Scarlet Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “Is there any point in consulting your spirit control with the board after all the tarot reading?” she asked, waving a graceful hand over the tarot layout. “Raleigh, or whatever his name is?”

  “Oh, most definitely,” I said, attempting good cheer. “According to the cards, you might be in for some rough going…um, fairly soon. But Rolly may well be able to steer you in the right direction.”

  “He may be, eh?”

  “Most certainly.”

  I think we both knew I was lying, but I could tell Angie half-way—or maybe more than half-way—wanted to believe me.

  Bless his heart, Rolly didn’t fail me, although he did spell out a few things I hadn’t intended him to spell out. Once I got home again, I intended to have a stern chat with him. I’d threatened him before, letting him know in no uncertain terms that I’d invented him, and I could jolly well dis-invent him if he kept doing things of which I disapproved.

  Good Lord, I’m talking as though I really believe in him. I beg your pardon.

  Five

  What happened then occurred as follows:

  After I positioned the Ouija board on the piecrust table facing Angie, she and I placed our fingertips lightly on the triangular wooden planchette. This object, infused with the spirit of Rolly, would zip—or dawdle, depending on his (my) mood—around the board and spell things out, visit the words YES or NO painted on the right and left of the board’s upper corners, or use the numbers printed on the board to answer whatever we asked him. It.

  Bother.

  “Would you like to ask Rolly a question?” I queried Angie politely.

  Visibly skeptical—no dunce, she—she said, “Why don’t you ask him something? Based on the message delivered by the cards. Well, you know what I mean.”

  I sensed this was some kind of test.

  “Yes, I believe I do.” Therefore, carrying on not quite fearlessly, I said to my fictitious spirit control, “Rolly, the tarot cards told Missus Mainwaring she might be in for a bit of…well, bother, fuss and…perhaps upset. Soon. Were the cards correct?”

  The planchette raced to the YES on the board and stopped dead. I don’t mean dead. Crumb.

  “Hmm,” said Angie. “Can you tell me what kind of bother it will be, Rolly?”

  The planchette zipped to the NO. Then, as if on its own—it honestly felt as though I weren’t manipulating it, although I hate to admit it—the blasted thing spelled out, “D-a-n-g-e-r.”

  “Danger?” I repeated weakly.

  Again the planchette zipped to the YES. This time it didn’t move from the spot.

  Lifting her gaze from the board and peering hard at me, Angie said with a trace of tartness in her voice, “That’s not a lot of comfort. Or help.”

  “No,” I agreed, “it isn’t. Um… Let me try a different question.”

  “Please. Feel free.”

  So I did. “Rolly? From whence will the upset and danger heading into Missus Mainwaring’s life come?” That sounded downright literary, by golly!

  Although it took Rolly a little longer to spell things out than to answer yes-or-no questions—say I, who invented the lousy spirit control in the first place—the planchette eventually spelled out, “Long ago and far away.” How poetic.

  Feeling edgy and as if, so far, I’d not done a very good job with this spiritualist-medium session, I glanced at Angie. “Um…Does that make any sense to you? I’m sorry. I’d expected—”

  “No,” she said, interrupting me. I didn’t mind. “I mean, yes. It makes sense to me. I don’t like it, but I think I know where at least some of these various dangers and upsets will come from.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mind if I ask Rolly one more question?”

  “Not at all. This time is yours to do with as you please.”

  “Rolly.” she said, her voice grim and determined, “will this…threat come from somewhere I’ve lived before?”

  Zooming to the YES, the planchette hesitated on the word for a moment, then zoomed to the NO.

  “Oh, dear,” I said, noticing frown lines furrow Angie’s perfect ivory brow.

  “Hmm,” said she. “Rolly, will some of this difficulty hail from Arizona?”

  This time the planchette stopped, quivering, on the YES and stayed there.

  “I see.”

  “Arizona?” I asked feebly.

  Angie ignored my not-quite question. “But other…people…who wish me ill will also arrive to bother me?”

  The planchette sat firmly on the YES.

  “Hmm. Rolly’s given me a clue,” said Angie, astounding me, since I was about to stomp on the cursed planchette and smash it to splinters.

  “He has?”

  “Yes,” she said. With great fortitude, by gosh. “I do believe I know where some of these upcoming so-called problems will hail from.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Lifting her fingers from the planchette, Angie said, “Thank you very much, Daisy. I do believe Rolly’s given me some sound information.”

  “He has?”

  With a tightish smile, she said, “Oh, yes. At least I now know to expect some of my past life to catch up with me, and from whence it will come. At least I hope I do, so I can prepare myself.”

  As much as I wanted to ask her what her past life entailed, I curbed my curiosity. Doing so wasn’t easy.

  “But enough of this,” said Angie, standing and smiling at me. The smile didn’t appear to be forced, but by then I’d already determined this lady to be an extremely talented performer. “I promised you a turn on the piano.”

  “Are you sure? I’m sorry if you didn’t get the answers you wanted. We can ask Rolly—”

  “Oh, no, my dear,” she said. “I got precisely the answers I’d hoped for—or expected, at least—and I won’t need to bother Rolly any more today.”

  If she said so. I was monumentally grateful for her forbearance, because I’d pretty much lost all of mine. I couldn’t take much more of Rolly’s rebellion, blast him to a thousand hecks.

  I don’t think I meant that. Or maybe I did. Actually, I believe I meant something far worse than hecks. I’m not very nice sometimes.

  Whatever my muddled state of mind, I thrust all my muddle-puddles—I’m sorry; couldn’t help myself—aside. I’d been itching to get my fingers on that grand piano since I’d first seen it. As I packed away the tools of my trade, Angie lifted the lid to the piano bench and selected some sheet music. “Do you like show tunes?” she asked.

  “You mean music from musical stage plays, like those that originate on Broadway? Like The Student Prince and so forth?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.

  “Oh, my, yes,” I said, my enthusiasm unfeigned. “I have the sheet music to No, No Nanette, several Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, The Merry Widow, The Chocolate Soldier, and I adore ‘The Charleston,’ which was introduced in Runnin’ Wild last year.”

  “I love that tune, too,” said Angie, still smiling.

  As she smiled, I sensed all remaining tension in the room dissipate. How odd.

  “I have just the thing!” she said after a moment of shuffling through papers. “Here’s ‘The Merry Widow Waltz,’ from The Merry Widow.”

  “One of my favorites,” I said. What’s even better was I’d just spoken the truth. It really was one of my favorites. “The waltz, along with ‘I’m Off to Chez Maxim’s.’ In fact, The Merry Widow contains a lot of great music.”

  “It certainly does. Let’s do ‘Maxime’s’ instead of the waltz,” said Angie sounding honestly pleased, which pleased me. “That way we can sing together.”

  I’d feared we’d part mortal enemies after the dismal reading I’d given her, and to which Rolly had added all on his own.

  “Oh, but wait a minute!” Angie cried, lifting another piece of sheet music from the piano bench and waving it at me. Then she gazed at me with what I could only call a whimsical twinkle in her beautiful dark eyes. “Have you ever heard the ‘Whiffenpoof So
ng?’”

  Blinking, fearing she aimed to play some kind of hideous joke on me in retaliation for the rotten things I’d told her would stalk her near future, I said, “Um…No, I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Oh, we must sing this one.” She gently placed the sheet music on the piano’s music rest. “Perhaps you might want to play it through a time or two so as to familiarize yourself with it, if you don’t know it already.”

  “Sounds like a good idea to me,” I said doubtfully. Nevertheless, I sat on the piano bench and scanned the score to—Angie had been absolutely correct—something titled “The Whiffenpoof Song.” And, by golly, after playing it through once, I decided it was a great song. Glancing up at Angie, who held her hands folded at her waist rather like an operatic diva, I asked, “What range do you sing? I mean, are you a soprano or an alto?”

  Dropping her arms and laughing, she said, “I have no idea. I usually just learn the melodies to songs. I’ve never taken lessons. I expect I’m somewhere in the soprano range.”

  “Excellent. Why don’t you take the melody, and I’ll see what I can do about harmonizing.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s one of my few skills.”

  “My dear, you have many, many skills.”

  If she said so. Anyhow, I played an introductory few bars, then nodded at Angie, and she started singing the melody in a delightful soprano voice. She might not have taken music lessons, but she had a great voice. The music being easy to follow, I did a pretty darned good job harmonizing with her. I was busy playing and singing, so I don’t know this for a fact, but I think we sounded good together—at least as good as Lucy Zollinger and I. Lucy and I were often asked to sing duets by our choir director, Mr. Floy Hostetter.

  “This is such a fun song!” I said, nearly giddy with glee. Not only had Angie forgiven me for my pathetic spiritualist output for the day, but I absolutely loved this song.

  “Believe it or not, it originated in one of those ritzy universities back east. What is it? Princeton? Harvard? No, that’s not— Oh, yes! Yale.”

  “Really? I had no idea it had such a prestigious beginning. It has a better education than I, for sure.”

  With a laugh, Angie said, “Me, too. It’s supposed to be an acapella number, but who cares? Let’s sing it again.” She sounded almost as eager as I.

  So we did. We’d just finished the last verse: “‘Gentleman songsters off on a spree, doomed from here to eternity. Lord have mercy as such as we. Baa, baa, baa,’” when I was nearly startled off the piano bench by applause coming at us from the door to the front parlor. When I looked up, darned if Pa wasn’t there! And Spike! And, not as surprisingly as the other two, Mr. Judah Bowman.

  “Well done, ladies,” Mr. Bowman said, still clapping.

  “Well done, for a fact,” said Pa, grinning like mad.

  Spike only wagged, but I knew he appreciated our rendition of the song, too. However…Well, what the dickens were Pa and Spike doing there?

  “My goodness, Pa, you nearly scared me to death! And—” I turned to Angie. “Um…Do you mind having a dog in your house?”

  “Not at all,” said Angie, hurrying to the door. “And this one is perfectly charming.”

  I hurried after her, hoping to forestall any leaping on Spike’s part. I definitely didn’t want his little doggie claws shredding Angie’s gorgeous Chinese silk…whatever it was.

  The first thing I said when I reached the three men—I count Spike as one of the men, because he was a male—was, “Spike. Sit.”

  Spike sat.

  “What an obedient dog!” said Angie, either genuinely impressed or giving a darned good imitation of impressedness. I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.

  “Yes, he is,” I said, proud of my hound. “He placed first in his group at the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club’s training class a couple of years ago. And that was in spite of a Great Dane named Hamlet who wanted to play with him.”

  “Mercy sakes,” said Angie.

  “Tell the truth now, Angie,” said Mr. Bowman. “Have you ever seen a dog like this one before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” added Mr. Bowman, “but he’s…an unusual shape for a dog. I guess I’m just used to being around…larger animals.”

  “Judah,” said Angie in a scolding tone.

  “It’s all right. Spike doesn’t mind being unique. In fact, he’s proud of it.”

  “He looks as though he admires himself,” said Mr. Bowman, gazing at my darling dog, his forehead creased in what looked like puzzlement.

  “Spike, you see, is a dachshund,” I told my audience, also peering at my wonderful hound, only I did so with adoration rather than Mr. Bowman’s bewilderment.

  “A what?” asked Mr. Bowman, as if he thought I was telling a tall tale. Which is supposed to be funny, because Spike is so short.

  Never mind.

  “A dachshund,” I explained. “Dachshunds are probably the only good thing ever produced in Germany. Well, Spike wasn’t. He’s from Altadena, but they were first…what do you call it when you create a new dog breed, anyway? Well, they were either discovered or invented in Germany, according to Mrs. Bissel, who possesses show dachshunds.”

  “Show dachshunds?” said Mr. Bowman, obviously still befuddled.

  “Yes. You know. Some people with lots of money and time on their hands actually enter their dogs in dog shows. The Pasadena Kennel Club holds a dog show every year, and Missus Bissel’s main goal in life is to have one of her dogs earn enough points—or whatever they are—to attend the big Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show in New York City.”

  “I’ve heard about show dogs,” said Angie. “I think.”

  “Anyhow, Spike was bred by Missus Bissel—well, I mean she bred two of her dogs—and she gave Spike to me as a reward for…”

  Blast. The explanation of Spike’s entrance into my family’s life sounded extremely odd. But what the heck. Mrs. Mainwaring—I mean Angie—had hired me in my role as spiritualist-medium, and the almost-true story might well garner more work for me in that capacity.

  Therefore, I continued, “She gave me Spike for ridding her basement of a ghost. Or a spirit. Not sure what it was, really, but I got rid of it for her, and she gave me Spike. I wanted him mainly for my late husband, because—” I had to stop speaking because a lump suddenly lodged itself in my throat.

  Patting me on the back, Pa said, “It’s all right, Daisy.” He spoke to Mr. Bowman and Angie next. “Daisy’s late husband was in pretty bad shape after the war. Daisy thought a dog might comfort him and bring him some peace.” Bending and stroking Spike lovingly, he added, “And she was right. Spike helped Billy a lot.”

  “For a while,” I said, still trying not to cry.

  “For a while,” Pa agreed.

  “Oh!” said Angie, as if she’d just remembered she was the hostess in this grand home. “Won’t you come in and take a seat, Mister Gumm? Judah, will you please ask Hattie—”

  “I’m sorry, but we can’t stay,” said Pa. “I only came here to fetch Daisy, if you’re through with your session. One of your clients has called five or six times since you left the house this morning, sweetheart.”

  “Oh. Thanks, Pa.” I didn’t need to ask the client’s name. The only person who’d telephone our home five or six times in the space of an hour or two was Mrs. Pinkerton.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” said Pa. I knew he meant the words sincerely.

  “Daisy,” said Angie, “I can’t thank you enough for coming here today. You performed a valuable service, and I believe I’m prepared for whatever will come.”

  “I hope so,” I said, telling the truth. I really liked the woman.

  “You have. Believe me.”

  A glance passed between Angie and Mr. Bowman. Taking what I presumed to be her silent cue to him, Mr. Bowman continued into the parlor, and Angie saw Pa, Spike and me to the door.

  “Thank you so m
uch for letting me play your piano. It’s a grand instrument,” I said as we shook hands.

  “I hope you’ll come again,” she said. “I loved singing with you.”

  “The two of you sounded very good together,” said Pa.

  “Thank you, Mister Gumm.” Angie bestowed upon my father a glorious smile. I hoped to heck Pa, as an old married man—well, not old; middle-aged. But you know what I mean—was incorruptible. A smile like that might be devastating to a man who was vulnerable to feminine wiles.

  But no. My father would never cheat on my mother. Anyhow, why would Angie want him when she could have Mr. Bowman?

  Well, horse feathers. That wasn’t very nice, was it? I apologize.

  “I do hope everything will work out smoothly,” I told Angie, taking Spike’s leash from Pa. I’d bought the bright red leash as well as Spike’s bright red collar, because red was his color. Really. It’s the truth. I’m an expert at costuming, and I know these things.

  “Thank you. I do, too. I’m glad to know you live right up the street, in case I have a spiritualist emergency.”

  We both laughed, but I don’t think she was kidding.

  Six

  Sure enough, the telephone began ringing the minute Spike, Pa and I entered the house. With a sigh, I bent to unhook Spike’s leash from his collar, walked into the kitchen and plucked the earpiece from the cradle. “Gumm-Majesty home. Missus Majesty—”

  “Daisy!” wailed Mrs. Pinkerton. I believe I’ve mentioned before she was a first-class wailer. In fact, if the Pasanita Dog Obedience folks ever decided to give wailing lessons, I’d wager everything I own on the probability she’d win the gold star and come in first.

  “Please, Missus Pinkerton. Tell me what’s wrong. I sense you’re upset about something.” I could sense her trouble because I’m an expert spiritualist-medium. No one else in the entire world would assume from her pitiful wailing she was upset about something. Yes, that was supposed to be a witticism.

  Another not-funny one. I apologize again.

  “Oh, Daisy!” Mrs. P continued, still wailing. “They’ve locked Stacy up in solitary confinement!”