Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (28 page)

One of my students raised her hand. “How big should the piece of bread be?”

According to Vi, it should be any size you wanted it to be, so I said, “That’s up to you. If you’re going to be serving several people, you’ll want to make it tall. For our purposes today, I suggest perhaps five or six inches is a good size.” I demonstrated and they followed suit.

“
Now,” I continued, positively reeking of confidence, “we need to scoop out our bread, leaving approximately a quarter to a half inch of bread around the edges and at the bottom. And save the bread you scoop out, and use it to make breadcrumbs.” Ah, breadcrumbs. Until I got pressured into teaching this class, I’d had no idea how useful breadcrumbs were. And here I used to think they were merely bird food. “You see, by scooping out the bread, we’re creating a case in which to place our eggs and green peas.”

I scooped out my piece of bread, working very carefully, because a couple of times I’d managed to poke a hole in the castle wall. I’d done so, according to Vi, because I wasn’t concentrating. Believe me, that day I concentrated extremely hard.

“
Once you’ve got your bread scooped out, a fun thing to do is to cut notches in the top, like the booklet shows, so that it looks like a little castle. Of course, you don’t need to do that part, but it makes the case very pretty.” Sort of. I mean, we were just going to eat the stupid thing. How pretty did it have to look? I guess this was kind of a poor man’s version of beef Wellington,
sans
the beef.

We notched our bread.

“
And now, ladies, let us carry our bread croutes to the kitchen, where we’ll fry them in hot fat until they’re golden brown while we’re cooking our peas and making our white sauce. That way, we won’t waste any time.”

So, like a line of good little soldiers, we carried our bread castles to the kitchen.

“
While we take turns frying our bread, ladies,” I said once we were all gathered around the stove, “let’s put our peas on to cook. Mrs. Buckingham has kindly shelled enough peas for our use.”

It turned out that, after lots and lots of practice at home, even I could cook peas, which requires putting water in a pot, peas in the water, a little salt for luck, and a hot fire underneath the filled pot. However, since I was the teacher, I offered to allow one of my students to do the honors. Hilda volunteered.

The skillet we were offered for use in the kitchen was huge, so we were able to fry two castles at a time in it.

“
First we shall melt some fat in the bottom of the skillet. Then, using these handy kitchen tongs, we can make sure our bread fries crisply but does not burn.”

Clever devil that I am, I allowed my students to do that part, as well. Two at a time, they fried their castles.

“
And, while the bread is turning a lovely golden brown”—I hoped—“we can begin making our white sauce.”

This part was kind of tricky, but Vi had pointed out to me before I left the house that it was past time I began to rely on my students to follow the instructions printed in the book. Therefore, I selected Gertrude and Maria to begin making the white sauce, and Margaret and Wilma to begin peeling and slicing the hardboiled eggs. That way, if anything went wrong and the sauce turned lumpy or the shells stuck to the eggs, I wouldn’t necessarily have to take the blame. Cowardly, I know, but it sounded good to me.

In fact, we worked as a sort of assembly line. Henry Ford would have been proud of us. The students all fried their bread, taking turns; the sauce-makers took their turns; and the egg slicers took
their
turns. By the time we had all of our bread castles fried to a relatively golden brown, give or take a few light or dark spots, the sauce was ready, the peas were cooked, and the eggs were all sliced. I was quite proud of our teamwork.

So pleased was I, in fact, that I virtually beamed at my students, most of whom beamed back at me. Gertrude still appeared kind of sulky. Well, pooh on her.

“
As long as we’re here and so are all of our ingredients, ladies. . . .” I paused for a minute because several of them laughed. Either they were extremely polite, or I was funnier than I thought. “As long as everything’s here, why don’t we finish our dishes in the kitchen? What you need to do is place your bread croutes on your small serving platter, put a layer of peas in the bottom of the croutes, then put a layer of eggs and sauce on top of the peas. Continue layering until your croute is filled, ending with a layer of peas. Then you can artfully arrange some white sauce on top and sprinkle some peas around the base of the croute to add an air of festivity to the dish.” Well, it sounded good, anyway. I’m not sure how festive the finished products looked, but they were honestly kind of pretty.

“
And there you have it!” I waved my arms in a flourish at all our nice, tidy little pea castles. It amazes me to this day to admit it, but I was impressed.
We,
a bunch of ladies of wildly disparate backgrounds, some of whom hardly spoke English, had actually created edible foodstuffs through
my
tutelage! The latter part of that scenario is what astonished me the most. Naturally, as I’ve said many times before, and will say many times again, my success was due entirely to my aunt Vi: without her, the dishes I tried to teach my class would have been toast. Literally. And probably the Salvation Army, too. I’ve never underestimated my ability to demolish things when I attempt cookery.

Johnny came into the classroom right before we were to disband for the final time. He made a lovely speech about how the Salvation Army’s goal is to rescue people in need, both spiritually and physically, and he hoped that in a small way, his particular church had helped this clutch of ladies. All the ladies assured him they had, indeed, been helped by him and his organization.

He then led us in prayer, said a fond farewell to the cooking ladies, and they all filed past Flossie, Johnny and yours truly, most of them smiling and with tears in their eyes. They all thanked us effusively for our help. Talk about feeling humbled. Boy, I’d just as soon not go through that again, primarily because I’d felt like a total fraud the whole time I was in that room attempting to impart the art of cooking to those poor women.

And that’s something else that’s kind of odd. Pretending to be a spiritualist doesn’t bother me the least little bit, but pretending to be an adept cook bothered me
a whole lot.
I suspect it has something to do with me being good at the one and abysmal at the other.

After hugs all around and fond farewells, Flossie and Johnny walked me out of fellowship hall. They’d probably have walked me to the Chevrolet, but I told them I could handle my accoutrements, which consisted of my pea castle, my handbag, my bouquet of flowers and my cook booklet, all by my lonesome.

As you’ve probably already guessed, I should have known better.

I had just about made it to the machine when I heard a soft “Mrs. Majesty?” behind me.

Turning, I beheld Gertrude Minneke. She no longer looked surly. She looked only kind of . . . well, bland, I guess is the best word to describe her expression. She stood there in her plain print frock with her hands clasped, or so I supposed, behind her back.

My heart was by then brimming with benevolence, primarily because I’d never have to see her or any of my other students again in this lifetime—well, except maybe Hilda, depending on how things worked out.

I smiled at Gertrude. “Yes, Miss Minneke?” I said in my sweetest voice.

She licked her lips nervously, although I’m sure I couldn’t figure out why she should be nervous. “Um . . . is your decision not to assist Eugene and me final? I mean . . . you haven’t had a change of heart or anything? You won’t help us leave Pasadena? The class is over now, after all.”

“
True, but your obligation to the Salvation Army doesn’t end with the class, Miss Minneke. You know that. You still have your jobs to consider, and your eventual placement with companies that will hire you when you complete your training. I really don’t believe I could, in good conscience, assist you in breaking your promise to the organization. I do wish you well in all your future endeavors, however.”

“
I see. And that’s your final answer on the matter?”

Strange way to put it, but I’d already decided Gertrude was strange. “Well . . . yes, it is. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

She heaved a big sigh. “Well, then, I guess we’ll just have to move along to our next option.”

And I’ll be hornswoggled (my father likes to say that) if she didn’t haul her hand out from behind her back. In it was probably the biggest gun I’d ever seen! Not that I’ve seen very many guns in my life, and I certainly don’t know one type of gun from another, but this one was either a pistol or a revolver. A
big
pistol or revolver. I know that much because it wasn’t a rifle or a shotgun, which are both a lot longer that Gertrude’s gun.

“
Get in the car, lady,” ordered a masculine voice from behind me. In spite of Gertrude’s gun, I was so shocked, I whirled around, and who should be there but none other than Eugene Minneke! Also carrying a firearm! You could have knocked me over with the proverbial feather.

Then, as if two people interfering with my well-being weren’t enough, yet another voice, high and piercing, shattered the afternoon air.

“
Halt!
Halt! Was tust du, Schwein?
Nein, nein!
Das geht nicht
! Halt!”

And darned if Hilda, like a Valkyrie out of one of Wagner’s more dramatic operas, didn’t come charging at us from the side. I shrieked, “Hilda! They have guns! Be careful!” But either she didn’t understand my English or she didn’t give a care. She plowed into Gertrude much like I’ve seen football players plow into opposing players. Gertrude plowed into me, and we both hit the ground with a thump and Gertrude with an extremely profane curse. Undaunted, darn it, she leapt to her feet, grabbed poor Hilda by her hair, which was flying out of its normally tidy braids by that time, and pulled her off her feet. Hilda went sprawling, Eugene yanked me up by the arm, and with Gertrude shoving me on an indelicate portion of my anatomy, I plopped across the front seat of the Chevrolet.

Growling like a bear, Eugene leaped into the tonneau and said, “Get the hell over to the driver’s side and drive, dammit!” He jammed that cursed gun into my back, and I knew I’d have a bruise and a half if I got out of this alive.

“
And hurry it up! We don’t have all day,” said Gertrude, shoving me as she, too, climbed into the front seat.

My heart gave a gigantic lurch when I saw Hilda grab for the door handle, because I feared Gertrude or her evil brother might shoot her. Instead, Gertrude whacked Hilda’s hand with the gun, prompting a loud Germanic expletive from her. I heard a wail from Hilda behind us, and then more German.
“Halt! Halt! Wast
tust du, Schwein
!”

Oh, Lord, I didn’t want them to start shooting at poor Hilda, who was trying to help me. “But what about—”

“
Damn it,
go!
” hollered Eugene. And he did as I feared he’d do, and fired a shot at Hilda. I couldn’t see if he’d hit her, but I prayed like mad that his aim was as lousy as his character.

So I did as they demanded. As the Chevrolet shrieked away from the curb, leaving skid marks that would probably remain until the street was repaved, I did manage to glance back to see if Hilda was still alive. Right before the Chevrolet screamed around the corner onto Fair Oaks Avenue, I thought I saw Johnny and Flossie racing toward the commotion. And I saw Hilda! Thank God, she was on her hands and knees, trying to rise, so I guess the evil duo didn’t kill her, at least.

We’d just have to wait and see about me, I reckoned.

Chapter Seventeen

“
But I don’t understand,” said I, although I thought I did. I was all scratched up from my tumble on the asphalt, but I didn’t worry about my wounds at that point. Guns seemed ever so much more important then.

Evidently, Gertrude shared my opinion. “If you haven’t figured it out by this time, you’re a lot stupider than I figured.”

“
Keep driving, damn it,” growled Eugene, who didn’t want us to become sidetracked by irrelevancies.

“
Drive where?” I asked. It sounded like a reasonable question to me, but he didn’t seem to share my opinion. From the tonneau he tapped me on the side of my head with the gun. Boy, did that hurt!

“
Don’t hurt her yet, Gene. She has to drive us to San Diego first.”

Yet? San Diego? Oh, dear, although I guess that answered one of my questions. “Are you going to try to escape into Mexico?” It seemed as if all the crooks in my life so far had tried to escape to Mexico. Mr. Kincaid didn’t make it, and I hoped to heaven these two wouldn’t, either.

“
That’s none of your damned business,” Eugene snarled. He certainly wasn’t a very polite young man, and he had an execrably good handle on profanity.

“
Oh, hell, Gene, it doesn’t matter anymore,” said Gertrude. She continued, sneering at me, “If you’d helped us, you know, you could have stayed alive. But no. You had to be Miss Goody Two-shoes, didn’t you? You wouldn’t help us get the hell out of Pasadena, would you? Wouldn’t even buy the damned train tickets for us, would you? That would have saved you all of this damned bother.”

Gertrude did all right in the profanity game herself. I’d said it before, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to say it again. “Mr. and Mrs. Buckingham are my friends. I couldn’t very well assist you to run out on your contract with them, could I?”