Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (5 page)

      
Now I cultivate my interesting pallor for my job. People don’t expect a medium to be robust and healthy-looking, with rosy cheeks and a bouncy step. I can be bouncy and rosy enough during the day when I’m with my friends and family, but when I’m working I aim for wan and interesting. Mrs. Lilley’s face looked as if somebody had deliberately and maliciously drained the color from it.

      
In short, she looked sick, I felt sorry for her, and I hoped I could help her at the séance. That probably sounds strange, but the spiritualist business
is
strange and there’s no getting away from it. Mrs. Kincaid interrupted my comparison when she started introducing me to her other guests. It was quite a mob.

 

      
 

Chapter Three
 

      
Mrs. Kincaid presented me to the other people who were going to be attending the séance and to a few who weren’t, thank God. When I’d first set eyes on that gang, I’d worried that they all aimed to participate. That would have been cumbersome, unwieldy, and difficult to manage, and I didn’t want to work with such a huge mob.

      
Mrs. Kincaid reassured me on that point when she whispered in my ear, “I’m only having eight at the séance, Daisy. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to contend with much larger a group.”

      
She was right as rain about that. I said, “I’m glad. It’s more difficult to summon the spirits when there’s a crowd. They can be shy in front of strangers.” It was sort of funny—or maybe it wasn’t—but I could lay stuff like that on as thick as paste and not even blink by this time.

      
“I thought sure that was so,” she said. Mrs. Kincaid, on the other hand, was absolutely serious about this séance stuff. “You probably know some of my guests already.”

      
She was right about that, too. I’d done séances for a few of the other women there, and I also already knew Mr. Pinkerton and Father Frederick through other séances held at Mrs. Kincaid’s house.

      
This was, however, the first time I’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid’s son, Harold Larson Kincaid, since I’d grown up. He was one of the few rich men’s sons I’d met who had only three names, although two of them were last names. He seemed like a nice fellow, of middle height, sort of soft, with brown hair, hazel eyes that twinkled, and a jovial personality. He sure didn’t take after his dad, bless him.

      
Harold exemplified the modern male. To me, anyhow. Mind you, I didn’t really have any idea how the modern male was supposed to look except by reading the movie magazines, but even I could tell that he was dressed in a genuine, albeit casual, Palm Beach suit, complete with belt sewed on across his back and patch pockets. I imagined it was made of mohair or some other expensive fabric and that it must have set his mother back a pretty penny, unless Harold actually held a job, unlike all those lazy fellows in Mr. Fitzgerald’s books who only played at working. He was as sharp as a tack, in fact, and the sheen on him had been buffed to perfection.

      
“Mrs. Majesty!” His voice was high and loud, and his grin was really friendly. “It’s so good to meet you at last. Mother talks about you constantly. I seem to recall a little red-headed urchin selling blackberries at the back door a few years ago.” He shook my hand heartily.

      
I didn’t mind him bringing up my penniless past. What the heck; it was the truth and anyone who had lived in Pasadena for a while knew all about it. I grinned back at him. “That was me, all right. My sister Daphne and I used to pick berries and wheel them around to all the big houses in our wagon.”

      
He leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, “It’s good that you changed professions, Mrs. Majesty. Blackberries are seasonal, but gullibility lasts forever.” He winked at me, and I knew he didn’t mean to be unkind. Nevertheless, I felt it would be prudent to take him to task.

      
“Why, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t know what you mean.”

      
He laughed. “Of course not. Here, Mrs. Majesty. Let me introduce you to someone.” He grabbed my hand and turned me around, and I darned near collapsed in a heap when, I swear to heaven, I saw Billy standing there. The impression lasted only a second, but it kicked my heart into high speed.

      
A soldier stood before the unlit fireplace, his back to me. He was talking to Father Frederick, and he was so tall and so slim and so jaunty, and he looked
so
much like Billy when I’d married him, that I felt like bursting into tears again. We Gumms are made of stern stuff, though, and I didn’t do anything so stupid.

      
Besides, when I looked at him harder, I realized the resemblance wasn’t as close as my first glimpse had led me to think. This man was a little taller than Billy and had shiny blond hair that curled like a girl’s. Billy’s hair was dark and straight. Also, this man looked much less rugged than Billy ever had. This guy had class. My Billy had class, too, but it was a different sort. This man would look right at home playing a violin in a symphony orchestra or dancing at a debutante ball. Billy, until the tragedy, would have been more comfortable swinging a baseball bat.

      
I had my nerves under control by the time we reached the man and Father Frederick. The good Father smiled at me warmly. We Gumms have always attended the First Methodist Episcopal Church on Marengo and Colorado in Pasadena, and I’ve never set foot in St. Mark’s, the Episcopal church on Washington between Los Robles and Garfield, but if all Episcopal priests are as nice as Father Frederick, I wouldn’t mind being an Episcopalian. I’d never tell my ma that, though. She thinks Episcopalians, like their Catholic kin, are idol-worshipers.

      
“Daisy Majesty,” Father Frederick said, taking both my hands in his and squeezing them. “You look lovely tonight, my dear. Quite spiritual.” He winked.

      
That’s another thing about Father Frederick: He might be a priest, but he isn’t judgmental, and he knows how to make a woman feel good about herself. It would be nice if more men, and not all of them priests, did.

      
Harold tipped Father Frederick a wink in his turn and turned to his friend, who wore the uniform of an Army First Lieutenant. I guess most girls are suckers for a man in uniform, but this fellow looked particularly good in his. Truth to tell, he was about the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, even including Billy, who was mighty good looking even in his wheelchair.

      
“Del,” said Harold, “look who I have here.”

      
The man named Del smiled at me. His smile was enough to make a good girl think bad thoughts.

      
“Mrs. Desdemona Majesty, please allow me to present my best friend, former Lieutenant Delroy Crowe Farrington. Del works at my father’s bank.” Another three-named rich man, only this time all three were last names. “Del, this is Mrs. Desdemona Majesty. She’ll be conducting Mother’s séance this evening.” Harold put his hand up to frame his mouth, as if he were imparting a big secret, and said to me, “Mother asked Del to wear his uniform tonight. She thought poor Bartholomew might be lured from beyond the grave more freely if he sensed another soldier present.”

      
Unable to do anything more cogent at the moment, I blinked and said, “Uh . . .”

      
Lieutenant Farrington took my hand and bowed over it. Just like a duke or a prince or something. I swallowed. Never, in my whole life, had I seen anything to rival him in looks or manners. “How do you do?” His voice was smooth and rich. I thought I detected a southern accent, but I’m no expert on such things.

      
Although I felt unusually tongue-tied I managed to say, “Very well, thank you,” as he lifted my hand and brushed it with his lips. Pasadena, California, wasn’t overflowing with hand-kissers, and I have to admit that my thundering heart stumbled a tad.

      
“You have a wonderful name, ma’am.”

      
After gulping—I’m usually pretty self-possessed because it goes with the job, but this guy was something else again—I said, “Thank you.” I almost added that I’d chosen the name myself, but decided not to. “How do you do?”

      
“Very well, thank you.”

      
Lieutenant Farrington couldn’t possibly have grown up in Pasadena, or I’d have known about him. Even though the rich kids didn’t play with my type, we knew what went on in town, and this fellow was new, or all the girls in Pasadena would have been talking about him long before this.

      
“Um,” I added, interested because of the Billy connection, “were you a soldier in the War?”

      
He grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. Thank God, I didn’t have to go farther afield than Cleveland, Ohio, during my term of service.”

      
I nodded, agreeing with him that his service had been fortunate, and wishing Billy’s could have been thus.

      
Luckily, Harold took over and guided the conversation away from the recent tragedy. “Daisy is a real master—or is it mistress? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Daisy is truly a master of the mystical arts, Del. You’ll love getting to know her.”

      
I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I didn’t even know Harold Kincaid; how the heck was I supposed to get to know Lieutenant Delroy Farrington? I murmured, “Nonsense,” because I thought I should.

      
“Just look at her!” Harold continued, flinging an arm out as if he were presenting me at a bathing-beauty pageant. “Isn’t she simply perfect?”

      
“Harry, you’re disconcerting the lady,” Mr. Farrington said, laughing.

      
“Not at all,” I said. Rather, I kind of stammered. Okay, it’s embarrassing, but the fact is that I wasn’t even twenty years old, and I still liked to look at, and be looked at by, handsome men. I know I was a married woman, and I know I shouldn’t even have noticed men like Lieutenant Delroy Farrington, but who could help it? Since Lieutenant Farrington still had hold of my hand, I shook his, recalling rather late that I was supposed to be meeting him, not gawking at him.

      
Harold laughed, too. “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Mrs. Majesty. I’m honestly impressed by your demeanor and elegance. If I were to dress a medium for a moving picture, I’d dress her just like you.”

      
“Thank you. I think.” In spite of myself, I was beginning to enjoy these attentions, probably because there was nothing malicious in Harold’s attitude, and he wasn’t being flirty, as some men were even when they knew I was married. Rather, it was as if he were complementing me on how well I’d created my mediumistic persona. I appreciated his appreciation.

      
Both men laughed again. “Harry’s impossible, Mrs. Majesty, but he works in the pictures, so he’s constantly thinking of things in terms of costuming and so forth.”

      
“I didn’t know that.” I looked upon Harold with more interest. “Your work must be fascinating, Mr. Kincaid.”

      
“It is, but I’m sure it’s not nearly as fascinating as yours.”

      
“I don’t know about that. My husband and I saw
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
last month, and it gave both of us the creeps for days afterwards. It was much scarier than anything I do.”

      
“Lord, I hope so.” Father Frederick crossed himself, but I think he was making a little joke.

      
Mrs. Kincaid rapped on a table to get everyone’s attention then, so we had to stop conversing. I wanted to find out more about the pictures, since they were about the only refuge I had in those days. Even with Billy accompanying me I could get lost in a good, engrossing moving picture. I saw
Birth of a Nation
six times when it played at the Crown Theater.

      
I’d have loved to talk to Harold about Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford and a lot of other actors and actresses, but I guessed I wouldn’t have a chance now. And, since we didn’t exactly run in the same circles, my chances of talking to him after tonight were minimal. It looked as though I’d have to keep reading the movie magazines.

      
Conversation ceased so fast at the sound of Mrs. Kincaid’s rap that my ears rang, and everyone in the room turned to look at her. I noticed expressions of mingled interest, fear, and amusement on many faces, which was typical. People pretended not to take my work seriously, but almost all of them weren’t quite sure about it.

      
“Everyone who’s attending the séance, let’s move to the dining room. It isn’t wise for Mrs. Majesty to communicate with the living too much before a séance, she tells me, because she has to maintain the spiritual aura she’s fostered during her prior meditations.”

      
“That’s rich,” murmured Harold at my side. “I’m terribly impressed, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
I decided I’d better not thank him again, because people had turned around and were now staring at me. Instead, I nodded graciously at Mrs. Kincaid and slathered on the mystical aura, knowing my black clothes, pale skin, and dark red hair added to the overall impression of ghostliness.

      
When Mrs. Kincaid spoke again, I started searching for Mrs. Lilley in the room. She was standing against a far wall and looked as if she wished she could disappear. I felt really bad for her and vowed that I’d help her if I could.

      
A few people started moving to the drawing room door, so I turned to Harold and Mr. Farrington. “I must leave now. It’s been a pleasure meeting both of you.”

      
Mr. Farrington shook my hand like the gentleman he was. Harold pumped it as if he were trying to get water to spout. Father Frederick, who never attended my séances, smiled one of his sweet smiles at me.