Fine Spirits ( Spirits Series )

by Alice Duncan

  “It's nothing, really,” said Harold.

  “Oh, no, Marianne,” George said in a voice Saint George might have used on the virgin before he slew the dragon. “Anything. Anything at all. We're at your disposal.”

  I wanted to tell him to speak for himself, but didn't. I think my equilibrium was still a bit rocky because of the unpleasantness at home and my worry about breaking the law.

  Not only that, but (and this is an awful thing to say) there was something about Marianne that generated within my usually tolerant bosom an urge to smack her soundly and yell at her to shape up. Don't ask me why. Maybe it's because she acted so darned helpless and kept looking to the men to rescue her, when I was the one who'd saved her silly hide.

  One of Mrs. Kincaid's friends is an Episcopal priest named Father Frederick. He's one of the world's kindest gentlemen, and I've talked to him from time to time about my relationship with Billy. I'd never tell Billy this, or my mother, because they'd not only feel I'd betrayed them, but Ma's a die-hard Methodist who considers Episcopalians only slightly less pernicious than Roman Catholics.

  However, some few weeks after the Marianne affair had finally ended, when I was at Mrs. Kincaid's house to conduct a séance, I asked Father Frederick if my attitude toward Marianne Wagner reflected poorly on my overall character and moral worth. I mean, I don't normally feel like smacking dumb animals, you know?

  Father Frederick was a peach about it, patting me on the shoulder and assuring me that my reaction was normal. I guess I looked skeptical, because he went on to say that when somebody figuratively lies down in front of you and begs you to boot her down a flight of stairs, it's an unusual person who fails to oblige the beggar.

  He also said that my own view of the world had been colored by my station in life and the responsibilities I'd been forced to carry. He didn't mean it in a snooty way, but in a way I understood, especially when he added, “You know, Daisy, there aren't many women as competent and smart as you. I'm sure the poor Wagner girl does her best, but I've yet to meet a woman to equal you.”

  Well, that shocked me speechless, you can bet. I must have goggled, because he grinned and said, “I mean it, Daisy. You're one of a kind. I think it's a shame, too. The world would be a better place--and probably considerably more interesting--if there were more women like you in it. But don't worry about your reaction to the timid Miss Wagner, because it was perfectly normal. Believe me.” He chuckled. “You ought to have to hear confessions once or twice. That would really tax your restraint.”

  Shoot. I wanted to ask him to telephone my third-grade teacher, Miss West, and tell her those nice things about me. All Miss West ever did was whack my knuckles with her ruler and tell me to pay attention. She sure never told me I was smart. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  But that was weeks later. Right then, I ground my teeth and told myself to remain calm and compassionate because Marianne wasn't as accustomed to fending for herself as I was.

  After the men scooted off to the bookstore to wait for me to join them, the two of us gazed down upon the heap of clothing, Marianne with bewilderment, I with an eye to organization. Since I knew Marianne to be useless, it was I who said, “Let's sort everything out before we do anything else. Put the underwear over here.” I gestured at the living room's one overstuffed chair. “Then we can shake out the dresses and see if anything needs to be pressed before wearing.”

  A tiny voice said, “Pressed?”

  I sighed. “You've never ironed anything, have you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, don't worry about it now. If some things are too wrinkled to wear, I'll bring down some flatirons and show you how to press clothes.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her tone of voice led me to believe she considered the skill of pressing clothes beyond her limited abilities, but I knew that was only because her abilities had never been educated in how to handle the necessities of life. I'd bet you anything she could play tennis better than any other ten people, and she could probably make pretty little watercolor sketches and pour tea like a princess.

  Digging into the pile of fabric, I forced a smile. “Don't worry, Marianne. I'll teach you how to survive in the big, bad world. It might take a while, but you can do it.”

  She reached down and lifted a pretty pink frock that was slipping off its hanger. “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course, I do!” I sounded more confident than I felt, but figured we both needed some morale boosting. “Lay the dresses over the back of the chair.”

  She did as I suggested, moving like an automaton, and it didn't take too much time to get Harold's offerings organized. I left Marianne to hang everything up and tuck the undies away, figuring she could use the practice, and I went to the bookstore.

  I still had to have a woman-to-man chat with George Grenville.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You what? I can't believe-- I've never-- How can you--” But George was too outraged to complete his sentence.

  I thought about putting a hand on his arm to soothe him, but determined I'd better not. I didn't think George would strike a woman, but who knew? “I'm sorry, George. I didn't mean to offend you.”

  He stood before me, gasping, his usually ruddy face a vivid red, his fists clenched. “I--I--” Again, words failed him.

  I heaved a sigh. “Listen, George, I'm not casting aspersions on you. I'm sure you're a fine gentleman who'd never dream of taking advantage of a lady in distress--”

  “It doesn't sound to me as if you're sure of any such thing! And if you don't think that's an aspersion, I don't know what . . .” His indignant speech trembled off into incoherent sputters.

  Oh, boy. I'd been as delicate as I know how to be, which is pretty darned delicate. I mean, I didn't get to be a first-class, well-paid spiritualist medium by verbally behaving like a bull in a China shop. I guess there's no truly polite way of asking a fellow if he aims to seduce a girl, however, and George had taken my attempt at judicious inquiry amiss. In spades.

  “Listen George, I've always thought of you as a true gentleman. But these are unusual circumstances, and I want to be sure Marianne comes to no . . .” Darn. I'd done it again. George was blowing up like a hot-air balloon.

  Bravely daring, I put a hand on his arm. He didn't shake it off or hit me, so I guess it was okay. “I'm sorry, George. Please just know that my concern for Marianne is genuine and is based on deep worry about her and her situation.”

  “And you believe mine isn't?”

  It had never occurred to me that George Grenville, of all people, could be so touchy. “I'm sure it is.” I wasn't entirely sure what “it” was in this instance, but I wanted to placate him. “I want only the very best for Mari--” he broke off and cleared his throat. “For Miss Wagner.”

  “I'm sure of it, George. And I certainly didn't mean to upset you. But the situation is one of the utmost sensitivity. We're conspiring to keep Miss Wagner from her family, after all, and that might be looked upon askance by the general public, not to mention the police.” Surely, even George could comprehend that.

  He seemed to. Deflating a trifle he said, “I suppose I can understand that.”

  Thank God for small favors. “So I'm sure you can also understand that my questions aren't intended to accuse you of anything the least bit unsavory. But . . . well . . . it seems to me that you might be becoming, maybe, a little bit interested in Marianne.” There. The truth was out. “And I don't want anything else of an upsetting nature to happen to the poor thing. She's been through enough.”

  “I know that,” George said. He still sounded rather surly. “And I'd never do anything to hurt her, either mentally or . . . or physically.” At the last word, his face positively glowed with embarrassment.

  “I'm sure of it.”

  “As if I'd ever hurt Miss Wagner! Why, she's the loveliest . . . the most wonderful . . . the most precious . . .”

  Oh, brother. “You admire her, I gather.” I tried
not to sound tart.

  “Admire her! Why, she's the most perfect . . . the dearest . . . the . . .”

  I got the picture. “I see.”

  We'd bidden a fond farewell to Harold several minutes earlier. Harold had tootled off in his Bearcat, aiming for Los Angeles and the Sam Goldwyn Motion Picture Studio, at which he worked. I'd thanked him heartily, but he'd brushed off my gratitude, telling me he was more than happy to help, especially after seeing Marianne in my fright of a house dress. I pretended to stamp on his foot, and he laughed at me, and I think everyone felt better after that.

  My good mood hadn't lasted longer than the beginnings of my conversation with George. We now stood in the back room of his bookstore, having left Marianne contemplating a closet full of frocks that, if not brand-new, were at least cleaner than the dress she'd been wearing for the past two and a half weeks--and, if I'm to be honest, were certain to be a good deal more becoming to her than my faded blue house dress. Harold knew ladies' clothes. He'd brought a selection designed specifically for Marianne's insipid blond coloring.

  I don't mean insipid. I mean . . . Oh, heck, I do, too, mean insipid. The girl was such a mouse, she drove me nuts. The bravest thing she'd ever done in her entire eighteen years was run away from home, and I guess the one outrageous act had sapped her supply of guts. Fortunately, I had enough for the both of us, and probably a couple of other people, too.

  That didn't negate the fact that I wished Marianne had a backbone. If she were a girl of strong character, I wouldn't have had to insult George as I was doing. If he'd tried anything on her, Marianne would have belted him across the chops, and that would have been the end of it--if she'd had a backbone.

  Eyeing poor George keenly, I said, “You admit that your admiration of Marianne is growing, then?”

  “Admit it? OF course, I admit it! I mean, no, I don't admit-- Dash it, Daisy, there's nothing to admit! Admit is such a--such a--negative word. You make it sound as if I've committed a crime!”

  I pressed a palm to my forehead, and wondered if my tongue belonged to me, or if I'd picked up someone else's by mistake that morning. I generally chose my words more carefully than this. “Calm down, George,” I said wearily. “Forget the verb if you don't like it. You admire Marianne? You're becoming fond of her?”

  “Fond? Fond? Why, I--”

  “A simple yes or no will do, George.” Good Lord in heaven, maybe the two deserved each other. If ever there was a damsel in need of a strong knight to rescue her, it was Marianne. And, while on the surface George bore no resemblance whatever to the saint whose name he bore, he was behaving like a darned knight of the darned round table. What's more, he was treating me as if I were the dragon instead of his faithful Sancho Panza--although I think he belonged to Don Quixote and not Saint George.

  George didn't like it, but at last he managed to splutter, “Yes.”

  “Good. I'm happy to hear it. Then you'll take care that no damage to Marianne's reputation occurs.”

  His eyes started bulging, but I lowered my eyebrows and gave him one of my better steely-eyed stared, and he swallowed his indignation. “Yes.”

  “Very well. In order to do that, you must make sure that no one sees her or even suspects that she might, by some remote chance, be hidden away in your cottage.”

  “I understand that, of course.”

  “Good. Marianne herself seems a little shaky on that part of our melodrama, so I'd appreciate it if you'd impress upon her the importance of staying out of sight at all times. Will you do that?”

  “Of course. And I resent your implications that Marianne--Miss Wagner is--isn't--”

  I was getting tired of this. “Cut it out, George! She swung the door wide open in my face not an hour ago! Watch her, will you? And make sure she understands the importance of keeping out of sight!”

  He sucked in about seven gallons of air and let it out in a whoosh before he said, “Certainly,” and left it at that.

  “Good. I'm going home now, but I'll be back later. I do have a family to care for, you know. My sole responsibility in this life doesn't begin and end with your sweetheart.”

  “She's not--” Again, he caught himself. “I beg your pardon, Daisy. I know you have other responsibilities.”

  “Very well.” Because I truly didn't want George to hate me or consider me some kind of hard-hearted Hannah, I produced a smile from where I keep a few in reserve for when I can't offer a client a genuine one, and gave it to him. “I didn't mean to scold you, George. I hope you know that. I'm only concerned for Marianne's safety.”

  I think that did the trick. His frosty demeanor crumbled like breaking ice, and he laid a hand on my arm. “I'm sorry I took your solicitude the wrong way, Daisy. But please be assured that I will never, ever, in any way, do anything improper as regards Miss Wagner. She's--she's--”

  I braced myself for another long list of laudatory comments on a girl I considered as bland as custard. Fortunately, George decided to stop before he'd stuttered himself into a deep hole.

  Catching his breath on a third “she's,” he said simply, “I will do my utmost to shelter her from life's storms.”

  This sounded serious, but I was too tired to question him further. I left him to his books and Marianne and coaxed the Model T home again. The poor motorcar was becoming crankier and crankier (so to speak) with each passing day.

  Not that my duties ended there. After first attempting and failing to placate my husband, who begrudged every moment I spent away from him, I changed out of my spiritualist suit and into a woolen skirt and white waist, this one decorated with navy-blue flowers on a white background that not even Harold could disparage.

  Then I found a length of cord in my sewing basket and fashioned it into a combination collar and leash. Then, after throwing a sweater on over my waist and helping Billy into his jacket, he and I and set off to Nelson's Five and Dime Store on Colorado Street to purchase a regular collar for Spike. Billy held Spike's home-made lead, and I pushed Billy's chair.

  Billy's mood got better when he understood that I intended to spend the remainder of the afternoon with him. The crisp December air gave him a boost, too. The day was glorious. No devil-winds tried to blow me off my feet, no fog clogged Billy's lungs, and no rain threatened any of us. Clouds with gray centers and white edges hinted of storms to come, but the weather was perfect for walking, and we all three enjoyed it.

  Spike had never been for a walk on a leash before, naturally. After a few false starts, when he attempted to chase after something interesting and the leash stopped him with a jerk that flipped him over backwards, he got the picture.

  “He's a smart little guy,” said Billy, his voice ripe with pride for his new puppy.

  His approval tickled me for a second before it made me sad. Billy would have been such a good father. It was a crime that all of his fatherly instincts had instead to be lavished on Spike. Granted, Spike was a cutie-pie and would ultimately prove to be of less trouble than a child, but one can't really compare the two.

  “Smart enough to know how not to get himself strangled,” I agreed, laughing at Spike's antics. We'd walked approximately two blocks when this conversation took place, and I don't think Spike had lifted his nose off the sidewalk more than twice, the first time when he'd tried to hare off after the Wilson's cat Samson, and the second time when he'd attempted to rush across the street and attack a dog that was at least ten times as big as he was. Spike might, as Billy claimed, be smart, but he had a rotten sense of proportion.

  Shortly after that, Spike's energy started to flag. He was only a puppy, after all.

  “Put him in my lap,” Billy suggested.

  So I did. As we walked, several people smiled at us and stopped to praise the adorability of Spike, thereby giving Billy more reasons to appreciate his new pup. It made me happy to know that I'd done something right for once.

  In other words, we had a pleasant walk. Not a sharp word passed the lips of either of us, and Spike was a wonderful
companion.

  In those days, shops and stores didn't bombard their customers with Christmas merchandise until after Thanksgiving had come and gone. That day, shop keepers were hanging holly branches and mistletoe, and the idea of Christmas made Billy and me both feel jollier than usual. I think Spike had something to do with our good moods, as well.

  Christmas music is my favorite. Mr. Hostetter had already begun rehearsing the choir for our Christmas cantata, and I imagined Aunt Vi would begin making Christmas cookies soon. My mouth watered at the thought.

  As we approached Nelson's, I thought about the ice-cream sodas Billy and I used to take together at their soda fountain. Maybe we could get one today. Billy's chair prevented him from comfortably reaching the counter, but perhaps he wouldn't mind sitting at one of the little round tables at the side. As I contemplated whether or not to ask him about it--you could never tell how Billy would take things--he interrupted my musings.

  “What color collar do you think we ought to get for Spike, Daisy?”

  “Do they make them in different colors?”

  “Sure they do! Sam and I talked about it last night. I don't suppose they sell colored collars and leashes in far-off, rural villages, but in big cities like New York and Pasadena, where lots of rich people live, they even sell them with diamonds.”

  “Good Lord.” Sam and he would have talked about it, wouldn't they?

  Well, I suppose I shouldn't be grumpy just because Billy had talked to Sam before he'd talked to me. Anyhow, he sounded positive regarding the collar issue, so I guess he--or Sam--knew what he was talking about. I squinted at the puppy with an eye to style. “I think he'd look quite spiffy in red. What do you think?”

  “Red's good,” admitted Billy. Sometimes he opposed anything I said just to be contrary, but that day I guess he'd decided to be agreeable. “Better than blue, I guess. Or maybe he'd look good in green.”

  “Green's good,” I concurred, although I thought Spike would look much more Spike-ish in red, because red would set off his glossy black coat so beautifully. The color of the dog's collar wasn't worth arguing about.