Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (27 page)

“
Oh? What kind of trouble?”

Rats. “I think it’s of the criminal variety, actually. But I told her I couldn’t help her.”

“
Good.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Gee, Daisy, this is one of the first times you’ve not stuck your nose into someone else’s business when you had the opportunity. I’m proud of you.”

I shot Billy a glare, but he only grinned back at me. Unfortunately, he was right, but most of the rather unfortunate things I’d become entangled in hadn’t been my fault. Not really. And most of the time my motives had been purely benevolent. It wasn’t my fault that things went a bit awry from time to time. Billy had never been able to appreciate that, and I guessed there was no use fighting with him now. We’d covered that territory what seemed like millions of times, and both of our opinions had remained unchanged. What was the point?

“
So why does Miss Castleton need to meet this German lady?”

It seemed Billy wasn’t going to give up questioning me today. Maybe chatting kept his mind off his unpleasant physical symptoms. “She’s trying to assist another German to enter the country legally: she’s writing letters to congressmen and getting her father to intervene and that sort of thing. When she told me about that German, she reminded me of Hilda, one of the ladies from my cooking class, and I asked if perhaps she could assist Hilda in gaining legal status here. Providing Hilda ever admits she’s German, because she claims she’s Swiss, but I don’t believe her.” I glanced again at my husband. “Did that make any sense?”

He scratched his head. “I guess so. Why are you interested in helping this Hilda person? I thought you hated all Germans.”

Another sigh. “I thought I did, too. But I guess you’re right, Billy. People are people the world over, and we’re all victims of brutes like the Kaiser.” I recalled Dr. Benjamin’s words regarding war and young men fighting for old men’s misdeeds, but didn’t think Billy would like to know that I’d been talking to others about his problems.

“
Ha. Well, I’m glad to hear it. I guess you feel about rich people the way I feel about Germans. About their being just people and all.”

“
I guess so. I have to admit that sometimes I resent the Mrs. Kincaids of this world—”

“
The Mrs. Pinkertons,” Billy said, interrupting.

“
Oh, dear, that’s right. I must try to remember her new last name. She’s been Mrs. Kincaid for so long now. Anyway, sometimes I resent that people like Mrs. Pinkerton, who are nice but silly and rather unintelligent, should have loads of money and people like you and Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi don’t.”

Billy only shrugged. “The world’s never been fair to its denizens, Daisy. You should have learned that by this time.”

“
Oh, believe me, I know.” How could I help but know about the world’s unfairness when I was faced with the results thereof every day of my life? Poor Billy.

“
Yeah,” he said. “I guess you do.”

In terms of geography, our house wasn’t far from Mrs. Pinkerton’s, although it was miles away in terms of status. Still and all, I loved it as a refuge from the world’s woes. We arrived home about that time, so we stopped talking about the problems of my various students and the vagaries. I was glad about the former, since I wasn’t keen on discussing them with my family.

Pa had anticipated Billy’s need for his wheelchair, bless his heart. When I pulled the Chevrolet up in front of the house, Pa rolled the chair down the ramp he’d built, Spike cavorting at his heels, yelping in ecstasy that his humans had returned home again.

“
Thanks, Joe,” Billy said as he subsided into the chair. He looked perfectly dreadful. “I was wearing out fast.”

“
I figured you’d be exhausted, son. But Vi’s got a nice supper prepared, and you’ll soon perk up.”

After he downed another long gulp of morphine syrup.
I didn’t say that. “Good deal, Pa. But Billy and I ate pretty well at the reception.”

“
Speak for yourself,” said Billy, smiling. “I prefer Vi’s homemade stuff to all that fancy food.”

“
I don’t know,” said I, pushing my beloved’s chair back up the ramp—Spike had leaped onto Billy’s lap. “I kind of liked that lobster Newberg thing.”

“
Lobster!” Pa exclaimed. “La-di-da.” He polished his nails on his shirt front.

“
It was tasty,” Billy admitted.

“
And the roast beef was swell, too,” I added.

“
Roast beef
and
lobster?” Pa’s eyebrows lifted.

“
I know. That would be two or three meals for us, but those rich folks eat them all at the same time,” Billy said. “And don’t forget the duck thing.”

“
Oh, yes. I forgot the pressed duck. And the pâté. And don’t forget all the salads and side dishes.” I smiled at my father. “Billy’s right, Pa. Rich folks eat too much. Heck, our whole family could have eaten for a week on what Mr. and Mrs. Pinkerton expected their guests to eat at one meal.”

“
Well, I reckon it’s nice to see how the other half lives every now and then,” said Pa.

“
I guess,” said Billy.

I was pretty sure he didn’t mean it. But that was all right. We were together, and we were home, and we were back in the bosom of my ever-wonderful family.

Chapter Sixteen

Naturally, the topic of conversation for the remainder of that Sunday was the wedding. Ma and Aunt Vi oohed and aahed about the food and the decorations and the clothes. Billy had gone in to our room to lie down for an hour or so—and, of course, to consume some morphine syrup—right after I rolled him into the house, but he joined us later. Turned out he and Pa had invited Sam Rotondo over for a friendly game of gin rummy that evening. As ever.

Oddly enough, in recent days I had begun feeling a little less annoyed about Sam constantly showing up at our house. Perhaps the change in my attitude began when he listened to my tale of woe about Billy and that cursed cache of morphine. Perhaps not. I wasn’t about to let down my guard around him, but I was glad he was there for Billy and Pa, both of whose health was about as bad as it could be.

I thought about asking him if he’d telephoned Lucille Spinks, but decided it would probably be better not to. Anyhow, I’d see Lucy at choir practice on Thursday. I’d ask her.

The rest of the week was uneventful. Actually, it was positively dull. Mr. and Mrs. Pinkerton were on their honeymoon, so I didn’t get one single hysterical call from that source. A few other folks called to ask me to conduct séances or read tarot cards, but other than that, I might as well have slept through it. Well, except for my birthday, which was swell. Not only did I become a young woman of twenty-two years, but Aunt Vi made beef Wellington for the family. Boy, was
that
a success! Naturally, Sam came to dinner that night, but I didn’t really mind. Plus he brought me a very nice bouquet of flowers that he’d picked up at a flower shop. They were pretty, too, and I thanked him graciously.

Billy gave me a lovely gold necklace with a very pretty pendant with a topaz in the middle. Topaz is November’s birthstone, and I appreciated his thoughtfulness a lot. It was very difficult for him to do any shopping, given the state of his health and his inability to walk much. I suspected either Pa or Sam had driven him to Arnold’s Jewelers. Come to think of it, it was probably Sam who’d done so, since Pa wasn’t supposed to drive anymore because of his bum heart. Anyhow, Pa and Billy would have had to go when I wasn’t using the car for my work, and then I’d have been home and known all about their errand, wouldn’t I? Another gold star for Sam Rotondo.

I wasn’t sure I could stand having Sam turn into a friend. I’d enjoyed disliking him for so long. Well, he’d probably annoy me again soon. I held that thought to my heart.

Not really. I’m honestly not that small-minded. At least I hope I’m not.

That Thursday, talking with Lucy Spinks, I cautiously probed the topic of Sam Rotondo. She gave me a sad little smile and shook her head.

“
No, I’m afraid Mr. Rotondo doesn’t return my interest, Daisy.”

“
He wasn’t unkind to you, was he?” I asked, instantly suspecting Sam of having been horrid to poor love-struck Lucy.

“
Oh, no. He was a perfect gentleman, but a girl can tell, can’t she?”

Could she? I didn’t know, never having been in Lucy’s situation. Heck, I knew I was going to marry Billy when I was five years old. Mind you, Billy didn’t know my plans back then, but that didn’t matter to me.

“
Are you sure?” I asked, feeling kind of bad for Lucy.

“
I’m afraid so. He was very kind and spoke gently and generally behaved as if he considered me some kind of younger sister whom he’d been given responsibility for and whom he’d tucked under his wing until he could deposit me back at the nest.”

Mercy. That was quite a poetical flight of verbiage from the generally prosaic Lucy. “Well, perhaps he thinks he’s too old for you,” I suggested in an attempt to cheer her up. “He is somewhat older than we are, I think.”

“
He’s twenty-seven,” said Lucy.

I blinked at her.

She shrugged. “I asked him. Couldn’t see any reason not to. I don’t think five years is that much of an age gap, do you?”

“
Well . . . no, I guess it isn’t. How funny. I thought he was much older than that.”

“
He is kind of a sobersides.”

Sam? A sobersides? Hmm. Maybe he was. In a fit of uncharacteristic charity, I said, “Perhaps the loss of his wife has made him behave in a stuffier manner than he used to. Or something like that.”

“
Maybe.”

Lucy and I sat side by side in the front row of the choir. She was at the end of the sopranos, and I was at the beginning of the altos, but I think the main reason Mr. Hostetter had us sit together was because when we sang duets, our exit from the choir to the microphones wouldn’t cause a big upheaval in the ranks. If you know what I mean.

“
I did find him fascinating, though,” Lucy said upon a mournful sigh. “And where am I going to find anybody else?”

Good question, and one to which I had no answer, good or otherwise. I thought nasty thoughts about the Kaiser while Mr. Hostetter explained the night’s agenda to us. We were at the beginning of the Christmas season, which I loved because of all the beautiful carols. The choir generally sang Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus” on Christmas Eve, and both Lucy and I got solos. Solos were scary, but we both enjoyed performing.

The rest of the week was absolutely boring. It was so boring, in fact, that I was almost glad when Saturday rolled around and I had to teach that stupid class. The last class. Talk about hallelujahs! However, this was the fateful class in which I was going to teach my students how to create and fill pea-and-egg castles. Thanks to Vi, I’d had lots of practice creating the little castle-like holders. Naturally, we didn’t always fill them with peas and eggs and cover them with cream sauce. Heck, mainly, we ate the croutes as rather fancy pieces of fried toast for breakfast.

As I set out in the Chevrolet, I figured I was as prepared as I’d ever get. That didn’t prevent me from praying throughout the drive to the Salvation Army. Actually, it occurred to me that if I was willing to pray over a stupid bread croute, I probably ought to be willing to pray about something as important as my husband’s problems. It was, therefore, a very guilty-feeling Daisy Gumm Majesty who parked her automobile and shambled toward the fellowship hall that day.

All the students were there, perky as ever, and Flossie greeted me with a cheerful embrace and yet another bouquet of flowers! My goodness, nobody ever gave me flowers, and here I’d had two bouquets in a single week.

“
We all appreciate so much what you’ve done for us, Mrs. Majesty,” said Flossie in her newly refined accent. “The class got together and decided to present you with a token of their esteem.”

Naturally, I cried. I swear, I’m hopeless. However, I didn’t cry for long, and after brushing away my few tears, I thanked Flossie and my students warmly. “Truly, I’ve learned more by teaching this class than you folks have.” I’m sure they thought I was kidding. I wasn’t.

At any rate, I put the bouquet in a little vase I found in the church’s kitchen and returned to the front of the class.

“
Today, ladies, we’re going to prepare the dish pictured on the cover of our cook booklet.” I beamed at them, trying my level best to portray the confidence of a genuine cooking teacher. What a sham! Truly, I considered myself a pretty honest person until I remembered that I earned my living as a spiritualist, and how honest is that? But I felt better about spiritualism, which I do well, than I did about that silly class.

But my students all showed evidence of delight that we’d be fixing the pea castle, so that made me happy. Except for Gertrude, who seemed to be slightly sulky. Ah, well.

“
Let’s all turn to page seventeen, ladies.”

We did.

“
Mrs. Buckingham has brought bread for us to use, and she’s already boiled the eggs we’ll need. Therefore, the first thing we need to do is cut our bread to fit our serving dishes.” I don’t know if you’re old enough to remember, but in those days, one didn’t go to a store and buy sliced bread. One first baked loaves of bread and then sliced it as needed. Therefore, we were dealing with big hunks of bread during that class.