Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (32 page)

      
In spite of my experiences with Billy, who had come back to me only after the worst of his injuries had been cared for and he was as well as he’d ever be, I’m no nurse. I’m a spiritualist. I hadn’t a clue how I was supposed to tie the pad to Quincy’s head, so I did it in the most expedient manner I could think of. By the time I was through with him, Quincy looked as if he was wearing a hat that tied under his chin in several places and was also sporting an Indian head band, if you can feature such an arrangement. In short, he looked silly.

      
There was nothing silly about my own state of nerves by that time. I sat with a plunk on one of the elegant chairs and, feeling faint, decided to heck with everybody and what they thought, and lowered my head between my knees until the dizziness passed.

      
When I glanced up at last, everyone was watching me. Oh, goodie. I just love creating a spectacle of myself. I grinned. “Sorry. I guess Clara Barton would kick me out of the nursing force, huh?”

      
“Are you all right, Daisy?” Harold finally lifted his hands from Quincy’s shoulders.

      
As soon as he did so, Quincy slumped forward. I guess Edie and Mrs. Kincaid weren’t certain that he wouldn’t hop up from the chair and try to wallop me for hurting him, but I realized an instant later that he, too, felt faint. If Rotondo hadn’t jumped out of the way (he’d held Quincy’s feet still through the entire operation), their heads would have crashed together. I felt sick again for a moment until I saw
that
particular danger had passed. I
really
didn’t want to patch up any more bumps on any more heads.

      
“Yeah. Thanks, Harold. I’m fine. But I’m sure no nurse.”

      
“I can vouch for that,” came, muffled, from Quincy, whose head still hung forward. Made me wince to see that, since the blood was probably pounding through his head and making the lump throb like a war drum. Combined with the witch hazel and everything else, I imagine the poor boy was in truly horrifying pain.

      
“Sorry, Quincy. I really didn’t want to hurt you.”

      
It was only then that I remembered the lanolin. I felt faint again at once. With sinking heart, I rose from my chair, straightened my shoulders, tried to get my brain to work, and returned to Quincy, who pushed himself back in his chair and squinted at me with such evil intent, I got angry.

      
“Darn it, Quincy, it’s not my fault you got yourself all bashed up! My aunt Vi said to put this lanolin on your lip before you try to answer any questions, and I’m going to do it, with or without your cooperation! And if you so much as flinch, I’ll hit your face so hard, your cheek will match the lump on your bull head!”

      
Somebody laughed. I turned, irate, and was astonished to realize it was Detective Sam Rotondo. I frowned at him. “It isn’t funny.”

      
Rotondo ignored me. “Better do as she says,” he advised Quincy. “She’s got some really eerie connections, remember. She might turn you into a frog if she gets mad enough.”

      
That made me so furious, I wanted to throw one of Quincy’s bloody-water-filled bowls at the detective. Then I realized everyone else in the room was laughing uproariously, and it occurred to me that perhaps I was the slightest bit on edge and my threat had been a trifle irrational. Ah, well.

      
Quincy sat up, looking grumpy, and darned if Mrs. Kincaid didn’t make a sensible suggestion, perhaps the first one in her entire life. See? She’d been without her miserable clod of a husband for a mere few hours, and already she was beginning to think for herself. I began to wonder if I was seeing a miracle in action.

      
“Edie, dear, will you go upstairs to my bathroom and bring down the laudanum bottle you’ll find in the medicine chest? After the policeman is through with Mr. Applewood, I’m going to see that he takes some for his pain. I’m sure it will help him sleep, too.”

      
Quincy’s face was a mass of mottled bruises, but you could see his blush between the black-and-blue marks. I’m sure his nose was broken, but, since Mrs. Kincaid had threatened him with laudanum, I decided it would be prudent to wait until he’d taken the medicine before I taped his nose back into place.

      
“You don’t need to do that, ma’am. I’m fine. Honest.” Poor Quincy. He looked about as embarrassed as it was possible for a human male to look.

      
“Huh,” said I inelegantly.

      
“Don’t be stupid, Quincy,” Edie delivered in a tight, pithy voice. “You need the laudanum and someone to take care of you until you get better.”

      
Quincy’s expression turned mulish. He crossed his arms over his chest, wincing as he did so, from which I deduced he had bruises in places other than his head. Suspicious, I asked, “Do your ribs hurt, Quincy? Because if any of them are cracked, they’ll need to be bandaged. And I’ll bandage them, whether you like it or not. I’ll have you tied down this time for sure. Of course,” I added magnanimously, “I’ll wait until the laudanum takes effect.”

      
“But I don’t
want
to take any laudanum.” Quincy sounded desperate.

      
He was also too late. As soon as Mrs. Kincaid’s request left her lips, Edie bounded out of the room, pausing only to scold the man of her dreams and tell him to stop being a stubborn so-and-so. I heard her footsteps on the carpeted stairway, making me believe she was taking them two at a time (Edie works for the Kincaids; she wouldn’t dare be noisy under normal household conditions).

      
“Nonsense, Mr. Applewood,” quoth Mrs. Kincaid. “You need it.”

      
“Yes,” said I. “You do.”

      
The scowl he gave me that time surpassed any single one of those bestowed upon me by Rotondo.

      
“Perhaps it would be best to tape his nose after he takes the laudanum, too.”

      
By gum! Mrs. Kincaid was coming into her own with a vengeance, and it had only been hours since her old man had run out on her. It was enough to give you faith in the workings of fate.

      
“The laudanum’s probably a good idea,” said Rotondo. “I can help keep him still and pinch his nose shut while you dump it down his throat. Then we can strip him and you can bandage his ribs.” He laughed again.

      
The darned man was keeping me totally off balance. One minute he was as mean as a scorpion, and the next minute he was being nice and helpful and—even more incredible—humorous.

      
“Doggone it, Daisy Majesty, I’m not going to take my shirt off in front of any ladies!”

      
“Most nurses are ladies, Quincy,” I pointed out. “No matter where your ribs are checked, you’re manly chest is going to be looked at by a lady.”

      
“That’s the truth, dear. Although perhaps Detective Rotondo and Harold would be willing to bandage Mr. Applewood’s ribs, if that would save him embarrassment.”

      
Both men nodded.

      
It was all I could do not to stare at Mrs. Kincaid in awe. “Brilliant idea. And after they bind your ribs, I’ll fix your nose.” I smiled broadly at Mrs. Kincaid, who smiled broadly back. I’d always liked the woman, but she might just become one of my favorite people if this kept up.

      
“What’s the matter with my nose?” Quincy yelled, feeling said appendage and then cringing in pain. “Ow. I didn’t even feel my nose because my head hurt so much.” He sent me a hideous scowl. “Thanks a lot for pointing it out to me, Daisy.”

      
“My pleasure.”

      
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” he said tartly.

      
“Your nose is probably broken,” I said, not mincing words. “And I’m going to tape it up, whether you like it or not.”

      
“Like hell,” Quincy muttered under his breath.

      
I scowled back at him. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not putting lanolin on your lip now. You have to get that oiled up before the detective questions you.”

      
He’d probably have hit me if I’d been a man. He did, however, snatch the jar of lanolin out of my hand. “I can put lanolin on my own lips, darn it!”

      
I sniffed, turned around, and sat demurely on the sofa a couple of feet from Edie, who grinned at me. I could tell she was relieved Quincy was home, even if he wasn’t out of the woods yet. She patted my knee and whispered, “Good work, Daisy.”

      
“Thanks.” Grateful to her for her commendation, tears filled my eyes, and I felt stupid. But I really, honestly and truly,
hate
hurting people. Still, I believed I had behaved in a manner befitting a Gumm. And a Majesty, too, come to think of it.

      
After Quincy had spread his lip liberally with lanolin, grimacing the entire time (men are such babies), he sat up straight, groaned only once, sighed, and said, “I guess I’m ready to talk now.”

      
Rotondo took out the notebook and pencil he always carried in his pocket. Then he went to a hard-backed chair standing against a near wall, picked it up as if it weighed approximately six ounces, and plunked it down in front of Quincy.

      
From the novels I’ve read, I understand policemen like to maintain eye contact with their crooks because in that way they can determine whether or not a person is lying. I’ve tried staring into people’s eyes with that truth-or-lie question in mind and it doesn’t work for me, but I’m not a policeman. Maybe you need special training.

      
Quincy started the interview. Interrogation. Whatever it’s called. “You’ve already probably heard that Mr. Kincaid and I had an argument last night.”

      
“Yes, but please don’t ask me any more questions. I’m the one doing the asking here.”

      
Well! I’d never heard anything so rude in my life.

      
Apparently, neither had Quincy. He slumped back against the chair, glowered, and said, “Go ahead, then. Ask.”

      
Animosity didn’t seem to affect Sam Rotondo in any way whatsoever. Given his personality and profession, he was more than likely accustomed to people being hostile to him. He didn’t even frown, which is more consideration than he ever gave me. Big dolt.

      
“You and Mr. Kincaid were arguing,” said Rotondo, not skipping a beat. “Of the two of you, who precipitated the animosities?”

      
Quincy looked as if he was wondering what the heck
precipitated
meant, but he figured it out right away. “I barged in on the old bastard—” He cast a dismayed glance at Mrs. Kincaid. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry . . .”

      
She only waved a hand in the air as if to say she felt the same way, took no exception to Quincy’s assessment of her husband’s worth, and only wished she wasn’t high-classed so she could use those kinds of words herself.

      
Quincy cleared his throat. “Well, then. I barged into his office. Didn’t even knock first. He, of course, got mad at me instantly, but I didn’t care. I was too furious to care. I marched straight up to his desk and slammed my hands on it.” It looked to me as if Quincy was relishing the memories.

      
“And why was that?” Rotondo’s voice purred like that of a cat. An extremely large and dangerous, not to mention sneaky and probably treacherous, alley cat.

      
“The damned bastard—” Again Quincy stopped talking and glanced at Mrs. Kincaid. She waved his worry away a second time.

      
“He’d been chasing Edie around in his wheelchair, trying to take advantage of her!”

      
This time, Mrs. Kincaid didn’t wave. She gasped so hard her face turned pink, stood up, swayed back and forth for a second or two before her knees gave out, and collapsed like a popped balloon on the sofa. I thought she’d fainted dead away until I heard her whisper, “The fiend! The horrid, vicious fiend!”

      
Well, glory be.

      
Before Rotondo could continue, Mrs. Kincaid went on bitterly, “I knew it. I always suspected he was having affairs. And he was
always
chasing the housemaids, poor things. He was such a terrible man.” She sat up suddenly, making me jump, and stared straight at Quincy. “I’m
glad
you killed him, Mr. Applewood! You performed a good Christian deed and rid the world of a devil!”

      
“Me?” Quincy pointed at his probably cracked rib cage. “Hell’s bells, ma’am, I didn’t kill anyone.”

      
“Oh.” Mrs. Kincaid looked disappointed.

      
My goodness. People constantly astound me.

      
Rotondo turned to me. In a harsh whisper, he said, “Can you get that woman out of here? I can’t have all these interruptions.”

      
Harold overheard Rotondo’s request and stood. “I’ll take Mother outdoors to enjoy the roses, Detective. I think you need Daisy here, since she knows more than most of us about the whole debacle.”

      
“Huh,” said Rotondo.

      
I wanted to kick him.

      
Harold went on, “And I know Mother needs to smell something sweet for a change. Lanolin really stinks, doesn’t it?”

      
“Yes,” said Quincy and frowned at me, even though none of this was my fault.

      
Then Rotondo said, “Thank you, Mr. Kincaid.”

      
“Oh, yes, thank you, Harold! You’re such a wonderful son!” Mrs. Kincaid bolted to her feet and all but fell upon her son’s pudgy shoulders, weeping and moaning like a Halloween ghost. I have to admit to a sense of relief when the door closed behind mother and son.