Fine Spirits [Spirits 02]

by Alice Duncan

  Anyhow, Harold had told me more than once that he hadn't had any control over his . . . what would one call it? Sexual proclivities? He'd gone on to say that he couldn't imagine anyone actually choosing to be hated and vilified by the ordinary people in the universe, and that if he'd had a choice in the matter, he'd have opted to be normal, too.

  I don't know about any of it. All I know for sure is that Harold had become a very good friend of mine, and I wouldn't have had him any other way than the way he was.

  “Thanks, Harold. But you needn't do that. I don't usually have secrets to keep.” I shot a glance toward the living room. The men were still occupied with the puppy, I guess, because I didn't see anyone staring at me in an attempt to figure out what I was talking about and to whom.

  “Your present secret is quite a doozy,” Harold said. “I suppose this one makes up for you not having many before it came along.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed heavily. “I guess it does.”

  “At any rate, I sure hope you won't get too many more calls like this one.”

  “You said it.” My spirits started to sag as I took Harold's comments to mean he couldn't help Marianne and me in our quest to keep her hidden from her father.

  “But I think I have a solution for you, at least for the next couple of weeks.”

  “You do?” All at once I wanted to whoop with glee.

  Then again, what did I know? I hadn't seen Marianne since early that morning. For all I knew, she'd flown the coop or died from boredom down there in the underpinnings of our house.

  Unlike in Mrs. Bissel's house, there was no door leading from our basement to the outside world. We had but a single entrance and exit, a door situated below the staircase, between the hall and the kitchen. I guess only rich people can afford multiple basement doors. But Marianne wouldn't have needed an extra door. It would have been painfully easy for her to run away while we'd all been at church.

  “I believe I do,” Harold continued. “The poor thing can't stay here because my aunt from New Jersey is coming to visit next Tuesday. Mother's out of town for a couple of days, but she's coming back on Wednesday with outriders and will have a full house for a month, so I offered to put Aunt Matty and Uncle William up, and I don't think I could keep Miss Wag . . . ah . . . your friend's presence a secret with people coming in and going out all the time. Mother and Algie Pinkerton are planning to announce their engagement the week after next at a ball to be held at Mother's place.”

  Harold's mother, Madeline Kincaid, was a very lovely lady, if not too bright. Algie Pinkerton, a long-time friend of hers, must have proposed. I thought the match was a good one. As already mentioned, Mrs. Kincaid's first husband had turned out to be a real stinker. Her daughter was a louse, too. She deserved a little happiness in her life, and Algie was a great guy, even if he had a silly name. What's more, he was already rich, so he wouldn't be marrying her for her money, as her first, despicable, husband had done.

  Mr. Eustace Kincaid was in prison now, which is where he belonged, and I'd heard that Mrs. Kincaid had filed for divorce. She'd have to wait a year from the date of filing before she and Algie could tie the knot, but there was no law against long engagements that I knew about.

  When her husband's nefarious deeds had been brought to light, Mrs. Kincaid had worried about what the world would think. Algie Pinkerton had been proved correct when he'd pointed out that the world would undoubtedly find her more interesting than ever, thanks to the scandal. I thought it was keen that Algie and Mrs. Kincaid were getting together.

  “Oh, I'm so glad!” I said. “I'm sure they'll be happy together.”

  “Anybody would be better than my old man,” Harold said, his voice as dry as old bones.

  “I'm sure you're right.” It had always distressed me that Harold's father was such a beast, because Harold rated a nice father. I sometimes had the urge to let him borrow my own for a few days. I'd bet Pa wouldn't call Harold a faggot.

  “Anyhow, getting back to your problem, do you know George Grenville?”

  “Sure, I know him.” Although I couldn't fathom what Mr. Grenville had to do with the topic under discussion. He was a nice man, and he owned my favorite bookstore, Grenville's Books on Colorado Street and Oakland Avenue. We'd gotten to know each other almost as soon as he moved from Boston to Pasadena. He was very good about ordering books for me, and we'd conducted many interesting conversations about various forms of spiritualism. George knew a little bit about pretty much everything, because he read so widely.

  “Have you ever seen the cottage he lived in when he first moved here? Behind his store?”

  “Er . . . No. I didn't know he lived behind his store.”

  “He doesn't any longer. He built himself tidy little a bungalow on Catalina, near Washington. He only stores books in the cottage nowadays.”

  “Oh.” Gee, Harold sure knew a lot about George Grenville. I wondered if George was of Harold's persuasion. I didn't ask, believing such a question to be too personal (not to mention none of my business).

  “He's agreed to take in Miss . . . ah, I mean your friend for a little while. She can live in the cottage behind his store until you and she figure out what to do with her on a permanent basis.”

  “How nice of him!”

  “Yeah, he's an all-right sort of guy.” As if he'd read my thoughts, he said slyly, “He's not one of us, Daisy. So you'd better be sure you trust him with your runaway.”

  “Harold!”

  He burst out laughing, and I knew he'd caught me again. Harold was forever saying outrageous things, hoping for just such a reaction from me. He usually succeeded. I laughed, too. “You're horrid, Harold. You know that, don't you?”

  “I do my best,” he said modestly. “Listen, Daisy, the bookstore's closed today, but George said he can be there by four this afternoon. Can you get your stowaway there at four?”

  “Sure, that shouldn't be a problem.” Except that I'd have to sneak Marianne past my family and drive her to the bookstore in the Model T, which didn't have a top, and it would still be broad daylight and anybody might see us. I'd think of something. I had faith in my powers of sneakiness. “Thanks so much, Harold.”

  “Thank George. I only provided the means of communication.”

  “I certainly appreciate it. It would never have occurred to me to ask Mr. Grenville to help out.”

  “I've known the man since he moved to California,” Harold said. “I helped him set up his store.”

  “I didn't know that.”

  “He comes from money, but he was trying to escape a smothering family. I understood his problem, believe me. But he's made a success of the bookstore all by himself.”

  We ended our conversation shortly after that. Boy, you could never tell about people, could you? I wanted to rush right downstairs to the basement and tell Marianne the good news, but thought I'd better check on the living-room contingent first. I'd been hearing strange noises issuing therefrom for several minutes.

  When I set foot in the dining room, I glanced at the living room again and knew why. “Good heavens!” I pressed a hand to my heart, which had all but shot out of my chest when I saw Billy's wheelchair fly across the room. Well, it didn't actually fly; it zoomed, I guess is a better word for it.

  Pa and Sam were laughing so hard, they couldn't talk, and Billy was hollering as loud as he could, so I had to find out what had propelled the wheelchair by myself. By Jupiter, it was the puppy. Billy had hold of a piece of cloth--I learned later that it was Sam's handkerchief--and the puppy had taken hold of the other end by means of his sharp little puppy teeth. He was growling up a storm as he pulled Billy across the room, his shiny black butt in the air and his tail wagging like a fiendish windmill blade.

  Sam was on his hands and knees, his arms held out, attempting to steer the puppy in the right direction. Pa sat on a chair, acting as the cheering section, I guess. They were sure having fun. When the puppy backed into the wall, he let go of the cloth and spun around, barki
ng at the thing that had dared halt his progress. I have to admit, it was a pretty funny sight.

  “Shoot, Billy, do you think that's good for him?”

  Wiping his eyes, Pa sputtered, “Why not? He's a strong one, and he's enjoying himself.”

  So was Billy. I hadn't seen him grin so hard in, literally, years. He even laughed a little. I hoped his lungs wouldn't give out on him. “I've named him Spike, Daisy. Because he's such a tiger.”

  “Spike?” I squinted at the puppy. He was as shiny as polished onyx and about as big as a minute. He didn't look much like a Spike to me. But he was, as Pa had pointed out, a strong one. And he was Billy's. I guess I could live with a Spike in the house. “Spike's a good name for him.”

  “Thanks, Daisy. This was a great idea of yours.”

  My heart glowed. “Super, Billy.” It was so very seldom that I did anything Billy approved of. “I'm so glad you like him.”

  “He's a champ,” Billy said simply.

  “He's the smallest dog I've ever seen.” Sam looked almost human kneeling there. Spike had picked up the handkerchief again and was now trotting around, looking as if he were searching for an appropriate hiding place for his treasure.

  Sam made kissing noises to attract Spike, who left off dragging the handkerchief and went over to sniff Sam's hand. Sam rolled the pup over and allowed his fingers to be used as chew toys as he glanced up at me. “This was a great idea, Mrs. Majesty. A great idea. This little fellow's cute as a button.”

  “Thanks.” I was as unused to receiving compliments from Sam as from Billy, and I'm afraid I sounded like it. Fortunately, nobody was paying much heed to me, the pup being the center of attention.

  “He's a spunky little ruffian,” Sam said. He sounded as if he approved of this character trait. If it had been a human ruffian, I'll bet he'd have arrested him.

  “A real spitfire,” agreed Billy, rolling his chair over and grinning down upon his friend and his puppy.

  Sam stood up, creaking at the knee joints as he did so, and Spike sniffed at his shoes.

  It occurred to me that Spike probably wasn't house-trained. “I'd better take him outside for a minute or two and let him do his duty.”

  I was just about to bend down to pick Spike up and take him outdoors, but I was too late. Lifting a little puppy leg, he squirted a tiny stream onto Sam's polished shoe.

  “Hey!” Sam cried.

  Pa started laughing again, hard.

  So did Billy.

  Even more amazing was that I, too, burst out laughing. Scooping the puppy up in my arms, I said, “What a discriminating doggie you are, Spike!”

  “Hey,” Sam said again, frowning at me.

  I didn't mind his frown for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance. Spike had done what I'd longed to do for months: totally disconcerted Sam Rotondo. “There are rags in the kitchen,” I said as I sailed out the front door.

  I heard Pa whooping with glee even after the door closed behind me.

  # # #

  Spike fit right in with the rest of the family. In time, Sam forgave him for piddling on his shoe. As the three men played with the dog, with intermittent games of gin rummy tossed in while Spike caught his breath and napped, I slipped away to pack some things in a sack for Marianne.

  I was having good luck that day, aside from the fact that I was probably going to spend the rest of my life in jail. But Ma and Aunt Vi had gone out visiting, and Spike was keeping my father, husband, and mortal enemy engaged in the living room. Without anyone noticing, I slipped down to the basement, carrying a sandwich and a glass of milk for the stowaway.

  Marianne threw herself at me when she saw me. “Oh, Daisy! I was beginning to think I'd die down here!”

  “Sorry. This house isn't as easy to hide in as Mrs. Bissel's.” I laid the food out on a suitcase. “Here, eat up, Marianne. I have good news for you.”

  She'd already stuffed her mouth full of sandwich, but that didn't stop her. “You do?”

  “I do. Thanks to Harold Kincaid, you now have a place to stay while we figure out how to keep you safe from your father forever.”

  She swallowed before speaking again. “In Mr. Kincaid's house?”

  I shook my head. “He can't keep you because he'd got company coming, but another gentleman, George Grenville, has a whole entire cottage that's currently unoccupied. You can stay there for at least a couple of weeks.”

  She looked at me without speaking as she chewed and swallowed another bite of sandwich. I was glad she didn't talk with her mouth full again, mainly because I'd begun to think of myself as having an unfortunate influence on her. But I suspect she'd only been really hungry when she'd first spoken.

  “Then what?” she asked. She didn't look as overjoyed as I thought she should.

  “I don't know what then,” I told her, a trifle put out with her attitude. “Golly, Marianne, let's take this one step at a time, all right? I've never tried to keep a human being hidden before. It takes some practice.”

  “I'm sorry.” She looked repentant as she slugged back half a glass of milk. “I'm just so scared.”

  “I'm sure you are.” I was, too, if it came to that, although I didn't burden the girl with my worries. “But Harold and I will be able to think of something, I'm certain.” Liar. I was certain of no such thing, at least in regard to my own personal self. But I had great faith in Harold.

  I left Marianne to her milk and sandwich and went back upstairs to tell Billy I was leaving him for the afternoon. I anticipated he would be less trouble than usual since he had not only Sam and Pa to play with, but Spike, as well.

  Claiming I had a séance to conduct--fortunately, Billy didn't bring up the fact that I never conducted séances on Sundays--I managed to get Marianne out of the house slightly before four that afternoon. It would have been a nice, easy walk to the bookstore on a late-fall afternoon, but I didn't want Marianne showing her face in town, so I aimed to drive her there.

  None of the men mentioned the odd hour of the fictitious séance, either, I guess because they were involved in their gin rummy game and the puppy. I noticed several one-cent pieces stacked next to my husband's place at the card table, so I presumed Sam's game hadn't improved. I also noticed that Spike was curled up on Billy's lap, and my heart glowed. For the first time in a long time, I knew I'd done something right.

  Ma and Aunt Vi were still visiting elsewhere when Marianne and I crept out of the house. Marianne hid behind a winter-bare hibiscus bush while I set the spark and throttle levers, turned the crank, reached inside to pull the spark lever down, then leaped into the machine and pressed the low-speed pedal, all the while praying that I would soon be able to afford a motorcar with a “start” button and a battery so I'd never have to fiddle with the lousy crank and levers again.

  Once the Ford had sputtered to life, I scouted the area for intruders. I didn't see any, so I gestured at the hibiscus bush. Marianne dashed toward me, stooped almost double so the men wouldn't see her if they happened to look out the living room windows.

  She scrambled into the car, huddled on the floor, and I threw a blanket on top of her. “Keep that over you, Marianne. I don't want anyone to know you're in the auto with me.”

  “I will,” she said, her voice muffled.

  You can imagine my feeling of relief as I pulled away from the curb, tootled up Marengo Avenue, and turned right on Colorado. We were almost in the clear! It was true that I still had to figure out how to ensure Marianne's safety in the long run, but at least I didn't have to keep her hidden in my basement any longer.

  You never knew about people, either. It was always possible that Marianne herself would discover she possessed a modicum of ingenuity. I wasn't about to bet on it, but stranger things had happened. At least I think they had.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I think I'm allergic to wool,” Marianne said as I pulled up in front of Grenville's Books.

  “Don't throw off the blanket yet,” I advised. “I don't see Harold or Mr. Gr
enville.”

  “But it itches.”

  “Then scratch. Don't show yourself until I know what's going on.” I fear my voice reflected my impatience with the girl. Here I was, putting my entire life and freedom on the line--not to mention the good opinion of my husband, if he had such a thing--and she was griping about an itch. “It's wool,” I said, straining to keep my temper in check. “Wool's supposed to itch.”

  “I'd make a lousy sheep,” she muttered.

  That was a pretty funny comment. I'd have laughed if I hadn't been so all-fired nervous. I was, however, vaguely encouraged to think that Marianne might develop a sense of humor if allowed to remain apart from her father's domineering influence for long enough.

  I let the Model T idle at the curb, hoping it wouldn't have to idle for long, because it tended to overheat if it wasn't moving. Actually, it tended to overheat anyway, although its behavior was better in cool weather than it was during the summertime. It was a good thing Marianne had waited until autumn before making her bolt for freedom.

  Squinting east down Colorado Street, which was all but deserted on this cool Sunday afternoon, I spotted a low-slung automobile speeding our way. “I think Harold's coming!” I sagged behind the steering wheel, not having realized until that moment exactly how edgy I was.

  “Can I come out yet?”

  “No. Keep scratching. I've got to talk to Harold about where to take you. I don't see Mr. Grenville anywhere.”

  “I hope this works,” Marianne mumbled.

  “You and me both.” We'd discussed Harold's plan, and she'd balked at first when she learned that Mr. Grenville was a single gentleman. I didn't tell her that most men were beasts, married or single, because I didn't want to shock her. However, when I'd pointed out that she had no choice in the matter unless she wanted to return to her father's house, she gave up her protests. She was all too eager to give up, actually. It was only fear of her father that had kept her away from home this long.