Scarlet Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “I’m not much for prettifying places for parties,” Mr. Prophet muttered Wednesday morning as he escaped out the back door and fled to his little cottage, carrying a cup of coffee with him.

  His absence of prettifying skills was all right by Harold and me. Harold even said, “I think we’re better off preparing for this ‘do’ without him, Daisy. If we left it up to him, he’d probably decorate the walls with his collection of guns, stuffed grizzly bears and mounted moose antlers.”

  “Harold!” But I laughed. Couldn’t help it. “He helped Sam a lot with the floors and the banister and so forth. He sanded and varnished the banister as if he’d been doing such things all his life.”

  “I thought he used to kill people for a living.”

  “Not always. I suspect the wanted posters had ‘dead or alive’ printed on them, although, from what I’ve managed to gather so far, I believe he preferred the ‘dead’ option. Dead people probably don’t cause too many problems, although they probably stink after a while.”

  “Daisy!”

  “Well, it’s true. And if he had to cross a desert to fetch a felon, he’d have to worry about how to feed him and not let him escape. So it would probably be easier to cart a corpse as long as he didn’t have to have it slung over his horse for too many days.”

  Harold’s nose wrinkled. “Stop it!”

  So I obeyed, only adding, “Anyhow, he must have had some sanding and varnishing experience in his life, because he’s really good at it.”

  “If you say so, my dear.” Harold stepped away from a small grouping of chairs he’d arranged for folks to sit in when they got tired of walking around the house, eating canapés, prying into cupboards, gossiping, etc., studying it critically. “Very nice,” said he.

  By the way, as the week progressed, I didn’t get one tearful telephone call from Harold’s mother. When I asked him about this strange forbearance on her part, Harold said slyly, “She doesn’t dare. I told her if she wanted to attend the party, she had to leave you alone because the preparations were wearing you down. I also told her you hadn’t completely recovered from your run-in with the motorcar and the pepper tree.”

  “Harold Kincaid! What a monstrous liar you are!”

  “One of my many talents,” said he, polishing his fingernails on what would have been his lapel had he been wearing a coat.

  I agreed with him. Anyhow, I’d also pleaded my left shoulder as an excuse to Mrs. P. It was nice to have a few days free from her moaning and groaning, even if her silence had been produced by a fib. Actually, it was more of a major lie. It worked, though, and that’s what mattered.

  Although preparing for parties isn’t something I do often, Harold planned parties all the time, and he made preparing for this one fun. He and I always had a good time together. The Friday evening before the party, which was set to begin at noon the next day, which was Saturday, the fourth of April, Sam, Harold and I made one last crucial sweep of the house to make sure all was well. It was more than well; it was gorgeous.

  The Castleton staff aimed to bring tables and more chairs since Sam and I hadn’t bought furniture for the place yet—except, of course, the baby grand piano. And if that wasn’t the sweetest thing a man has ever done for a woman, I don’t know what was.

  Oh, and we’d also furnished the master bedroom, but that was our secret. I personally aimed to keep that door locked throughout the party.

  However, in light of wanting the house to look good for guests, I’d selected sheer curtains for the living room and dining room windows, and I’d also bought beautiful muted green draperies to pull over the sheers at night.

  “Love the draperies,” Harold said, observing them with approval.

  “Daisy picked them,” said Sam, who had been nice to Harold for several weeks by then. I hoped this new appreciation of my best friend would last. With Sam, one never knew.

  “Thanks, Harold. I think green and this house naturally go together.” I felt like an idiot after I said that.

  Fortunately, neither Sam nor Harold considered the statement idiotic. In fact, both men nodded.

  “Yes,” said Harold. “This house definitely needs green.” He turned and touched my arm. “Say, Daisy, you and Sam ought to come with me to that big furniture warehouse in Hollywood. Can’t remember the name of the place.”

  “Fulton’s?” asked Sam, surprising me. What in the name of heaven did Sam Rotondo know about where to buy furniture?

  Not the least bit shocked, Harold said, “That’s the one! Great place, and you can pick up some real bargains there sometimes.”

  “You and Daisy can shop for furniture,” said Sam. “I trust you both to have impeccable taste, and I’d… rather not.”

  If anyone had told me four years earlier that one day Sam Rotondo would be saying nice things about or to Harold Kincaid—or me, for that matter—I’d have laughed in his or her face after I picked myself up from my faint on the floor. You just never knew what life held in store for you, did you?

  “I’d love it,” I told my beloved and Harold.

  “Whatta you love?” came Lou Prophet’s creaky voice from the kitchen. Guess he’d come in while we’d been gazing with admiration at our new draperies. He could be remarkably quiet, considering he had that peg leg to deal with.

  “Shopping for furniture with Harold,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah? Interesting.” He spoke in about the least interested voice I’d ever heard issue from a human mouth.

  All four of us laughed. Including Mr. Prophet, who then said, “Guess the place does need a chair or a sofa or something. It’s pretty bare now.”

  “We’ll have a good time finding chairs, sofas, and lots of other furniture,” said Harold. “When Daisy and I get together, there’s no stopping us.”

  “That’s for damned sure,” mumbled Sam. I gave him a reproving whack on the arm. He then used that arm to pick me up and swing me around. “You can’t imagine how afraid I was when I first brought you over here, Daisy. I thought you’d hate the house and me, too. I took a huge chance, you know.”

  After giving him a whopping smooch, I said, “Oh, you silly man. I love you, and I’ve loved this house ever since my family bought the bungalow across the street.”

  “Ain’t that sweet?” said Prophet, his voice as dry as the Mojave Desert, which resided a couple hundred miles away from Pasadena.

  “Extremely sweet,” said Harold, nearly matching Prophet’s tone in the dryness department.

  “Come along, Sam,” I said. “I don’t think these two gentlemen approve of us.”

  “Oh, I approve of you, Miss Daisy,” said Prophet, all but ogling me. “And Sam and Harold aren’t too bad, either. Neither of ‘em can hold a candle to you, of course.” He winked. By then Sam and I had become accustomed to his teasing ways, so neither of us got our frillies in a twist. That’s another one of Mr. Prophet’s old-west sayings.

  “There’s a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one,” Sam said, plopping me on my feet again. “Now think hard for a minute, Daisy. Do we need to do anything else in order to prepare for this shindig? I don’t want to be rushing around tomorrow picking up things we’ll need and don’t have.”

  Digging in the pocket of my once-blue day dress—I’d had it for so long, it was now kind of a grayish color—I withdrew a folded sheet of paper. After reading it and handing it to Harold, who did likewise, we said in unison, “Nope.”

  Harold went on, “This list covers every little thing we might possibly need. We even over-bought a few items, like napkins and so forth. The Castleton will bring dishes and food, but you never know about napkins.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” said Prophet, trying to sound serious.

  Neither Harold nor I minded. Sam snorted.

  “I’m so glad you have lots of money, Sam. It’s such fun spending it for you.” I smiled sweetly at my fiancé, who grimaced back at me.

  “Don’t get too used to it,” he advised. “I might lose it all one o
f these days, and then where will you be?”

  “With you, my love.” I batted my eyelashes at him.

  “Good God,” Sam said.

  “Yeah,” said Prophet. “It’s gettin’ kinda deep in here. I just came in for the latest National Geographic. Think I’ll go out to the little house before I get sick to my stomach.”

  “It was a little drippy, Daisy,” said Harold.

  “Yes, it was. I love to tease Sam.”

  “How well I know it,” said Sam. “All right then, I guess we’re ready. When will the caterers show up?”

  Harold, who knew, answered. “At ten. I think we ought to gather here at around nine-thirty to be on the safe side.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Sam.

  “Me, too,” said I.

  Lou Prophet, shaking his head in what I assumed to be disgust, had already exited the house.

  Saturday, April 4, 1925, dawned as clear and bright and beautiful as an April day can get in Pasadena, which is pretty darned clear, bright and beautiful. I loved my city. And I definitely looked forward to the day’s amusements. Almost a hundred people had accepted invitations to attend our party. The party Sam was paying for without a single grumble or protest.

  It had boggled my mind when Sam had admitted to being a wealthy man, and my mind remained boggled. Until that eventful evening during which he’d revealed all to me, I’d imagined we’d live in a nice little house, probably not in Pasadena, since property in the city had become quite expensive if you’re dealing with a police detective’s salary.

  What had boggled my mind even more than learning about Sam’s moneybags, was learning that my father had known Sam’s secret (and kept it from me, darn it) for a couple of years by the time Sam revealed it to me. Sam Rotondo, who often reminded me of an irritable granite obelisk or a cold marble statue, had gone to my father and asked for Pa’s blessing upon our union! And that was before I’d even learned to like Sam, much less fallen madly in love with him. I think he’d refrained from telling me about his overflowing coffers because he didn’t want me marrying him for his money. As if I’d ever do such a thing.

  At least I don’t think I’d do such a thing.

  Naw. I wouldn’t.

  Well…

  Oh, never mind.

  On Saturday morning, as promised, the Castleton catering crew arrived on the dot at ten a.m. They drove to the bungalow in two large covered trucks and began hauling in boxes and boxes of foodstuffs from one truck and a boatload of tables, chairs, dishes, glasses, cups, and saucers, etc., from the other one.

  “Wow, these guys are good,” I said, in awe of the almost-choreographed precision demonstrated by the Castleton staff.

  “You betcha,” said Harold. “But I’d better go into the house and tell them where everything goes.”

  I hadn’t even considered doing such a thing. I’m not a party-planner by nature, as mentioned before.

  But when I joined Harold and the Castleton folk, Harold was giving orders like a by-golly general, and the Castleton folks were obeying him like privates. Is there a rank lower than private? If there is, that’s how they obeyed him.

  He directed them to put tables there, and to put chairs there, and how the lovely white cloths should be placed on the tables, how the napkins should be folded, where the plates and cups and glasses should go, which canapés should be placed where, and how the flatware should be arranged. He had them stick chairs pretty much everywhere including all of the rooms save the master bedroom, which I had already locked. Then there were the vases and vases of flowers Harold had ordered (at Sam’s expense) from the most prestigious flower shop in Pasadena, and which Harold directed the staff to place in precise locations in the various rooms.

  Harold definitely possessed an artist’s eye. The only skill I possessed was chatting with dead people, and I couldn’t really even do that.

  Well, I was a darned good seamstress, but Harold’s organizational prowess impressed me a lot.

  As I’d asked her to do, Angie arrived at the house at eleven-thirty.

  “This is so wonderful of you, Daisy,” Angie said, gazing around with perceptible approval. “Your home is beautiful.”

  “Harold organized the party,” I told her.

  Harold, who had just greeted her himself, took a bow. Angie and I laughed. “You’re extremely good at this, Mister Kincaid,” Angie told him.

  “Natural talent,” said Harold. Not shy about his assets, Harold. I loved him for it, too.

  People began showing up precisely at noon, eager to see the home Sam and I aimed to occupy and to meet the wealthy owner of Orange Acres and the big house down the street. Therefore, Angie and I acted as a two-person reception line at the front door for the first hour or so. After that, we decided to let people fend for themselves and hied ourselves over to the tables laden with food.

  Boy, the Castleton did a good job! They’d even prepared trays full of lobster rolls. My father stood stock-still and gazed down upon those particular delicacies in what appeared to me like awe.

  “Good Lord, Daisy, this must have cost Sam a blooming fortune! I haven’t had a lobster roll since we moved to Pasadena from Auburn.” The Auburn Pa meant was in Massachusetts.

  “Stuff yourself. You deserve all the lobster you can eat.” I caught sight of another delicacy that had been laid out for our party. “And shrimp! Oh, boy, I’m going to have some shrimp with that special sauce the Castleton makes. I love that stuff. And Sam’s got lots of bucks, so you don’t even have to pay for it.”

  My mother, standing next to Vi, who stood beside my father, said, “Daisy!” in that voice. Ah, well. Sam, who lingered nearby, only laughed, so it was all right.

  Besides the lobster rolls and shrimp cocktail, the Castleton staff brought about a million deviled eggs, two huge bowls of mixed fruit, some little sandwiches with their crusts cut off—I hope they at least fed the crusts to the birds and didn’t throw them all in the garbage—and some sausage rolls (I’d almost eaten a sausage roll when Harold took me to London on our way to Egypt, but it was difficult for me to eat anything at all in those days, so I’d only nibbled at it). I aimed to actually eat one at our party. There were trays of cheeses and cold cuts, stuffed mushrooms, asparagus spears wrapped in bacon, and tons and tons of other food. I hadn’t even known some of those items existed in the world until that day. As many of our guests said, it was quite a spread.

  Lots of people from our church came, and I was pleased to see Miss Emmaline Castleton, whose father had built the hospital bearing his name as well as the Hotel Castleton, employees of which business walked quickly here and there, doing things. Emmaline and I had become friends a couple of years back, oddly enough because we’d both loved men who were killed by the war. Emmaline’s fiancé died in France, and Billy died in Pasadena, but the war did them both in. In Stephen Allison’s case, there; in Billy Majesty’s case, here.

  Mrs. Bissel brought Mrs. Pinkerton with her, which I considered awfully kind of her. She knew Mrs. Pinkerton as well as I and, while Mrs. Bissel herself had lots of money, she wasn’t nearly as addle-pated as Mrs. Pinkerton tended to be. Mrs. Pansy Hanratty, who had taught Spike’s obedience class, arrived with her son, Monty Mountjoy, the leading Adonis in motion pictures at the moment, causing no end of flutter among the female party attendees. Since I know considerably more about Monty—who was a splendid chap—than anyone else there except Harold, I didn’t flutter.

  Flossie and Johnny Buckingham brought their little boy, Billy, with them. A darling lad, he’d had a wonderful time with Mr. Prophet some months back. Their appreciation of one another had surprised me, since I hadn’t pegged—if you’ll pardon the expression—Lou Prophet as a man who enjoyed being around children. Goes to show yet again that nobody knows what goes on the minds (or lives) of others. Even phony spiritualist-mediums. Or should that be media? Good Lord, I didn’t even know what to call my own fake profession!

  “I’ll keep close tabs on him, Daisy,” said Flossie,
smiling happily. “What a beautiful home you have!”

  “Thanks, Flossie,” I said, giving her a hug. She was probably the nicest person I’d ever met in my life, barring Johnny, her husband.

  “Beautiful,” said Johnny, smiling in his own right.

  “Is Mistew Pwophet hewe?” Billy asked.

  “Soon,” I said, thinking he was cute as a bug. Not that bugs are cute, but…Oh, nertz. Don’t mind me.

  After an hour or two of chatting and nibbling—the shrimp cocktail and those lobster rolls were very good—Mr. Floy Hostetter, our choir director, noticed the baby grand in the living room (I presume he hadn’t seen it instantly because of the horde of people milling about) and hurried over to me in order to gush about it. Mrs. Fleming, our organist at the church, joined Mr. Hostetter and his wife in singing praises to the piano.

  Therefore, because I’m a terrible show-off, I said I’d be happy to play some tunes for our guests. And I did. And everyone applauded. Then I asked Angie if she’d care to sing “The Whiffenpoof Song” with me, and she did.

  I was having so much fun—and believed everyone else to be likewise employed—when we got to the last chorus of “Whiffenpoof.” Then, suddenly, Angie ceased singing, her voice making a funny clicking sound before it stopped altogether. The rest of the room went quiet, too, all at once.

  Turning on the piano bench, wondering if a bomb-throwing anarchist had managed to crash the party, I saw Angie, her hand at her throat, staring fixedly at someone or something across the room. So I pivoted a little more and saw Lou Prophet, stock still in the middle of the floor, holding a lobster roll in one of his hands, his mouth agape, staring as if he were Lot’s wife after peeking back to see Sodom and Gomorrah flaming away.

  Angie said, “Oh, my Lord!”

  Lou Prophet said, “God damn sumbitch.”

  For the record, Mr. Judah Bowman, who had been enjoying himself too up until that moment, looked from Angie to Prophet and back again, puzzlement writ large on his features. I’m sure most of the occupants of the room shared his confusion. I know I sure did.