Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (17 page)

Sam (Rotondo)

By the time I’d finished Sam’s letter, tears stung my eyes. I chalked them up to heat exhaustion. Then I peeled my clothes off and headed to the bathroom to take a cool bath. By the time I’d finished my bath, taken a nap and changed into a very cool sleeveless dress in which I aimed to pass the remainder of the evening, I thought I might be able to write Sam a letter without crying all over it.

So I did.

Chapter Fourteen

Dear Sam,

Thank you very much for your letter. I enjoy reading news from home.

“What a stupid way to begin a letter,” said I to myself. Nevertheless, the truth was the truth, so I allowed the words to remain on the paper and the paper to remain on the desk and didn’t throw it into the waste-paper basket.

The heat here is truly awful. Harold and I climbed the Great Pyramid at Giza today, I rode a camel afterward, and I can now tell you from experience that camels are stinky, hateful beasts. I think I got too much sun, because I had a roaring headache when we returned to the hotel.

We’ve been meeting people here and there on our trip, but so far I haven’t felt up to socializing much. Please tell Ma and Aunt Vi that I’m eating as much as I can, although that’s not very much. And I truly appreciate you and Pa taking care of Spike, who must be really confused about the changes in his family.

I tapped the end of the pen on the writing table and wondered what I should write next. Should I tell Sam what was in my heart, or should I keep the letter light and skirt the important stuff?

“Oh, to heck with it.”

Your letters mean a lot to me, Sam, perhaps because you have suffered the loss of a beloved spouse, as I’ve done. I know we got off on the wrong foot together, but I do appreciate that you’re continuing to spend time with my family. Please tell them I’m doing as well as can be expected, but I sure do miss them and home and Pasadena.

Since I didn’t want to descend into the maudlin, I decided to try to make the man laugh. Making Sam laugh was no easy task, as I knew from experience.

I must say, though, that it’s nice to get away from constant calls from Mrs. Pinkerton, wailing at me about Stacy. I hope Stacy is sticking to the straight and narrow. Well, I don’t suppose she can help it since she’s still locked up, but when she gets out, I hope she goes back to the Salvation Army as she’s promised to do.

A knock came at the door at that juncture, and a glance at the clock next to the bed told me it was probably Harold, come to fetch me for dinner. I actually felt a smallish pang of hunger, believe it or not, and that brightened my mood. Unless it was Sam’s letter that had done the brightening. But I didn’t want to think about that.

Well, Harold is here to fetch me so that we can go down to dinner. Thank you again for writing. Please give my love to everyone.

Fondly,

Daisy.

After I let Harold in, stuffed the letter into an envelope, addressed it and picked up my filmy shawl, I contemplated that “fondly” all the way down to the magnificent dining room, with a detour to the desk, where I handed the letter to the clerk. One moment I regretted the word; the next moment I figured I actually meant it, so why not write it? At any rate, I continued distracted as I read the menu.

“So what did you do with your afternoon, Harold?” I asked as I tried to imagine what sirloin of beef Châtelaine was. I suspected it was roast beef dressed up. It sounded okay to me.

“Chatted with our friend Stackville.”

I glanced at Harold over my menu. “He’s no friend of mine. I think he’s sneaky.”

“I think your imagination is working overtime, Daisy.”

“Maybe. But he always seems to be there. If you know what I mean. You show up somewhere, and there he is. I show up somewhere, and there he is.”

With a shrug, Harold said, “Maybe he finds us good company.” He glanced around the dining room. “Most of the rest of the guests here look as though they’re nearing ninety, at least.”

I perused the room, too. “Well . . . I guess you’re right.”

Harold put his menu down. “Listen, Daisy, I’m rethinking this Nile cruise thing. I damned near dropped dead from heat stroke today, and I know you were suffering, too.”

“You’ve got that right,” I told him with fervor. “I had such a ghastly headache, it isn’t all gone yet, and I took three aspirin tablets.”

“It’s occurred to me that perhaps we should go back to England. It won’t be nearly as miserable there, and we can see the sights in London. Mind you, if you want to continue up the Nile, I’m game, but everyone who’s told me August is the wrong time to visit Egypt has been absolutely right so far.”

I could have kissed him. Not that I wouldn’t love to see the sights of Egypt someday. But if I had my druthers, it would be a day approximately forty degrees cooler than the one in which we now existed. “Oh, Harold, I’d love to go back to England! Egypt was Billy’s dream, and I’ll carry on for his sake, but if you don’t want to take the tour up the Nile, either, then let’s not.”

“Thank God. I was afraid you’d think you failed Billy somehow if we backed out now.”

“Failed Billy?” I shook my head. “Billy’s dead, Harold. I might have failed him in life, but there’s no way I can fail him now.”

“And you call yourself a spiritualist,” said Harold with a chuckle.

“Not on this trip, I don’t.”

“What’s this about a spiritualist?” came a voice at my back. Stackville. Since he couldn’t see me do it, I made a face at Harold.

“Good evening, Stackville,” said Harold, ignoring the spiritualist business, thank God. “Care to join us? We haven’t ordered yet.”

After making another, even more horrible face at Harold, I turned my head and forced a smile. “Good evening, Mister Stackville.” I didn’t repeat Harold’s invitation.

“Good evening, Missus Majesty. Thanks, Kincaid, but I’m dining with some other friends tonight. Please allow me to introduce them.”

Harold stood. I didn’t, although I did turn farther in my chair to see what Mr. Stackville’s friends looked like. They looked like a couple of male human beings dressed for dining in a nice hotel restaurant. If I were really what people think I am, I could probably have penetrated the outer facades they presented to the world and figured out if they were good, bad or normal like the rest of us, but I’m not. Heck, for all I knew, Mr. Stackville wasn’t really a pushy sneak but a hardworking gentleman of means. The two men presently standing beside him didn’t look as though they were hurting for money, either, to judge by their clothes.

As a gentleman should, Stackville said, “Missus Majesty and Mister Kincaid, please allow me to introduce you to Mister Gaylord Bartholomew and Mister Pierre Futrelle.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said to both men, although I didn’t mean it. Not that I had anything against either of them, but I still didn’t like the way Stackville seemed to show up wherever Harold and I were. But perhaps I was being illogical. Heck, if he was staying at Shepheards, why shouldn’t he show up in Shepheards’ dining room? For a fleeting moment, I had the melancholy notion that the bad mood I’d nursed since Billy’s death was taking over my entire life, and the idea didn’t appeal to me one bit. Therefore, I tried to make my smile appear a trifle more genuine.

“Yes, indeed,” said Harold, bowing slightly to the two men and holding out his hand to be shaken.

To my astonishment, Mr. Futrelle executed a bow that might have looked normal in King Louis the Fourth’s ballroom, but the likes of which I’d never seen before anywhere. Then he took my hand, although I hadn’t extended it, kissed it, and said, “Bon jour, madam. The pleasure is all mine,” in an accent so thick I could scarcely make out the words.

Then Futrelle executed another bow in Harold’s direction. Thank the good Lord, he didn’t kiss Harold’s hand, but merely shook it.

“Don’t mind Pierre,” said the other man, Mr. Bartholomew, with a smile and as precise an English accent as Stackville’s. I could tell he and Stackville were British because of the two days Harold and I had spent in London. “His old-world manners are a bit on the heavy side.” He bowed less extravagantly than his friend had at me and then shook Harold’s hand.

“Messrs. Bartholomew and Futrelle and I are in business together,” explained Stackville. “Believe it or not, we’re about to discuss that business over dinner this evening.”

Why wouldn’t we believe it? I didn’t ask, although I thought the comment was kind of odd.

“Well,” said I, hoping to speed the men on their way, “have a productive meeting.”

“Yes,” said Harold. “Perhaps we’ll see each other again this evening in the saloon.”

“Perhaps,” said Stackville.

Mr. Futrelle, who was tall and dark-haired and who looked like a Frenchman about to gamble away the family fortune—in other words, kind of rascally, although who was I to judge?—actually twirled his black moustache. I’d never seen anybody do that in person, even though the gesture had showed up in a couple of the flickers I’d watched.

Mr. Bartholomew, shorter, plumper and far less flamboyant than his friend, merely smiled, nodded, and made as if to leave. Stackville hesitated an instant beside our table, then gave us a nod and joined his friends at the table toward which a waiter had been leading him before he halted for introductions.

When the men were far enough away to hear anything I said, I told Harold, “I’m glad they didn’t join us.”

“I know you are. Sorry I didn’t consult with you first. I realized right after I made the offer that you probably wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“It’s just that I don’t much care for Stackville.” I shot a glance at the back of Mr. Futrelle. “And that French guy gives me the willies.”

Harold laughed, but he didn’t scold me for making snap judgments. He didn’t have to; I was already smacking myself upside the head for my lousy attitude.

Our dinner was delectable, and I managed to get down a good deal of it, which heartened Harold considerably and did much to restore my humor after the Stackville incident. By the way, sirloin of beef Châtelaine is roast beef, just as I’d figured it would be. I guess maybe they cook it a certain way or use a special sauce or something. It was delicious, however it was prepared. I also learned that haricots verts are skinny green beans. I wrote down that nifty tidbit to tell Aunt Vi. I’d never let on to the folks at Shepheards, but Aunt Vi’s Yorkshire pudding is better than theirs. Still and all, the entire meal was wonderful, and I felt rather like a stuffed sausage when it was over.

“Would you like to stroll in the gardens for a while, Daisy?” Harold offered after we polished off the last of our dessert, which was some kind of raspberry confection. I tried to figure out what was in it but had no luck, not being culinarily inclined. Which was a shame, since I’d bet Aunt Vi would love to make it. Oh, well.

Did I want to stroll in the gardens? Not really. However, Harold was being so very kind to me in giving me this extraordinary trip to exotic ports and climes that I couldn’t refuse him. “Sure, Harold. You might have to drag me part of the way since I ate so much.”

“Huh. You didn’t eat so much, Daisy Majesty. You consumed approximately a quarter of your entire meal.”

“It was more than that!” I protested. “At least it feels like it now.”

“That’s only because you’ve become accustomed to starving yourself.”

“Maybe, but I feel kind of like I ate an entire elephant.”

“Good. Let’s walk off some of that pachyderm in the gardens. They smell really wonderful in the evening.”

As I’ve mentioned before, the gardens across the street from Shepheards are truly a marvel. The fact that one had to wade through a herd of impoverished Egyptians, both children and adults, begging for baksheesh in order to get there was more sad than annoying, at least for me. Sometimes I forget that I live in the good old U.S.A., and that, even though my family is far from wealthy, we lived a whole lot better than these poor folks. I was tempted to throw a few coins at them but had been sternly lectured by our tour guide and several other people not to do so, or we’d be swarmed by the wretched people. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but compare their lot to that of the folks who could afford to stop at Shepheards Hotel and to wonder why the people in charge of things in Egypt didn’t do something to help the poor.

But there you go. Billy used to say I had a bleeding heart when it came to lots of things, including poor folks, and I guess he was right. Still and all, I doubt that all of those wretched beggars were indolent sluggards, as rich people like to pretend all poor people are. I’d bet anything, if I did stuff like that, that they were merely born in the wrong place at the wrong time. One more reason to be glad I was an American, I reckon. Not that America didn’t have its share of poor folks.

Oh, never mind. The poverty problem is too large a one for so small a person as I to solve, even in my thoughts.

The warm night air negated its purpose, but I took along the filmy wrap that went with my sleeveless evening dress because I thought I ought to. It didn’t do to offend the natives, who covered themselves from head to toe, or even potential clients, who dressed to the nines even during the month of August in Egypt. I’d noticed several elegant couples in the dining room. Mind you, I didn’t expect to meet them again in Pasadena, but one never knew what the fates had in store for one. If you don’t believe me, ask Billy. Oh. That’s right. You can’t, can you?