by Alice Duncan
Mrs. Frasier chose to take my predictions in a positive light, which I considered sensible of her. I mean, face it, life is life. It's going to do whatever it wants with all of us, and there's no sense in worrying about things before they happen. I'd learned over the years, as I consorted with rich people, that they had problems, too. Besides, people liked to hear good news. Mrs. Frasier was pleased.
When I told her that I'd just given my husband a dachshund puppy, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mrs. Majesty! You should have asked me! I'd have given you one of my min pins. They're the best dogs in the world, you know.”
Since one of her min pins had taken it into its head to disembowel my handbag, I thanked her and said I was sure we'd be happy with Spike. “But your dogs are wonderful, Mrs. Frasier,” I added as I tried to grab the one who'd snatched my handkerchief. Every time I got close to him, he darted the other way. He was the quickest little dickens I've ever seen.
“Percy, stop that!” Mrs. Frasier said in a stern voice. She was about as much a disciplinarian as my aunt Vi and Ma, which means she wasn't one.
I swear to goodness, the dog grinned at her. Then he ignored her as effectively as he'd ignored me, and dashed off (with my handkerchief) to another room. Since there didn't seem anything else to do, I laughed.
“Oh, dear. He's such a tease. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Majesty.”
“That's all right, Mrs. Frasier. I've got other hankies.”
“I'll get it back for you, dear.”
So, for ten minutes or thereabouts, Mrs. Frasier and I chased a little red dog around her house. It was an interesting way to get a tour of a grand mansion, and I almost appreciated the creature for it, although I was doubly glad I'd given Billy a dachshund after we'd finally cornered Percy in the laundry room and forced him to release my handkerchief. It turned out to be a waste of time, since the silly dog had pretty much shredded it by then.
After I left Mrs. Frasier's mansion, I tootled down to Grenville's Books to check on Marianne. I was accustomed to visit the bookstore even before I took to aiding and abetting runaway rich girls, so I had no qualms about parking the Model T on Colorado in front of the bookstore and walking in as if I had every right to do so.
Chapter Thirteen
I found George perusing the small cooking section of his store and grinned. “Hey George. Hard at work on our project, I see.”
He turned and smiled. He looked mighty happy for a man who was in almost as much trouble as I was-or would be if anyone ever found us out. “Good day to you, Daisy. Yes, indeed, I'm learning the rudiments of the cookery arts. I should take lessons from your aunt, I guess. According to Harold, she's the best cook in the world.”
I joined George in the cook-book section. “He's right. Aunt Vi's a genius in the kitchen.”
“I'm afraid our guest isn't.”
From the expression on George's face, I deduced he didn't find this a flaw in Marianne's make-up, but rather an endearing character trait. I hoped he'd continue to consider her ignorance darling rather than infuriating if he had to put up with her for a while.
“I'm sure anyone can learn,” I said, keeping my voice down. I also wasn't sure about the “anyone” part. I was a dismal failure in the kitchen. Then again, as I've said before, why should I cook? I had Aunt Vi.
“Our project is interested in sewing, too.” George's face took on an expression of bright inquiry. “Harold tells me you're a champion seamstress, Daisy. I don't suppose you'd be willing . . .”
“Not right now, George.” I don't know why it is, but I hate teaching anybody anything. I'm really bad at it, too. I couldn't teach a duck to quack. Also, I was disinclined to teach Marianne Wagner how to sew. Not that I didn't like the girl, sort of, but teaching her any skill at all sounded like more work than I wanted to tackle. I'd have been willing to bet she didn't even know how to thread a needle. “Maybe later. I've got too many jobs at the moment.” That was also true, and it felt good not to have to lie.
“I have a feeling cooking's easier to learn than sewing,” George said musingly, as he took a book about how to prepare and cook casserole dishes off the shelf.
“Not for me, it wasn't.” That was the truth, too. Gee, my score was improving. That made two entire truths I'd told in less than twenty-four hours. I wasn't counting the ones I'd told in Dr. Benjamin's office.
Oh, boy. I honestly, really and truly, never set out to become a criminal. I know my means of earning a living might seem unusual to some people, but it was paid work, I was good at, and my services were valued by my clients. That's what I always told Billy when he ragged me about being a spiritualist, and that's what I believed. More or less. I was as proud of my skill as a spiritualist as my aunt Vi was proud of her prowess in the kitchen. The Marianne business, on the other hand, had me as nervous as a lobster poised over a kettle of boiling water.
“She's a whiz at cleaning.”
“That's good.”
“She's got the whole place swept and dusted.”
“Great.” Four whole rooms. Wonder what she'd do if she had an entire house with people in it to keep up, as I did.
I told myself to stop comparing myself to Marianne because it wasn't fair to either of us. I had skills Marianne lacked, and she had money, which I lacked. Actually, she didn't even have money any longer.
And it wasn't her fault she'd been taught to be a leech on society instead of a productive member thereof. George and I could probably teach her how to survive. And I'd even teach the girl to sew if I had to. It was the least I could do--and probably the most, as well.
“I think she's relaxing a bit.” George squinted at the spine of another cooking book. “Aha. This one looks good.” He took a copy of A Thousand Ways to Please a Husband, with Bettina's Best Recipes off the shelf.
It looked okay to me, except for the Husband part. I narrowed my eyes as I observed George. He was throwing himself into our scheme with wholehearted enthusiasm. I wondered if his only reason was to protect Marianne from the forces of evil-so to speak. Or could he have another, less savory motive underlying his helpfulness? I'd always thought of him as one of the world's more amicable specimens, and not a fellow who'd do anything of an underhanded nature to a poor, defenseless female, but what did I really know about him? Nothing; that's what.
“Is it okay if I go visit with her? Can I get there through the back of your store?”
“Certainly. Let me go with you.” He must have detected something in my expression, because he hastened to add, “Just to show you how to get there from here. You've never been in the back part of the store before.”
He was right about that. “Thanks, George.”
So I followed him behind the counter and through the guts of his business to the back door. I could have found the way on my own, and without even bread crumbs to mark the path, but I didn't say so to George. I was curious to see him and Marianne together. If they appeared too chummy for my quivering antennae, I'd have to think of something else to do with the girl.
Golly, but helping girls to escape from their wicked parents was a lot of trouble! I decided then and there I'd stick to raising the spirits of dead people and chatting with them through Rolly from now on. Rescuing damsels in distress was for the birds.
When George knocked on the door to the cottage, we didn't have to wait more than a second before Marianne threw the door wide, a warm smile of greeting on her face, and one of my old house dresses draping her form. The dress had faded from blue to gray a couple of years earlier, and it was too short for her, but she didn't seem to mind. When she saw me, she gasped.
I shoved George inside the cottage and followed on his heels. Marianne released the doorknob when she saw us charging at her, and I slammed the door behind me. “For heaven's sake, Marianne, find out who's knocking before you open the door!”
Her eyes did their opening-wide routine. They didn't soften my attitude, and I went on, “It might have been anybody! It might have been your father!”
“Oh, my,”
she whispered, backing away from me as if I were the demon of her life instead of her personal good fairy.
“Really, Daisy,” George said in disapproval. “There's no need to scold the poor child.”
I turned on George. “Like heck, there isn't! If Marianne aims to be successfully rescued from her former life, the least she can do is cooperate!”
It looked to me as if George would have taken me to task if Marianne hadn't stepped into the breach, which was totally unexpected, at least by me. In a small, shaky voice, she said, “No, George. Daisy's right. I'm very sorry, Daisy. You've done so much for me, and I ought to have considered more carefully before I opened the door. I thought it was George.”
I felt like hollering at her some more, but knew that was only my bad mood clamoring for release. It wasn't Marianne's fault she was an idiot. I sucked in approximately three acres of air and let it out slowly. George still looked sulky, and I decided I'd been perhaps the least bit precipitate.
Slumping down on the sofa--absent this afternoon of books and sheeted covering--I said, “I'm sorry, Marianne. I didn't mean to yell at you. But you have to take this seriously unless you want to get us all into deep trouble.”
I'd managed to intimidate the poor girl. She stood there with her head bowed, clasping her hands, and looking miserable. “No,” she whispered. “You're right. It was foolish of me to open the door without peeking out first.”
“I've already been threatened with jail by a policeman,” I told her.
She gasped again, and rushed to sit beside me. Snatching up my hands in hers, she cried, “Oh, Daisy! How is that possible? Who threatened you? My goodness, nobody knows do they?”
I squeezed her hands back to show her I was over my pique, although I wasn't altogether sure it was true. “I'm sorry, Marianne. No, nobody knows. A police detective who's a good friend of my husband suspects I know where you're hiding.”
“No!” She dropped my hands and used hers to bury her face in.
“How could he suspect?” George asked skeptically. “Have you mentioned Marianne to him?”
“I didn't have to. He was already working on her disappearance. Anyhow, he suspects me of everything without my doing anything at all, ever.”
Marianne lifted her head, squared her shoulders, and said, “I can't allow you to suffer on my account, Daisy. I shall go home.” She sounded as if she meant it.
“No!” cried George.
Marianne's pose of noble self-sacrifice lasted approximately ten seconds before she collapsed and burst into tears. Shooting me a baleful glance, George rushed to her other side and wrapped her in his arms. The sofa really wasn't big enough to accommodate three persons comfortably, so I stood up.
I'm afraid I peered down upon the two would-be lovers without a whole lot of benevolence warming my bosom. “There's no need for hysterics,” I said dryly. “Nobody knows you're here, Marianne, and nobody knows I have anything to do with your continued absence from your parental abode. All I'm saying is that you ought not open the door before you know who's outside knocking on it.”
“Perhaps,” George said stiffly, “it would be advisable to ascertain who's outside the cottage before opening the door.” He looked up at me as he spoke, and his expression told me as clearly as words that, whatever mistake his heroine had made, I was wrong to have become irked with her.
“Exactly,” said I. “I'm sorry I yelled at you, Marianne. I'm a little tense about this whole escapade, I guess.”
“Oh, Daisy!” Extricating herself from George's arms, Marianne jumped up from the sofa and made a dash at me, falling to her knees, her arms outstretched.
Startled isn't half strong enough to describe my state of mind. I'm not accustomed to people falling on their knees before me. Shoot, Billy hadn't even got down on one knee when he proposed. Come to think of it, if I recall correctly, I proposed to him. But that's neither here nor there.
“Oh, Daisy, I'm so sorry! You're doing so much for me! I'll never answer the door again, I promise!”
Oh, brother. “Just don't open it before you know who's there, all right?”
“Of course. Of course.”
After giving the matter another second or two of thought, I amended my request. “Actually, maybe you're right. It would be better if you didn't open the door at all.” I tried to ignore her imploring position. She reminded me of a Medieval mendicant begging favors from a saint.
She sat back, surprised. “Not open the door at all? But how will anyone get in?”
“That's the whole point,” I said. “You don't want anyone to get in. No one except George, Harold, or me. And the way to assure that is not to open the door if anyone knocks.” Glancing at George and silently praying that the silly girl would get up off her knees, I said to him, “When you visit, George, you can tell her your name. And if either Harold or I visit, we'll do so only in your company. That'll be safe, I guess.”
Thank the good Lord, Marianne stopped worshiping me and got up, balancing on the arm of a chair to do it. The girl wasn't awfully graceful. “That makes sense,” she said. She blinked her pretty blue eyes at George. “Don't you think so, George?”
He was still frowning a trifle, probably because he thought I was being hard on a sweet, innocent child, but he nodded. “Yes. I understand what Daisy's saying. I suppose that would ensure your safety better than having Daisy or Harold knocking all day long.”
All three of us jumped when another peremptory knock came at the door. It was almost as if someone had been listening in on our conversation and had chosen the exact moment when we'd all be most unprepared in order to test our resolve. Marianne sucked in air and turned as white as paper. I rose from my chair, nerves abristle. George turned and braced himself with his feet apart and his hands bunched into fists, as if he planned to attack whoever had knocked.
“Miss Wagner. Miss Wagner, it's me, Harold.”
A collective sigh of relief issued from Marianne, George, and me. “Harold,” I murmured, pressing a hand to my thundering heart.
“I have clothes,” Harold added. He sounded as though he didn't enjoy waiting in the alleyway with an armload of female clothing. Harold was sensitive about such things, since he was--well, you know.
“I'll get it,” I said. Maybe I'd been reading too many detective novels (they're my favorite reading material, with the occasional western thrown in), because I envisioned Harold standing at the cottage door with Dr. Wagner behind him, holding a gun to the back of his head. “Marianne, go into the bedroom for a minute, please.”
“Do you really think that's necessary?” George. Glowering at me again.
My nerves twanged, my temper snapped, and I said, “Yes, I do,” in a voice I guess he didn't want to argue with, because he said only, “Very well,” and gazed at Marianne's retreating back as if he were watching his last hope on earth desert him.
Things were getting pretty thick between those two. I renewed my decision to have a serious chat with George.
“Harold? Is that you?”
“Who the hell do you think it is?” He was getting crabby. “I already told you who it was.”
“Is anyone with you?”
“Daisy, for the love of God, open this door!”
I opened the door.
“Good God,” Harold muttered as he stumbled into the cottage. I could see now why he was short-tempered. He not only held a pile of ladies' dresses and underpinnings, but there were boxes, too, heaped on top of the clothes. “Gee, Harold, what's in the boxes?”
“Shoes and hats. Heavy shoes and hats.” His arms gave out over the small sofa, and the clothing and boxes fell out of them, sliding here and there, and making a mess. Shaking out the kinks from his arms, Harold turned to me. “For God's sake, Daisy, why'd you take so long opening the door?”
“I'm sorry Harold. Maybe I was being too cautious, but Marianne has to learn not to open the door for just anybody.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Harold stiffened up like a retrie
ver eyeing a duck. “I am not just anybody, in case you've forgotten, Daisy Majesty. I'm one of the gentlemen attempting to help your runaway, if you'll recall.”
My runaway? Well, really! “I'm so sorry, Harold, but Marianne had just opened the door to me without even looking first. I guess we're all a little jumpy.”
Harold collapsed on top of a blue satin gown. The gown, carrying Harold with it, promptly slid off the pile of clothing, and Harold ended up on the floor along with a couple of boxes and several other dresses. “Darn.”
Fortunately, Harold is an easy-going fellow. His predicament made him laugh. I was so relieved, and Harold looked so darned ridiculous, I joined in.
A small voice from the bedroom asked, “May I come out now?”
Crumb, I'd forgotten all about the heroine of the piece. “Sure, Marianne. Harold's brought you some clothes.”
She appeared at the door, wringing her hands (she did that a lot) and looking worried. I considered her state of trepidation regarding entrants to the cottage somewhat late in arriving.
“Ah, Miss Wagner. Sorry about the eccentric greeting.” Harold climbed up from the floor, trying not to step on any of the frocks, underthings, and boxes, and gestured at the heap. Eyeing the girl's poorly fitting house dress and wrinkling his nose, he added, “It looks as if I arrived just in time.”
“Don't be snotty, Harold,” I said. “I'll have you know that's my dress, and I only wear it to clean house.”
He eyed me without favor. “And your husband doesn't object to this?”
“Cut it out, Harold.” I wasn't in the mood to listen to jokes about my husband or my fashion sense. “Why don't you two men clear out of here, and I'll help Marianne change and hang things up.”
Marianne turned her languishing blue gaze upon George, where it lingered for a couple of seconds before she transferred it to Harold, where it belonged, in my humble opinion. “I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Kincaid,” she said in a small, subdued voice. “You're all being so kind to me. I'm sure I don't deserve it.”
“Nonsense,” I said stoutly.
