Ancient Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (7 page)

“After what Rolly put you through, I thought you might need a bracer,” I said softly, effortlessly assuming my sympathetic spiritualist persona in spite of my animosity toward this poor woman’s daughter.

“You’re always so thoughtful, Daisy.”

Tell my mother that, thought I.

“I’m afraid Rolly was a bit . . . ah . . .” For some reason, I ran out of soothing words.

“He told me the truth,” said Mrs. Pinkerton, surprising me.

I set the tray down as silently as a trained servant would have done. “I suppose so, but he was a bit rough about it.”

With a wan smile, Mrs. Pinkerton said, “Well, don’t forget he’s used to being a soldier in Scotland during the Dark Ages. I don’t suppose he ever learned how to convey unpleasant news gently.”

Maybe he hadn’t, but I sure had. If I were rude to an adult whilst growing up, my fanny would know about it for days afterwards. Neither Ma nor Pa stinted on the discipline, although they loved us all—which, come to think of it, might be the reason they were strict. Anyhow, did the Dark Ages include the eleventh century?

What a nonsensical thing to think about right then. I was really off my game. I decided to ignore her comment, even though I suppose it might have been pertinent. “Here, Missus Pinkerton. I understand hot, sweet tea helps people when they’re feeling down in the dumps. And these cookies Aunt Vi made look delicious.”

“Your aunt is the best cook I’ve ever met, Daisy. I’m so fortunate to have met both of you.”

Now I really felt guilty.

I was so relieved when I finally got out of that mansion, I had to lay my head on the steering wheel of the Chevrolet in order to get my wits together before I could drive home.

Chapter Six

I’d taken a cup of tea with Mrs. Pinkerton, although I couldn’t handle a cookie, sure that if I ate one of the incredibly rich confections, I’d disgrace myself and throw it up again. What was the matter with me? I’d never in my life had this reaction to food.

Spike’s ecstasy upon my return home nearly made me collapse at the front door and burst into tears, exactly as I’d done after Billy’s funeral. Boy, there was truly something wrong with me. Not only had I begun to reject food, but I cried at the drop of a hat. When I glanced up from greeting Spike, I saw my father gazing at me with a worried frown on his face. I gave him my best approximation of a smile.

“Hey, Pa. Everything’s fine. Well, everything’s not fine, but I think Missus Pinkerton has managed to gather the courage to leave her daughter in the clink for once.”

The briefest of hesitations preceded Pa’s, “How’d you make her do that? I didn’t think she’d ever stand up to that kid of hers.”

To Spike’s dismay, I stood and brushed off my dress, noticing that flour still clung to it, which might have been the main reason for Spike’s disappointment. He loved food the way I used to.

“I didn’t do it. Harold, Sam and Rolly did. They all told her the truth. Stacy will never learn to behave if Missus Pinkerton keeps bailing her out when she gets herself into trouble.”

“Good for Rolly!” Pa’s voice was a little heartier than the occasion called for. “And Sam and Harold, of course.”

I recognized an attempt to perk me up when I heard one. Good old Pa. He was the dearest man. “Of course.”

“Sam’s coming to dinner tonight, by the way,” Pa said, peering at me from the corner of his eye as if he expected me to object.

I didn’t. “That’s nice.” Glancing down at my dress, I said, “I’d better get this thing off. It got all floury when I went to the Pinkertons’ kitchen to fetch some tea for Missus Pinkerton.”

Pa squinted at my dress. “How’d that happen? You don’t generally get close enough to flour to get dirty.”

I almost chuckled. “You’re right about that. But . . .” Oh, dear. I didn’t want to tell Aunt Vi’s tale for her. But what the heck; I didn’t think she’d mind, and I was pretty sure Pa’d wouldn’t let on that I’d ratted her out. “When I got to the kitchen, Vi was punching dough as if it were Stacy Kincaid’s face. When I asked her what was wrong, she . . . well, she kind of broke down.”

“Vi broke down?” asked Pa with incredulity.

“Yeah. She said she didn’t know why people like her Paul and my Billy had to die when vicious idiots like Stacy Kincaid still lived. I got a little flour on my dress when I hugged her.”

Pa shook his head sadly. “I understand why she feels that way. And you, too. Your mother and I have wondered the same thing more than once.”

I heaved a huge sigh. “I guess we’ll never know the answer to that one.”

And I departed to my room, which used to be Billy’s and mine as I’ve mentioned several times before, to change clothes. Luckily for me, Spike followed me. I don’t know if he was after more flour or more hugs, but I was glad for his company.

Sam arrived for dinner at six that evening, bearing with him a bouquet of flowers. I blinked at him as he stood in the door waiting for me to move so he could enter the house. He’d never brought flowers before that I could remember.

“Wow,” I said stupidly. “Flowers.”

He let out an exasperated grunt and thrust the bouquet at me. “I figured you could use them after having to deal with the Pinkerton woman this morning.”

Flabbergasted, I managed to mutter, “It wasn’t all that bad.”

“I don’t believe it. She was hysterical when I got there, and she was hysterical when I left. And she hasn’t sent anyone down to the P.D. to bail her blasted daughter out, either. I figured, since she didn’t seem to be listening to her son or me, it was you who convinced her to let Stacy stew in her own juices for once.” Then he said irritably, “Can I come in, or do you want us to stand at the front door all evening?”

Good old Sam. Every time I thought he might actually possess a softer side, he set me straight with a vengeance. I stepped back. “Sure. Come on in. I’ll . . . find a vase for these. Thank you very much. We’ll all enjoy them.”

“You’re welcome.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard a grouchier acceptance of thanks.

Ma and I had already set the table—neither of us could cook, but we did our best to make Vi’s life as easy as we could—so I rummaged around in the china cabinet for a vase to put the flowers in. Or in which to put the flowers. I know that latter sentence is correct, but it sounds funny. Anyhow, the flowers were very pretty. There were some yellow roses and some white daisies and some blue something-or-others, and they helped to perk me up slightly. Because I couldn’t think of a better place to put the vase once it was filled, I set it in the middle of the dining room table and stood back to observe the effect. Ma caught me in the act.

“What are you— Oh! What pretty flowers. Where’d they come from?”

“Sam brought them.”

“How very kind of him. And they look perfect with the tableware, don’t they?”

They did. We Gumms didn’t have fancy china, but we did have a matched set of dinnerware, augmented with mismatched serving pieces. The tablecloth was white, the plates were white with a little blue floral pattern around the edges, and most of our serving pieces were either white or blue. The flowers looked great.

Sam had studiously avoided me after we met at the door, but when Vi called him and Pa in after Ma and I set dinner on the table—roast pork, mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts, generally one of my favorite meals—Ma said, “Thank you so much for the flowers, Sam. They’re beautiful.”

Looking embarrassed, Sam said, “You’re welcome. Daisy had a tough job to do this morning and . . . I figured she could use a pick-me-up.”

Ma turned to me, her eyes wide. “Oh, dear. What happened, Daisy? I didn’t know.”

“It was Missus Pinkerton,” I said, not really wanting to go into details, mainly because I feared Ma would scold me for being so rough on Mrs. P.

“Good heavens, I thought all was well with her now that she’s married that nice man and her daughter has changed her ways.”

Sam huffed. “That’s the problem. Her daughter has slipped from the straight and narrow. Got herself arrested in a raid on a speakeasy, punched one copper, kicked two others, and got locked up.”

Ma’s hand flew to cover her mouth. Vi, who sat at the head of the table because she was in charge of the food, huffed. “That daughter of hers ought to be horsewhipped. But Daisy took care of her.” The look she gave me appeared suspiciously like a smile of victory.

Goodness. I hadn’t expected such a commendation, even though I’d already known Vi appreciated my work that day.

“You did?” Ma sat, too, and picked up her napkin, gazing at me the while. “How’d you do that? I thought the woman was impenetrable.”

Sam stifled a guffaw. “Good way to put it.”

I sat, too, next to Sam. Ma sat across the table from us, and Pa sat at the foot of the table. I know the arrangements aren’t what the etiquette books demand, but they worked for us. “I . . . well, I’m afraid Rolly was pretty hard on her, actually.”

“Nuts. She needed to hear the truth.”

My eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like Sam Rotondo to leap to my defense. Heck, he was generally trying to get me to give up my evil ways—evil meaning my spiritualist line of work. However, I knew better than to question his motives at the table. I’d argued with Sam once or twice in the past, and it always worked out poorly for me because Ma blamed me for being rude to a guest. Huh. By that time, Sam darned near lived at our house. But that’s neither here nor there.

“I suppose she did, but you and Harold had already told her the truth.”

“People like her don’t take sensible advice from legitimate sources. They prefer phony ones like the kind you dish out.”

Good old Sam. He never let a compliment linger in the atmosphere. As soon as he delivered one, he followed it up with a body blow.

“Thanks a lot, Sam,” I muttered.

“Well, whatever you did, Daisy, it really opened Missus Pinkerton’s eyes,” Vi said, carving pork and, I think, attempting to steer the conversation away from conflict. “I left the house at three-thirty, and she and Mr. Pinkerton were having a pow-wow in the drawing room about Stacy. I heard him tell her she ought to do exactly what Rolly told her to do.”

“And you think she’ll listen to him?” I asked, hearing the hope in my voice, mainly because I didn’t think I could cope with another session at Mrs. Pinkerton’s place any time soon.

“She’d better,” said Vi with conviction. “That girl is a menace. In fact, she isn’t even a girl any longer. She’s old enough to know better than to get into trouble the way she does.”

I sniffed. “Maybe, but don’t forget she’s a rich person. She doesn’t have anything useful to do.”

Vi pursed her lips. “She was doing something worthwhile when she was with the Salvation Army. She even got you to teach that cooking class earlier this year at the Salvation Army.”

I shuddered involuntarily. “I’d rather not be reminded of that.”
That class had been a disaster. The only reason the entire Salvation Army didn’t burn down was the Flossie kept a close eye on me, and the book from which I took the dishes we made,
Sixty-Five Delicious Dishes
, was so simple, even I couldn’t ruin them. Well . . . actually, I had ruined one, but it wasn’t while I was teaching the class, so nobody who mattered ever found out about it.

“Nevertheless, she was being useful. I don’t know why she ever left that church.”

“I don’t either. I hope Missus Pinkerton takes everyone’s advice about speaking with Johnny Buckingham, although I don’t hold out much hope for that.”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Stacy’s really stepped in the sh-mud this time. Missus P might decide to talk to the devil himself if she thinks it will do her daughter any good.”

“I think Stacy’s already too well acquainted with the devil to do Missus Pinkerton any good. She’d be better off talking to Johnny.” Stop it, Daisy!

But Vi didn’t take me to task. “You’re right. I hope she does.” She passed a plate loaded with roast pork to Sam, who handed it to me, who handed it to Pa. That’s how we worked things at our house.

Since I knew I was next on the food chain, so to speak, I said, “Just a little for me, please, Vi. I’m not awfully hungry.”

Vi gave me a squinty-eyed stare. “You’re wasting away to nothing, Daisy Majesty. You need to eat. You’re becoming downright gaunt.”

Gaunt? Me? Good heavens. “I’ll eat. I promise. I’m just not awfully hungry.” A brilliant excuse struck me. “I had cookies and tea with Missus Pinkerton.” Okay, so I’d just lied to my wonderful aunt. It wasn’t my fault the thought of food made me sick to my stomach, was it?

“That was hours ago,” said Vi. “You clean your plate tonight, young lady.”

I saluted my aunt. “Yes, ma’am.” What the heck. I could sneak pieces of pork to Spike if I felt myself in danger of exploding. Spike even liked Brussels sprouts, bless him. I used to. Until Billy . . . well, never mind.

“Get along with you, Daisy,” said Vi. She said that a lot, and I’d never quite understood what it was supposed to mean.

I watched with dismay as she heaped my plate with roast pork. Oh, dear. But I’d deal with it somehow.

She finished serving the rest of the family with pork, and we passed the side dishes around: mashed potatoes, gravy, Brussels sprouts, some of Vi’s feather-light dinner rolls and butter. She was an amazing cook.