Strong Spirits [Spirits 01]

by Alice Duncan

  “What did you say about Mr. Kincaid’s wheelchair?”

  I cleared my throat. “I said,” I said, “that Mr. Kincaid’s wheelchair is presently sitting on the service porch. Next to the screen door leading into the back yard, where, one presumes, he left it as he lammed it out to a getaway car.”

  “I thought you all said he needed the wheelchair to get around.”

  Harold and I exchanged a glance, then we both shrugged. “I thought he did,” I said.

  “So did I,” said Harold.

  “He used it at the bank,” Mr. Farrington said. When I glanced at him, he seemed as puzzled as the rest of us. He also looked as though he’d just as soon disappear into the woodwork but knew such a happy occurrence wasn’t in his future. “I never saw him walk. He’d even had a ramp built at the back of the bank, on Green Street, so that he could roll himself up and into the building.”

  “I see.” Rotondo offered an all-around, general glower, which made me feel as if he wasn’t necessarily picking on me alone, but that his enmity was universal. Small comfort. “Of course, this may mean anything or nothing.”

  “It means he went away without his wheelchair,” I offered incisively. “So, in spite of what we all believed, he apparently could get along without it.” I thought I was building a pretty good case against Mr. Kincaid as a dyed-in-the-wool villain, although I didn’t expect Rotondo to agree with me.

  “Unless someone else lifted him out of it, perhaps rendering him unconscious first, and carried him out of the house to an automobile,” Rotondo pointed out.

  Meaning Quincy, of course. “I hadn’t thought of that.” I hated to admit it. Then I remembered what else I’d been going to tell them. “But I’m sure Quincy didn’t do anything of the sort. I’ll bet you anything that Kincaid didn’t need the chair, but was only trying to fool everyone into thinking he did. I think he was faking being crippled.”

  The dirty rat. My poor Billy would have given anything to have his legs and lungs working again, and it made me furious to think that a stinker like Kincaid would actually fake such a terrible injury.

  Rotondo gave me a look that pretty much told me he thought I was grasping at straws. Maybe I was. “But that’s not the important part. What makes it interesting is that I saw Mr. Kincaid with a Spanish phrase book the night of Mrs. Kincaid’s séance,” cried I. “That’s what I just remembered, and I’ll bet you anything, he was brushing up on his Spanish because he was going to clean out the bank and scram to Mexico with the money.”

  Okay, it sounded thin when it popped out that way, but I really thought I had something here.

  From the look on Rotondo’s face, he didn’t. I pressed the point. “Darn it, don’t look at me like that! It’s a better clue than anybody else has been able to come up with, and it makes more sense than that Quincy Applewood would murder the man! Quincy’s a prince of a fellow, and I know good and well he didn’t do anything to Mr. Kincaid! It makes more sense to me that Kincaid had been planning this bank raid and escape for a long time.”

  “How do you account for the argument?” Rotondo asked.

  “I don’t, except that Quincy was irate when he found out that Kincaid had been bothering Edie. Wouldn’t you be mad if you found out some rich louse was harassing your girlfriend?” I thought for a second. “It was probably just a coincidence that the two things happened on the same night.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.” Rotondo smirked. “In police work, you find that coincidences are generally orchestrated events.”

  “Yeah? You ought to tell that to Charles Dickens,” I said testily, not that I expected the man to have an education that included Dickens. “Anyhow, why not? It makes more sense that it was a coincidence than that Quincy could actually murder somebody.”

  “I’m sure your heart’s in the right place, Mrs. Majesty,” Rotondo said, sounding as if he were lying through his teeth, “but believe me, stranger things than jealous boyfriends killing their girlfriends’ lovers happen every day.”

  “He wasn’t her lover!”

  “Her pursuer, then.” I could tell Rotondo was hanging on to his patience with a great effort, drat the man. “Although I’m sure even you will admit, if you’ll allow yourself to think clearly, that Miss Marsh wouldn’t have been the first young woman to succumb to the lure of a man with money.”

  “Maybe the girls in New York City are degenerate strumpets,” I bellowed. “But around here, girls have morals! Besides, I know Quincy didn’t kill Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Kincaid’s taken it on the lam to Mexico!”

  I’d finally succeeded in wiping the sneer off Rotondo’s face. I’d also succeeded in producing shocked expressions on the faces of Harold Kincaid and Del Farrington. I was, in fact, rather pleased with myself.

  As I might have anticipated, it didn’t take Rotondo long to get over his amazement. Although he thought better of producing another sneer, he did sound dubious when he said, “How do you figure that?”

  “I saw him with a Spanish phrase book on the night of Mrs. Kincaid’s séance. It looked to me as if he’d been trying to keep it hidden under the blanket he always tossed over his legs, but the blanket had slipped and I saw it clearly. It said Espanol Para Los Turistos. I thought at the time that reading a Spanish phrase book was an odd way of having fun, but what do I know about how rich people amuse themselves?”

  Rotondo uttered a gurgling sound and muttered, “You, of all people, ought to know that many rich people are as gullible as geese.”

  He was talking about my business, the demon. “Darn you! That’s not fair!”

  “Wait a minute, Detective.” Harold stepped forward, leaving poor Del Farrington gaping in the background and looking as if he’d like to wring his hands but didn’t dare since “real” men didn’t do things like that. “I think Daisy might have something here.”

  I absolutely adored Harold Kincaid. Even if he didn’t like women. Maybe because he didn’t like women. I mean, when it came to Harold, a girl could always be sure he had no ulterior motives, if you know what I mean. That being the case, I gave him my most winning smile, which differed from one of my gracious smiles in that there was no mystery behind it, but only honest gratitude.

  Without bothering to ask if it was all right with Rotondo, Harold sat next to me on the sofa. I threw a look of triumph at the detective, who apparently didn’t care. As usual. “Are you sure about the nature of the book, Daisy? You’re sure it was a Spanish phrase book?”

  “Yes. I even remembered the title. I noticed it in particular, because I thought it was so strange. I mean, unless you were planning a family jaunt to South America or something, why would he be boning up on Spanish phrases?”

  “Believe me,” Harold said drily, “my family doesn’t go in for family jaunts.” He looked up at Rotondo. “There’s got to be another explanation for that book, Detective. My father never reads anything but the newspaper, and he never does anything for no reason. I think Daisy’s is a very good one.”

  Rotondo was clearly unconvinced. “Now see here, you two. There might be a million reasons for a gentleman to be studying Spanish. There are lots of Spanish-speaking people around here. Maybe he wanted to be able to talk to them.”

  “My father?” Harold laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. “Believe me, Detective, my father had no interest in communicating with anyone at all, and especially not with people he considered beneath him.”

  “Beneath him?” Rotondo’s black eyebrow lifted in that way I wished I could emulate. It was such an effective tool for quelling the opposition.

  “Right. And, since he believed almost everybody was beneath him, and especially the Mexican laborers who work around Pasadena as gardeners and such, I can conceive of no earthly reason for him to be learning Spanish.”

  “Unless,” I said before Rotondo could interrupt, “he was planning a dash to the border or overseas to Spain or someplace like that with a cart load of stolen money.”

  “Exactly.” Harold squeezed m
y hand. Before Rotondo could shoot my theory out of the water, Harold continued, “I have to agree with Mrs. Majesty about the man who is, unfortunately, my father, Detective. I’d never say so in front of my mother or my sister, but my father is a bad man. A very bad man” I saw Mr. Farrington slap a hand over his mouth, for all the world like a woman might have done. “Frankly, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  Even Rotondo was taken aback by Harold’s candor. He cleared his throat. “Er, is that right, sir? Do you have any facts to back up this claim?”

  “I don’t even have a claim,” Harold said with a humorless laugh. “Although, as I once mentioned to Mrs. Majesty, I’d always rather cherished a hope that my mother had been fooling around on my old man nine months before I was born.”

  Farrington gasped. I suspected Rotondo wanted to, but was too well-versed in policemanship to let a gasp slip past his rigid guard.

  Harold went on, “I fear there are no facts I’ve ever been able to discover to support that fortuitous fantasy, since my mother always was and still is a woman of the highest moral principles. But I do know my father has no principles at all and even fewer scruples. He married my mother for her money and has been living on the proceeds therefrom ever since they got together. When my grandfather died, the old man started putting on a show of running the bank, but Del can tell you he’s an incompetent ass. It’s Del who’s been doing all the work, and it was Del who first suspected something was amiss with those bearer bonds.”

  Mr. Farrington made a gurgling sound and waved his hand in a gesture of denial. I believed Harold, though. I think Rotondo did, too, although he’d probably never admit it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Detective Rotondo gazed at Harold, Del, and me for approximately twenty-five seconds, during which time I could swear I heard the hamsters getting dizzy trotting on the wheel that ran his brain. The three of us (Harold, Del, and I) gazed back, looking as sweet and innocent as any trio of human beings who ever graced the earth.

  At last Rotondo muttered, “Do you have a telephone room, Mr. Kincaid? And if so, may I use the wire? It might be a good idea to report the latest twist in this case to the Police Department. That way we can spread the word to Los Angeles and other outlying counties.”

  “The Spanish twist, do you mean?” I asked in a voice dripping with treacle and honey and other disgustingly sweet and gooey things.

  He frowned at me. “I don’t suppose it would hurt to mention the Spanish angle.”

  “I don’t suppose so,” I agreed. “You might even want to post guards at the border crossings into Mexico.” I offered him another cherubic smile, which he deflected with his usual skill. “And perhaps the United States Life Saving Service might be notified as well. People do occasionally travel by water, don’t you know. Especially rich people who can afford yachts and big boats with motors and speedy machines like that.”

  “The United Stations Ocean Rescue Service has been called the United States Coast Guard for three years now, Mrs. Majesty,” Rotondo said in something of a snarl. “And I consider that possibility slight at best. I’m certainly not going to call on the Coast Guard, at great expense to the public, without more proof than your harebrained theories.”

  I sniffed. If money was the best reason he could come up with to denigrate my knowledge of American oceanic protective services, he was a bigger oaf than I already thought he was. Harold patted my hand to show me he thought so, too.

  Turning to give us all a good glower, Rotondo said, “I’ll be sure to have them watch out for Mr. Applewood, as well, you can be sure. I think it’s much more likely that Applewood had something to do with Mr. Kincaid’s disappearance and has taken the money. There’s no good reason to believe he might not make use of a Spanish phrase book, either, as I’m sure you can understand, if he got the notion of running off to Mexico.” He sneered at me, darn him.

  “Nuts,” I said. It wasn’t much, but it was the best I could come up with at the moment. Did that make me an oaf, too? Naw. I’m never spiteful to people unless they’re hateful to me first.

  “I’ll take you to the telephone room, Detective Rotondo.” After squeezing my hand once more, Harold rose, gave me a quick grin, and walked off with the policeman.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, I turned to Mr. Farrington. “I can’t stand that policeman.”

  Mr. Farrington sighed heavily. “He’s only doing his job, I guess.”

  “You’re too nice, Mr. Farrington. Did anyone ever tell you that before?”

  He grinned. “Please call me Del, and yes, Harry’s been telling me that forever, as a matter of fact. But I think it’s probably better to be too nice than too much the other way.”

  “Right. Just look at Mr. Kincaid if you need proof of that one.”

  “My word, isn’t that the truth!”

  The door to the drawing room burst open, making both Del and me jump at least a foot and a half. I popped up from the sofa, ready to do battle, propelled by a vague understanding that Del Farrington needed protection. Del seemed to shrink back against a sofa cushion. I didn’t hold it against him. Heck, I was accustomed to fighting battles for other people against the vagaries of life. I got the feeling Del had been pretty well pampered during his growing-up years, the lucky stiff.

  As I should have expected, given recent events, it turned out to be Stacy who’d crashed through the door, whatever demons possessing her having catapulted her into another dramatic role. She scanned the room, wild-eyed. “Where’s Mother? Where’s Harold? What are you still doing here?”

  This last question, typically rude, had been directed at me. She’d never have asked the question of Del, since she had a crush on him. Little did she know how much luck she’d ever have in that direction, and no matter how much I’d like to clue her in, I’d never do anything so vicious to Del or Harold.

  Since Del had picked up the cushion and looked as if he were trying to hide behind it, I guessed I had to answer the bitch—I mean the witch. “Your mother went upstairs to lie down. Father Frederick and Mr. Pinkerton are with her.”

  “In her bedroom?” she shrieked, as if she’d never heard of anything so reprehensible in her life. “With two men?”

  I thought about telling her that, personally, I considered young women smoking and drinking and taking drugs and hanging out at illegal speakeasies was infinitely more reprehensible than a poor bereaved woman being administered to by good friends even if they were men, but didn’t. See? Sometimes I can control myself. I said, “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe this! First my father is murdered by that horrid stable boy—”

  “He was not!” I shouted, furious.

  “Oh, shut up! What do you know about anything?”

  “I know your father’s a nasty old lecher who stole bearer bonds from his bank and took off to Mexico without any help from Quincy Applewood! That’s a lot more than you know!”

  “How dare you speak of my father to me like that?” she screeched.

  “Because you’re a spoiled-rotten brat, is why, and somebody should have told you so years ago!”

  “Good God, what’s going on in here now?”

  Thank the merciful Fates, it was Harold, standing in the open doorway and looking bewildered. I sighed and told him. “Your sister decided to throw another tantrum. Unfortunately, her audience hasn’t been receptive.”

  “Why, you bitch!” Stacy made a run at me, her sharpened, brilliantly painted fingernails scrunched into claws. Harold, God bless him for a saint on earth, stuck out a leg and tripped her.

  When she went down, she banged her head against a softish chair, so I didn’t think she was hurt much. I regretted it, too, which just goes to show how mean-spirited some of us can be without half trying. When Stacy lifted her head from the fancy Oriental carpet upon which she lay, her mouth fell open and stayed that way, which I considered a distinct improvement over her former shrillness, and made me feel pretty good.

  Then, I guess because sh
e didn’t want Harold or me getting the better of her, she fainted (or pretended to faint). Right smack in the middle the floor between a pie-shaped table and the elegant red velvet Louis XV chair against which she’d bumped her head.

  Because I didn’t like her, I left her there. I got the feeling that neither Harold nor Del felt like picking her up, either, so we all sat back down on the sofa and waited for somebody else to show up, pretty much ignoring her altogether. Although I doubted our luck would be that good, there was always a chance she’d suffer a heart spasm brought about by overuse of cocaine or morphine or some other illegal substance and would die before Rotondo returned to us.

  No such luck. Rotondo opened the door a second later and darned near stepped on Stacy’s leg, which might perhaps have broken it. Unfortunately, before he realized she was sprawled there, he spotted her, thereby preventing a providential and well-deserved punishment for the spoiled little rich girl. He frowned down at her. “What the hell’s wrong with her now?”

  I shrugged. “First she threw a tantrum, then she tried to kill me, and then she fainted. Or pretended to faint.” It wasn’t much of a lie, and I didn’t want Rotondo to think Harold wasn’t a gentleman just because he’d tripped her, since he was quite gentlemanly as a rule.

  Del nodded his agreement.

  Harold said, “That’s it, all right.”

  Mrs. Kincaid, who doubtless believed she’d chickened out earlier in the day when she’d gone upstairs and rested, must have felt stronger now, because she’d come downstairs again and was standing behind Rotondo, who stood aside politely.

  She still looked mighty shaky, but Father Frederick had her by the right arm and Algie Pinkerton, who’d finally stopped crying, held her left arm, and they guided Stacy’s mother around her fallen child, depositing the woman on one of the red-velvet chairs. They stood beside her like knights of old guarding their queen. It might have been sort of cute and courtly if the circumstances had been different.