Fine Spirits [Spirits 02]

by Alice Duncan

  “We never hear anything during the day,” she went on. “So I don't think there's any danger right now, although the household help have taken to going downstairs in pairs or trios because they're all so frightened.” She glanced at me and I saw her lips quiver slightly. “So am I.”

  “I'm awfully sorry,” I said. And I was. Shoot, I didn't want to tangle with a real problem. Maybe it was just a cat. Or maybe it was a bear. Mrs. Bissel's house was right there up against the foothills. I suppose there were bears in the foothills. Or mountain lions. I really didn't want to meet a mountain lion face-to-fang.

  I realized I was scaring myself and gave myself a mental shake.

  Mrs. Bissel's housekeeper was also her cook, I guess, because she was in the kitchen, cooking something. I knew her slightly, so I smiled and said, “Hello, Mrs. Cummings.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Majesty. I sure hope you can help us.”

  Golly, everybody in the whole house was spooked. Something puzzled me about all this, though. When Mrs. Bissel went to the door leading to the basement and unlocked it, I asked her about it. “What about all your dogs, Mrs. Bissel? Can't they help you find out what's down there? They certainly let you know when someone's at the door. Don't they bark at the thing in the basement?”

  “That's true, but the only doggies who sleep in the house at night are Lucille and Lancelot and their pups, and I carry them all upstairs with me when I go to bed.”

  “Ah. Have you considered allowing a few of the others to sleep in the kitchen or on the service porch?”

  “I've thought about it,” she said, “but I don't want them going down into the basement.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “It's not good for them to climb up and down the stairs,” said Mrs. Bissel. “Their legs are too short and their backs are too long. They might hurt themselves. Besides, I'd not risk a hair on any of their backs if the spirit or ghost turns violent.”

  Which meant she was perfectly willing to risk my hair. I didn't object. I supposed ridding houses of spirits could be viewed as an aspect of my job, although I kind of resented not being judged to be as important as a dachshund. Anyhow, she was right about their legs and backs. Someday perhaps someone could design a dachshund with an extra pair of legs in the middle. But no. That would make them look even sillier than they already do.

  “They do bark sometimes in the night,” Mrs. Cummings said. She shivered, as had Ginger, and I saw that she had gooseflesh, too.

  Obviously, there was something in the basement. I wasn't happy to know it.

  “I'll go down with you,” announced Mrs. Bissel stoutly. She took a deep breath, as if to brace herself.

  “Be careful,” said Mrs. Cummings.

  I saw Ginger hanging back between the kitchen and the pantry, looking frightened. “Yeah,” she said. “Be careful.”

  “We will be careful.”

  Mrs. Bissel squared her shoulders and straightened her back, and I got the impression she felt as if she were forging onward into battle. Naturally, this made me think of Billy, and of how frightened he must have been when the Germans were shooting at him. I shook my head hard in order to rid it of the mental image of my poor husband on that bloody battlefield.

  “Yes,” said I. “One must always be careful when dealing with the spirits.”

  Not to mention when dealing with escaped lunatics, criminals, bears, mountain lions, or maddened house cats. I tried not to think about it.

  But not thinking about it was impossible. Mrs. Bissel, tip-toeing downstairs ahead of me, clutched the banister so hard her knuckles turned white, and she pressed her back against the wall at the same time. She was a stout woman, and well corseted, but I saw her bosom quiver.

  Her terror was obvious, and suddenly it irked me. If she was so darned scared of whatever was down there, why the heck didn't she call the police instead of me? Policemen chose to risk their necks for other people's sake, a choice I'd never made.

  I tried to keep my temper in check. It had been awfully short in recent days. In fact, the last time I'd been in a good mood had been earlier in the month when I'd pushed Billy in his wheelchair down Colorado Street in Pasadena's annual Armistice Day Parade. The cheers from the crowds as we rolled along had made us both feel as if Billy's sacrifice had not been in vain. He'd been only one among many wheelchair-bound ex-soldiers, too, some of them missing arms, legs, and even eyes, so he didn't feel like a freak for once.

  Our life together had gone downhill fast after that. Probably the lousy weather had contributed to its downward rush. Also, I wasn't happy that I hadn't been able to vote in the recent election. It was an historic occasion, since it was the first national election in which women were allowed a voice.

  Except me. Nobody cared about twenty-year-old me or who I'd have voted for. I'd have to wait until I was twenty-four before I could have a say in anything, darn it. The fact that my man, Harding, had won didn't alter the fact that I hadn't been allowed to vote.

  But that was neither here nor there. At issue now was my ability to maintain my composure, and I was a mistress at that. I had to be. If I allowed my annoyance to show every time one of my clients did or said something stupid, I'd be yelling all day, every day, and nobody'd hire me anymore.

  “You've got to get rid of this thing,” Mrs. Bissel said in a stage whisper. “We're all so frightened.”

  “I can tell.” I don't think I sounded sarcastic. “And I'll do my very best.”

  “I'm sure you will.”

  She didn't sound sure to me. She hesitated at the foot of the stairs, still pressing her rotund self against the wall.

  Because she didn't look as if she was going to be of any use in my search of the basement, I asked, “Is there a light switch?” If she expected me to poke around in the dark, I'd have to decline the job. Not even for a dachshund puppy would I chance getting bitten by a black widow spider or a snake or a rat or anything else poisonous or rodentine.

  “A light? Oh, yes. Let me pull the cord.”

  She did, and the basement flooded with light. It looked like an average basement to me, although it was a lot bigger than, say, ours on Marengo. That's because this was a mansion. “Ah,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Take as much time as you need.” Mrs. Bissel's voice shook slightly.

  I took stock of my surroundings. Mrs. Bissel's basement was pretty nice, for a basement. It had been painted white in the recent past, and housed the family's laundry equipment: A big wringer washing machine that looked brand new, a mangle for ironing sheets, and an ironing board upon which sat an electrical iron. I'd never used one of those before. We still had flatirons spread out on the range in our kitchen on Marengo. An electrical iron sounded like a good idea to me. I wasn't particularly adept at the domestic arts, and I burned myself quite often on those darned flatirons.

  Canned goods were stored in the basement, too, and against the far wall I saw a wine rack. Somehow, I'd never pictured Mrs. Bissel as a wine drinker, although I don't know why not. Maybe it was her dogs. I pictured wine going with people who owned poodles, not dachshunds.

  “About how long have you been bothered by noises in the basement?”

  “I think it's been two weeks now.”

  “And how does the spirit manifest itself?” That sounded so silly. Still and all, something was bothering the people in the house, and if Mrs. Bissel thought it was a spirit (or ghost), so be it.

  “There are bumps in the night,” Mrs. Bissel said with a shudder. “And it sounds like scraping noises sometimes. As if it were dragging chains.”

  Egad. “Chains? You mean, the noises are loud?” I most especially didn't want to encounter a criminal swinging a chain. Did they have chain gangs in California? I couldn't remember.

  “No, no. They're soft noises. As if whatever it is was trying to be quiet.”

  I'd never heard of soft-sounding chains, which was minutely encouraging. “Um, perhaps it's not a chain, but a chair or footsteps or something along those li
nes.”

  “Maybe. I suppose that's possible.”

  Shoot, she sounded disappointed. You'd think she'd be glad not to be threatened with chains. I didn't argue with her. “Do any of your staff live down here, Mrs. Bissel?” Stepping away from the staircase, I steeled my nerves for an inspection.

  “No. They used to, but the whole place flooded in '15, and I moved all the servants up to the third floor. We only use the basement to store things in now, and for doing the laundry and so forth.”

  “Ah. But there are still bedrooms down here, I see.” Brilliant deduction, and one based on my appraisal of the two closed doors on the far wall.

  “Yes. The rooms are still here, but they aren't used for anything. Mrs. Cummings was the last to move out. She liked living down here because it's closer to the kitchen than the third floor.”

  Sensible woman, Mrs. Cummings. “When did she move out?”

  “About two months ago. She decided she didn't like being so isolated from the rest of the household staff.”

  “Ah.”

  Because I knew myself to be a sensible woman and not one to be scared by ghosts, especially since they didn't exist, and since I'd do anything to avoid acting like an idiot, Mrs. Bissel's overt fear was making me feel better. That and the light. It was difficult to imagine anything bad happening in this bright, white, well-lighted room full of laundry products, wine, and preserved food.

  Nevertheless, using my best wafting technique, I explored the basement's nooks and crannies. There actually weren't many of them. The room was a huge rectangle, and the two rooms on the far side were spare and clean.

  Both rooms contained small, bare beds. When I stooped to glance under one of them, I found something interesting: An empty tin of Franco American Spaghetti. I picked it up and peered inside. It looked to me as if someone had scraped it clean recently, because the little bit of Italian sauce sticking to the tin's sides was fresh. I set the empty can down on the tiny bedside table and thought hard.

  Now who, wondered I, would be eating spaghetti out of a tin can in Mrs. Bissel's basement? No answer occurred to me, and I decided to keep the empty tin to myself for the time being. If it had been Ginger who'd suffered a craving for canned spaghetti in the middle of a hard day, I didn't want to get her into trouble for stealing food.

  I also got the weird feeling that this particular room had been occupied recently, and not by a spirit or a ghost. I'm not claiming to have any sort of relationship with the Other Side, whatever that is, but I have become sensitive to feelings as part of my trade. I sensed recent occupancy of this one room. When I went to the other room, I sensed nothing but emptiness.

  That being the case, I returned to the first room and did a more extensive search. There wasn't a whole lot to search. The room was equipped with a cupboard, which was bare. Hooks on the wall had been used for the servants' clothes and held nothing now. A wash stand, holding a pitcher and bowl, sat in a corner. The bowl had recently contained water; it was still wet on the bottom.

  Mrs. Bissel's grating whisper came to me from where she cowered at the foot of the staircase. “What do you think, Daisy? Have you found something? Do you sense anything?”

  Yes, indeedy, I sensed something, all right. I sensed that somebody was using Mrs. B's basement as a hideout, but darned if I knew who or why. “I am receiving certain vibrations,” I told Mrs. Bissel cryptically. Ridiculous, but I didn't want to tell her about my other findings yet. For all I knew, they meant nothing.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered as if in awe. I was used to this reaction to my occult gibberish.

  When I exited the room, I saw her sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, her bulbous maroon breasts heaving in fear. She stared at me, chewing her lip, and giving every appearance of a woman in grave distress.

  To ease her worries, I offered her one of my stock of gracious smiles. Gracious smiles, along with my wafting walk, were part of my act. “There is no danger now, Mrs. Bissel. You need fear nothing in the daylight.” As for the rest of the time, darned if I could tell her anything at all.

  “I'm so glad.” She expelled a gusty sigh.

  I puttered around in the basement for a while longer, searching for any sign other than the empty Franco American spaghetti tin and the damp bowl that someone had been residing there. Don't ask me why I lifted the lid of the washing machine and peered inside, because I don't have an answer. All I know is that I did lift the lid, and I peered inside.

  “Is your laundry done on one specific day of the week, Mrs. Bissel?”

  “What? Laundry? Why, yes, the laundry is done on Monday. Cynthia Oversloot comes in to help Ginger every Monday.”

  “Ah. And is the dirty laundry kept somewhere in particular until Monday rolls around?”

  “The dirty laundry? Why, yes. The maids throw it down the laundry chute, and it lands in a basket.” She pointed to a big wicker basket set against the wall, above which a black hole loomed. “See? There's the basket and the chute.”

  “Ah.” I wafted over and saw that the basket held almost nothing, probably because today was Wednesday. “I see.”

  “Why? Have you found something?

  “No,” I fibbed. “I just wondered. You say no one uses the washing machine except on Mondays?”

  “No. I mean, yes. No one uses it except on Mondays. Not unless there's a special need. Say, if someone gets sick overnight or something.”

  “Ah.” So why, then, was there a neatly folded sheet and blanket sitting in the washing machine? I didn't ask Mrs. Bissel, primarily because I was pretty sure she wouldn't have an answer for me. Also, if the sheet, blanket, damp water bowl, and spaghetti tin signified a mortal presence in her basement, and if I managed to get whoever it was to move out, I didn't want Mrs. Bissel to know it hadn't been a spirit. Or a ghost. I wanted to get paid, and I wanted to get paid in dachshunds.

  Anyhow, I didn't know for sure that my surmise was correct. After searching for another few minutes, I decided I'd learned all I could learn from the empty basement. “I'll have to go home and meditate about this, Mrs. Bissel.” I made sure I sounded extremely serious and mystical. “This is a knotty problem. I doubt that there will be an easy solution.”

  “I feared as much.”

  For so large a woman, she could move in a sprightly manner when she chose. She popped up from the bottom step and charged up the staircase, heaving a huge breath of relief when she shoved the door open and escaped into the security of her kitchen. I wasn't far behind her. There's something about basements, even in the daytime, that make me feel creepy, as if there might be ugly, hairy monsters lurking down there behind, say, the mangle, ready to grab me by the ankle, yank me downstairs, run my body through the wringer, and eat my liver for lunch.

  When I stepped into the kitchen after Mrs. Bissel, I saw Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, and Susan Farley, the other housemaid, all huddled together at the sink and all gaping at us as if we'd just returned from beyond the grave itself.

  Mrs. Cummings spoke first. “Wh-what did you find?”

  “I'm not sure,” I said. It almost wasn't a lie. Sure, I'd found an empty spaghetti can and a sheet and a blanket, but I had no idea what they meant, separately or together. I knew that's what Mrs. Cummings' question had meant, even if she hadn't expressed it exactly that way.

  “Daisy says it's going to take a good deal of thought and meditation in order to discover the best way to deal with it,” confided Mrs. Bissel, taking care to lock the door to the basement, as if a lock could keep a spirit (or ghost) confined. It seemed to me that she got along with her household staff almost as if they were family. I thought that was sweet.

  “I hope you can meditate fast,” Ginger said, sounding a speck tart. “Whatever's down there is scaring us all to flinders.”

  “Now, Ginger,” said Mrs. Cummings. “Daisy will do her best.”

  “Of course, she will,” affirmed Mrs. Bissel.

  “Well,” said Ginger, “better you than me, Daisy. I wouldn'
t go down into that basement alone to save myself.”

  Who said anything about me going down there by myself? I didn't ask the question, certain it would reflect poorly on my abilities to exorcize the demon belowstairs. Not that I had any, even it was a demon, which I doubted.

  Rather, I chose to appear arcane and to speak in my best mediumistic voice. “The spirits can be difficult. Yet they may listen to reason from one who knows their ways.”

  After having a cup of tea and a piece of gingerbread, I left Mrs. Bissel's mansion, wondering how the devil I was supposed to get rid of whatever was living in her basement. I suppose I'd have to figure out who or what it was first, and then decide what to do.

  I have a very good imagination, a characteristic I inherited from my father (my mother has no imagination at all). All the way home on the red car, I thought about Mrs. Bissel's basement's possibilities. First I pictured myself being attacked and brutalized by a huge, vicious escapee from some prison or other.

  I didn't know if there were any prisons nearby, so when I'd wrestled that mental image into unlikeliness, I featured an escaped lunatic brutalizing me instead. Crazy people could be living anywhere. For all I knew, hundreds of families in Pasadena and Altadena kept their insane relations confined to attic rooms in their houses. Any of them might have escaped and might now be seeking shelter in Mrs. Bissel's basement, and might also object to my interference with their living arrangements.

  That thought frightened me more than the notion of encountering a bear or a mountain lion, although I don't know why it should have. I suppose that in reality bears and lions are more dangerous even than lunatics.

  At any rate, by the time I got home again, night had fallen, the weather was cold and windy, and I was thoroughly scared and out of sorts. It was all I could do to keep myself from running from Colorado Street to our cozy little house, but I didn't do it. I'm a Gumm, after all, and we Gumms are tough.

  My mood didn't improve when I walked through the front door and saw we had company. This particular company wasn't the good kind. This wasn't a long, lost friend or a relative visiting from San Francisco and bearing gifts and candy. Nor was it Reverend Smith from our church, paying a social call on the family. It wasn't my pal Harold Kincaid dropping in to invite me to a premiere of one of the pictures he'd done the costuming for.