Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “Yes,” I said. “I know. It’s the Salvation Army and Captain Buckingham that led Stacy in the right direction a year ago. Don’t you think he might be of help this time, too?”

  “Well . . . I just don’t know.”

  It had long been my contention that if Stacy had been rescued by an Episcopalian, Mrs. Pinkerton would have been pleased as punch. The Salvation Army was beyond the pale to a woman like her, however, no many how many good deeds the organization performed. Still, I knew better than to believe Mrs. Pinkerton might actually behave in a sensible manner for once in her life. What she wanted was for me, a phony if ever there was one, to go over to her house with my tarot cards and my Ouija board and my crystal ball and predict a bright future for her pain-in-the-neck daughter, who had seemed to me to be on a crash course with destiny since the day of her birth. The absurdity of people sometimes amazes me.

  Generally, while it amazed me, it didn’t annoy me. That day I wanted to reach through the telephone wire and slap Mrs. Kincaid around until she saw the light. However, my annoyance was merely one more impediment that I aimed to swallow. I had a living to earn, after all. My family needed the money I made.

  “Would you like me to come over, Missus Pinkerton?” I asked sweetly, bowing to the inevitable.

  “Oh, Daisy! Will you? I’d so appreciate it!”

  “Of course I will.” If I were any sweeter, I’d gather flies. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was only nine o’clock. Pa had taken Spike for a walk, Ma and Aunt Vi were at work, and I didn’t feel like rushing around for the idiot on the other end of the wire. “I’ll be able to be at your house at ten-thirty, if that’s all right with you.” If it wasn’t, she could just go hang herself.

  I shook my head when that thought entered it. I really had to get my unpleasant impulses under control. Mrs. Pinkerton couldn’t help it if she’d been born rich, pampered and stupid, any more than I could help having been born into the struggling lower middle classes and with something of a brain. The fact that I empathized with bomb-throwing anarchists in those days following Billy’s death, I told myself, could be chalked up to my state of bereavement. I didn’t believe it, but I kept telling myself so anyway.

  “Ten-thirty?” Mrs. Pinkerton sounded disappointed. What she wanted was for me to drop everything and rush to her house.

  To heck with that. And never mind that I wasn’t doing anything in particular. I refused to rush for someone who preferred to believe in the supernatural trash I dealt out than the realities of life.

  “I’m afraid that’s the earliest I can be there,” I said, still so sweet, my teeth were in danger of rotting away.

  “Well, if that’s the earliest . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “It is,” I said firmly.

  “Very well. Thank you, Daisy. I’m so worried, don’t you know. I really need you to talk to Rolly for me.”

  “Yes. I know.” Shoot, if I’d had a child like Stacy, I’d have been tempted to kill her long since. Or myself. Maybe the both of us. Once the Kaiser got through with Billy, however, children had been out of the question for us. One more bitter pill to swallow. I tried to comfort myself by reminding myself that if Billy and I had been able to have children, we might have had another monster like Stacy, but I didn’t believe it.

  “Well, thank you, Daisy. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I’ll be there at ten-thirty on the dot,” I told her and hung up the ‘phone.

  Feeling blue and tired and draggy, I dumped out the rest of my oatmeal, something that gave me pause since we Gumms didn’t go about wasting food as a rule. However, the mere notion of finishing it made my stomach lurch, so I threw it away. I probably should have saved it and mixed it in with Spike’s dinner, but I didn’t want Ma or Aunt Vi to know I hadn’t eaten.

  Then I took a bath, went to the room I used to share with Billy and tried to decide what to wear that day. By that time, August was almost upon us, and the weather was hot as blazes. Mrs. Pinkerton’s home was generally cool inside—she was rich enough to be able to afford thick, insulated walls and lots of electrical fans—but I didn’t want to burn to death inside our Chevrolet. Another thing: I’d been proud of that automobile when I’d bought it after a happy client had given me a huge bonus for doing something kind for her daughter. Ever since Billy’s death, I hadn’t been proud of anything at all.

  I decided to wear a pretty dark gray voile dress with a black-embroidered wide boat neck and elbow-length sleeves and a dropped waist, both of which also sported black embroidery—if sported is the right word. The black suited both my position as a grieving widow and my mood. I wore black, low-heeled shoes and a gray straw hat.

  There. Nobody could fault me for not being in the pink of fashion, and even if I wasn’t clad entirely in black as mourning would dictate, at least I wasn’t the least bit colorful. This was particularly true as I hadn’t ventured out of doors since the day of Billy’s funeral except after evening fell, when I’d take Spike for walks. Therefore, any color had fled my cheeks long since. I didn’t feel like talking to the neighbors, which is why I went out only after dark. Silly, I suppose, but that’s how I felt about things.

  Our neighbors to the north, the Wilsons, had a little boy named Pudge, who was a Boy Scout. Pudge was about as pudgy as a fence post, had freckles that would probably mark him for life as a genial soul, and took to heart the Boy Scout pledge to do a good deed every day. Therefore, every single blasted day since Billy’s demise, he’d been coming over and begging me to allow him to do me a good deed. I didn’t want to wound the boy, but I didn’t want him hanging around, either.

  That morning, right after I’d dressed myself for going out, Pa and Spike came home, bearing Pudge with them. I fear I didn’t suppress my sigh of annoyance as well as I should have, because Pudge stopped in the doorway, staring at me in dismay. I hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. Curse my bad mood!

  Spike, bless him, didn’t notice things like people’s moods—or if he did, he didn’t blame them for them. He bounded up to me, wagging and leaping as if he hadn’t seen me for weeks and weeks, rather than the approximately twenty minutes that had elapsed since Pa’d left the house with him.

  “I didn’t mean to bother you, Missus Majesty,” said Pudge in a small voice.

  “You’re not bothering me, Pudge,” I said softly. Heck, it was summer vacation. What else did the kid have to do? Pudge had been “sweet” on me for a long time, and he meant well. “But I really don’t need you to do anything right now.”

  He brightened up a bit. “I thought I could give the dog a bath. Mister Gumm said I could.”

  I glanced at Pa, who winked at me. In some ways, Pa was like Spike. He knew I was going through a personal sort of hell and didn’t hold it against me or tell me to buck up, or say any of the other inane things people say to other people when they’re feeling devastated and crushed.

  “Then that sounds like a fine idea, Pudge.” I also knew, because I’d deduced it a long time ago, that Pudge liked to get his good deed out of the way early in the day. That way, he’d have the rest of the day left to do whatever he darned pleased with his pals. Smart kid, Pudge.

  “Want me to use the bathtub?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Just be sure to scrub the tub when you’re through.” I knelt beside Spike and gave him a hug to make up for the indignity Pudge aimed to inflict upon him. Still, a bath wouldn’t hurt Spike any.

  “I sure will. Thank you, Missus Majesty.”

  “Thank you, Pudge.” I think I even managed to smile at the kid.

  After Pudge led a bewildered and stubbornly reluctant Spike toward the bathroom at the end of the hallway, Pa said, “You look like you’re going out.”

  “I am.” I gave Pa a significant look. “Mrs. Pinkerton. Stacy’s slipped from the straight and narrow path, and Missus P wants to consult Rolly.” Rolly was my spirit control. I’ll explain more about him later.

  Pa rolled his eyes at this news, bu
t only said, “It was good of you to let Pudge do his good deed, sweetheart.”

  “Well, I suppose Spike can always use a bath.”

  I was pulling on my gray gloves when Pa said, “Daisy, if you ever need to talk about anything . . .”

  He didn’t finish his sentence, but I did notice him looking at me with grave concern.

  My stupid eyes filled with tears. I wiped them away with the tips of my gloved fingers. “I’m all right, Pa. It’s just . . . so hard. You know?”

  “I know, sweetheart. You and Billy never even had a chance. But . . . well, your mother and I are a little worried about you, you know. You don’t seem to be . . .”

  “Pulling myself together and getting on with my life?” I finished for him since he seemed to be stuck.

  He shook his head impatiently. “No! For God’s sake, you can’t just get over something like that. You just seem to pale and wan and . . . well, you seem sad all the time.”

  I gave his words some serious thought before I responded. Then I said, “I guess you’re right. I am sad all the time. For so many years, I honestly thought we’d be all right, Billy and me. Not all right in the normal sense, but . . .” My words gave out, too.

  Pa didn’t answer in words. He only came over and gave me a hug. “Maybe getting back to work will help lift your spirits a little.”

  I gave him a wry smile. “Aptly put.”

  Pa grinned.

  It was still early for a ten-thirty appointment, so before I wended my way to Mrs. Pinkerton’s mansion on Orange Grove Boulevard—called by some folks “Millionaire’s Row” back then—I betook myself to the public library. I remained in charge of getting library books for my family. Now that I didn’t have to search out books for Billy, I could still amuse myself by rummaging through the shelves for books my mother, father and aunt might enjoy. And me. I always read mystery novels, although I hadn’t been reading much of anything since Billy’s funeral. I couldn’t seem to concentrate.

  Miss Petrie, my special librarian friend, smiled sadly at me when she saw me walk through the front doors of the library. I love that library. It’s big and wood-paneled and smells like furniture polish, leather and books. I smiled back and decided it would be polite to speak to Miss Petrie, who always kept books for me that she thought someone in my family might enjoy. She’d been at Billy’s funeral, too, and I’d appreciated her attendance.

  “Good morning, Daisy. It’s good to see you out and about again.”

  It was? Hadn’t I been to the library recently? Thinking about it, I realized I hadn’t. Oh, my. That was a lapse indeed. I shook my head. “I guess nobody’s been reading much in our house recently. But I aim to make up for that today.” I tried to sound jolly and didn’t succeed.

  “I’ve saved some books for you. I know your father likes Mister Burroughs’ books, as your . . .”

  “Yes,” I said, seeing she thought she’d blundered. “Billy loved Mister Burroughs’ books, and so does Pa. What do you have?”

  She brightened slightly. “Well, it’s not a Tarzan book, but The Chessmen of Mars has just come out, and I have that here behind the desk.” She handed me the book. It had a rip-snorting cover, and I was sure Pa would love it.

  “Thank you. You’re very nice to do this for us.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Daisy. I just love it when an entire family enjoys reading.”

  “We sure do,” I said, wishing the conversation was over.

  It wasn’t. “And here. I’ve got something for you, too. Captain Blood.” She glanced around furtively. “It’s a very romantic adventure. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

  “Thank you. I probably will. I like romantic adventure stories. Um . . . do you have any mysteries.”

  This time her smile seemed perkier. “Oh, my, yes. I’ve saved you The Red House Mystery, by A.A. Milne—”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I believe this is his first book. He’s written articles for Punch, which is a British magazine, and I believe he writes plays, too.” She giggled softly. “Anyhow, as the title says, this book is a mystery story, and I enjoyed it very much. And I also saved you The Man Who Knew too Much and The Adventures of Sally.”

  G.K. Chesterton and P.G. Wodehouse. Add those writers to A.A. Milne, and one would think a person had to use only his initials in order to get a book published those days. “Thank you very much,” I said again. “I truly appreciate your help.” I hesitated for a second or two and then added, “Especially now.”

  Miss Petrie’s eyes filled with tears, and I felt like a brute. But I’d meant my words sincerely.

  I was beginning to feel as though I couldn’t do anything right.

  Chapter Four

  The feeling didn’t last. The moment I pulled up to the huge wrought-iron gate in front of the Pinkerton estate, Jackson, Mrs. Pinkerton’s gate keeper, said, “Good to see you again, Miss Daisy. The missus has been feeling right poorly of late.”

  Jackson hadn’t come to Billy’s funeral, although I’d have been glad to have him there. But he was a colored gentleman, and I suppose he’d have felt out of place amongst all the white folk in attendance. He did send me a note, though, and I cherished it along with all the other cards and notes I’d received from friends and family.

  As the huge gate creaked open, aided, I’m sure, by Jackson having pushed a button from inside his gatehouse, I said, “I’m sorry to hear it, Jackson. She told me Stacy’s started acting up again.”

  He shook his head. “That girl needs a switch, is what she needs.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that now. She needed a switch when she was five or six. Now I think she needs a bullet.”

  Good Lord! I don’t think I’d ever uttered so ruthless a comment aloud—although I’d thought that and worse more than once.

  But good old Jackson only grinned, his white teeth a sparkling contrast to his dark face. “You got that right, Miss Daisy.”

  The gate was open, and I drove on through, waving back at Jackson and feeling minimally better that at least somebody agreed with me about the Stacy Kincaid situation. Well . . . Billy had, too, but he was dead.

  There went my mood, crashing through the floorboards of our Chevrolet. I cursed myself for thinking about Billy just then.

  A surprise awaited me when I parked the car in the circular drive in front of the Pinkertons’ massive front porch. Featherstone, who had been Mrs. Pinkerton’s butler for as long as I’d known her, had the door open and was waiting for me even before I climbed the porch steps. This boded ill, in my opinion. Featherstone, the most correct and erect butler I’d ever seen, and who had appeared to me to be the epitome of the butlerine arts for decades, never did anything that might be considered unusual. The fact that he’d anticipated my arrival and had actually opened the door before I’d rung the bell worried me.

  “Good heavens, Featherstone, has the sky fallen?” I asked. For some reason, I always joked with Featherstone—probably because he never, ever reacted. As I said, he was the perfect butler. I think butlering was in his genes or something.

  “Missus Pinkerton has been eagerly awaiting your arrival, Missus Majesty,” said Featherstone in his upper-crust English accent. He was ever so much more upper-crust than I, a fact that used to make me laugh when I was home. Those days, nothing could make me laugh.

  “Lead me on, then, Featherstone. I’ll brace my nerves on the way.”

  This was another thing that always happened: although I’d been coming to that mansion on Orange Grove forever and knew pretty much where every room in the house was, Featherstone always led me to the front parlor. Or, rather, the drawing room, as Mrs. Pinkerton called it. Looked like a big living room or parlor to me, but I’d been born a Gumm. We Gumms didn’t have drawing rooms.

  Even before Featherstone opened the door to the drawing room, I knew I was in for trouble because I could hear Mrs. Pinkerton weeping. Oh, boy. Just what I needed. An hysterical woman whose daughter was misbehavin
g. Shoot, she should be used to Stacy’s rotten antics by that point in time. She must have got out of practice during the year or so Stacy had behaved herself.

  When Featherstone opened the door, however, I realized things were a good deal worse than I’d imagined they’d be. Harold Kincaid, who, as I’ve mentioned, was a great pal of mine, was there, trying to comfort his mother.

  Harold wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Sam Rotondo was also there. Oh, dear. If Sam was there, Stacy must have done something particularly bad.

  As soon as he saw me, Sam rolled his eyes. I resented that. I scowled back at him.

  “What are you doing here?” Sam asked in a curt grumble.

  “My mother called her and asked her to come,” said Harold, sounding every bit as curt and perhaps even more angry than Sam had sounded.

  Mrs. Pinkerton wrenched herself out of her son’s arms and made a dash at me. I fortified myself by grabbing hold of a medallion-backed chair before she flung herself upon me. I’m not sure if I’ve described Mrs. Pinkerton, but she was a nice-looking, if slightly overweight, lady in her middle years, and she was a good deal taller than I, who am only five-three or thereabouts. At any rate, I managed to keep us both upright by clinging like mad to the chair. Fortunately, Harold was right behind her, and he managed to haul her away before she, the chair, and I could all fall over backwards.

  “Mother. Take it easy. Daisy’s here to help you. She can’t help if you damage her.”

  “Damage her! Oh, Harold! Oh, Daisy! Oh, I’m so, so sorry!”

  And she plumped herself on the same chair to which I’d been clinging, buried her face in her hands and continued to sob. I blew out a breath and glanced from Harold to Sam and back again.

  “All right,” I said, forsaking my well-modulated spiritualist’s voice for the nonce. “Somebody had better tell me what’s going on here. Has Stacy done something truly criminal this time?”