Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04]

by Alice Duncan

  So, that decision made, I called Flossie to tell her to provide eggs, milk, cinnamon, sugar and fruit preserves and then thought some more.

  In fact, I wracked my brain (which hurt) to think of a bang-up dish for my cooking students to fix on our last—hallelujah!—class together. Then I took a deep breath and decided to tackle the pea castle. One of the students had asked if we could make it, and I saw no real reason not to, as long as Vi could help me figure out what a bread croute was, and show me how to build the castle. There’s supposed to be a little upside-down V over the u in that word, but I don’t know why. The recipe didn’t really require a whole lot of cooking, since I could ask Flossie to boil up some eggs and have them ready for the class on that final Saturday along with some milk, butter, peas and flour. It occurred to me to write the Fleischmann Company and ask them why they’d named such an elegant-looking dish something as prosaic as Eggs and Green Peas.

  To be on the safe side, I asked Vi to help me a couple of weeks in advance. No sense taking chances, after all. Bless Vi’s heart, she did.

  After several attempts, Aunt Vi finally managed to teach me the rudiments of making a bread croute, which is a lump of bread that’s been hollowed out and then cut around the upper edges with a sharp knife so that it resembles a castle’s crenellations. If that makes any sense. Once you’ve turned the bread lump into a castle tower, you fry it in hot fat until it’s golden brown. That was the hard part for me, since almost everything I fry burns to a crisp.

  “All you need to do is concentrate, Daisy,” Vi told me sternly. “The reason you burn things is that you lose interest and your mind wanders. You have to keep your mind on your work.”

  “My mind never wanders when I’m sewing,” I said meekly in my own defense.

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m telling you. What you need to do is expend the same concentration on cooking as you do on sewing.”

  But I liked to sew. I hated to cook. Cooking bored the socks off me. I thought about pointing that out to Vi, but figured I’d be better off not doing so.

  “Just keep your mind on what you’re doing, and you’ll be fine. See?” Vi said, happily pointing at our frying bread croute. “It’s turning a beautiful golden brown.” She turned it with some kitchen tongs she used, and by gum, she was right.

  The silly thing truly was turning a beautiful golden brown. With luck, maybe Vi’s lesson in creating bread castles would remain with me for two weeks, until that longed-for last Saturday class, although I expected I’d have to take several more lessons from her to finally entrench the technique in my thickish head.

  Sam had come over during my lesson. I learned that obnoxious fact when he rolled Billy and his chair into the kitchen.

  “Whatcha doing, Daisy?” Billy asked. He never sounded that cheerful when it was just me in the room with him. I was used to it.

  Sam just stood there, frowning. As usual.

  “Vi’s teaching me how to make a bread croute for my last class at the Salvation Army. After the croute’s made, we’ll fill it with eggs and peas and top it off with a white sauce.” Whatever a white sauce was. Vi hadn’t come to that part yet.

  “A what?”

  “A white sauce.”

  “No, I meant that other word.”

  “A croute? I think it’s a French word.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  Billy would have to ask, wouldn’t he?

  “I don’t know. Fried-bread pea holder?”

  “It means crust, Daisy,” said Vi, laughing.

  “Oh.” I felt really silly.

  “I thought you took French in high school,” she added, to put the crown on my discomfort.

  “Spanish,” I said. And I had retained a very little bit of Spanish, too. I’d had a grudge against French ever since my cousin Eula took it in high school and paraded all over the place spouting French phrases as if she were something special and the rest of us were stupid. That’s the reason I took Spanish in school. Which reminded me of something. “Do you know how to fix Mexican food, Vi?”

  She frowned as she again turned our croute in the fat so it wouldn’t burn on any particular side. “I’ve never tried to fix Mexican food, but I don’t think it’s complicated to do.”

  “I love going to Mijares,” I said, feeling slightly dreamy. Not having to cook the food I eat does that to me. Mijares was a fairly new Mexican restaurant located on Palmetto Drive, not too far from our house, and they served really tasty stuff. Mind you, I didn’t eat there often, since I didn’t throw my hard-earned money away. Besides, with Vi to cook for us, why would we dine out?

  Still frowning, Vi said, “I think you need special ingredients for Mexican cooking, Daisy. Like chili peppers and so forth. I don’t know where one would get those sorts of things in Pasadena.”

  Gee, the Mijares people sure seemed to find them, and probably nearby. I didn’t say so. Restaurateurs probably had access to stuff the rest of humanity didn’t. Kind of like rich people.

  Sam said, “How’d you all like to go to Mijares with me one of these days?”

  We all turned to look at him, and he smiled. He had a nice smile when he used it, which wasn’t often.

  “Hey, Sam, that would be great,” said Billy enthusiastically. The only time he was enthusiastic was when Sam suggested something. I tried not to take it personally, although it was hard not to.

  “But . . .” I started, but Sam interrupted me.

  “We could go to dinner and a movie,” Sam suggested. “Like we did last time.”

  “Better and better,” said Billy. Crumb.

  Several months earlier, Sam had taken us all to eat Chinese and then to a movie. We’d all had a good time. Even me, by gum, although we’d been Sam’s company. Nevertheless, I didn’t think it was a good idea.

  “I’ve wanted to try that Mexican place for a long time,” said Sam.

  “But . . .” I tried again.

  “How about this week?” asked Sam.

  “I’d love it,” said my husband.

  I cleared my throat. “But wouldn’t it be awfully expensive, Sam?” I was always thinking about money in those days. Everyone was. We were pretty comfortable, thanks to Aunt Vi and Ma and me, who all worked, but as I’ve already mentioned, we didn’t toss money around by going out to eat very often.

  “I don’t have anyone else to spend money on,” said Sam, and he shrugged. “And I like the company.”

  It was one of the few times I’d felt a modicum of sympathy for Sam Rotondo. But he was right. He didn’t have any family. His wife was dead, his folks were still in New York and, basically, about all he had in the way of friends were Billy and Pa.

  Which reminded me of Lucille Spinks. My better and bitter feelings warred with each other for a few seconds and, much against my will, my better feelings won the battle. Therefore, I said, “Say, Sam, would you be interested in letting Lucille Spinks come along with us?” Then it occurred to me that it wasn’t nice to invite people to somebody else’s party, and I said hastily, “I’ll be happy to pay for her meal and movie.”

  Sam squinted at me. “Who’s Lucille Spinks?”

  Oh, brother. Attempting to keep my temper, I said, “You’ve met her several times now, Sam. She’s the lady I sang the duet with at church a few weeks ago, and she’s come to our house a couple of times while you were here.”

  He thought about it for a minute, then said, “Oh, yes. I think I remember her.”

  Sheesh. This didn’t sound good for Lucy. Unless Sam was playing some sort of deep game. I eyed him hard for a minute, but didn’t notice any trace of cunning on his features. But then, no one ever noticed a trace of anything on Sam’s countenance. The Great Stone Face. That was Sam Rotondo.

  Sam went on, “You don’t need to pay for her. I’ll be happy to treat the bunch. Sort of a pre-Thanksgiving feast. After all, you’re always feeding me.”

  Well, that was true.

  “That would be so kind of you!” Vi exclaimed. Poor Vi never
got to eat out.

  I steeled my nerves. “Yes, Sam, it is. Thank you. When would you like to do this?”

  He shrugged again. “Well, since Thanksgiving is Thursday, and most restaurants are closed on Monday, which is today, how about tomorrow? Tuesday?”

  I looked at Vi. She looked back at me. I glanced at Billy. He nodded. Pa was out walking Spike, but Pa was always agreeable to just about anything, and Ma would just be glad she didn’t have to wash dishes.

  “Well . . . sure. Thanks, Sam. I’ll call Lucy. Maybe she can come over here, so we don’t have to pick her up.”

  Sam had begun to frown. After about five seconds, I thought I knew why.

  “Oh, I forgot about how many of us there are!” I slapped my forehead. “How about we take two cars? We don’t need to take Billy’s chair.” I eyed my husband with misgiving. The last time we’d gone out, Sam and Pa had helped Billy walk into the Chinese restaurant, but that was before his illness last February. He was a good deal weaker now.

  Billy understood my thoughts. “I’m sure Sam and Pa can help me get into the restaurant, Daisy.” He didn’t sound angry or even resigned. He just sounded as though it was a logical idea. Which it was, but generally Billy’s logic was clouded by bitterness. Not that I blamed him. I’d be bitter too, if I were in his shoes. Or his wheelchair.

  “Sure we can,” Sam said heartily. “Tomorrow it is, then. Should be fun.” He looked at me. “Can you think of a movie for us to go to after dinner?”

  “I’ll be happy to, Sam. Thank you. This is very nice of you.” I hated thanking Sam Rotondo for anything, but he was being awfully generous now, and I appreciated it.

  In fact, I decided on the spot, I’d reward him by having Lucille get to the restaurant in his car and take my family in ours. Especially if we didn’t take Billy’s wheelchair, we could all squeeze into the Chevrolet. My heart gave a small spasm. I think that was because of the Billy–Sam connection.

  But, heck, even if Sam and Lucy did fall in love and get married, he wouldn’t desert Billy. I think I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t give Sam credit for much, but I did know that he was a true and loyal friend to my Billy.

  Therefore, after we’d dined on chicken and little pea castles—which were quite tasty and filling—and Ma and I had washed and dried the dishes, I picked up the day’s Pasadena Star News and browsed the moving pictures. By the way, Ma was ecstatic about our promised treat. She loved going to the flickers.

  Oh, boy, there was a lot to choose from. We could see The Kid, with Charlie Chaplin, which would be fun. Or we could see The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, which had Rudolph Valentino in it. Everyone was talking about Rudolph Valentino, and I’d kind of wanted to see him dance the tango with that French lady he was supposed to be having the affair with—in the movie, not in real life—but the picture took place during the war, and I didn’t want to remind Billy of that accursed time. Harold Kincaid told me that Valentino dies a hero’s death in the picture, which in some ways seemed a kinder fate than my Billy suffered from that conflict.

  Harold had cried at the end, he told me, and that was enough for me. I nixed The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  Hmmm. What else was there? Ooooh. There was a new Valentino picture showing at the Academy: The Sheik. Oh, boy, wouldn’t I like to see that! But it would probably be better to see that one with Lucy or Edie. Except Edie was married now and never went anywhere without Quincy. She might make an exception for Rudolph Valentino. I decided to shelve The Sheik, too.

  That left The Kid at the Crown. Well, that was all right. It was supposed to be a good picture, and the theater was relatively close to the restaurant. I glanced up from the newspaper. Billy, Pa and Sam were playing their ten-thousandth game of gin rummy, Ma had her nose stuck in Billy’s Tarzan book, and Vi snoozed in a chair in front of the fire that Sam had kindled for us. He could be helpful when he wanted to be, I guess.

  I cleared my throat. Everyone turned to look at me—except Vi, who continued to snooze. “Is The Kid, with Charlie Chaplin, all right with everyone?”

  “Sounds great to me,” said Billy. It was one of the few times he’d agreed with me for weeks and weeks.

  “Okay by me,” said Sam.

  “Sounds good,” said Pa.

  “That sounds lovely, dear,” said Ma. She gave me a happy smile. “I do enjoy a good comedy.”

  “What time does the movie start?” asked Sam. It was a sensible question and one I should have thought of myself.

  “Let me look.” I buried my head once more in the paper, and looked up again. “Seven o’clock.”

  Sam cocked his head to one side for a minute. “Then why don’t I pick you up at five. We’ll have an early dinner, and be out in time to catch the picture. Then nobody will be up too late, since some of us have to work the next day.”

  Boy, that was almost tactful! I’d never given Sam Rotondo credit for tact before. He was sure never tactful to me. “That’s great, Sam. I’ll go call Lucy.”

  So I hied myself to the kitchen and dialed Lucille Spinks’s number. She was overjoyed with the notion of going to dinner and a picture with Sam, even though we Gumms and Majestys were going to tag along.

  “Thank you so much, Daisy!”

  “You’re welcome, Lucy.” Because I couldn’t seem to help myself, I added, “But remember that Detective Rotondo might not be fully recovered from his wife’s death yet.” Gee, just a month or so ago, I was telling Lucy exactly the opposite. I was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with me.

  She sobered instantly. “I know, Daisy. I’ll be kind to him.”

  Kind to him? Good heavens. “Fine, then. Say, could you get over here at maybe four-thirty? Then you can ride with Sam to the restaurant, and I can drive my family in our car.”

  “Oh, Daisy, would you really do that for me?” She was positively breathless.

  “Sure,” said I, feeling noble for no good reason.

  So the next afternoon, Lucille Spinks arrived at our house at precisely four-thirty. The afternoon was a chilly one, and she wore a smart skirt-and-shirtwaist ensemble of prunella cloth, which was all the rage at the time. Her coat looked new, and I wondered if she’d bought it especially for the evening. Except that she was still kind of tall, skinny and rangy and had rabbity teeth, she looked swell, and I told her so. Well, I didn’t mention the tall and rabbity part.

  She executed a little twirl in the living room. “Thanks, Daisy. You always wear the most wonderful clothes. I thought I’d try to look good, too.”

  I did? Interesting. “I make all my clothes, Lucy. Thanks for thinking they’re wonderful.”

  “Do you really? I guess I didn’t know that.” She eyed me speculatively. “You know, if you ever give up spiritualism, you can go in for dressmaking. I could keep you busy all by myself.”

  Good heavens. “Thanks for the flattering offer, Lucy, but I think spiritualism pays better.”

  She heaved a huge sigh. “I suppose it does. I make my clothes, too, for the most part, but when it comes to anything fancy, I’m afraid I have to hire someone.”

  “Doesn’t your father mind spending the money?” I asked, perhaps not tactfully, but I was curious.

  “Not really. He says he’s happy to support me until I get married.” She heaved a huge sigh this time, and her face took on a glum aspect. “If I ever get married. There are so few men our age left.”

  My sigh joined hers. “Too true.”

  She brightened. “But you look swell, Daisy. I love your frock.”

  “Thank you.” It was an old dress I’d worn a couple of hundred times, a dark-blue jersey, but it was comfy and warm, and went well enough with my black coat and other accoutrements.

  She leaned toward me and whispered, “Is he here yet?”

  “Who? Oh, Sam?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear. Detective Rotondo. Isn’t that a queer name, though?”

  “Sam?”

  “No! Rotondo, for heaven�
�s sake.”

  “Oh.” I thought about it as I hung Lucy’s coat on the coat tree.

  Did I forget to mention that this conversation was constantly being interrupted by shrill, rapturous barks from Spike? Well, it was. Fortunately, Lucy liked dogs, so she didn’t mind. However, in order to shut him up, after I hung her coat, I picked him up. He was ecstatic and Lucy petted him, so that was all right.

  “Well?” Lucy prodded.

  “I don’t suppose it’s terribly odd, at least not for a person from New York City, where there are lots of other Italians. We don’t have so many of them out here, I guess.” I mused for another second and a half. “I suppose it does sort of bring to mind the word rotund, which Sam isn’t.”

  “Yes, it does, and no, he isn’t.”

  I could practically hear her little heart pitter-pattering in her bosom. Poor Lucy. I didn’t tell her that Sam kept forgetting who she was, and that I truly didn’t hold out much hope for her making a match of it with him, although the notion of such a match still worried me some.

  However, a knock came at the door just then, Spike tried to leap out of my arms—I didn’t let him—and I went to answer the knock. Sam. I stepped back, and he entered our house to see Lucille Spinks simpering at him.

  After a moment, which I could swear he spent trying to figure out who she was, he said, “Good evening, Miss . . . uh. . . .”

  “Lucille Spinks,” I hissed as close to his ear as I could get.

  “Of course. Good evening, Miss Spinks. How nice that you could join us.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy, a note of worship in her voice.

  I feared for the evening. Or at least for Lucy.

  “Is that Sam?” came a voice from the hall, and Billy rolled himself into the living room. “Hey, Sam, I’m really looking forward to this.” He spotted Lucille. “How-do, Miss Spinks.”