Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (2 page)

I don’t have any idea what the minister said. I’d been to funeral services before, and I presume he said what preachers always say. Then it was over, the minister prayed, I laid some red roses on Billy’s coffin—by the way, there were floral arrangements by the score there, sent by my wealthy clients who are occasionally good for something besides making my living for me—and Sam, Ma, Pa and Vi laid some white roses on it, and then we all turned around and began walking away. I guess funeral directors don’t like to have family present when their loved ones are lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. I don’t think it would have mattered much to me. I knew where Billy was, and where he would always be, from that point until the end of the world.

Have I mentioned that I hate the Kaiser? If it weren’t for him and his mustard gas, Billy would probably have recovered enough that he wouldn’t have felt the need to do away with himself. His bullet wounds might have always caused him some pain, but at least he’d have been able to breathe.

I didn’t cry on the way to the motorcar as we walked from the grave. I didn’t cry when people came over and hugged me and wished me well and told me how sorry they were. I just thanked them and invited them to our house for a little post-funeral get-together, which was a tradition in our family. I guess it is in most families.

I didn’t even cry on the way home from the funeral. Sam Rotondo drove us in his big Hudson. Ma, Pa and Aunt Vi sat in the back seat, sniffling, and I sat next to Sam, numb. Sam, whose black eyes and olive complexion didn’t ever give much away, was hurting that day; I could tell by the set of his jaw and the way his hands tightened on the steering wheel. A long line of automobiles followed us from Woodbury Street in Altadena, where the cemetery is, to our home on South Marengo.

The moment I cried was when we opened the front door and Spike flew into my arms. Then I more or less collapsed onto the floor, hugged Spike, wept and rocked back and forth for what seemed like forever but probably wasn’t, since Ma and Aunt Vi and Johnny Buckingham shuffled me away to what had been Billy’s and my room off the kitchen.

“Don’t come out unless you feel well enough, Daisy. You’ve been through enough today.” This sympathetic advice came from Johnny. My mother probably would have told me gently that I should try to hold myself together and do my duty by my guests, but she didn’t get the chance because Johnny spoke first. At any rate, I preferred Johnny’s advice, which I believe came from his service with the Salvation Army. Those Salvation Army folks have seen it all, done it all, and they love their fellow human beings anyway, which was a lot more than I was able to do most of the time.

Anyhow, Spike didn’t mind.

Chapter Two

Spike and I made it out of my bedroom eventually, although before I joined the crowd milling about in the living room and dining room, I made a detour to the bathroom to bathe my eyes in cool water. It didn’t help much, but I doubted anyone would criticize my appearance. Puffy eyes for the sake of a deceased husband weren’t considered unfashionable, and the rest of me was quite fashionable, mainly because I made all my clothes.

Goodness gracious, but people had been generous with the flowers! There were floral arrangements everywhere, on every surface, on the fireplace mantel, on the china hutch, on the piano, and even residing in the odd corner. When I looked at the side porch, I saw flowers there, too. I determined to ask Mrs. Wilson, our neighbor to the north, if she’d like to relieve us of a couple of bouquets. She probably would be pleased. After all, it wasn’t every day a person got store-bought flowers.

My floral thoughts were interrupted when Mrs. Pinkerton rushed up to me. “Oh, Daisy, I’m so terribly sorry!” She burst into tears.

“Thank you, Missus Pinkerton.”

Harold and Del followed on her heels, and as Harold gently guided his mother away—she can be a rather trying woman even at the best of times—Del said, “I know it’s trite to say so, Daisy, but the service was lovely.”

“Thanks, Del. The day is lovely.”

He heaved an enormous sigh. “Yes. It is. Too pretty for the funeral of such a young man.”

Del had been a soldier during the Great War, too. In fact, when I’d first seen him at Mrs. Pinkerton’s house, I’d almost suffered a spasm because he’d reminded me so much of my Billy when he was well and whole.

“You doing all right, Daisy?” asked Harold, who’d deposited his mother somewhere and come back to give me his support.

“Thanks, Harold. As well as can be expected, I guess.”

“In a way,” said Dr. Benjamin, who’d sidled over to join us, “you know this is the best thing that could have happened, don’t you, Daisy?”

I smiled at him through my tears. What I wanted to do was hug him. “I know. And I want to thank you for always being available to us, Doc. I don’t know how we’d have survived these past years without your help and advice.”

The good doctor shook his head. “It’s a crime, is what it is, what that war did to the young men in our country.”

He was right, we all knew it, and so we only nodded our agreement.

“May I bring you something, Daisy? Some punch or something?”

Dear Flossie looked quite worried about me. She was a sweet thing, a former gangster’s moll who’d seen the error of her ways and managed to end up in the loving arms of Johnny Buckingham. Johnny, by the way, was another casualty of the war, although he’d survived his descent into alcohol and melancholy and come out a better man. He’d helped me a lot over the years, too.

“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 them philanthropists. Life’s funny that way.