High Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  With a grin, he said, “Yeah. You look as if you’ve just agreed to attend a hanging.”

  With yet another sigh, I sat on the porch railing. Pa had taken my chair, and Sam was kneeling next to Billy. “That’s what I feel like. She’s hysterical again, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “But it’s Stacy.” Billy was well versed in the Kincaid saga.

  Sam looked up from the brochure, his heavy eyebrows drawn down into a V over his eyes. “What’s she up to now?”

  “I have no idea. I’m going to take my cards and board and Rolly over to Mrs. Kincaid’s. Told her I’d be there in a couple of hours.”

  “Who’s Rolly?” Sam asked.

  Pa, Billy, and I all looked at each other. This time it was Pa who grinned. I stood, waved a hand at them all, and said, “Have Pa or Billy tell you. I have to prepare myself.”

  And I did so, first by taking a nice hot bath—I pitied people who didn’t have hot and cold running water, even though we’d only owned this nifty bungalow with same for a couple of years—and washing my hair. Fortunately, said hair was thick, short and easily maneuvered, and it dried as I dressed.

  Because the weather had turned warmish, I donned a lightweight, russet-colored suit. Because I didn’t feel like fussing, I used the same black shoes, stockings, handbag and hat I usually wore. Then I gathered up my spiritualist accouterments, looked in the mirror, despaired of the dark circles under my eyes, powdered my face—as a spiritualist, I strove to appear pale and interesting—and set forth into the world as a knight of old might have gone off to battle. Or as a squirrel might climb a tree looking for nuts. I figure we humans aren’t alone in needing to scramble for our sustenance.

  I nearly fell over dead when Sam Rotondo, watching me emerge through the front door of our very modest castle, said, “You look nice.”

  Would wonders never cease? I eyed him for signs of sarcasm, observed none, and said, “Thanks.”

  “That’s my girl,” said Pa. “Pretty as a picture.”

  Bless the man for a saint.

  Billy said, “You look too good for that family, for sure.”

  Bless him, too, because he made me laugh.

  “Thanks, fellows. I’m good at my job. I even dress the part.” And, with a waggle of my eyebrows, a pat for Spike, and a peck on the cheek for Billy, I hied myself off to earn the money with which to bring home the bacon. Or, if we were especially lucky, a leg of lamb, one of Aunt Vi’s particular specialties.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Kincaid belonged to the Episcopal Church. I know that sounds irrelevant, but it’s as good an introduction as anything as to why Father Frederick, the Episcopal priest of St. Mark’s, met me at the door. I must admit to being somewhat surprised, since Mrs. Kincaid’s butler Featherstone generally greets callers.

  “Father Frederick!” said I, amply demonstrating said state of surprise.

  He had a wonderful smile, and he leveled it at me then. “Come in, come in, Mrs. Majesty. I’m afraid Mrs. Kincaid is laid rather low at the moment.”

  “Is that why Featherstone isn’t answering the door?”

  “Indeed it is.” And darned if he didn’t wink at me.

  A roly-poly man, Father Frederick didn’t fit my mental image of what an Episcopalian churchman should look like. Ma and Aunt Vi always sniffed when speaking about Episcopalians, and I vividly recall them whispering about people being too big for their britches and thinking they were better than everyone else when discussing the Episcopalians they knew. The only Episcopalians I knew were Mrs. Kincaid, who was terminally silly, Stacy Kincaid, who was probably evil, and Father Frederick, who could pass for Father Christmas in a pinch and whom I liked a whole lot. Therefore, I held none of my mother’s prejudices and figured Episcopalians were just like everybody else, although many of them had lots more money than most of us.

  I adored Father Frederick, mainly because he never disparaged the way I made my living, but that’s not the only reason. In his own way, he reminded me of Dr. Benjamin and Johnny Buckingham in that he seemed to accept people as they were. Mind you, he wasn’t above the occasional little sermon, but his sermons didn’t seem designed to make people feel worthless or useless, as some did. Come to think of it, it isn’t only preachers who do that.

  But that’s not the point. Father Frederick answered the door, and I asked him what was up.

  “I’m afraid Stacy has really done it this time,” he said, although he smiled as he did so.

  “Oh, dear. What’s she done now?”

  “I think you’d best let Madeline tell you that. It’s not my place to tell tales.”

  Phooey. But I guess he was doing his duty according to his calling in life. Sort of like me.

  When Father Frederick and I made it to the living room (called a “drawing room” by the wealthy Mrs. Kincaid), I discovered why Featherstone had not answered the door. He was otherwise occupied. And it didn’t look as if he cared for it much.

  Mrs. Kincaid lay prostrate on the sofa, a fancy number with deep red velvet upholstery that went well with the medallion-back chairs. Mr. Algernon Pinkerton (called Algie by Mrs. Kincaid), kneeling at her head, waved vinaigrette under her nose, while Featherstone stood behind the sofa, stoic in his bearing, holding a polished silver tray with stuff on it. I presumed the tray held things that would be used for Mrs. Kincaid’s revival should the smelling salts fail.

  I said, “Oh, dear.”

  Mr. Pinkerton turned and glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Mrs. Majesty! I’m so glad you’re here. Poor Madeline is beside herself!”

  She’d told me that much already. I drew closer. “What struck her down?” I asked in my mystically modulated spiritualist’s voice.

  Mr. Pinkerton creaked to his feet, setting the vinaigrette on Featherstone’s tray. Featherstone averted his nose, and I don’t blame him. With a glance down at Mrs. Kincaid, Mr. Pinkerton whispered, “It’s that wretched daughter of hers.”

  Ha! So I wasn’t the only one who disliked Stacy Kincaid! Not that I’d believed I was, but it was nice to get confirmation. And from Mrs. Kincaid’s special gentleman friend, too. I suspected they would marry one of these days, and I approved. Of course, they didn’t need my approval, but Mrs. Kincaid’s first husband had been a true louse, and she deserved a nice man in her life. Mr. Pinkerton was a very nice man, if almost as flighty as Mrs. K. herself.

  I murmured, “Oh, dear,” again, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything more pertinent to say.

  “Madeline has been dying to see you,” went on Mr. Pinkerton, in what I hoped was an exaggeration. “She’s so worried, you see.”

  “I see.” And, indeed, I did. Whatever Stacy had done this time had clearly knocked her poor mother for a loop. Also, however much I joke about Mrs. Kincaid and her silliness, I liked the woman and didn’t appreciate Stacy being such an overall poop. If frequenting speakeasies, drinking liquor, and smoking cigarettes wasn’t enough to send Mrs. Kincaid to the sofa with a vinaigrette, I almost didn’t want to know what Stacy had done this time.

  No. I’m lying. I detested Stacy, and I wanted all the ammunition I could get to fuel my dislike.

  Mrs. Kincaid started moaning softly, so I guessed my services would be called for soon. Wafting nearer to the sofa, I said in my most melodious voice, “Dear Mrs. Kincaid, what can I do to help you.”

  “Daisy?” she whispered, her eyes still shut. “Daisy? Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am here to be of service to you.”

  Her eyelids quivered for a moment and then, shoving Algie Pinkerton aside, which I thought was kind of rude, Mrs. Kincaid heaved herself to a sitting position. I acquitted her of selfishness when she realized what she’d done, grasped Mr. Pinkerton’s arm and said in a trembling voice, “Oh, Algie, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  Mr. Pinkerton, gentleman to the core, patted her hand and said stoutly, “There’s nothing to forgive, my dear. You’ve suffered a severe blow.”

  After giv
ing a most unspiritualistic start of horror, I realized the blow he spoke of was of a mental nature and not a physical one delivered by Stacy. I hoped no one saw my jerk. To maintain my image, I stood there, head bowed, my Ouija board and red silk tarot bag clutched to my unfortunately well-rounded bosom. Even though I bound my breasts, I couldn’t achieve the boyish silhouette fashionable then. Anyhow, in that pose and with luck, I’d look as if I were either praying or gathering my aura around me in order to perform feats of arcane wonder.

  “Thank you, Algie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  By gum, Mr. Pinkerton blushed! He was really kind of cute. A good deal leaner than Mrs. Kincaid, he was also on the short side and balding, was always impeccably groomed, and was as rich as Croesus, whoever he was. Some fabulously wealthy Greek, I think. From what Harold Kincaid had told me, he came from what they call “old money,” and had moved out to California for his health, which didn’t cotton to the cold winters of New York. I think he was about Mrs. Kincaid’s age, which I reckoned hovered in the early fifties. She seemed older than my parents to me, but I think that was because my parents were hard workers and vigorous, even Pa with his weak heart. Mrs. Kincaid had been relaxing all her life, and she seemed elderly and soft to me.

  However, that’s not the point. I stood there, waiting to be called upon. And, after apologies and forgiveness had been exchanged, I was.

  “Oh, Daisy, thank you so much for coming. And at such a trying time in your life, too.”

  She had that right. “Please, Mrs. Kincaid, think nothing of it. A gift like mine is only worthwhile when it is shared.”

  Sniffling, she whispered, “Oh, thank you, my dear. Is that your board I see?”

  “It is.”

  “And do you think Rolly will forgive me for asking him to appear in that dreadful place a few weeks ago?”

  “He has already done so,” I told her, which was the truth. I figured poor old Rolly was a victim of my own lousy judgment. Mind you, my judgment was usually better than Mrs. Kincaid’s, but, that being the case, I should have had more sense than to bow to her entreaties that I perform that first cursed séance for Mr. Maggiori.

  She burst into sobs. I sighed internally. I hated these scenes. We poor folk didn’t have time to wallow in our various grievances and melancholy because we were too busy earning a living. It kind of irked me that Mrs. Kincaid, who had so much money and so much time, could afford to spend so much of both on one lousy daughter. Mind you, Stacy was a particularly grim burden to bear, but at least she hadn’t been shot all to heck and had her lungs burnt out by mustard gas.

  There I go again. Please forgive me.

  After a minute or so, Mrs. Kincaid got herself under control. “Thank you, Daisy. Please. Take a chair.” She glanced around and saw no chair.

  Mr. Pinkerton jumped to help us. He was such a nice man. I noticed Father Frederick sitting on an overstuffed armchair in a corner, an amused expression on his face, but I decided it would be better not to pay too much attention to him. It would be awful to break out laughing when I was fiddling with the Ouija board. Mrs. Kincaid took this stuff so seriously. She’d be stung if I demonstrated such a lack of mediumistic sensibility. And so would I be stung when she fired me.

  Anyway, Algie Pinkerton fetched one of the pretty medallion-backed chairs from a corner and plunked it on the other side of the coffee table situated before the sofa, and I sat upon it waftingly. We spiritualists are superb wafters.

  The thing about the Ouija board is that, even though I know this spiritualist stuff is all bunkum, it still doesn’t feel as if I’m manipulating the planchet when I use the board most of the time. And honestly, it doesn’t move for some people at all. One time I talked Billy into playing the Ouija board with me, and the silly planchet sat there like a piece of wood, which it was, and didn’t budge. Even when I exerted some pressure, the stupid thing only moved as far as I pushed it and didn’t travel any farther. You figure it out; it’s beyond me.

  That day, however, that silly little block of wood zipped and zoomed over that board on its three little peg legs. I still didn’t know what Stacy had done to cause so much trouble, but it didn’t seem to matter a whole lot. I’d be really sorry for Mrs. Kincaid if Stacy had turned from booze to opium or cocaine, both of which were very much in fashion among the so-called bright young things of the day. I thought they were merely stupid, but that’s because I can’t afford vices. Well, except for clothes, which I guess might be considered a vice, but at least I made them myself.

  “Would you like to ask Rolly a question, Mrs. Kincaid?” I said after we’d established the presence of sweet Rolly, a process I won’t go in to now.

  “Yes, please.” Her voice still quivered like a blade of grass in a strong wind.

  “Very well. Rolly awaits.”

  Mrs. Kincaid swallowed hard, and then said, “Rolly, is this latest crazy of Stacy’s going to be permanent?”

  Rolly seemed to hesitate. Like Mrs. Kincaid’s voice, the planchet quivered. Then, instead of moving to the “yes” or the “no” painted on the board, darned if it didn’t start spelling out words. I watched in fascination, even though I knew in my bones that Rolly was a figment of my imagination and that pieces of wood aren’t intelligent and can’t answer questions.

  However, that day, Rolly, the planchet, or I spelled out, “I don’t know.”

  Mrs. Kincaid collapsed in a weeping heap. When I told her how sorry I was that Rolly didn’t give her the news she wanted to hear, she moaned out, “No. No, it’s all my fault. You and Rolly have nothing to do with this. I’m reaping the consequences of my folly. I should have sent Stacy away to that school run by nuns in Switzerland when Father Frederick suggested it years ago.”

  Goodness. I lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Father Frederick, who looked up from the Saturday Evening Post he’d been leafing through, caught my questioning glance, and nodded.

  “Rolly did say that he couldn’t fully and accurately interpret the future in this instance,” I said in an effort to ease her sorrow.

  Sitting up and groping for her handkerchief, which lay in a sopping heap at her side, Mrs. Kincaid whimpered, “That’s true. Perhaps there’s still hope.”

  I said, “I’m sure there is,” and I scrammed out of there as if my skirt were on fire. I didn’t even stop in the kitchen to see Aunt Vi. She’d only have scolded me for upsetting Ms. Kincaid, even though Mrs. Kincaid had been upset before my arrival.

  Boy, was I glad to get out of there!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Because the afternoon had been so unpleasant, and that was after two weeks of even worse unpleasantness, I decided to take a trip to Maxime’s fabric store to see if I could find any spectacular new patterns and materials on sale with which to update my wardrobe. Not that it needed updating.

  Still, the past month had been perfectly horrid, starting with that wretched séance at Maggiori’s speakeasy south of Pasadena, up through and including Sam’s bargain with me, Flossie Mosser’s problems, Billy’s illness, and Mrs. Kincaid’s hysterical unhappiness. Therefore, I decided to treat myself.

  As I drove down Colorado heading to Maxime’s, darned if I didn’t spot Flossie Mosser walking purposefully on the sidewalk towards Pasadena Avenue. I pulled the Chevrolet to a stop and got out of the car. “Flossie!”

  She stopped, turned, saw me, and waved happily. “Hey, Daisy! Wanna come with me?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Salvation Army church,” said she, as if she did such things every day in the week.

  I gave a mental shrug, figuring it would be cheaper to go with Flossie to the Salvation Army than visit Maxime’s and buy material and a pattern for clothes I didn’t need. I hurried to catch up with her.

  “What’s going on at the church?” I asked as I got into step with her.

  “I don’t know. I just thought I’d visit and see if there’s some way I can join.”

  “You want to join the Salvation Arm
y?”

  I guess I didn’t hide my astonishment very well because Flossie turned a small frown upon me. “You don’t think I should? I thought you was the one wanted me to go in the first place.”

  “No! I mean yes. I mean I’m only a little surprised is all.” Shoot, my big mouth could get me in more trouble than anything else I knew. Well, maybe except for Sam Rotondo. “I think it’s great that you want to join.” I just hadn’t anticipated this since she’d appeared to feel so unworthy the last time we’d spoken.

  She seemed mollified. With a satisfied sigh, she said, “Yeah. I think it’s the right thing to do. Them—I mean those—Army folks are real nice. They didn’t even sneer at me or anything for being what I am.”

  Aha. So Johnny, or somebody, was not only trying to boost her self-confidence but also trying to teach her proper grammar. Interesting. “What you are is a very nice person who’s had a rough life, Flossie. You aren’t at fault for that.”

  “Huh. Try telling that to Jinx. He keeps telling me I’m the lowest of the low.”

  “Jinx is wrong,” I said through clenched teeth. “Jinx is the lowest of the low, if you ask me.”

  She flashed me a smile that made her look pretty and young and shy. Boy. And when I’d first seen her across that smoke-filled room filled with flaming youth and jazz music, I’d thought she was old and hard and coarse. It was amazing how far a little honest interest and caring could go to redeem a lost soul. I guess that was the Salvation Army’s message and goal in life. I thought Billy should be applauded for suggesting it in the first place, even if he had meant it as a joke.

  Therefore, instead of visiting Maxime’s, I decided to see if I couldn’t find something for Billy. He deserved a nice present. Not only had he probably saved Flossie’s life, but his own as well, and he’d accomplished both in a very short period of time.

  Since Flossie had brought Jinx into the conversation, I decided to be blunt and ask her about him. “So ... are you going to leave Jinx, Flossie? Your association with the Salvation Army seems at ... um, cross-purposes, I guess, with your association with Jinx.”