Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (12 page)

      
At least Mrs. Bissel, Ginger, Susan, Mrs. Cummings, and Henry, who was in the kitchen drinking a cup of coffee and chatting with Mrs. Cummings, appreciated me. I don't know why. It's not as if I'd done anything for them.

      
After giving my coat and hat to Ginger and greeting one and all, I tripped down the basement steps, propelled by a renewed sense of confidence. Darn it, it
had
to be Marianne Wagner down there. Nothing else made sense. In any case, I'd forgotten to bring the rodent trap, so it had better not be a skunk.

      
My optimism lasted approximately five minutes. Marianne didn't respond to any of my cajolery. In fact, nothing responded. What's more, I didn't find any more empty Franco American spaghetti cans. The sheet and blanket were neatly folded and resting in the washing machine, the pitcher and bowl in the tidy little bedroom were both slightly damp, and that was it.

      
This was getting downright discouraging. Since I've always had more persistence than brains (according to my beloved husband), I sat on the basement steps and thought hard. There had to be a way to find out who had taken up housekeeping in Mrs. Bissel's basement.

      
Whoever it was needed to eat, and evidently
had
been eating, as illustrated by the empty spaghetti tin. Hunnicutt's, a small grocery market, sat on the southeast corner of Foothill Boulevard and Lake Avenue, next to the fire station. I suppose a transient basement-dweller might buy food there, although it would be risky. Marianne Wagner's picture had been printed in both the Star News and the
Herald
, although she probably didn't know it. Also, I didn't suppose she'd taken much money with her. I doubted that Dr. Wagner allowed her a huge allowance, since he had two worthless sons to support.

      
Plus, there was that fire station next door to Hunnicutt's. I've always heard that firemen are a particularly watchful and alert bunch. If any of them spied Marianne buying food, they'd assuredly notify her parents or the police.

      
It followed, therefore, that Marianne must be sneaking into Mrs. Bissel's kitchen at night and snatching foodstuffs. She couldn't have been stealing much, because Mrs. Cummings hadn't noticed any losses. She'd have told Mrs. Bissel if the larder had been raided, and neither lady had announced signs of a shrinking food supply to me.

      
Naturally, if Mrs. Bissel's unwelcome visitor turned out to be an escaped lunatic or criminal, he or she would also probably be raiding the kitchen at night. I didn't like that idea, but at least I'd more or less eliminated mountain lions and bears from my list of suspects. And skunks. That was a good thing, if not awfully useful.

      
Nuts. I had to try a different approach. Sadly, I couldn't think of one. So I sat there with my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands for several more minutes. My mind kept wandering off the topic of basement-dwelling spirits for lack of any more rewarding thoughts to occupy it.

      
I was in the middle of deciding whether or not I wanted to get an Oldsmobile or a Chevrolet should a bounty of dollars magically fall on my head, when an idea interrupted me. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before, because it was about the only way to achieve results. If I spent the night down there, I'd be sure to see Marianne if she emerged from wherever she was hiding in order to scrounge for food.

      
I glanced around the basement and shivered. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea. The notion of hanging out in Mrs. Bissel's basement after dark when everyone in the whole household, except the being hiding in there, had gone upstairs, leaving me absolutely alone without even a dachshund to warn me if somebody decided to sneak up on me with, say, a huge butcher knife in his fist, didn't really sound like a lot of fun.

      
But I could spend the night in Mrs. Bissel's kitchen, couldn't I? That wouldn't be quite so spooky, and it would be just as effective, providing Marianne actually was sneaking food at night.

      
Of course, if it wasn't Marianne, whoever it was might kill me with that big, ugly butcher knife, but that was a chance I was willing to take, mainly because I could run really fast when scared out of my wits. Besides, I felt in my bones that it was Marianne. Which just goes to show what a deep thinker I was. Instead of my brain, I trusted my bones. No wonder my third-grade teacher, Miss West, had made a habit of whacking my knuckles with her ruler.

      
Because I'd occasionally found that some of my brilliant ideas weren't so great upon closer inspection, I remained at the foot of the stairs and mulled it over for several minutes more. I thought so much and so hard, in fact, that I darned near fell asleep.

      
Finally I concluded that I'd thought enough for one day. Billy would be happy if I came home early, and there clearly wasn't anything more I could do downstairs.

      
I guess Mrs. Bissel's household staff had become accustomed to me calling on the specter in the basement and surviving the experience, because they'd ceased waiting for me at the head of the kitchen stairs in a terrified clump. When I opened the door, only Mrs. Cummings was there to greet me--or she would have done so had she been watching the door.

      
At least she cared enough to utter a shriek of fright and whirl around when she heard me. When she saw me, she gasped and slapped a hand to her heart. She was wielding a butter knife as if she aimed to stab me with it. “Merciful heaven, Daisy Majesty! You frightened me to death!”

      
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Cummings.” Golly, I guess I'd better start announcing my presence before opening the basement door from now on.

      
“Did you find anything?” Mrs. Cummings put down the butter knife.

      
“I may have,” I lied. “I need to meditate upon several aspects of this situation.”

      
Mrs. Cummings blinked a few times and said, “Oh.”

      
I've never figured out why poor people, like my relations and Mrs. Cummings are, as a rule, so much less gullible than rich ones. Probably because they had to do all the things rich people didn't want to do. Hard work has a habit of clearing one's mind of irrelevancies. Like, for example, spirits and ghosts.

      
Because I figured Mrs. Cummings would only become more skeptical if I tried to explain myself, I asked, “Is Mrs. Bissel around somewhere, Mrs. Cummings? I need to talk to her.”

      
“She's out back with those dogs of hers.” Mrs. Cummings evidently didn't share Mrs. Bissel's and my own appreciation of dachshunds. “Always underfoot, those dogs. They're pigs, Daisy Majesty. Worse than pigs, because they're so cunning, and you can't resist 'em. They're apt to eat a body out of house and home.”

      
“I'm hoping to get one for my Billy. He needs something to keep him company when I'm working.”

      
Mrs. Cummings eyed me sympathetically. Shaking her head, she went back to what she'd been doing before I interrupted her, which looked like washing dishes. “It's a crime, what happened to your Billy, Daisy. So many young men lost, and so many hurt, damn the Kaiser to perdition.”

      
“My sentiments precisely,” I told her. “Thanks, Mrs. Cummings.” Worried that I'd start crying if I stayed there and received any more of her sympathy, I went in search of Mrs. Bissel.

      
As soon as I opened the door to the sun porch and stepped out onto the patio's still-wet flagstones, I heard where the kennel was. Following the sound of uproarious barking, I found her a minute later, talking to a man in work clothes and a cloth cap.

      
She saw me before he did, and her smile made me feel guilty. “Daisy! What's happened?”

      
I couldn't say “Nothing” again. Rather, I equivocated. “The emanations are coming closer, Mrs. Bissel. I believe I'm on the verge of discovering exactly what type of spirit or ghost is inhabiting your basement.”

      
“I'm so glad!” She remembered the man standing with her. He'd listened to my little speech with widening eyes. “Daisy Majesty, please let me introduce you to Robert Dembrowski. Robert keeps my kennels for me. I was afraid they'd flood during that awful rain yesterday, but they didn't.”

      
Good Lord. She'd hired a guy to take care of her dogs. It used to boggle my mind that so many rich people could afford to hire butlers and housemaids. But a man to take care of the dogs? It was hard to take it in. Nevertheless, I smiled at Robert Dembrowski and stuck out a hand. “How do you do, Mr. Dembrowski?”

      
He whipped his soft cap from his head and stammered, “I'm fine, Mrs. Majesty, and hope you are the same.” He took my hand and dropped it again almost instantly. I got the impression he was afraid of me. Obviously, he'd heard stories about me raising the dead during séances.

      
I got that reaction sometimes from people who were either afraid of what I did, or who considered it somehow unholy or eerie. With an internal sigh, I turned back to Mrs. Bissel, knowing I wasn't responsible for other people's opinions, even though they sometimes bothered me. “May I speak with you for a minute, Mrs. Bissel? I believe I'm at the point where more direct action needs to be taken.”

      
She gasped. Mr. Dembrowski took a step backward. I really didn't enjoy scaring people, although I guess it went with the territory. “It's nothing bad,” I said, trying to reassure both of them.

      
If people acted more like dogs, I decided on the spot, the world would be a better place. None of her dachshunds were afraid of me, and they were supposed to be the ones without big brains. In spite of my gray dress, I stooped to pet the dogs. I couldn't help myself.

      
This spontaneous show of affection for her dachshunds reassured Mrs. Bissel, who squatted beside me. Her joints made quite a racket, although the noise from the dogs was slightly louder.

      
“Do you wuv Miss Daisy-Wazey?” she asked the dogs in a silly, baby-talk voice. “Yes, you do-ums.”

      
I hate to admit it, but I talked that way, too. I'd singled out Billy's pup, and was holding him close, muddy paws and all. What the heck. I could always wash my dress when I got home. “Yes, and I wuv him back,” I cooed.

      
After several more minutes of that nonsense, although it didn't feel like nonsense at the time, I sighed, put the puppy back on the ground, and stood up, trying to brush the mud off my bodice, which didn't work very well. I'd forgotten all about Mr. Dembrowski. When I glanced at him, he didn't seem to have discerned anything out of the ordinary in my behavior. Apparently most people turned into blithering idiots around puppies.

      
He helped Mrs. Bissel to her feet, accompanied by barks from the dogs, creaks from her knee joints, and grunts from her mouth. Have I already mentioned that she was a very large woman? Rather like an overstuffed chair? Well, she was, and Mr. Dembrowski was plainly accustomed to assisting her in this way, even though he probably weighed half as much as she did.

      
“They're so adorable, Mrs. Bissel. I can't wait to take one home to Billy.”

      
“Why don't you take him today, dear? I'm sure I don't mind.”

      
Oh, boy, was
that
a temptation. However, in spite of Billy's opinion of my overall moral worth and character, I operated by a strict code of ethics, and I never accepted payment until the job was done and the customer was happy. “Not until I've fulfilled my obligations to your satisfaction, Mrs. Bissel, but I do thank you.”

      
“But Daisy, I don't mind. Truly. You're doing me such a favor.”

      
I hadn't done a thing so far except hang out in her basement for a couple of hours. I didn't point this out to her, but only said, “Thank you, but no. I never accept payment until I've done the job to the customer's satisfaction.” I was beginning to remind myself of an automobile salesman. Or a broken phonograph record.

      
As we walked back to her house, she continued to argue, and I continued to refuse. It wasn't a heated battle, and she gave it up as soon as we got to the patio.

      
The fog had lifted, but the air was chilly. A breeze had begun to blow, and I looked toward the San Gabriel Mountains, wondering if it would snow up there. It was pretty early in the season, but I always loved seeing the mountain peaks covered in white. We'd probably get winds instead; we usually did.

      
In November and December the “devil winds”, or Santa Anas, would blow, knocking over trees and power lines and fences and the occasional windmill that still remained in Pasadena or Altadena. Since we'd already experienced cold, rain, and fog, I figured it was time for the winds to wreak havoc in the vicinity. I supposed the winds were better than fire, famine, and a plague of locusts, but they made everyone itchy and bad-tempered. Since poor Billy was already both of those things most of the time, the notion of the Santa Anas arriving to aggravate his condition didn't appeal to me one little bit.

      
There was nothing I could do about the weather, so I forced myself to pay attention to Mrs. Bissel and my next step in the solution of her haunting problem. When we were both seated at the breakfast-room table (which, by the by, was larger than our own dining-room table on Marengo), I said, “I think it would be a good idea for me to stay overnight in the basement one of these nights.”

      
She paled visibly. I'd never seen anyone do that before, although I'd read about the phenomenon in novels. She slapped a hand over her gigantic bosom as she did it. “No!”