about to tackle a job for which I was fitted and leave the perils of cooking behind for a while.

  When I looked in the mirror to judge the effect of all that black, I was satisfied. For my job, I cultivated a pale, ghostly appearance. As nature and heredity made me, I wasn’t pale and ghostly, but rather vigorous and healthy. Powder helped to disguise that unfortunate fact, even if it couldn’t cover all my freckles. Freckles and spiritualism just don’t go together. Nevertheless, freckles were a part of me, and I did my best to lessen their impact. Not that I wanted to appear ghoulish, but sobriety, somberness and an air of otherworldliness were mandatory. My efforts to achieve same pleased me that night.

  “You look beautiful, Daisy,” Pa said when I walked into the living room. I wish Billy would say stuff like that.

  “Yeah, Daisy, you look great,” Billy concurred. I doubt he’d have said it if Pa hadn’t commented on my appearance first, but it was nice to hear him compliment me anyway.

  Naturally, Sam remained mum.

  “Thank you both.”

  “Do you know what time you’ll be home?” asked Billy.

  “I’m not sure.” It was then eight o’clock. “I expect I’ll be back by midnight. Generally Mrs. Bissell serves refreshments after these shindigs, and I like to stay for a while, because sometimes séance attendees will hire me for their own séances and so forth. I’m looking forward to meeting Miss Castleton in person. I’m hoping she’ll hire me for something.”

  Billy shook his head. “I don’t understand how people can believe in that stuff.”

  “I don’t either,” said I with an effort toward lightness. I really didn’t want to fight with my husband any more about my work. I thought he was unfair about it, and he thought I was wicked to trick people, and there didn’t seem to be any middle ground for us to navigate.

  Pa shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  Bless him. His practical attitude was exactly my own. See what I mean about family characteristics? I’d inherited my father’s penchant for practicality. So why hadn’t I inherited my aunt’s skill in the kitchen? It’s one of those mysteries of life, I reckon.

  “Take care, Daisy,” said Ma. She came over and gave me a hug. “You do look lovely, dear.”

  “Thanks, Ma.” I was touched. When my siblings, Daphne and Walter, and I were growing up, Ma had impressed upon us the insignificance of outward appearance. I suspect she’d done so in order to imprint upon us the importance of honesty, chastity, piety and so forth over our outer shells, and she’d done a good job of it. I don’t think any of us are vain. Still, it was pleasant to hear nice things about my looks every now and then.

  After I gave Billy another kiss on the cheek and petted Spike, who always wanted to go with any of us when we went anywhere, and fending Spike off at the door—he’d have run out and jumped into the Chevrolet if I’d let him—I drove to Mrs. Bissell’s huge mansion on Foothill Boulevard and Maiden Lane. I parked the Chevrolet in the circular driveway in back of the house and strode to the back door, which led out onto a sunporch. Once I got inside, I’d have to stop striding and do a lot of wafting, but I wasn’t on duty yet. I heard excited yapping issuing from the kennels. In older times, the kennels had been the stables, but all the rich folks in town drove automobiles now.

  My surprise was absolutely genuine when none other than Hilda Schwartz answered the door after I twisted the ringer. Good Lord, my students were popping up all over the place.

  Her eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Majesty! How nice to see you.” She stepped back and held the door for me to enter. “Oh, my, you look so pretty tonight.”

  “Thank you. I’m here to conduct a séance for Mrs. Bissell and some of her friends.”

  “Ach,” said she. “I heard about that, but I didn’t know you was the one.” Her w’s sounded like v’s. “I never . . . uh . . . my English not so good. I don’t understand spirits and things like that.”

  “I think your English is very good,” I told her politely. And it was. I decided not to comment on the spirits question, since I not only didn’t understand them; I didn’t even believe in them.

  Hilda’s face colored a little. She had lovely coloring: all blonde and blue-eyed and clear-skinned. No freckles marred her complexion, and she looked charming in her black maid’s dress and white apron. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome. I didn’t know you worked for Mrs. Bissell.”

  “Ach, yes. The Salvation Army got this job for me. Mrs. Bissell is a . . . what do you say? A kind woman.”

  “She is indeed. And I love her dogs. She gave me a puppy last year.”

  “Lovely dogs. In my homeland, many people have dachshunds.”

  They did, did they? I’d always thought dachshunds were a German invention. I didn’t hold Spike’s origins against him, since he’d been born in Altadena, California, and was therefore as American as I was. But I’d always thought Swiss folks had Saint Bernards and big dogs like that. I should think a dachshund would sink into the snow and smother during the rougher parts of the year. “Ah. I didn’t know that.”

  Hilda nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Many, many dachshunds.”

  “Interesting.”

  As Hilda led me to the huge living room where a group of people had gathered and were chatting and laughing together, I contemplated Sam’s words about German Jews and how the USA sometimes allowed Jewish immigrants to enter the country. I was certainly no expert, but Hilda didn’t look Jewish to me. And would the Salvation Army have extended its well-known generosity in order to assist a Jewish lady to come to America? Actually, it probably would have. Great organization, the Salvation Army.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about Hilda. It was time to begin wafting and acting mysterious. Mrs. Bissell bustled over to me when she saw me, hauling another woman—not Miss Emmaline Castleton, because this woman was too old to be she—with her. Mrs. Bissell was a very pleasant woman, a little on the heavy side, but hale and hearty and quite generous. She’d paid me a fortune for a job I’d done for her last year, and that was on top of giving us Spike. I’d have taken Spike alone in payment because I’d wanted to provide Billy with a companion, but she’d insisted I take money, too. Some people are so darned nice.

  “Mrs. Majesty!” cried she. “I’m so glad you could do this for us. My friend Margaret Spencer is simply dying to get in touch with her aunt.”

  Interesting phraseology, I thought. “I’d be happy to do that, but I thought you wanted me to get in touch with the late Mrs. Baskerville.”

  “Oh, I do! But can’t you do both?”

  Putting on my most arcane smile, I murmured, “I’m sure Rolly will be delighted to assist both of you.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Mrs. Bissell went on, “Mrs. Majesty, please meet a very good friend of mine, Margaret—Mrs. Wilbur—Spencer.”

  Oh, boy. I’d heard about Wilbur Spencer. He was an important lawyer in town and was reputed to be wildly wealthy.

  I held out a white, well-manicured hand to Mrs. Spencer. �
��How do you do, Mrs. Spencer? I’m very sorry about your aunt’s passing.” I maintained my spiritualist voice, which was another skill of my trade, being soft and low and crooning.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. Mrs. Bissell has told me what a great service you performed for her last year. My aunt’s passing wasn’t unexpected, but it was a blow. She reared me, you see.”

  “Ah. That makes your loss even more difficult to endure.”

  We chatted some more before we went into the séance room—in this case the breakfast room—and sat in the chairs arranged there. Mrs. Bissell also had a dining room, but the table in that room was too large to accommodate a séance comfortably. I always asked my séance clients to limit the number of participants to no more than eight. Mrs. Bissell’s dining room could seat twenty people! Have I mentioned she was rich? Well, she was. Heck, my family wouldn’t know what to do with two rooms designed solely for meals.

  I still hadn’t met Miss Castleton, although I spotted her among the séance attendees. She looked almost as funereal as I did. She had gorgeous blonde hair that was cut in a most becoming bob, and that night she wore a black dress, shoes, etc., just as I did. Her face was naturally ethereal, I guess, and it didn’t look to me as though she had to powder away any pesky freckles. I envied her looks, actually, because she appeared naturally ghostly. At least I assumed she did. She looked pretty ghostly, anyhow. But I couldn’t dwell on Miss Castleton yet. I had a séance to conduct.

  Mrs. Bissell had prepared, or more likely had one of her servants prepare, the breakfast room with a single cranberry-colored lamp in the center of the table. The lamp held a candle, and it was the only source of illumination I allowed during séances. Hilda Schwartz was the one who turned off the electrical lights when Mrs. Bissell asked her to do so.

  The séance went smoothly. I went into my “trance” after about five minutes of mumbo-jumbo. Then the fun began. My spirit control, Rolly, told Mrs. Spencer that her aunt was happy on the Other Side, and that she wanted Mrs. Spencer to carry on with courage and never to forget the great love she—the aunt—bore her—the niece. By that time, this stuff came to me as easily as falling off a log.