Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (20 page)

      
While I was at it, I asked God to provide me with some kind of inspiration as to what to do with poor Marianne. I didn't allow myself too long a prayer, since I feared I'd go to sleep if I kept my eyes shut for very long. Anyhow, my experience with prayer has been that God is happy to receive thanks, but falls short when it comes to dishing out direct advice.

      
Which meant I had to think for myself, darn it. See? This is where the pesky notion of free will comes into play. If God would only condescend to handle this problem, I could leave it up to Him. But no. Life doesn't work that way.

      
Mrs. Bissel actually trotted out to the car, which was something to see because every inch of her jiggled. “Daisy! You did it!”

      
I'd done it, all right. And it was probably going to land me in the slammer. I told my cynical side to give me a break and smiled back at Mrs. Bissel. “I'm so glad I could help.” Out of curiosity (I mean,
I
knew I'd taken care of the noises coming from belowstairs, but how in heaven's name did
she
know it? It was only around one-ish on a Sunday afternoon, and my understanding of the problem had led me to believe the “ghost” only walked after dark), I asked, “Are you certain, Mrs. Bissel? I don't want to take credit for a job I haven't finished yet.”

      
“Fudge!” she exclaimed. “I know you did it, because after that one hellish noise in the middle of the night--you know, when you told us all to go back to bed--we didn't hear another single sound all night long. Then we all went down to the basement together this morning before we went to church, and we could
tell
the thing was gone. Not a single one of us received the
hint
of an evil emanation.”

      
Oh. Well, gee, I guess I had done it, then. Evil emanation? Heck, even
I
hadn't received any evil emanations from poor Marianne, except those my imagination had invented. On the other hand, I was the only one who knew it had been Marianne. With appropriate humility, I nodded my head. “I'm only glad to have helped you out.”

      
“You did more than help! You got rid of the ghost!”

      
This astonishing pronouncement came from Ginger, whom I'd begun to think of as even more cynical than me on a bad day. Maintaining my demure mien, I murmured, “It was nothing.”

      
“Let's not stay out here freezing to death,” exclaimed Mrs. Bissel. “Come inside, Daisy! Mrs. Cummings is so happy the spirit--or ghost . . . tell me, do you know what it was exactly, Daisy?”

      
She would have to ask. “It was a stray and restless shade from the Other Side, Mrs. Bissel. After some prayer and persuasion it was induced to relinquish its residence on this plane and move on where it can rest in peace forevermore.” Rest was on my mind a lot that day.

      
Mrs. Bissel and her staff exchanged a series of befuddled glances. Then, one after the other, they nodded wisely. Mrs. Bissel said, “Aha. We thought as much.”

      
“I knew it wasn't any old rat,” said Susan, giving Ginger a light shove on the shoulder.

      
“Well, how should
I
know what it was?” Ginger asked grumpily. “I've never had anything to do with spirits before.”

      
“None of us has,” agreed Mrs. Cummings. Then she gave an eloquent shudder and rubbed her arms, presumably to get her gooseflesh to go away.

      
Mrs. Bissel continued where she'd left off. “At any rate, Mrs. Cummings was so happy to have the thing removed from the premises that she's made one of her wonderful chocolate-caramel cakes. Come into the breakfast room and have a slice, Daisy!”

      
“Thank you,” I said, wondering where the cake would fit. I'd just eaten lunch. But chocolate-caramel cake is chocolate-caramel cake, and one should always seize opportunities that present themselves (my father told me that once after he won an entire pecan pie at an Independence Day celebration at Tournament Park).

      
“And I'm going to insist that you take your puppy home today, too,” Mrs. Bissel said, fairly glowing at me. “You've more than earned it.”

      
“Thank you!”

      
Thus it was that I not only returned home that day with the most precious puppy in the world, but Mrs. Bissel had also forced upon me twice as much money as I generally charge for my services. It might have been fair; I couldn't really say for sure, since I'd never attempted to rid a house of a runaway spirit--or a runaway girl--before. I aimed to tuck the money in a box I kept for money to buy a new motorcar. I'd already squirreled away over seven hundred dollars, which was almost enough to purchase a new Oldsmobile.

Chapter Ten
 

      
Thanks to the puppy, my mood had improved at least a hundred percent by the time I pulled the Model T up to the curb in front of our bungalow on South Marengo. I was grateful for the non-ghostly atmosphere now since fog would have been out of place with the mood engendered by a happy-go-lucky, waggy-tailed, black-and-tan puppy who considered riding in even so shabby a car as ours a treat. His little paws could scarcely reach the window, but he put them there, hung his head over the sill, and barked at everything with sheer joy (I assumed it was joy, since he seemed awfully cheerful).

      
The sun had stayed put in the sky. No longer did it try to hide behind huge mounds of gray thunder-heads and acres of fog. Rather, it shone down on the puppy and me from a gloriously blue sky decorated with puffy white clouds. The San Gabriel Mountains loomed over Altadena and Pasadena like benevolent monoliths, and I allowed myself to believe I'd actually be able to help Marianne overcome her problems without being arrested in the process. Some of my self-assurance shriveled when I walked in the front door to see Sam Rotondo laughing it up with Billy and Pa. The three men absolutely adored playing gin rummy together on Sunday afternoons. Except that Sam and I didn't get along, I was glad for Billy's sake that he'd formed a friendship with Sam. Well, and Pa's sake, too. Since he'd started having so much trouble with his heart, I was grateful to anything that kept him close to home, especially since he was always forgetting to keep a supply of nitroglycerine tablets on his person.

      
But I determined not to allow Sam to darken my mood that afternoon. I had the puppy in my arms, underneath my black coat. He was being pretty good about being hidden, although he wiggled a trifle at first. Then he discovered the buttons on my frock and amused himself by gnawing on them.

      
“Guess what I have,” I said when the three men turned to see who'd invaded their masculine sanctuary. I presumed Ma and Aunt Vi were in the kitchen or had gone out for a walk, since they didn't greet me at the door.

      
Billy blinked at me a couple of times. “Guess? How can we guess?”

      
Pa played along. “Looks like it's something small. A revolver?”

      
“Pa!” I giggled.

      
“Or maybe a hand grenade,” said Sam.

      
For once, he didn't look as if he suspected me of just having robbed a bank or murdered a neighbor. He even grinned slightly.

      
Sam Rotondo was a good-looking man, and if he wasn't forever doubting my integrity, I probably would have liked him. It was better this way. After all, Sam was a widower, and I was trapped in an unhappy marriage. Who knew what might have happened if we'd liked each other from the beginning of our association? I've always prided myself on being a good, upstanding woman, but even good people can be tempted. I hope I'll always do the right thing, even in the face of temptation, but I'm not altogether sure of myself.

      
“Come on, Billy,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, “you have to guess, too. I won't keep you in suspense for too long, but make a stab at it, okay?”

      
His face, which had been pinched in disapproval--he always seemed to disapprove of me--relaxed. “Okay, Daisy. I think it's a . . . a set of keys to a brand-new Duisenberg.”

      
I laughed outright at that one. “Good heaven, Billy! I know we need a new motorcar, but lower your sights, will you?” I turned my back to the men. “Okay. You all missed it.” Whirling around with the puppy held aloft in both hands, I cried, “Voila!”

      
“What in the name of glory is it?” Sam said.

      
I gave him a well-deserved scowl. “What do you mean, what is it? It's a puppy!” I carried the pup over to my husband. “And it's for Billy.”

      
“A puppy,” Billy murmured dazedly.

      
With my heart thumping hard, I set the puppy on his lap and stood back. “I thought he could keep you company when I'm out working.”

      
“Isn't he a beaut?” Lord bless my father. “Why, he looks like a real scrapper, Billy.”

      
“I don't know about the scrapper part,” I admitted, “but I think he's about the most precious puppy I've ever seen. He's one of Mrs. Bissel's pedigreed dachshunds.”

      
Billy's sour expression lightened as he and the puppy gazed into each other's eyes, sizing each other up. When Billy lifted a hand and stroked the pup's silky fur, my tension eased slightly. I knew, because I'd known the pup almost since his birth, that his fur was soft and warm and felt like velvet.

      
“Gee, it's sure small, isn't it?” Billy lifted the pup and stared at it, and the pup's tail wagged like a pendulum. They were nose-to-nose for a couple of seconds before the pup licked Billy's nose, Billy's face broke into a huge smile, and I let out a whoosh of relief.

      
“Is that thing really a dog?” Sam sounded skeptical.

      
I turned on him, indignant. “What do you mean, 'is it really a dog?'? It's not merely a
dog
, it's a
pedigreed
dog! It comes from better lines than
you
do, I'm sure!”

      
He laughed, and I realized he'd been ragging me. “I'm sure he does. My lines stink.”

      
Everyone laughed then. Except me. I was embarrassed because I'd lost my temper at Sam for no reason. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I usually had a darned good reason for getting mad at him.

      
“He's real cute,” murmured Billy, turning the puppy over onto its back and rubbing its tummy. The pup's tail swished back and forth like mad. Everyone was watching with rapt attention, and we all grinned when his hind leg started making scratching motions.

      
“He sure likes that,” I murmured, enchanted.

      
“He's in puppy heaven,” Sam said.

      
The phone rang. It would. And just when I wanted to bask in the approval of my husband and father, too.

      
I left the puppy with the men and dashed for the 'phone in the kitchen, hoping to catch it before all the ladies on our party line picked up. I should have known better. A chorus of “Hellos” tickled my eardrum as soon as I lifted the receiver.

      
“Daisy Majesty, please,” said the rather high-pitched masculine voice on the other end of the wire. I recognized the voice as belonging to Harold Kincaid.

      
“I'm here, Harold.” I didn't want him to get frustrated with the other ladies and hang up on me. “Please, Mrs. Barrow, Mrs. Lynch, and Mrs. Mayweather, this call is for me, thanks.”

      
Two clicks. I waited, trying to discern breathing on the wire. “Is anyone else there?” I didn't want any eavesdroppers on this call.

      
“I'm still here,” said Harold.

      
“I'm glad of that, but I don't . . . Mrs. Barrow? This call is for me. Please hang up your wire.” The old snoop held out for another second or two, but I knew she was there. “It's against the law to listen in on other people's telephone conversations, Mrs. Barrow.” For the most part, I tried to be nice to the old bat, since I didn't want anyone, not even snoopy eavesdroppers spreading nasty tales about me. Sure enough, a third click, louder than the other two, smacked our ears. “Ah, there it is.”

      
“How many people share your wire, Daisy?” Harold asked. He was born into a wealthy family and worked in the motion picture industry, thereby earning another fortune all on his own. Harold didn't have to share his telephone wire because he could afford the exorbitant fees the telephone company extracted from people who wanted a wire all their own.

      
“I don't even know for sure. There are at least three other families sharing it, and one of the women, Mrs. Barrow, is the world's biggest snoop.”

      
“I'd be happy to pay for you to get a private wire, sweetie. You know I'm at your disposal.”

      
That's because I'd been instrumental in getting Harold's father arrested and locked up for criminal activities. I know it sounds odd for a child to dislike his father, but if you'd known Mr. Kincaid, you wouldn't like him either. Besides all that, Harold was a truly nice man. So was his boyfriend.

      
I guess that goes to show you that preconceptions don't always hold true. Both Billy and Sam considered people like Harold and Del loathsome and unnatural. I suppose they were kind of unnatural, but they were both nicer than your average young American male. I'd decided months ago that I didn't care what they did together, as long as I didn't have to watch.

      
Anyhow, Harold had told me more than once that he hadn't had any control over his . . . what would one call it? Sexual proclivities? He'd gone on to say that he couldn't imagine anyone actually
choosing
to be hated and vilified by the ordinary people in the universe, and that if he'd had a choice in the matter, he'd have opted to be normal, too.