Scarlet Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “I know.” Flossie wore a sweet smile. “He does seem an unlikely fellow to be such a child-lover, doesn’t he? But this just goes to show one can’t judge a book by its cover. Look at me, for heaven’s sake!” She laughed.

  “Oh, Flossie, I’m so happy you’re my friend,” I said, feeling tears build in my eyes. I blinked them away as fast as I could.

  “If it weren’t for you, I’d probably be dead now, Daisy. You know that. You and Johnny saved my life.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” I said, my voice somewhat unsteady. “You always possessed a saintly nature. You just needed to get away from…ugly influences.”

  “So true,” she said. Glancing at Angie, she whispered, “I suspect the same might be said of people other than I, as well.”

  To my credit, I didn’t gawp at her, although I did jump a little. Just a little. Really.

  “Um…I…”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Flossie, holding her hand up, palm out. “I know from personal experience that you’d never tell another person’s story.”

  I had to gulp twice before I said, “Thanks, Flossie.”

  With a pat on my shoulder, Flossie walked over to where Mr. Lou Prophet—who, as Harold had so cogently said, used to kill people for a living—was busily entertaining little Billy. I followed her.

  “And this here’s an arrowhead I got from a Mescalero Injun a few years back.”

  “What’s a Mescawewo?” asked Billy. “What’s a Injun?”

  “You never saw no Injuns at the flickers, little Billy?” Prophet asked, lifting his eyebrows so high, they darned near climbed into his hairline.

  After clearing my throat, I said, “We call them Indians, Billy.” I aimed a frown at Mr. Prophet after Billy stopped looking at me. “I believe the Mescaleros are one of the Apache tribes, aren’t they, Mister Prophet?”

  With a grin that told me he didn’t give a good hang—only he wouldn’t have used that last word—what I thought about him or Indians, Prophet said, “Right you are, Miss Daisy. Apache Injuns fixed these arrowheads to the ends of sticks to hunt for deer and antelopes and—when they were still around—buffalos.”

  Billy stared hard at Prophet. “Dey hunted?”

  “Had to, if they wanted to eat,” said Prophet. “They didn’t live near any stores or suchlike conveniences.”

  “Oh,” said Billy, his infantile brow furrowing. “No more buffwoes?”

  “Not many. Probably folks keep ‘em in menageries or zoos these days. But white men killed most of the buffalo. Just shot ‘em dead and left their corpses to rot on the ground where they landed. White men killin’ all them buffalos made it hard for Injuns to get food.”

  “White men?” asked a clearly baffled Billy.

  “I think he’s heard about enough of your history lesson, Mister Prophet,” I said, trying to sound firm. Every time I read articles about how we “superior” white folks stole land—not to mention bison and health—from the so-called Indians, I wanted to hit someone. Today I wanted to hit Mr. Prophet, although I kind of, in a way, honored him for at least telling Billy a partial truth. The entire truth would probably make the poor lad sick. It had that effect on me.

  “Right you are, Miss Daisy,” said Prophet, grinning wickedly. “Lemme see if I have anything else in this here pocket little Billy might like.”

  When I’d first encountered Mr. Prophet in the side yard of the Methodist-Episcopal Church my family attended, he’d worn a tattered frock coat. After Sam took him to the Salvation Army to meet Flossie and Johnny—without telling me he’d done so, of course—Mr. Prophet had commenced looking darned near respectable. The suit he wore to the party had been obtained at the Salvation Army’s thrift shop, so it was used, but it fitted him admirably.

  After fumbling in his pocket for a moment or two, Mr. Prophet pulled out a small green object, round and…well, I’m not sure, but it looked as if someone had carved something in the green stone.

  “This here’s a Chinese dragon, Billy,” said Mr. Prophet. “Chinese artists carve this kind of rock—it’s called jade—into all sorts of shapes. This here one’s a dragon.”

  “A dwagon?” Billy said, his voice filled with wonder.

  “Yep. This is a dragon.”

  “Oooooooh,” said Billy, still awed.

  Flossie and I clunked heads as we bent over to better see the object in Mr. Prophet’s hand.

  “That’s gorgeous!” I said, rubbing my head.

  “Beautiful!” said Flossie, likewise engaged.

  “A pretty Chinese lady give this to me in Tombstone some years back.” Prophet winked at us, and I instantly knew the Chinese woman who’d given him the dragon amulet had been no lady.

  So did Flossie. She said, “Very pretty, I’m sure, you sly dog.”

  Prophet threw his head back and barked out an uproarious laugh. Disreputable old man!

  But Billy laughed, too, so I guess everything was copacetic. Whatever that means. I’m sure every generation has its own slang, and copacetic was going around not unlike a plague of locusts just then.

  I suddenly realized Angie Mainwaring—or whatever her name was—had joined our group. She smiled down upon Lou Prophet, although her smile looked more like a grimace to me.

  “Hey, Angie,” I said.

  “Good day, Daisy. Lovely party, isn’t it, Mister Prophet? And where on earth did you get a baby? Although I have no doubt you have plenty of them scattered about in various places.”

  “Keep your voice down. Please,” I said frantically scanning the room to see if anyone else was looking at us. To give her credit, Angie’s voice, while sounding vicious, had been soft and low.

  “Oh, I will,” said Angie. “But I think we need to have a little discussion when the party is over.” She glanced at Flossie. “Are you Mrs. Buckingham? From the Salvation Army?”

  “I am,” said Flossie smiling beatifically and holding her hand out for Angie to shake.

  Angie shook the hand. Her smile looked slightly less like a grimace than it had when she’d spoken to Mr. Prophet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Daisy has told me about the good works you and your husband do.”

  “We try. Daisy’s the one who introduced Johnny and me,” said Flossie. Then she added, “If she hadn’t, I’d probably be dead by now.”

  Her eyes widening significantly, Angie said, “Really? I’d love to hear your story one day.”

  “Happy to share,” said Flossie.

  Because the grownups had disrupted the fun he’d been having with Mr. Prophet, Billy began to fuss. Hardly blamed the kid. Grownups had always got in my way when I was a child, too.

  “But I’d best get Billy out of here. You three clearly have some things to chat about.”

  “Chat,” said Mr. Prophet. “Good word.” Turning his attention to Billy, he said, “Would you like to keep the arrowhead, Billy? It’s made from a stone called flint. Maybe your ma and pa can explain better than me how the Injuns used them things.”

  Clutching the arrowhead—which was sharp and pointy, darn it—to his childish chest, Bill said in a voice still registering bedazzlement, “Oh, yes. Tank’oo, Mistew Pwophet.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Billy. Any old time.”

  As Flossie gathered her son in her arms and carted him off, still smiling like the saint she was, we all gazed after her. She was, however, no angel. And that’s no disparagement of Flossie Buckingham as a person, a better example of personhood could rarely be found. However, no matter how pure and wonderful a life Flossie had been living since her rescue from that gaggle of vicious gangsters, she’d never be an angel.

  I don’t know why it peeves me so much, but people keep insisting nice folks who die become angels. No, they don’t. There are (or should that be is?) a finite number of angels, they were there from the beginning—according to Christian dogma—and you can’t become one. For pity’s sake, Christians ought to know that, even if nobody else does.

  I get upset by the most trivial things, don�
�t I? Well, no matter.

  “Listen,” said Angie, her voice soft but demanding, “we need to talk. And you, Lou Prophet, need to come out to Orange Acres and see for yourself what I’m doing to help the women I used to…I hate the word, but I guess it’s true…run.” Turning to me, she said, “You, too, Daisy. Please? Honestly, I’ve changed my life a hundred and fifty percent since my bad old days, and I want to prove it to you in particular.” Casting a disdainful glance down at Mr. Prophet—he hadn’t risen from his chair—she said, “And I need to pay you back. I hope you’ve kept good accounting records. I certainly have.”

  In other words, she knew how much she’d skint him for or, perhaps, of—I still had a lot of work to do on my old-west vocabulary—and she didn’t aim to be skint in return. She wouldn’t pay back more than she needed to if she added interest to the money she or her “girls” had relieved him of. Oh, dear, I just ended a sentence with a whatchamacallit. Can’t remember what they are, but you’re not supposed to put “of” at the end of a sentence.

  Why am I babbling? Don’t trouble yourself trying to answer that question, please, because I already know. I’d hoped this party would be trouble-free and a wonderful experience from beginning to end for everyone who attended. Stupid, stupid Daisy.

  Yet the party continued in spite of Mr. Prophet, Angie and me. What’s more, when I glanced around, I noticed almost everyone smiling, laughing, cramming food into their mouths and drinking lemonade, coffee or tea. By golly, it looked as if the party was truly a success! Thank God!

  After letting out a lungful of air, I said, “I’d love to see Orange Acres. And I can bring Mister Prophet in our motorcar.” Looking down upon Mr. Prophet, I asked, “Is that all right with you, Mister Prophet?”

  Tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes, he said, “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Angie heaved a relieved sigh of her own. “Thank you both. What day would you like to take this little jaunt?”

  “Don’t make no never mind to me,” said Prophet with a grin that should be outlawed. “I’m retired.”

  Angie said something that sounded like, “Tchah.”

  “I have to sing in the choir tomorrow morning,” I said. “And I don’t think my folks or Sam would appreciate me taking off after dinner. Besides, I’ll probably be too tired. Maybe Monday or Tuesday?”

  “Either day is fine with me,” Angie said.

  Both of us peered at Mr. Prophet, who’d finally managed to rise from his chair. To be charitable, he probably did have more trouble rising from chairs than most of us who have two legs upon which to rely. Then again, I knew him to be a cantankerous old buzzard—he would use a word considerably more vulgar than buzzard—so perhaps he’d remained seated to let Angie and me know he didn’t consider us ladies.

  I kind of resented that—if my assumption was correct, of course—because I’d never been a gangster’s moll or the headmistress of a parlor house. That’s supposed to be a witticism. Headmistress?

  Never mind.

  At that moment, Angie, Mr. Prophet and I were joined by Sam, bringing Mr. Hostetter (choir director) and Mr. Smith (pastor) with him.

  “Beautiful home, Missus Majesty. Detective Rotondo has been showing me its various features.”

  “Thank you, Mister Smith. I love it.” I sent Sam a look so sweet, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d gagged. “Sam is so good to me.”

  Sam said, “Hmm.”

  “You are good to her, Sam,” said Mr. Prophet. “And she’s good to you.”

  “Pastor Smith,” I said fairly loudly, “I don’t believe you’ve met Mister Lou Prophet. Mister Prophet has recently resettled in Pasadena.”

  To my astonishment, Mr. Prophet held out his hand as if someone somewhere, somehow, had actually taught or tried to teach him manners. Mr. Smith took his hand and shook it vigorously. “Happy to meet you, Mister Prophet. Missus Majesty and her family have been loyal members of our congregation for many years, and Detective Rotondo is now one of us, too.”

  For the record, he stretched the truth a trifle when he included Sam as part of his congregation because Sam hadn’t officially joined the church, but so what?

  Giving first Sam and then me a sappy smile, he went on, “I hope to perform their nuptials soon. They make a lovely couple. Can we look forward to seeing you in church one of these days?” Mr. Smith’s smile lost its sappiness and was now quite charming, considering he was trolling for converts.

  To my further astonishment, Mr. Prophet smiled back at Mr. Smith and said, “I’d be happy to join Miss Daisy, her family and Sam at church one of these days. I’ve been to your church before.”

  He didn’t say when, thank God. Not that it mattered much. Mr. Hostetter had been leading the choir when Sam’s nephew had tried to skewer me to a church pew with his stupid knife, and I’m sure Pastor Smith had heard all about it.

  Then Lucy and Albert Zollinger strolled up to us, relieving my mind of its fear about either Mr. Prophet or Mr. Hostetter spilling any more beans. I smiled at both of them. Mr. Zollinger was a good deal older than Lucy, but they seemed to dote on each other. After the Great War and the Spanish Influenza pandemic, a girl pretty much had to select from the males available to her. And, since a whole bunch of young men had been killed during the war or shortly after it, most of the then-available males were of the older variety.

  Oh, dear. I didn’t mean to imply that Lucy had snatched at Mr. Zollinger as a last resort or anything. I swear, some days the world would probably be a better place if I just stayed in bed and didn’t dirty it up any more than it was being dirtied already. Lucy loved her Albert. And he loved her. Heck, he’d even given her a coat with a raccoon-fur collar last year. Personally, I’d just as soon no animal sacrifice its life and hide to adorn my person, but I was neither Lucy nor Albert. And I just did it again, didn’t I? I swear, you can’t take me anywhere!

  “Mister Hostetter would like you and Missus Zollinger to sing a couple of duets, Daisy,” said Sam. I’d noticed him eyeing our threesome—Prophet, Mainwaring and Majesty—and knew he wanted to know what we’d been discussing. Unlike his bride-to-be, however, Sam could be circumspect when he chose to be.

  Lucy and I peered at each other and smiled. “I’d love that!” I said, meaning it sincerely. If I were singing, I couldn’t utter any more stupidities.

  “So would I,” said the equally enthusiastic Lucy.

  “I love hearing the two of you sing,” said her Albert with a fond glance at his wife.

  “Me, too,” said Sam, sounding not quite as sincere as Mr. Zollinger.

  “Me, too!” said Mr. Prophet. Now he sounded sincere as all heck.

  Rubbing his hands together, Mr. Hostetter said, “Good, good. Do you have sheet music in the piano bench, Missus Majesty?”

  “Um…” I had to think for a second or three. “I’m not sure. Sam? Do we?”

  “Why don’t I run across the street and get some for you?” said my often-wonderful Sam.

  “Great idea,” said Mr. Prophet. “I’ll join you.”

  With a profound feeling of liberation, I watched the two men walk out the front door on their way to fetch sheet music. Sam would probably pump Mr. Prophet about what he, Angie and I had been discussing in such soft voices, thus relieving me of that particular onus, although I didn’t yet know how Sam would react to our plans. Sam got mad at me for the silliest reasons sometimes. I can’t imagine why he’d object to me taking Mr. Prophet to Orange Acres for a visit, especially in light of Angie’s declared intention of helping fallen women achieve an upright position in life. Did that sound snide? I didn’t mean it to. Sometimes I can’t be trusted with the English language.

  The two men returned shortly, Sam carrying a stack of sheet music and Mr. Prophet carrying the hymnal I kept at home.

  “Here you go,” said Mr. Prophet, handing me the hymnal.

  “And here’s some sheet music,” said Sam, giving me the stack of papers. “Didn’t know what you wanted, so I just pic
ked up the ones on the piano rack and the top ones inside the bench.”

  “Thanks, Sam and Mister Prophet. You’re both very helpful.”

  Sam squinted at me. Mr. Prophet gave me one of his devilish grins.

  Taking the music and not speaking to either man, I grabbed Lucy by the elbow and led her to the—my—baby grand piano.

  Darned if we didn’t entertain our guests, with both hymns and Broadway musical numbers, for an hour or more. At the end of the day, after the last guest had departed, I was about to fall down dead from exhaustion.

  Before collapsing, however, I managed to set up a date to visit Angie’s Orange Acres. On Tuesday morning at ten a.m., I aimed to drive Mr. Lou Prophet out to Angie’s orange grove. There, I felt sure, we would meet some of the women Angie was attempting to help.

  I even dared tell Sam about our planned adventure. He didn’t snarl. Guess he was pooped, too.

  Oh, and Mrs. Pinkerton had also cornered me and made an appointment for me to see her on Monday morning, bringing with me Rolly, the Ouija board and the tarot cards. I’d expected her attack, so it didn’t irritate me. Much.

  Ten

  My entire family, including Sam and Mr. Prophet, awoke on Sunday morning still groggy from Saturday’s jollifications. Nevertheless, as Vi prepared French toast and sausage patties for our breakfast, I tramped to our back yard and picked some Valencia oranges in case anyone wanted something healthy to eat along with his or her French toast and sausage patties. Thanks to our two orange trees, we had fresh oranges almost all year round. Good thing we all loved oranges.

  Spike joined me, not because he likes oranges, but because he adores sniffing around in the back yard. Every now and then he’d find something interesting back there, like a stray opossum, the Wilsons’ cat Samson or even, once, a man who’d been shot by Lou Prophet. Fortunately, he found nothing on Sunday morning but a dirty sock that had somehow made its way into our yard. Wind maybe. Or Pudge Wilson.

  By the time I got back inside, washed and dried the oranges and began placing them in the decorative bowl we always kept them in on the kitchen table, the entire house smelled heavenly. That’s when I noticed Sam and Mr. Prophet’s weariness, since they’d entered the house while I’d been out of it. Sam’s eyes looked kind of sunken. Since his complexion tended toward an olive hue due to his Italian heritage, the bags under his eyes were a grayish-green; quite unbecoming, actually. Mr. Prophet, being more or less lily-white like my family—that’s supposed to be another joke. If Mr. Prophet’s skin actually were lily-white, it was indubitably the only part of him remaining thus after years and years of rowdy misbehavior—just looked fatigued. Both men stood in the doorway to the kitchen, sniffing the air and reminding me of Spike.