Spirits Unearthed

by Alice Duncan

  God save me. Now Sam was a lonely, bereaved bachelor. And I was a shrew, I supposed. I didn't ask.

  "Come to the kitchen," I told Sam, ignoring my mother's comment, and walking kitchenwards.

  "Thank you, Peggy," said Sam. "It is lonely here, all alone in Southern California with my family in New York and all."

  Bunkum. I didn't say so.

  "You're welcome here any time," said Ma.

  "Good morning, Sam!" said Aunt Vi, smiling up a storm as she tied a scarf under her chin, ready for the walk up to Colorado to catch a bus to Mrs. Pinkerton's place.

  "Would you ladies like a ride to work?" asked Sam, sounding gracious.

  I hoped they'd say "yes" so I could try to get over my bad mood.

  "No, thank you," said Ma. "I only work up the street a bit, and the bus stop is right there on Colorado for Vi to catch."

  Fiddle-faddle.

  "Sure?" asked Sam, still sounding gracious, curse him and all his spawn.

  Wait a minute. Some of Sam's spawn might come from me. Disregard that last curse, please.

  "Come on in, Sam!" came my father's voice from the kitchen. "Bacon and cinnamon rolls, thanks to our wonderful Vi."

  "Cinnamon rolls, eh?" I sniffed the air as I tromped through the dining room to the kitchen. By gum, there was a scent of cinnamon perfuming the air along with the heavenly aroma of bacon. Maybe the whole day wouldn't be as awful as the morning.

  "Yes," said Pa. "They're delicious."

  "In that case, Sam doesn't deserve any," I said.

  "Daisy!" My mother called from the front door.

  Sam laughed.

  Botheration!

  Chapter 19

  Sam walked as softly as he could, considering his cane and the size of his policemanly shoes, through the dining room and paused at the kitchen door. "Listen, Daisy, I really am sorry I called so early. I won't stay if you don't want me to."

  Scowling at him, I thought about telling him to leave but I didn't quite dare, what with my father sitting right there at the table and Spike cavorting at Sam's feet. And besides that, I loved the man. Even though his early-morning telephone call had been untimely. On the other hand, I'd woken in a bad mood, so I couldn't really blame Sam for my grouchiness.

  "Oh, come in," I said, attempting to match Sam in the graciousness department. "And sit down. I'll get you a plate."

  "You sure?"

  Unable to restrain my grumpiness, I glared at him. "Don't press your luck, Sam Rotondo. I'm only being nice to you because Pa's here."

  "Daisy," said my father, reminding me of my mother.

  Then and there I decided I was going to rent a room at a boarding house.

  But wait. If I moved to a boarding house, I might have peace and quiet and not be under constant scrutiny from my mother and father, but I also wouldn't be able to eat Vi's wonderful meals. My gaze fell to my precious hound. I couldn't have Spike with me if I lived in a boarding house, either. Nuts.

  Although... It probably wouldn't take too long to save enough that I could afford to buy myself a little cottage somewhere. Spike and I could live there and be happy without people scolding us all the time.

  Hmm. There was still the lack-of-Vi problem to consider.

  Piddle. Guess I'd just have to stay here. I drew in another acre of delicious-smelling food aromas, and tried to perk up a trifle.

  "If you're sure..." Sam hesitated, his hand on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

  I relented. "Oh, sit down, you big galoot. To tell the truth, the main reason I'm in such a foul mood is that wretched séance. It... It didn't go as I'd planned."

  "Goodness," said my father. "Glad I didn't go out gallivanting earlier this morning. I can't wait to hear all about it."

  "Me, either," said Sam, trying to sound as if he weren't relieved. And hungry. Couldn't blame him for that. The aromas of cinnamon and bacon and coffee were enough to make even me in my bad mood glad to be alive. Almost.

  "Great. I love an audience," said I, heaping slices of cooked bacon on a plate and using a spatula to scoop up one of Vi's fabulous cinnamon rolls. For the life of me, I don't know how she did all the things she did in the kitchen. The only thing I'd ever succeeded doing in the kitchen was burning up a pot in which I'd been trying to boil water.

  Sam didn't say a word until I set his plate on the kitchen table in front of him. I got a knife, fork and spoon from the silverware drawer—we didn't have real silver silverware, but that's what people call it—got a napkin from the napkin drawer, and set them carefully beside his plate.

  "Coffee?" I asked in a pleasant voice.

  "Yes, please."

  "Orange juice? Or just peel an orange, if you want one." We always had oranges, thanks to our two orange trees. One of them bore fruit in the spring and summer, and the other one bore fruit during the autumn and winter.

  "Thank you," said Sam.

  I stood back and gazed at him. He stared back at me.

  "Well?" I said, my patience snapping slightly. "Dig in, darn it!"

  "I'm waiting for you," said my beloved in a placating sort of voice.

  "Oh," I said, feeling silly. "Thank you."

  So I filled my own plate, got silverware and a napkin and sat across from him at the table. Pa sat at between us, smiling fondly at each of us in turn.

  "Put some butter on your roll," I suggested. "Vi's cinnamon rolls are great even without butter, but butter makes them heavenly, especially since Vi left the rolls and the bacon in the warming oven, and the rolls are still hot."

  "Thanks," said Sam. He carefully sliced some butter from the butter dish on the table using the butter knife provided for the purpose, and deposited it on his plate. In other words, he was being polite and mannerly this morning. Trying to appease me, I had no doubt.

  I, too, took some butter. Then I broke off a piece of cinnamon roll and carefully buttered it with my table knife. Lead by example, I told myself. Not that Sam needed lessons in manners from me. His mother had taught him well.

  "Oh, pooh. I forgot the coffee," said I, looking around and not seeing my coffee cup on the table. That's because I hadn't set it there.

  "You two stay here, and I'll get coffee for the both of you," said Pa, bless him.

  "Thanks, Pa."

  "Thanks, Joe."

  By the time I'd eaten half a cinnamon roll, two slices of bacon, and sipped about half a cup of coffee, I decided I might survive the morning. Perhaps even the entire day. In fact, I felt nearly human again.

  Therefore, I set my knife carefully on my plate, delicately wiped my lips with my napkin, and launched into an elucidation of the prior night's séance. Sam must have recognized my mood to be unstable, because he didn't interrupt once during my narration. Pa said, "Wow," once or twice, but that was it as far as commentary from my audience went as I spoke.

  When I resumed breaking bits of cinnamon roll, buttering them, and popping them into my mouth, Sam ruminated. Sort of like a cow.

  I'm sorry. Guess my mood hadn't improved a whole lot at that point.

  I was swallowing the last of my coffee and contemplating another half or quarter of a cinnamon roll when Sam finally spoke.

  "Look to the family, eh?"

  "Yes. Look to the family."

  "And you didn't... what? You didn't mean to say that?"

  "I didn't. I don't know what possessed Rolly. Or what possessed me. Some demon from hell, maybe."

  "Daisy," said Pa. "That's really not funny."

  Bother! "It wasn't funny last night, either, Pa," I said, my voice grating unpleasantly. "I don't know how it happened. I didn't mean for Rolly to say any of the things he said last night."

  "Hmm," said Sam noncommittally.

  "Interesting," said Pa.

  "Huh." I decided I'd probably better not eat any more food. My mood was so unsettled, another bite or two of cinnamon roll might adversely affect my digestion.

  I did, however, remember my manners—a little late. "Would you like another cinnamo
n roll, Sam? Or a half of one? Or more bacon?"

  "Thank you. I'd love another half of a roll and another piece or two of bacon, please." I guess he recalled who did the cooking at our house and who was no longer in the house. "If the bacon's already prepared. Don't want to be a bother."

  It was a trifle late to worry about bothering people, I thought spitefully. However, I held my tongue, took Sam's plate and waltzed over to the stove. "No bother at all," I said. I think my voice actually sounded sincere. Maybe with a little more practice, I could be human again. "Want anything else, Pa?"

  "No, thanks," said my father.

  "Thank you," said Sam as I set his plate before him.

  "You're welcome."

  As for me, I decided eating an orange might be a good idea. Might give me some much-needed nutritional sustenance and perhaps, with a jolt of vitamin C rushing through me, I'd feel better. Couldn't feel a whole lot worse. So I snatched a Valencia orange from the bowl in the middle of the table. Valencias being what they were, I rose and got a fruit knife from the knife holder and commenced slicing the orange on the plate that formerly held my cinnamon roll and bacon.

  "So in spite of what you wanted him to say, Rolly told everyone they needed to look to the family in order to find the murderer, did he?" asked Sam between bites.

  "Yes."

  "Out of curiosity, what had you planned to say," asked Pa.

  "Beats me," said I. "I never know what's going to pop out of my mouth, but it's never anything concrete like 'look to the family'. I'd probably have said something vague, like, 'The police are getting closer and closer to the villain,' or something along those lines."

  "Ah," said Pa.

  "So nice to know Rolly appreciates the police," said Sam.

  "Yes," said I, summoning up my grievance against him once more. "That makes one of us."

  Sam grinned at me. He would. Every time he smiled like that, he made it difficult for me to stay angry with him. Telephoning at the crack of dawn, my aunt Fanny. I tried not to smile back at him, but I couldn't help myself.

  After swallowing a bite of cinnamon roll, Sam said, "I don't suppose he gave you a hint about any particular family member we should look at, did he?"

  "No. He did not. He was being particularly cantankerous last night, if you ask me." I'd cut my orange into sixths, and I chewed orange from a piece of peel. Valencia oranges are sweet and delicious even if they do have seeds, and the juice felt good sliding down my throat. I glanced up suddenly. "And don't you dare tell me I'm cantankerous, Sam Rotondo."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," said Sam with another angelic smile. For the record, angelic smiles and Sam Rotondo doesn't really go together very well. He's too big and block-like to carry off an angelic image.

  I sniffed. "Good thing." I peered down at my orange, then back up at Sam. "I'm sorry I got so mad at you this morning, Sam. You did telephone entirely too early, but I didn't mean to snap at you."

  "That's quite all right," said Sam. "I'm—" He stopped speaking.

  "You're used to it?" I asked, sugar coating my words.

  "I'd never say that," said he.

  "Huh," I said, borrowing a word from his vocabulary.

  "Anyway, nobody else had a clue who might be the family Rolly wanted people to look to?" asked Sam after swallowing more bacon.

  "Nope. Although Marianne—or maybe it was Diane. I can't remember—said she'd better talk to their family's attorney on the chance the attorney might know if the philandering Doctor Wagner had fathered any children with a woman other than Diane."

  "Daisy!"

  I glanced from my orange slice to my father, who appeared honestly shocked. Nice man, my father. Innocent, though.

  "It wasn't I who thought of that, Pa. It was Doctor Wagner's own daughter—or his widow—and if you knew what that doctor put his daughter through, you wouldn't be so surprised by the question. Comment. Whatever it was."

  Pa's nose wrinkled. "Good Lord."

  "Something like that," I said, and bit into another orange slice.

  "Did she mention the attorney's name?" asked Sam.

  I wracked my brain. Not too hard, for fear it would rebel or shatter or do something else awful. "Kingsley. Or Fletcher."

  "Fletcher Kingsley?"

  "Yes. I think that's the name. Do you know him?" I asked Sam.

  "I know of him. A lot of Pasadena's wealthier citizens use him for family affairs."

  "In this case, I guess it would be an affair outside the family," I muttered.

  Pa opened his mouth, but shut it again without uttering anything.

  "Guess so," said Sam.

  Pa began gathering up the breakfast dishes.

  "I'll do that, Pa. You needn't bother."

  "That's okay. You're not feeling well this morning, and I feel great. Might as well make myself useful."

  And darned if he didn't wash up all the breakfast dishes. I dried them and put them away, determining that I'd been a hateful hag that morning, and no one except Sam—and maybe Dr. Wagner—deserved my wrath. Guilt washed through me.

  "Sorry I was so touchy earlier, Pa," I said in a weak voice.

  "Don't give it another thought," said my darling father. "You had a rough night"—He glanced at Sam, still sitting at the table sipping coffee—"and an early morning."

  "You can say that again. Thanks, Pa."

  "I'll never call early again," said Sam. "Promise."

  Both Pa and I laughed, so I guess all was forgiven, although I'm not sure who needed forgiveness or from whom.

  After the dishes were done, I said, "Want to go for a walk with Pa and Spike and me, Sam?"

  Spike, who could understand English, even if he couldn't speak it, instantly began jumping up and down and running to his leash on a hook in the service porch and back into the kitchen, wagging his tail like an electrical fan. Smart dog, Spike.

  "Sure," said he, bravely daring. "I'd like to talk about the case."

  "I wish I had some sort of recording device. I'd love to have recorded that comment and keep it for all eternity."

  "That's what your memory's for," said Sam with a lame smile.

  "Right. Let me get my sweater and coat."

  By the time I'd donned both sweater and coat and wrapped a scarf around my head to keep my ears warm, Pa had clipped Spike's leash onto his collar, and both Pa and Sam had put on their own coats and hats.

  We'd walked south about a block when I broke the silence that had settled among us. Well, except for Spike's excited snufflings and our own footfalls on the dried peppercorns dotting the sidewalk. During the spring and summer, the pepper trees lining Marengo Avenue made a gorgeous canopy over the street. During the wintertime, they dropped their berries. Folks, including us, swept their sidewalks religiously, but there were always stray peppercorns to step on.

  Whoops. Got distracted again.

  At any rate, I was the first person to speak during our walk. And I said the one thing I shouldn't have, thus making the day perfect so far. "So, what do you think Rolly meant by his 'look to the family' remark, Sam?"

  A moment of silence preceded Sam's answer to my question, which meant I wasn't going to like what he aimed to say. I knew my Sam.

  At last he said, "You're not going to like it."

  Told you so.

  "But I think Rolly was pointing his finger at George Grenville."

  Figured as much. "Technically speaking, George isn't a member of the family. He only married into it."

  "That makes him a family member," Pa said.

  "I think so, too," said Sam.

  "But you don't really think George killed that awful man, do you? Really?"

  "That awful man, according to many reports, had been tormenting George Grenville and his wife, and he did other terrible things to her. Mr. Grenville clearly loves his wife, and I wouldn't blame him if he killed the doctor, but the law and I don't see eye-to-eye on some matters."

  "True." I sighed. "It makes me furious to think that, if George did the d
eed—and I seriously don't think he did—he'd get into trouble for it."

  "I'll have to talk to him again. You know that, right?"

  "Because Rolly told you to? I thought you didn't believe in Rolly."

  "I don't, but I believe in you."

  "Awww. I think that's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Sam Rotondo."

  My father chuckled.

  Neither Sam nor I did.

  Chapter 20

  Not long after we all got home from our walk, Sam departed for the Pasadena Police Department, located behind Pasadena's City Hall on the corner of Fair Oaks Avenue and Walnut Street. Pa sat in the living room to read one of the books I'd recently checked out of the library. Spike followed me around as if we were attached, and I went into my bedroom and sat on the small rocking chair in the corner to contemplate the state of the world—or at least of Pasadena, California.

  Spike put his paws on my knees, and I bent to lift him on to my lap. The rocker was one chair in the house he couldn't leap on to because of its nature. Mind you, I could have stopped it from rocking so he could achieve his high jump, but he'd tried it a couple of times when I hadn't expected it, and the rocker had done its rockerly duty and rocked, precipitating Spike onto the floor in a shiny black lump. Poor baby. So I lifted him up and he snuggled on my lap. He was kind of long to spread himself out, but he could roll himself into a ball, not unlike the morning's cinnamon rolls, in fact, thus achieving comfort. I propped my feet on the cunning little stand I'd found in a junk shop and spiffed up with new paint and a chintz cover to match the one I'd made for the chair and commenced thinking.

  My thoughts weren't bright, and I don't think my mood had anything to do with the weather which, while no longer foggy, was dank and chill.

  "I know George didn't murder that hateful man, Spike."

  Spike sighed in agreement.

  "But I'll bet you anything Sam's going to arrest him."

  This time Spike's sigh was one of disapproval.

  "Marianne will be crushed, and she's already been through too much in her relatively short life. Diane will be frantic."