Daisy Gumm Majesty 06-Ancient Spirits Read online

  “Maybe some punch, Flossie. Thank you.”

  “You need to eat something, my dear,” said Dr. Benjamin.

  The mere thought of food made my stomach rebel. It had never done that before when confronted with the notion of eating. How odd. “I’ll have something a little later,” I promised.

  “See that you do.” He sounded stern for effect. I don’t think there was a true stern bone in that man’s body.

  “Is there anything I can get you, Daisy?”

  When I looked up to see who’d asked the question, which had sounded tentative, I was surprised to find it had been Sam Rotondo. I wouldn’t have pegged him as having a tentative bone in his body, but I guess none of us really knows another person completely. I decided, on this day that was clearly painful for the both of us, I’d treat Sam as a human being and not an enemy, which was something of a departure for me. On the other hand, I wasn’t trying to get away with anything that day, either, so maybe it worked both ways.

  “Thanks, Sam. Flossie’s getting me some punch. I don’t really care for anything else right now.”

  A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “You need to eat something,” he said.

  Oh, boy. Here was I, Daisy Gumm Majesty, who, while not fat, was about as far from the slim and boyish model of young womanhood then in fashion as a woman could get, being pressed to eat by a doctor and a police detective. “I won’t starve, Sam. You know that.” The good Lord knew he’d eaten Aunt Vi’s delicious food often enough to have seen for himself that I wasn’t about to die of hunger. Sometimes I thought Sam spent more time in our house than in his own, wherever that was.

  “Good,” he said. Then he shuffled around for a second or two and blurted out, “When Margaret died, I couldn’t eat for weeks. Got so skinny, my mother feared for my life. Just be sure you eat, whether you want to or not.” And with that, he turned and marched away, leaving me blinking.

  Evidently Sam Rotondo was taking to heart Billy’s request that he take care of me. This might turn out to be a problem given the state of our relationship, which was rocky at best.

  “Who’s Margaret?” whispered Harold as Sam walked off.

  “His late wife. She died of tuberculosis shortly after they moved to Pasadena.”

  “I didn’t know he’d ever been married.” It sounded as though the notion of Sam having a wife came as a surprise to Harold. I couldn’t fault him for that. Sam didn’t go around spreading warmth and cozy feelings right and left.

  “Yes.” I sighed. “He’s not such a bad person, I guess.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s nice that he’s trying to look out for you,” said Harold doubtfully. He and Sam weren’t best buddies, because Sam disapproved of Harold and Del.

  “I suppose,” said I, giving the matter no more thought. Heck, I didn’t have the energy to think. Enervated probably best describes my overall state of being.

  Mrs. Bissell, who had given me Spike after I’d performed an exorcism on her basement—a long story I won’t go in to here—came over just then and said, “I’m so terribly sorry, dear. I think the Kaiser should be tried and hanged for war crimes.”

  “I absolutely agree with you, Missus Bissell. Thank you for coming.”

  “Spike is looking well, dear. You’re doing a wonderful job with him.”

  That was nice to hear, and I was about to tell her so, when a honking voice spoke up at my right elbow. If I’d had the energy, I might have jumped. “She certainly is. Why, that dog of hers and Mister Majesty’s came in first at my last obedience training class.”

  This piece of information was delivered in her characteristic loud, hollow voice by Mrs. Pansy Hanratty, who had indeed instructed Billy and me in how to train our dog at the Pasanita Dog Obedience School. In fact, our last lesson, the one in which Spike had ended up at the head of his class, had been held only a week before Billy’s death. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and it hadn’t even been two weeks. Funny how time has a habit of speeding up and slowing down when you aren’t watching.

  “Excellent,” said Mrs. Bissell. I got the impression she and Mrs. Hanratty already knew each other, because they moseyed off together, leaving me with my friends. Both ladies were deeply involved with dogs. Mrs. Hanratty taught people how to make them obey. Mrs. Bissell bred dachshunds. Her major ambition in life was to show a dog at the American Kennel Club’s Westminster Dog Show one day.

  When you have enough money, I suppose your ambitions alter to suit your circumstances. Most of the Gumms and Majestys of the world were only concerned with making a living from one day to the next.

  Flossie appeared with my punch and Johnny, who eyed me with sympathetic understanding. “Any time you need a shoulder, Daisy, you know mine’s available,” he told me with a smile.

  “Thanks, Johnny. I’m surprised you can still hear out of those ears of yours, I’ve poured so much junk into them.”

  “Nonsense. That’s what I’m in this world for. If you need us for anything at all, Flossie and I will always be available for you.”

  He meant it, too. That’s what I mean about the Salvation Army. They don’t care if you’re rich or poor or considered “good” or “bad” by society at large; the Army loves you anyway, and will help you with anything from food and clothes to counseling. Great organization, in my opinion, which isn’t universally shared by my Methodist cohorts.

  “Thanks, guys. I couldn’t ask for better friends.” My tear-stained gaze encompassed Flossie, Johnny, Harold and Del . . . and Sam Rotondo, who had suddenly reappeared, my father at his elbow.

  Pa was clearly as upset as I. He had loved Billy like another son. My brother Walter was there that day with his wife Jeanette, as was my sister Daphne and her husband Daniel. Daphne and Daniel’s two daughters, Polly and Peggy, were staying with a friend for the day, since neither Daphne nor Daniel thought a funeral appropriate for children their age. That suited me just fine. I love my nieces, but I didn’t want to bother with them that day, of all days.

  “You doing all right, honey?” asked Pa, looking as if he was about to have another heart attack.

  His pallor worried me. “I’m all right, but I think you need to sit down and rest, Pa. Here, why don’t you and Sam chat with Walter over there on the sofa? I’ll bring you a plate of food.” I took Pa’s arm to lead him to the sofa. Sam, taking his other arm, meekly followed my lead. This seemed most unusual behavior for Sam—until I remembered that he’d just lost his best friend. If I could only keep that salient fact in mind, I’m sure I’d not be so suspicious of Sam all the time.

  Walter jumped to his feet when he saw us approaching. “Daisy! Are you doing any better now?” He’d witnessed my collapse at the door, I presume.

  Jeanette slapped his arm. “How can you ask such a question?” She rose to meet me and give me a hug, joggling my glass of punch slightly. “Don’t pay any attention to Walter, Daisy. I know you must be perfectly miserable. I know I would be.”

  It’s nice she understood. “It’s . . . hard,” I said, and then my throat closed up and my eyes filled with tears again. Rats!

  She put an arm around my shoulder, dislodging Pa and Sam, and sat me on the sofa. I sipped some punch, which more or less reopened my throat. I forgot all about getting Pa a plate of food, but I don’t think he remembered I’d offered to get him one anyway. We were all fumbling around in a state of confusion that day.

  “Daisy, I just wanted you to know how very sorry I am for your loss.”

  When I glanced up, I saw Miss Emmaline Castleton, of the fabulously wealthy Castleton family. Heck, it was in a hospital named for her father in which Billy’d died. She’d once explained to me how her father and his cohorts, after grinding the competition under their heels and killing thousands of Chinamen and Irishmen on their railroads, had retired to do good works, evidently believing a number of good works could erase their past misdeeds. As she’d told me: folks didn’t used to call Mister Castleton and his cronies robber barons for nothing. Now people called the
m philanthropists. Life’s funny that way.

  I took the hand she held out to me. “Thank you for coming, Emmaline.”

  She shook her head, looking close to tears herself. “I couldn’t stay away.”

  Miss Emmaline Castleton had lost the man she loved during the war, too. Only his life had been temporarily saved by—of all unlikely creatures—a German soldier. But that’s another story I won’t tell here. I just wanted you to know that, however disparate our circumstances, the war had leveled social barriers between Miss Castleton and me.

  “I understand,” I said honestly.

  “I know you do.” She heaved a sigh. “But I suppose I’d best be getting along. Please come to me if there’s anything at all I can do for you.” With a shake of her head, she said, “Although I don’t know what that might be. I certainly can’t erase the past.”

  “None of us can,” I said, appreciating her a lot in that moment.

  As Emmaline Castleton maneuvered through the crowd toward the front door, Jeanette said, “Who was that, Daisy?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I forgot to introduce you.”

  “Never mind that. But who was she? She looked . . . rich.”

  I almost chuckled. “She is. Very. That was Emmaline Castleton.”

  Jeanette’s eyes went wide. “Castleton of the . . .”

  “Yes. Emmaline Castleton of the Castletons.”

  “My goodness. I didn’t know you knew each other.”

  “Yes. Well, we met not long ago and under . . .” I paused. I really didn’t want to go into it all there and then. “Well, it was kind of a surprise to meet her. But she’s very nice.”

  “She must be,” said Jeanette dubiously

  How was I ever going to get over Billy’s death? Had Emmaline Castleton managed to overcome the death of her own love, Stephen Allison, who’d died in Flanders about the same time Billy was wounded? Does one ever truly “get over” the death of the love of one’s life? I wanted to ask someone how long the exquisite pain would last and wished I’d asked Emmaline when I’d had the opportunity. Would the intense agony subside one day, leaving me merely aching inwardly? Unfortunately, the only person whom I knew had lost a marriage partner was Sam Rotondo, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking him questions like that. Well, Aunt Vi’s husband had died years ago. Maybe I’d ask her. But no. She’d also lost her only son in the war, and I didn’t want to bring that awful memory to her mind again.

  Oddly enough, Sam plunked himself on the sofa next to me so that I was sandwiched between him and Jeanette. Even more oddly, he said very softly in my ear, “You’re going to hurt for a long time, Daisy. You’ll feel like somebody’s ripped out your heart and stamped all over it for weeks and weeks. Maybe months. Hell, maybe even years. Eventually you’ll stop hurting as much as you do right now.”

  I turned to gape at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve been through it.”

  His words gave me pause. “Yes. I know you have. You know exactly what I’m feeling right now, don’t you?”

  “Definitely. You’ll never stop . . . missing him, but you won’t feel this bad forever.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” I said, meaning it sincerely. “I was pondering the answer to that exact question just now. How long will I hurt this badly, I mean.”

  To my utter astonishment, his face flushed. Sam Rotondo. A man whom I hadn’t believed possessed a single human emotion until quite recently.

  “Well, I know what it’s like. When I lost Margaret, I . . . well, it was hard to go on, I guess is what I mean. But you do what you have to do in this world, I reckon.”

  “I reckon.” Which meant I’d have to get back to raising the dead for rich people eventually. At that particular moment, I couldn’t bear the thought.

  “But take your time. You’re not hurting for money, are you? Because if you are—”

  “No!” I hadn’t meant to say the word so loudly. Sam’s eyebrows lowered into a V over his nose. “I’m sorry, Sam. But we’re not hurting for money. Thank God,” I added, both because I meant it and because it was the truth.

  He maintained a stony silence for a few moments. I heard bits of conversation wafting around us: soft, dignified, subdued. No laughter anywhere in the room. When Billy and I first began “courting”—I believe that’s the appropriate word, even though I’d known I’d marry him when I was four years old—there had always been laughter and good humor wherever we were. How times changed.

  “You’ll go back to your regular line of work?” Sam asked eventually. He didn’t approve of what I did for a living any more than Billy had. No surprise there, since the police department tried to keep “fortune-tellers” off the street. But I wasn’t a fortune-teller. I was a spiritualist medium, and there’s a big difference. Neither Sam nor Billy could ever be made to acknowledge the difference, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist.

  I didn’t want to think about work, even though I would have to go back to it eventually. Still had to help support my folks and Vi, and my income was greater than anyone else’s in the family. So, yes, I’d go back to work. But I didn’t want to talk about it then.

  Nevertheless, I said, “Yes. It’s what I do best.”

  “Huh.”

  “Don’t ‘huh’ me, Sam Rotondo. You know it’s my work. And it helps people.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if you decide to talk to Billy, let me know, will you? I have a few things to say to him.”

  He got up and walked toward the dining room, leaving me gawking after him.

  Chapter Three

  For some reason, I couldn’t get myself to climb out of the pit of depression that seemed to engulf me. I really tried to do so. Honest.

  After about a month or so, I decided I was fit enough to return to work whether I wanted to or not—and I did not. Anyhow, Mrs. Pinkerton had been calling me daily for a week or more, ostensibly asking about my state of mind and health, but I knew she was teetering on the edge of hysteria and wanted me to commune with the spirits for her. I’d known her more than half my life, after all.

  So one day, after toying with some oatmeal—not my favorite breakfast at the best of times because it made me feel kind of sick to my stomach, even when I was feeling perky—the phone rang, it was Mrs. Pinkerton, and I gave up dawdling.

  “How are you doing, Daisy?” she asked. She started off all of her telephone calls that way.

  Always before I’d said something like, “I’m still feeling pretty blue, but I’ll be up and around again pretty soon.” Darned if I was going to let her dictate my life, even though she’d been my best and most dependable client for years. That day, something inside me seemed to tilt sideways, and I decided what the heck. Nothing else seemed to be taking me out of my melancholy; might as well work.

  Therefore, I said, my voice sounding dull to my own ears, “I’m still not feeling awfully chipper, but I’m ready to get back to work if you need me, Missus Pinkerton.”

  Her sigh over the telephone wire nearly blew my eardrum out. “Oh, Daisy!” cried she. “I’m so very glad you feel well enough to work again!”

  “Is something the matter?” I asked politely. My policy is that one should always be polite to one’s clients, no matter how stupid, foolish, insane or inane they are, and sometimes I thought Mrs. Pinkerton was all of those things. I don’t know how she managed to end up with a son like Harold Kincaid, who was a true, staunch and imminently sane friend. On the other hand, she’d also ended up with a daughter like Anastasia “Stacy” Kincaid, who was a complete and utter poop.

  Mrs. Pinkerton sobbed, and I rolled my eyes. Ever since Billy’s death I’d noticed that my temper seemed to be exceptionally short. I told myself that I needed to keep a rein on it or I wouldn’t have any business left. It was good advice, if I could only follow it.

  “It’s Stacy!” wailed Mrs. Pinkerton. She was a first-class wailer.

  Oddly enough, I felt a little bette
r. Stacy Kincaid had always been a stinker. About a year prior, however, she’d undergone something of a transformation, joined the Salvation Army, given up her wicked ways, stopped drinking and smoking and hanging out at speakeasies and calmed down. I’d been pretty sure the “new” Stacy would crumble eventually. That morning I wasn’t sure whether to be happy I’d been proved correct or sorry that poor Mrs. Pinkerton, an ineffectual parent if ever there was one, had to suffer through Stacy’s ghastly behavior some more.

  “Um . . . I thought she was firmly ensconced in the Salvation Army,” I said, trying to lead Mrs. Pinkerton out of her perpetual state of befuddlement and onto coherent ground. This was tough going at the best of times; that day, still mourning my Billy and with a temper that felt as brittle as a dry twig, it was more difficult than usual.

  “She’s slipped.” Mrs. Pinkerton spoke the two words in a melodramatic whisper.

  Gee, what a surprise, I thought. Naturally, I didn’t say those words. I was a true professional. What I said was, “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I noticed again that my voice seemed particularly flat and decided to try to put some animation in it, although I felt about as animated as a dead moth.

  “She came home last Saturday, and she’d been drinking!”

  Big deal.

  I knew that wasn’t the correct thing to say and scrambled for more appropriate words. None came to mind at once, so I tutted. Tutting and saying things like, “Mmmm” and “Hmmm” and “I see” and “My goodness” can carry you a long way in the spiritualist business.

  “And then,” continued Mrs. Pinkerton in a gasping whisper, “something even worse happened!”

  Golly. How alarming. After not yawning with boredom, I decided to try something different after my next tut. “Have you tried speaking with Captain Buckingham? I’m sure he’d be happy to talking to Stacy and counsel her.”

  “Captain Buckingham!” Mrs. Pinkerton screeched. She whined, screeched and wailed better than anyone else I’d ever met. “But . . . but he’s with the Salvation Army!”