Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (10 page)

Flabbergasted, I blurted out, “He did?”

“He did.”

“Good Lord. I overheard a conversation between Billy and Sam about a week or two before he died, and I heard him ask Sam to take care of me after he was gone.”

Johnny nodded. “It looks as if Sam is trying to do his best to follow Billy’s wishes.” He added with what I considered an unnecessarily sly glance, “If you’ll let him.”

“I don’t need anyone to look out for me,” I said irritably. Then I remembered the incident in the car, when Sam had found me blubbering on a stack of library books, and sighed. “But, yes, Sam has been . . . nice lately.” Boy, it hurt me to say that! But Sam and I had been enemies for so long, it was difficult to give up my animosity toward him.

“He is a nice person, Daisy. Give him a chance. He’ll be a good friend to you.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Sure. And it never hurts to have a copper on your side. Just ask Flossie. Heck, just ask me.”

I think I’ve already mentioned that Johnny’d had a terrible time after the war ended. “I thought it was the Salvation Army that saved you.”

“It was, but I was steered there by a good old Pasadena copper. George Halstead. We still keep in touch, George and me.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“For the most part, policemen join the force because they want to help people by taking crooks off the street. Sometimes you’ll find one who’s willing to go the extra mile—or two, in my case—to help someone who has problems. I thank God every day for sending George to me.”

I thought about all the people in my life and wondered if God had put them all there for a reason. It didn’t seem likely. After all, why should God pay that much attention to little old me? He had bigger problems to solve. I didn’t say so to Johnny, who claimed God had His eye on every single individual in the entire world. Sounded like a mighty big job to me.

“I guess I should start thanking Him for you and Harold.”

Johnny’s grin widened. “Wouldn’t hurt. I thank Him for you every day.”

His words so startled me, I jumped in my chair. “You do? Why, for heaven’s sake?” Apt phrasing, although I didn’t plan it that way.

“For connecting me with Flossie.”

“Aw. Thanks, Johnny.” It had been through my influence that Flossie and Johnny had got together, although I hadn’t originally planned that they should marry and have a family together. I was only trying to help Flossie at the time.

“Thank you, Daisy.”

And then he made me pray with him. He always did that. It embarrassed me a little, but I appreciated him a whole lot and didn’t argue.

* * * * *

I called Harold that evening without even bothering to shoo our nosiest party-line neighbor, Mrs. Barrow, off the line. I didn’t care if she eavesdropped on this conversation. Harold, by the way, lived in a lovely home in San Marino with his special friend Del. I’d done a séance there for them once. It had gone very well. I feared this telephone call wouldn’t.

“Have you talked it over with your parents?” he asked as soon as he knew it was me on the other end of the line.

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound overjoyed. Does that mean a yea or a nay?”

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Harold. Billy always wanted to go to Egypt, but I . . . well, everybody in my family thinks I should take you up on your very kind offer, and so does Johnny Buckingham. Heck, even Sam thinks so.”

“It’s not a kind offer. It’s a gift to a dear friend in need. I’ve always wanted to see Egypt, too, and we’ll start off in England, where I have friends.”

Oh, boy. Just what I needed right then: a bunch of rich English friends of Harold’s to make me feel poor and inadequate. “You have friends in England?” My voice quivered slightly.

“Don’t worry. They’ll love you, and you’ll like them. Most of them, anyway. Piggy Fallowdale is a bit of a snob.”

I drew my head back and stared at the ‘phone on the wall. “He’s a snob, and his name is Piggy? I should think being called Piggy would cure anyone of his snobbishness.”

“The British are different that way. They give each other nicknames. You know, like Bertie Wooster in the Wodehouse books.”

“Oh. Yes. I read one of his books. Had a butler in it who was smarter than his boss.” I didn’t tell Harold, but I’d identified strongly with Jeeves, although I wasn’t the genius at getting people out of trouble that Jeeves was. Still, I must be smarter than most of my clients if only because I didn’t believe in the garbage I spewed at them.

There went my attitude again. I simply had to overcome my present state of impatience and irritability. According to my family, Johnny and Sam, the cure probably lay in Egypt. The notion didn’t appeal a whole lot.

“But that’s beside the point,” said Harold, sounding moderately impatient himself. “Are you going to go with me to Egypt or are you not?”

I hesitated and drew in a deep breath. Then I let it out in a whoosh and said, “Yes. I’m going with you to Egypt.”

“Bully, as our late President Roosevelt might have said! That’s wonderful, Daisy. We’ll have a glorious time. I promise you that you’ll feel one hundred percent better about life when we get back.”

I doubted that. “I still won’t have Billy,” I reminded him. Then, naturally, I felt guilty for throwing the corpse of my dead husband at Harold when all he was trying to do was be a good friend to me. “I’m sorry, Harold. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Piffle. You did so mean it, but it doesn’t matter. You have every reason to feel bitter and resentful about life. But two or three months away from home, seeing and doing new things and meeting new people, will prove the cure. You’ll never get Billy back, but you might regain your spirit. So to speak.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m sure you’re right, Harold.” Then part of what he’d said made my head snap straight up. “Did you say two or three months?”

“Well, yes. First we’ll have to take the train to New York City, changing trains in Chicago. Then we’ll take an ocean liner to South Hampton. That’s in England. From there we take the boat train to Marseilles. Then we take the Orient Express from Paris to Istanbul
—”

“What?” I interrupted. “Where’s Istanbul?”

“It’s what people are calling Constantinople these days.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.” Learn something new every day, I guess.

“You can call it Constantinople if you want to,” said Harold generously.

“That’s all right,” said I, thinking my life was confusing enough already without people going and changing the names of cities on me.

“Anyhow, we’ll go from Paris to Istanbul—or Constantinople, if you prefer—”

“I don’t
prefer either one.” What I really wanted was not to go at all, but I knew I’d better not say that.

“Anyhow, then we’ll take
another train from Constantinople to Cairo. Then I’ll book us on a Cook’s Tour down the Nile. Or up the Nile. I can’t remember which way the boats go.”

“Good Lord,” I said, feeling rather faint. “I’ve never traveled anywhere before in my life except for when we went back to Massachusetts to visit my parents’ families.”
You wouldn’t catch anyone in Auburn, Massachusetts, changing its name, I’d bet. Istanbul, my foot.

“This will be a broadening experience for you.”

I suppressed about a thousand and three jokes about broadening experiences and only said, “I guess so. What kinds of clothes should I bring?”

“Ah, now you’re talking my language!”

Have I mentioned Harold was a costumier for a motion-picture company? Well, he was. The rest of that long and exhausting telephone conversation was taken up with talk of clothing. Harold didn’t believe in packing light, but I didn’t see the point of taking more clothes than I’d need.

“Fiddlesticks. You won’t be the one carrying the luggage. We’ll have servants to do that for you.”

“Good Lord,” I said, faint but game. But honestly. Me? With servants waiting on me? Never in my whole life had anyone ever waited on me. Well, not since I was out of diapers, anyway.

“You’ll need at least four evening gowns, my dear,” he said reprovingly when I told him I didn’t want to be overburdened with clothing on that gigantically long trip, servants or no servants. “Think of the evenings you’ll spend in Paris on the way there and in London on the way back. I know you have evening duds, because I’ve seen you in plenty of them. So bring four or five gowns for evening wear.”

In an attempt to assuage his gusto regarding my wardrobe, I tried to steer the conversation to a salient point. “Egypt is sure to be burning hot, Harold. I presume I should bring lightweight frocks and hats and a couple of parasols or something to shield my face from the sun.” If I aimed to resume my career as a spiritualist one day—and I did—it would never do to appear rosy-cheeked and robust.

“Yes, that’s so. Actually, it’ll be warm during the entire journey, I suppose. But don’t worry about that. Bring lightweight clothing for everywhere, and if you need something else, we’ll get it abroad.”

Yeah? You and who else? thought I. Naturally, I didn’t say that to Harold. Still, the fact remained that he was rich and I wasn’t.

“And don’t worry about the expense,” he hastily added, as if he were reading my mind. “Mother is going to give you a huge wad of money tomorrow or the next day.”

“She’s going to what?”

“She’s giving you a big bonus for dealing with Stacy. Oh, that’s right. I forgot to tell you that your Captain Buckingham went down to the Pasadena City Jail, talked to Stacy, and Stacy has repented of her evil ways and is going back to the Salvation Army as soon as she’s finished her term in the pokey.”

“Good Lord.” I was feeling fainter by the second.

“You might phrase it that way,” said Harold with a wry bite to his voice. “But it’s true. She’s been re-saved, if such a thing is possible, and even Mother doesn’t care if she goes to church at the Salvation Army. She’s decided not to hold out for an Episcopalian this time. I think she’s decided Stacy’s too far gone for the staid Episcopal crowd anyway. She’s only glad Stacy claims she’s going to
tread on the straight and narrow path from now on.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I said before I could think better of my words. That happens a lot with me.

But Harold didn’t mind. He only laughed and said, “Yeah. Me, too.”

Chapter Nine

By August first, Harold had made sure I had all the proper travel documents, and Dr. Benjamin had made sure I had all the proper travel inoculations, one of which made me really sick for a day or two. They were the only two days out of the entire month of July during which my family didn’t rag me about not eating enough. Heck, I wasn’t dying or anything. I was clearly eating plenty enough to stay alive. I figured that was sufficient. I even began taking Spike for walks during the daytime. So there.

The notion of this trip with Harold—this two or three month-long trip—daunted me a good deal, though. I knew I’d miss my family, and I already missed Spike. He was there on the front porch, along with my entire family, Sam Rotondo, the Wilsons from next door to the north and the Longneckers from across the street to the south when Harold arrived in a chauffeured limousine to take me to the station in Pasadena, where we would catch a train that would take us to the station in downtown Los Angeles. From there we’d take a Southern Pacific train to Chicago and thence get on the New York Central, which would carry us to New York City. From there we’d embark on the White Star Line’s R.M.S. Olympic, which would take us to South Hampton.

The Olympic, by the way, was one of three identical ships built by the White Star Line. They were the Titanic, which had hit an iceberg and sunk in 1912; and the Britannic, which had been torpedoed in 1916. To my mind, these facts augured poorly for our journey, but I didn’t bother telling Harold or anyone else my thoughts on the matter. If the boat sank, I could be with Billy sooner, was the way I saw it. Providing, of course, the Methodist ministers I’d been listening to all my life were right, and I was going to heaven. Given my track record of fooling people for a living, I wasn’t altogether sure I qualified. But that was too depressing to contemplate, and I already felt bum enough.

“Have a good time, sweetheart,” said Pa, giving me a squeeze.

Aunt Vi thrust a little package at me and said, “Take care, Daisy. I’m sure this is exactly what you need.”

Pudge Wilson, who looked like he might burst into tears, said, “I’ll miss you, Miss Daisy.” I think I’ve already mentioned that Pudge, the neighbors’ boy, had been sweet on me for a long time.

“I’ll miss you, too, Pudge,” said I, trying not to cry.

“Oh, Daisy!” said my mother as she flung her arms around me.

I staggered slightly when she released me, and Sam took my arm. “Try to enjoy yourself and all the new experiences you’ll be having.” His voice was gruff. I opened my mouth to thank him when he suddenly turned to Harold. “Watch out for her. She gets into trouble at the drop of a hat.”

“Sam!” I cried, any thought of thanking him for his good wishes vanishing in a pouf of ire. “I don’t either!”