Unsettled Spirits (37 page)

Ma said, "Fiddlesticks."

Pa said, "Sam, you're a caution. Daisy will be fine. She just needs to rest up a little more after we all eat."

Still frowning, Sam transferred his attention to the doctor. "Is that the truth, Doc? I don't want her to have a relapse. She looks like hell."

Well, I liked that!

"She'll be fine, Sam. Daisy's one tough cookie. Although," he added, peering at what I knew was a faded shell of my usually robust self, "she could use more rest. But she needs her nourishment, too, and I'm sure we all want to discuss what happened at church today."

My entire family, including me, nodded.

So I stayed at the table. Vi went to the kitchen to put the soup on the stove, but then she came back and sat, too. Everyone was both horrified and fascinated by the events of the day and the discovery of the villain, Mr. Gerald Kingston, of all unlikely people, so conversation rolled easily along without me having to add much to it.

"Why did you come looking for me?" I asked Sam at one point during a lull.

"You were taking forever. I was worried that you'd passed out or something."

"And the rest of us went with him to make sure you were all right," added Pa.

"And Miss Powell joined us because she said she couldn't find her young man," said Ma.

"Ha!" Boy, I wished my voice were stronger. I'd wanted that "Ha" to have some force behind it. Oh, well. "Her young man, my Aunt Fanny. Her young man is a vicious criminal, a bootlegger and a poisoner. He murdered his own brother! Vile person. And he seemed so mild-mannered, too."

"Those are the ones you have to watch out for," said Aunt Vi as if she knew.

I didn't debate the issue with her, but I was pleased to note that most of my very best friends weren't mild-mannered, but quite vivacious. "When I read the article about the bootleg still in the
Star News
, I don't recall anyone named Kingston being a member of the gang."

"Mr. Gerald Kingston changed his last name from Kingman to Kingston, I presume so no one would connect him with his idiot brother." Sam shook his head. "I don't really think he needed to kill the man. I doubt his brother would have squealed on him." This time he shrugged. "But what do I know?"

"I'm glad our family isn't like that. Can you imagine? A murderer and a bootlegger in one family?"

"Terrible," said Ma.

"Awful," said Vi.

"We're lucky," said Pa.

I cocked my head and stared at him. "What do you mean, we're lucky? I thought we were normal."

"Where I come from," said Sam, "normal might mean an entire family of crooks. Poverty leads to lots of bad things. Thievery, robbery, burglary, even murder. At the very least it leads breaking all the laws you can think of."

"Flossie Buckingham grew up poor in New York City, and she turned out all right."

My mother, father, Aunt Vi, Dr. Benjamin, and Sam all stared at me.

"Very well," I admitted. "Flossie went through some tough times, and I guess she wasn't precisely a model citizen before she met Johnny."

"She met you," said Sam in a flat voice. "Nobody who meets you is ever the same."

I heard a snicker. I think it came from my father.

Vi rose from the table and walked to the kitchen. "Soup's hot," she called, I think in order to forestall a fight.

The chicken soup was, naturally, wonderful. The sandwiches, which had sat under their towel in the refrigerator all day long, were a tiny bit firmer than they would have been had we eaten them when we were supposed to, but nobody complained.

Dr. Benjamin left us soon after the meal was finished. He looked as if he'd like to hang around a little longer. I guess my family was more interesting than his or something.

Ma and Pa cleaned up the few dinner dishes.

After nearly being nagged to death by Sam to go to bed, I had a totally embarrassing tantrum. I burst into tears, stamped my foot, and would have hollered if my voice had cooperated. "Darn you, Sam Rotondo, I don't
want
to go to bed. That horrid man tried to kill me today, and I don't want to leave my family. I'll just sit on the sofa." I sniffled pathetically, and Sam withdrew a clean hankie from one of his pockets and handed it to me. "Thank you," whispered I. Actually, it was more of a whimper.

So Sam, still worrying about me I guess, took my arm and led me to the living room. There he sat me on the sofa and solicitously plumped pillows at my back and on both sides—guess he feared I might topple over, as I'd been doing a good deal of in recent days. Then he sat beside me, sort of squashing the pillows into me. That was okay. It was comfy. Spike dozed contentedly on Sam's lap. In years past, I might have resented Spike cozying up to the enemy, but Sam no longer counted as an enemy, bless him.

The family continued to chat as I sat there sleepily, adoring my entire family, including Sam. I don't know how long everyone droned on, but I guess somewhere along the way, I nodded off to sleep. When Sam gently laid me on my bed, I blinked a little bit, not really waking up.

"There. You'll be safe and warm now. You even have Spike to cuddle with," he whispered. He didn't whisper awfully well, I suppose because he wasn't used to doing so.

Then he leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I know I fell back into sleep smiling.

* * *

Eventually I got the complete use of my voice back.

Naturally, the first person I called upon after I felt well enough to work was Mrs. Pinkerton.

And
that
, as they say, is a whole 'nother story.

The End

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BRUISED SPIRITS

Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

Book Ten

Excerpt from

Bruised Spirits

A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

Book Ten

by

Alice Duncan

Award-winning Author

What's that feeling you get when you think you've been somewhere and done something before? It doesn't last long, but it's jarring. I think the alienists call it déjà vu or something like that.

Whatever it's called, I suffered an instant and distinct case of it when I opened the door to my family's bungalow on South Marengo Avenue in the fair city of Pasadena, California, and beheld upon my porch Flossie Buckingham. Flossie, after a very difficult start in life as a poor girl in a dreadful slum in New York City, had moved to Pasadena with her then-lover, a gangster named Jinx Jenkins. She had once showed up at my door battered almost beyond recognition.

That particular morning—the déjà vu one—Flossie was fine. Her companion, however, looked very much as Flossie had looked that other morning a few years prior. I think she was in even worse shape than Flossie had been, because Flossie seemed to have to hold her up by an arm to keep her from collapsing onto the hard concrete of the porch.

"Flossie!" I cried, bewildered.

"Daisy, please let us come in," said Flossie in a soft voice, as if she didn't want others to overhear her. "This is Lilian Bannister, and she desperately needs your help."

My help?
My
help? The woman looked like she needed a doctor. But I trusted Flossie as I trusted few other people, so I stood back, making sure my late husband's dog, Spike, didn't jump on either Flossie or Mrs.—Miss?—Bannister.

"Come in," I said, grateful the rest of my family was out. Ma and Aunt Vi were at their daily employment, and Pa had gone out to meet some friends and chat. My father is one of those folks for whom the expression "he never met a stranger" applies. Great guy, my father.

"Can you help me, Daisy?" Flossie asked cocking her head for me to take Lilian Bannister's other arm. So I did.

Flossie and I carefully maneuvered the poor woman into the living room and over to the sofa, where we tried but failed to gently lower her. She sort of fell on the sofa with no other sound than a muffled groan and then a sob or two. I looked a question at Flossie, who appeared quite flustered, not a customary state for the gentle and loving Flossie Buckingham I'd come to know since she'd met and married my old childhood chum, Johnny Buckingham, a captain in the Salvation Army.

"May we speak in private, Daisy?"

My gaze was riveted on poor Lilian Bannister, who sagged on the sofa. Then I transferred my gaze to Flossie. "Yes. I guess so. Come into the dining room."

So she did and, with a worried backward glance at Flossie's battered companion, I joined her.

"What the heck is going on, Flossie? Who is that woman, and why did you bring her here? Someone's obviously beaten her to within an inch of her life."

"You've got that right," muttered Flossie, sounding bitter.

"I thought Johnny was the one who helped folks in distress. That's his business, for Pete's sake. I'm just a phony spiritualist."