Unsettled Spirits (9 page)

Friday and Saturday passed peacefully enough. I had to visit Mrs. Wright again on Friday and soothe her with a tarot reading, since she'd been so upset about the police visiting her home. The weather remained chilly, so I wore my three-quarter length brown tunic dress with bishop sleeves gathered into black cuffs. The wide hip-level buckle belt was black, too. I'd stolen the buckle from an old dress of Ma's that she'd dumped into the rag bag for me to weave into a rug when I got around to it. I wore black beads over the dress and my Voodoo juju under it. Because I felt like it and it made me feel kind of glamorous, I also took along my black velvet cape.

Anyhow, the tarot told Mrs. Wright that everything was going to be all right. When she asked if anyone would ever find Evans, I told her that particular aspect of the future was unclear.

Did I know my job, or what?

"Oh, dear. Well, I hate to do it, but I suppose I'll have to call the agency."

"The agency?" I asked as I packed the tools of my trade into their nice cloth containers.

"The employment agency. We'll have to hire another butler."

Don't ask me why, but I was shocked. "Before you know what happened to Evans? What will you do with his things?" Boy, if servants were this disposable to rich folks, I'm glad I wasn't rich.

I don't mean that. But if I were rich, I wouldn't consider my employees the same as pieces of furniture. At least Mrs. Pinkerton had paid for Jackson's hospital care when he got shot by the KKK. That's the kind of rich person I'd be. Except I wouldn't be a nitwit. Oh, don't pay any attention to me.

"I have to have someone run the household. Things are in chaos without anyone at the helm. Evans is
such
a wonderful organizer. But I'll need to hire someone temporarily until he can be found." She shook her head. "I can't believe he'd just... leave like that, with no word or anything."

"And without his belongings," I reminded her.

She heaved a sigh. "Yes. I'm terribly worried about him."

That admission made me feel better.

So after I left the Wrights' mansion, I went to the Salvation Army to have a chat with Flossie Buckingham, a former gangster's moll. She married my school friend Johnny Buckingham, who went from being a dipsomaniacal wreck after the war to being a Salvation Army Captain. Flossie and Johnny made a perfect pair. What's more, they've both always credited me for introducing them. Which I guess I did, but I'd been trying to get rid of Flossie at the time. Not a flattering admission, but true. And it all worked out, so I suppose I could stop feeling guilty.

Naw. I feel guilty about everything.

However, Flossie greeted me with true joy and her son Billy, named after my own darling Billy, in her arms.

"Oh, Daisy, I'm so glad you could visit!"

"Ho, Day," said Billy, who was only about a year old. I thought his saying hello to me was both precious and precocious.

"Good day, Billy. So happy to see you happy."

Billy hid his head on his mommy's shoulder, and Flossie and I both laughed.

"Come in!" she said. "I want to show you what I'm sewing."

"Wonderful!" I'd taught Flossie how to sew, and Johnny had found a used sewing machine for her. It had a foot pedal, unlike my own (well, my mother's, but I used it) side-pedal White, upon which I made clothes for the entire family, including Spike, which he didn't appreciate.

So we walked through her little house to a back room that was probably a spare bedroom or something—Johnny didn't earn much as a Salvation Army guy, but he and Flossie didn't seem to mind—and which Flossie had turned into a sewing room.

"Look at these," she said proudly, pointing to a big pile of children's shirt-and-trousers sets.

"Good heavens, are all those for Billy?" My mind boggled as my eyes goggled.

With a laugh, Flossie said, "Oh, no. Not all of them. We have so many families in need these days. I make children's clothing for the Salvation Army, and people can buy them cheaply. Or we give them away."

"You're a saint, Flossie," I said, meaning it.

"Nonsense. It's Johnny who's the saint."

"You're both saints," I told her firmly.

She only laughed again.

"But Flossie, I have to tell you about Evans."

"Who's Evans?"

Sensible question. "He's the Wrights' butler, and he's gone missing. I guess it's possible that he went on a drunken spree, or something else might have happened to him. I thought if you knew about him, you could be on the lookout for him. He might come here for food or to dry out or something."

"Goodness. I'm sorry to hear about the man's missing status. Anything might have happened to him. Do you have a description of him? I can tell Johnny to watch for him."

Casting my mind back, I sought in its nether reaches to remember what Evans looked like. Should have done it before, but oh well. "Let me see. He's about five feet seven or eight inches tall. Not as tall as Johnny. He's kind of gaunt, but he looks healthy. Um... brown hair beginning to gray around the edges. Dignified. Well, he's dignified when he's on duty. I don't know what he's like the rest of the time. I've only seen him in his butler suit, so I don't know what he wears when he's on his own time."

Flossie and I exchanged a couple of looks, and I sighed. "I know. That could describe just about every other man in Pasadena, couldn't it?"

"Pretty much." Flossie smiled sweetly. "Do you recall any distinguishing moles or scars or anything like that?"

"No. He has good posture, I think. Or maybe he stoops a little. No, you'd better not add that part, because I'm not sure. Bother. Wish I'd paid more attention to him when I had the chance."

"You can't be expected to retain precise descriptions of everyone you meet in your life, Daisy," said Flossie, her gentle kindness making me feel good. "I'll give Johnny this description, and we can see what we can see."

"Oh," I said, suddenly struck by a memory. "He has a really healthy-looking complexion. As if he hikes or something. You know: tanned face, pink cheeks. Stuff like that."

"Hmm. He doesn't sound like a dipsomaniac from that description."

"You're right. He's probably not. In a way, that's more worrying than if he were. I mean, if he was on a rip-snorting drunk, Johnny might know where to look for him."

As soon as I said those words, I wished them unsaid, but Flossie burst out laughing, so I guess she didn't mind.

Billy reached out and grabbed hold of my velvet cape. He rubbed his pink cheek against it, and my heart melted. "Does that feel good, Billy?"

The kid nodded. I felt tears in my eyes and ruthlessly suppressed them. My Billy and I had wanted three children. That was before he came back from the war wrecked and unable to father children. I wondered if Sam...

But I didn't want to think about having children with Sam. Or anything else with Sam.

"Thanks, Flossie." My voice was a little froggy, so I cleared my throat and slapped my chest as if I felt a cough coming on. I managed to frighten little Billy into hiding his head against his mother's shoulder once more, and I sighed. "Sorry."

"Nonsense," said Flossie, as if she understood everything. She probably did.

I took off my cape and put it over Billy. He was startled at first, but then burrowed into it, kind of like Spike burrowed into the covers on my bed at night. Flossie and I both smiled, rescuing a maudlin moment from my stupid sentimentality.

"You know what would really help would be a photograph of Mr. Evans."

"Oh, of course." How silly of me not to have asked for a photograph of Evans. Not that Mrs. Wright decorated her home with photos of her servants. Still, one might have existed and been a useful tool if I'd had brains enough to ask for one. Oh, well. Sam had probably confiscated any existing photos of the butler.

"I don't have a photo. I should have asked for one. Every time I've seen him, he's been dressed impeccably and he stood regally erect. Good posture. Of course, I've only seen him when he's working. As I said, I don't know how he dresses on his afternoons off."

"Do you have any idea how old he is?"

"Oh, dear. I'm not good at guessing ages, but he does have graying hair. Maybe in his sixties? Fifties? My father is fifty, and his hair still is still brown, but both my mother and Aunt Vi are going gray. Evans' hair isn't all gray, though. It's mostly brown."

"Sounds like a distinguished gent," said Flossie.

"He looks like one," I said.

After we chatted for about forty-five minutes, I left for home. I walked in to find the house empty and the telephone ringing. I listened carefully. Our ring. With a sigh, I didn't even bother throwing my cape on the coat rack, but went straight into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. "Gumm-Majesty residence—"

"You needn't give the whole spiel," said Harold Kincaid. "I called to ask you to lunch at the Castleton. Emmaline Castleton and Del will come, too."

I glanced at the clock on the wall. Its hands pointed to twelve-fifteen. A timely call, indeed. "Thanks, Harold! That sounds like a nice respite on a gloomy day."

"What's gloomy about it?" asked Harold, avid for gossip.

"Well, the day itself is cold but clear, but I just came from the Wrights' home, and—"

"Oh. Evans," said Harold. "Old news. Mother babbled about Evans all last night during dinner. Your aunt outdid herself yesterday, Daisy, by the way."

"What did she feed you?" I asked, wondering if she'd fed the Pinkertons and Harold the same thing she'd fed us.

"Spaghetti and meatballs. Never eaten anything so delicious in my life. Not even in New York City, where all the best food is."

I smiled at the 'phone. "That's Sam's recipe. For the sauce, I mean," I told Harold proudly. Don't ask me why I was proud, but I was.

"You're joking!"

"Am not."

"Well, how about that. I don't suppose if I ask him politely, he'll give me the recipe?" Harold knew Sam didn't care for him and why.

So I might as well tell you about Harold Kincaid and Delray Farrington now. They were lovers. I know, I know. Some people consider people like Harold and Del to be evil somehow. After talking to Harold extensively—he was one of my best friends, after all—I've come to the conclusion that people are born either to be attracted to the opposite sex or to their own. It certainly isn't a choice. Why would anyone choose to be hated and/or jailed by people who only judged them by their one little idiosyncrasy. If that's what it is. I don't know. All I know is that neither Harold nor Del could help being what they are. Don't even try to argue with me about this, because I remain adamant in my position.

So there you go.

"You probably don't have to go so far as to ask Sam," I told Harold. "Just ask Vi the next time you see her. Or, heck, I can ask her and give the recipe to you."

"Spaghetti Rotondo. I think I'll open a restaurant and feature it as a specialty dish."

"Don't even think about it," I told him. "If Sam didn't kill you for it, I would." Then I laughed.

"Oh, very well. But let me pick you up in about thirty minutes, and we'll tootle off to the Castleton."

"Sounds great to me. Thanks, Harold."

"Any time."

I only wished.

All right, so now I'll tell you about Miss Emmaline Castleton. She was the daughter of Mr. Henry Castleton, railroad magnate and robber baron, who retired and spent some of his ill-gotten gains on a perfectly fabulous home in San Marino, only a mile or two south of Pasadena. The grounds are vast, there's a sculpture garden, a Japanese garden, and all sorts of other gardens. Miss Castleton had been engaged to marry a young man named Stephen Allison, who was killed in the war. We had a lot in common, Emmaline Castleton and me, even if we did come from vastly separate stratospheres on the economic scale.

Mr. Castleton also was a founder of the Castleton Memorial Hospital and the magnificent Castleton Hotel on South Oak Knoll Avenue in Pasadena. The man was made of money, in other words.

Pa and Spike, who'd gone out for a walk together as I'd been tarot-ing with Mrs. Wright and talking to Flossie, came home before I had to leave. I was as delighted to see Spike as he was to see me. I love dogs in general, but Spike was special. I love Pa, too, in case you wondered.

Harold was right on time. Because I didn't want Spike to feel slighted, I slithered out the front door while he was occupied in drinking from his water bowl in the kitchen, and walked out to Harold's Stutz Bearcat. Loved that car, and luckily, probably because of the weather, he had the top up. Good thing, or we'd have been blown to bits.

Harold hopped out of the machine and rushed to open my door for me. He bowed as deeply as any butler. "Enter, your Majesty."

"Cut it out with the Majesty jokes, Harold." But I giggled.

Grinning like an imp, he shut my door and hurried to his side of the car. When he got inside, he said, "But you have such a perfect name. It goes so well with your line of work, too. Desdemona Majesty. What could be more perfect?"

"I dunno. Being born to money?" If Harold could throw applesauce at me, I could throw some back at him, by golly.