Fine Spirits [Spirits 02]

by Alice Duncan

  Goodness gracious. “No, I didn't know.” And I'd never have guessed in a million years, either.

  Delroy Farrington, a perfectly gorgeous young man, had been born in Louisiana. He had moved to California after the war, and had secured a position as cashier in Mr. Eustace Kincaid's bank. He and Algie Pinkerton had taken over the bank when Mr. Kincaid did a bunk. But Del was a homosexual, and for some reason I never considered that people like that would go to church, or be welcomed there if they did. Wasn't there some sort of rule against it? I didn't ask, although Harold would have been totally unembarrassed to tell me. Marianne's presence held my tongue.

  Harold went on, stabbing pins in the bodice at approximately one-inch intervals along the seam. “I keep telling him that being Catholic is ill bred and that he ought to transfer his allegiance to the Episcopalians, which are almost the same but not quite and infinitely superior socially, but he won't hear of it. He was an altar boy in New Orleans, and he won't switch for anything.”

  “Oh.” I have to admit that Harold's glib attitude toward religion grated on my sensibilities a teensy bit. I cherished my association with our Methodist church, and not only because it helped to keep my reputation above-board. Nevertheless, I knew better than to object, because Harold was perfectly able to become even more caustic than he already was. Besides, he was entitled to his opinion.

  During this conversation, Marianne sat on the tiny sofa, her hands folded in her lap, looking upon Harold and me with eyes as big and as blue as the sky outside. I deduced she wasn't accustomed to people being flippant about churches and church-going. I wasn't, either, if it came to that.

  She dared drop a tidbit into the conversation. “I haven't been to church for over a month now.”

  “What church do you normally attend?” I asked politely. I intended to check the larder for supplies, but didn't want Marianne to feel as though I considered her a burden even though I did, so I chatted with her first.

  “We go to Westminster Presbyterian. I--I like it all right.” As if she couldn't stand not dropping his name every chance she got, she added, “Mr. Grenville attends the First Congregational Church. I think they call it the Neighborhood Church now.”

  “Ah. Unitarian,” said I. I kind of liked the Unitarians. They took in everybody, not unlike the Salvation Army people, although I had a hunch the Unitarians preferred their souls accompanied by a good deal of money, while the Salvation Army didn't care.

  “Wise choice,” said Harold. He slipped the last pin into the bodice and stood, creaking slightly. Harold was a trifle overweight, and I didn't get the impression that he favored vigorous exercise. “If I went to church, I think I'd attend the Unitarian church.”

  “You don't care for church, Mr. Kincaid?” Marianne asked timidly. I think she was shocked.

  “Church is all right. I'd rather sleep in on Sunday mornings.”

  “Oh.” She gazed at Harold, seemingly lost in wonder that somebody would admit aloud to such a preference.

  “You're going straight to heck, Harold. You know that, don't you?”

  He winked at me. “I've known it for years, Daisy dear.” He flung the bodice over his arm, scooped up several other items of dress that he'd marked for alteration, and looked around for his hat.

  Marianne whispered, “Oh, my.”

  I felt kind of sorry about having dismayed her, but honestly, the girl had no sense of humor at all. Before I could apologize, a knock came at the door. Marianne jumped to her feet, and her cheeks flushed becomingly. Obviously, she expected the knock to be George's. Their relationship, if they had one, was clearly progressing like wildfire.

  “I'll see who it is,” said I, suiting the action to the words. Marianne stood beside the sofa, her hands clasped, her eyes eager. For her sake, I hoped it was George.

  It was. George stood outside the front door of the cottage, bearing in his arms several covered dishes. He must have picked up enough food for an army battalion. I swung the door open. “Howdy, George.”

  He was startled to see all of us, but I reassured him. “I'm just leaving. I only came by to inspect the cupboards and see if Marianne needed anything.”

  “And I'm going to take these things home, stitch them up, and bring them back. It shouldn't take too long.” Harold showed George the pile of clothes.

  George stared blankly at them. “Oh.” His eyes narrowed as he lifted his gaze back to Harold.

  As he moved into the house and set the dinner dishes on the living room table, I knew what he was thinking: Real men didn't alter clothes.

  Honestly, I just didn't understand men. Harold was a wonderful person: funny, kind-hearted, generous, smart, and rich. But the real men in the world couldn't get past his homosexuality to appreciate all of his fine qualities. Men. There was no doing anything with them.

  I think Harold understood George's squint, too. His smile was even more cynical than usual when he took his leave of us.

  “I'll check on supplies,” I told the remaining two people. “Then I'll get out of your hair.”

  George caught my arm. “There's no need for that, Daisy. I've taken on the responsibility of making sure Miss Wagner has everything she needs.”

  It was my turn to squint. “Oh?” I wasn't sure that was such a great idea. Because I didn't want to shock Marianne (again), I didn't say so, although I vowed then and there to have another chat with George as soon as I could.

  Shoot, by the time this problem was solved, George was going to be so sick of me, he'd never allow me to enter his shop again. And it's not that I really doubted his gentlemanly intentions; it's only that I knew we had to be careful.

  George understood my hesitation. He frowned quite balefully. That was okay by me. Better to make an enemy of George than compromise my own principles or Marianne's virtue--I suppose. At that point, I was so tired of the whole affair, I only wanted it to end.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next few days passed uneventfully, thank heaven. Billy and I continued to take Spike for walks every day. I continued to try to train the puppy and clean up after him when training didn't work. He was so precious, I couldn't get angry at him for making mistakes, especially as he was genuinely contrite when I pointed out the errors of his ways.

  Would that people would try so hard and repent their mistakes so sincerely. But people have never lived up to the standards set by dogs, and I don't suppose they ever will.

  Sam continued to consider me a prime suspect in the disappearance of Marianne Wagner, although I didn't know why. Still don't, for that matter. What did he think? That I spirited Marianne away from her family home in the dark of night via a rope ladder and then secreted her in the attic of a crumbling Medieval castle in France?

  Heck, until I discovered her in Mrs. Bissel's basement, I didn't even know the girl. I had enough responsibilities already and would never willingly embroil myself in other people's Gothic dramas. I was only embroiled in this one by accident. Sort of.

  However it had happened, I knew Marianne now; too well for my convenience. Anyhow, I didn't mind awfully much trotting to the bookstore every day to check up on her, because I got to browse through all the new books when they arrived.

  I wasn't that much of a book-buyer in those days, being a frequent patron of the Pasadena Public Library on Raymond Avenue and Walnut Street. Not only did I not have the money to be buying books all the time, but our little bungalow was already bulging at its seams. There wasn't room for millions of books and us too. Visiting George's bookstore so often allowed me to see which new books I wanted to check out from the library, so I could have first dibs on them.

  Harold brought the altered frocks back to Marianne on Monday afternoon, and Marianne and I passed a pleasant hour, during which she tried them on and I made approving comments. As long as we could talk about clothes (about which I knew a lot, given my interest in sewing), we got along fine. If I ever changed the subject to, say, popular fiction, presidential politics, anarchism, Prohibition, or anythi
ng other than clothes, Marianne had no conversation.

  On Tuesday night, I visited Mrs. Kincaid, read the Ouija board and the Tarot cards, and she claimed to feel better when I was ready to depart. I don't know why; I hadn't told her a darned thing except, more or less, “this, too, shall pass.” The passing part referred to her daughter's foul behavior, of course, and I wasn't sure about that. I had feeling that as long as Stacy lived with her mother, her mother would be troubled by her daughter's behavior.

  Anyhow, the only sure solutions I could think of to the Stacy problem would be too drastic for Mrs. Kincaid's peace of mind. If someone else were to, say, shoot Stacy through the heart or shove her off the roof of a fifteen-story building, Mrs. Kincaid could mourn her daughter, and then get on with her life. I'm sure Stacy wouldn't do anything so obliging as meet up with a murderer.

  Boy, I must dislike Stacy even more than I thought I did, to come up with such ghastly scenarios. Please forgive me for my lapse.

  Thursday night at choir practice, we started going over a slew of Christmas and leading-up-to-Christmas hymns. Our offering for the upcoming Sunday was going to be “Lo, How a Rose 'ere Blooming,” which was pretty and old and sounded great when all four parts sang the right notes. We usually did.

  On Friday night the pleasant routine that had held for almost an entire week ended. With a big, fat, frightening--not to mention extremely distressing--bump.

  I passed up going to a special prayer meeting at church with Ma and Aunt Vi (the congregation had decided to pray for the children, worldwide, who had been orphaned by the war and in the influenza pandemic) in order to conduct Mrs. Bissel's séance. I didn't really mind missing the prayer meeting. I'd rather have stayed home and read a detective story, but at least I had an excuse other than personal pleasure to skip the meeting.

  Mrs. Bissel had locked up the hounds for the duration of the séance. I'm sure she'd let them all in later, since she was such a softie. Besides, it had grown quite cold at night, and dachshunds don't have coats thick enough to enable them to endure chills. In other words, in case you hadn't already noticed, Mrs. Bissel treated her dogs better than lots of parents treated their children.

  She and her guests all claimed to be fascinated by and appreciative of my efforts, including--who would have guessed it?--Mrs. Everhard Alan Wagner, Marianne's mother. I wasn't overwhelmingly gratified to see her when I met the séance attendees. To tell the absolute, unvarnished truth, I darned near fainted dead away on the spot.

  I was also surprised, since I didn't think Dr. Wagner ever allowed her out of the house without his supervision. She seemed nervous enough to have ripped a page from her daughter's book and run away from home, although I doubted she had. At least, if she had eluded the bad doctor's eagle eye, she wasn't trying to hide the fact.

  Her daughter's disappearance was common knowledge, and I felt sorry for the woman. She looked as if she hadn't slept since Marianne took off. That being the case, I shook her hand, gave her one of my most sympathetic and understanding smiles, and said, “Have you had heard anything about your daughter, Mrs. Wagner?”

  Her eyes filled with tears, and I felt like a rat. She quickly snatched a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes with hands that trembled. Shaking her head, she said, “N-no. Thank you, Mrs. Majesty. There's been no word of Marianne.”

  “I'm very sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Because I was so curious as to why she'd come that night, I said, “You don't normally attend my séances, Mrs. Wagner. I'm happy to see you here.”

  I think--but I'm not sure--I saw a flash of defiance in her eyes. It only lasted a split-second if it was there at all, so I might have been mistaken.

  “Dr. Wagner didn't want me to come.”

  “Ah.” I'd suspected as much. I didn't say so.

  “But I deserve to attend functions if I want to,” she went on, sounding like a child defying its parent.

  I murmured soothingly, “Of course.”

  “I'm a grown woman. I have rights.”

  “Of course you do. And Mrs. Bissel's functions are always most respectable.”

  “That's exactly what I told Dr. Wagner. He finally allowed me to come as long as our chauffeur drove me here and picked me up afterwards.”

  Oh, brother. I'd hate to be her when she went home that night, if she'd had to work herself into this state of truculence before she went out for an evening with the girls. She must have driven herself into a frenzy before she'd defied her old man, and I had an uneasy feeling he'd pay her back for it. I only smiled graciously.

  Her boldness fled as fast as it had come. She stuttered, “Mrs. Majesty, I-I'm hoping you can give me some kind of . . . of . . .” Her voice faded away, as if she didn't want to finish the sentence.

  She didn't have to. I knew what she was going to say. “I'm sure we will be able to ease your heart,” I purred in my comforting spiritualist's voice.

  The woman swallowed and whispered, “Thank you so much.”

  I smiled and squeezed her hands tenderly. I was the worst kind of hypocrite, standing there, spouting platitudes about a girl whose whereabouts I knew, to a mother who was in such an agony of worry and despair that she'd risked the wrath of her brutal husband. Because I was so sorry for her and felt so guilty, I said, “You're welcome, Mrs. Wagner. Please don't despair. The emanations are positive for a response regarding your daughter.”

  “Oh, I do hope so,” she said on another sob. Then her grip on my hand tightened and her eyes, which were as blue as Marianne's but sunk in dark rings, opened wide, and she recanted. “No, I don't mean that! If you hear from her, that will mean she's--she's dead, and I don't think I could stand that.”

  Nuts. Even when I tried to be supportive, I made a mess of things. I squeezed her hands again and murmured, “Rolly will be able to tell us if Marianne is there, however. It's better to know, don't you think?” I sure thought so, mainly because I was going to have Rolly reassure the poor woman that her daughter hadn't yet made it to the Other Side.

  Mrs. Wagner cried into her hankie for a minute or two while I murmured softly and reassuringly and wished I hadn't become entangled in her daughter's affairs. I could cheerfully have thumped Marianne Wagner just then. The least the girl could have done was take her mother with her when she ran away from home. Or leave a note, for Pete's sake.

  The pre-séance gathering didn't last long. As soon as everyone invited to participate by Mrs. Bissel had arrived, she bustled us all into the breakfast room. The table in the dining room seated fifty people and was far too huge for six of us to hold hands around it. I hoped Mrs. Cummings wouldn't make a lot of noise in the kitchen while we were communing with the spirits, because the clangings of pots and pans were disruptive of the atmosphere I strove to achieve.

  I'd been contemplating the use of incense during my séances, but hadn't tried it yet and wasn't sure I would. With my luck, somebody would have a sneezing fit and ruin everything.

  It was the first time in the history of my work as a spiritualist that I became impatient with the conventions of my craft. I didn't want to sit in a dark room with a red lamp and spend ten or twenty minutes warming everybody up so I could spring my act on them. I wanted to get straight to the point, which by then had become reassuring Mrs. Wagner that her daughter was alive and well.

  I wanted to tell her that she'd see Marianne soon, too, but didn't dare, mainly because I didn't know it was the truth. For all I knew, Marianne would decide to move to London, England, and spend the rest of her life there working as a chambermaid to a princess or a duchess. I doubted it, but since I didn't know, I didn't risk saying anything about Marianne's possible return to her mother's home.

  Of course, I could have had Rolly say that if Mrs. Wagner left her evil husband, she'd see Marianne in a jiffy. That idea didn't occur to me at the time, however, and even if it had, I doubt that I'd have voiced it. I've never considered it my place, as a medium, to urge drastic action on anyone. And if
divorcing a spouse isn't drastic, even if he's an abusive so-and-so, I don't know what is.

  In those days, divorce was still considered something of a scandalous procedure, especially in Pasadena, which was really a kind of high-class, not to say stodgy, place. Movie stars and flappers might be divorcing their spouses right and left, but the rest of us didn't take our marital commitments so casually.

  Because I am, first and foremost, a practical woman (not to mention an expert at my art), I didn't allow my impatience to affect the séance. I went through the usual routine: first I had all the attendees sit at the breakfast-room table and made sure the room was as dark as we could make it. The one lamp with a cranberry-colored globe in the room was placed in the center of the table with a lighted candle in it.

  After everyone had entered and sat down, and Ginger had closed the door, I asked everyone to hold hands and be quiet (only I was more diplomatic than that). This set the tone: mysterious and a little eerie.

  No séance I've ever conducted has been silent. Somebody always coughs or sneezes, chairs scrape, sometimes people giggle, groan or cry. I even had a woman faint on me once. I strove for silence, however, and usually achieved a fairly decent facsimile thereof.

  A few moments after I went into my trance, Rolly showed up (figuratively), speaking with a Scottish burr in a voice an octave lower than my natural tone. He always spoke in affectionate accents, mostly because I enjoyed pretending that a man, even a fictitious one, liked me enough to be nice to me.

  Before tackling the Wagner dilemma, I had to dispense with the main purpose of the séance, the reason Mrs. Bissel had hired me to conduct it in the first place. She wanted me to get in touch with--of all things--a deceased dachshund breeder from New York City.

  It was lucky for me that I'd learned all about dachshunds from Mrs. Bissel. Rolly was able to communicate with the dead breeder, one Mrs. Wilfred Hartland Rice, who assured Mrs. Bissel that her dogs were the crème de la crème of the dachshund world, and that if dog-judging politics didn't interfere with the natural order of things, one of her hounds would certainly be represented at Westminster one of these years. Believe it or not, vague predictions like that almost always satisfy my customers. You figure it out; it's beyond me.