Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (16 page)

      
“I hope I can help,” I said demurely. I was always demure when I was working. It was part of the act.

      
“I'm sure you can,” cooed Mrs. Bissel.

      
That was considerably more than I knew, but I let it pass.

      
Mrs. Cummings patently disapproved of my agenda for the night; her severe frown told me so. Ginger and Susan looked as if they considered me nuts for even attempting such a perilous method of ghost-removal. I had a sinking suspicion they were right.

      
It wasn't time for bed yet, although I was exhausted and still mildly head-achy, so I dealt out a Tarot hand for everyone in the household. I made sure the cards predicted happy times for one and all, and everybody (except Mrs. Cummings and yours truly) were feeling pretty jolly as they trooped up to the second and third floors to consort with the sand man.

      
After providing me with a tray piled with more food than a family of eight could eat in a month, showing me where to get more food should I run out, and making sure I had plenty of blankets and pillows, Mrs. Cummings reluctantly left me alone in her kitchen. “I still think you're daft,” she said before she departed.

      
“You're probably right,” I said with one of my gentlest, most gracious smiles.

      
As soon as my tray of food and I were alone in the room, I sagged into a chair, rested my head on my arms at the kitchen table, and closed my eyes. Why couldn't something go right for a change? Why was every day a constant battle with Billy? I loved him, and I think he still loved me; why couldn't we get along? Why couldn't I have a normal life?

      
No answer occurred to me, although I did indulge in an imaginary conversation with God, who told me to stop whining. Big help.

      
With a gigantic sigh, I decided I might as well settle in for the night. With this purpose in mind, I surveyed the kitchen with an eye to hiding places. There weren't any. But I knew that as soon as I turned out the light, the room would be dark, and any marauding ghost or runaway would be unable to see me any better than I could see her. Or him.

      
Therefore, I settled a kitchen chair in a corner across from the basement door and next to the large ice box, cushioned the chair with a pillow, and sat down, cradling another pillow in my arms and covering myself with the blanket.

      
Then I searched for a nearby light switch. There were two of them, and both were across the room from me in different directions. With a sigh, I got up, poked around in kitchen drawers until I found the stub of a candle, lit the candle, traipsed across the room to turn the light off, and went back to my chair. As soon as I blew out my candle, darkness engulfed me.

      
I'd known it would, of course. That was the whole point of this exercise: to lure whoever hid in the basement into believing the kitchen was empty of human occupancy.

      
What I hadn't known was that it would be so creepy, sitting there in the dark, waiting for a spirit (or ghost) to show itself. If the wind hadn't been making that giant of a house creak so much, I probably wouldn't have been so ill at ease. And it would have helped, too, if the room didn't feel so cavernous. When Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, and Susan were all rushing around in it, performing their daily duties, it seemed a bright, friendly room, full of good smells and friendly people.

      
Not now. Now it was a black hole of a place, fraught with weird sounds and too darned many creatures of my own imagining. Generally speaking, I cherish my imagination because it helps me in my work. As I huddled in the corner of Mrs. Bissel's kitchen, I wished my imagination would go away and leave me alone for awhile.

      
No such luck. Although I'd pretty much discarded notions of mountain lions and bears as potential campers-out in Mrs. Bissel's basement, both possibilities now loomed large in my mind as eminently possible. And then there were the escaped criminals and lunatics I imagined creeping up the dark basement stairs. They'd know I was in the kitchen alone. And they'd get me.

      
The wind didn't help, as I've already mentioned. Leafy tree limbs outside the kitchen windows scratched on the panes like desperate things trying to get in. The wind got sucked down chimneys and moaned and groaned like assorted souls in torment. I heard skittering noises, like those of mice hurrying across floors-only they weren't in the kitchen. I didn't know where they were. A tree branch tore away from its moorings and slammed against the service-porch door. Somewhere in the house or out of it, something thumped heavily, causing me to jump in my chair and my heart to speed up until it was racing in my chest like a hamster on a wheel.

      
And cold? Oh, my goodness, that room was cold! I felt every single breeze that managed to wriggle through cracks in windows and doors. Memories niggled at my consciousness of books I'd read when I'd studied spiritualism and fortune-telling. All the books said that when ghosts are present, they bring with them the cold of the grave. I'd like to believe my teeth were chattering merely from the chill and not from sheer terror, but I'm not sure. Darn it, this was no fun.

      
And Marianne Wagner didn't show up. My headache had come back to keep me company, however, with a vengeance.

      
After what seemed like hours and hours, I fell into an uneasy slumber, my head resting on my arms, my arms folded on the pillow I'd settled on the kitchen table. Sounds made by the wind and its victims plagued my dreams. I wasn't sure whether I was asleep and dreaming or awake and exhausted when the slightest of noises penetrated my fuddled semi-conscious state. I blinked, not sure where I was. And then I remembered everything and darned near fell off my chair. Dread crashed through me like a rampaging tornado.

      
Someone was in the room with me. Lord, Lord, someone had come up from the basement and entered the kitchen. And I was stuck in a corner with no weapon--and no light. I'd forgotten all about making sure I had matches with which to light my candle.

      
There was no good to be had in contemplating vain regrets. I could chastise myself for being an idiot later, if I survived the forthcoming encounter. As quietly as I could, I shoved the blanket away from me and stood up. My heart was beating so hard, I was sure the interloper could hear it as I tiptoed to where I knew the light switch to be.

      
When I got to the switch, I paused, trying to collect my wits and my courage, neither one of which was cooperating. Deciding
to heck with it
, I braced myself and pressed the switch. The sudden burst light nearly blinded me, but I experienced a moment of triumph when Marianne Wagner spun around, let out a terrified shriek, and dropped the supplies she'd foraged: A can of tuna fish, a can of spaghetti, and a jar of jam. Apparently, she'd become adept at pilferage in the two or so weeks she'd been doing this. The cans and the jar fell to the kitchen floor with a hideous crash, and I knew Marianne and I weren't going to be alone in the kitchen for long.

      
The poor girl stood stock-still, bug-eyed, hands pressed to her cheeks, staring at me as if she suspected
me
of being a ghost. My heart still rattled like a machine gun, and when I opened my mouth to try to subdue her fears, my voice didn't work.

      
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

      
Suddenly I heard footsteps pelting down the main staircase from the upper stories, and I snapped to attention. “Don't say another word,” I whispered urgently. I darted over to the girl and picked up her foodstuffs; she was still too stunned to move, much less do anything useful. Shoving the tins and jar into her arms, I then grabbed her shoulders and turned her around. “Get back downstairs. Hurry! And don't say a word. Not one word. I'll help you. Just get out of the kitchen quick!”

      
She must have been in a state of absolute panic, because she didn't object to my peremptory commands or even try to pull away from me. Rather like a docile lamb heading to the slaughter, she allowed herself to be shuffled to the basement door and shoved inside. I closed the door as quietly as I could, and turned to face the household, my hands gripping the doorknob so Marianne couldn't get back into the kitchen if she took it into her head to do so.

      
“Daisy!” Mrs. Bissel shoved Mrs. Cummings out of the way and hurried into the room. When she saw me, she stopped running and stood still, panting, her huge bosom working like a bellows, and her hands held out at her sides to prevent anyone else from entering the room.

      
Her household staff piled up behind her, no one willing to leave the shelter of her largeness for fear of what might befall her without the protection of the mistress of the house. It would have been funny, had I been in a mood to be amused.

      
I wasn't. I did, however, get my spiritualist aura to come back and help me out, thank heaven. Holding one arm out, palm up in a gesture traffic coppers make when they want to hold up traffic, I said in my best mystical murmur, “Stay back. This is not a matter for those unversed in the ways of the spirits. Danger lies below.”

      
“But what happened?”

      
I wish I could have taken a photograph of Mrs. Bissel and her staff. They all stared at me as they clutched each other, and no one dared step out from behind Mrs. Bissel's bulk. I guess they figured her body would stop any projectiles directed at them by evil-intentioned ghosts or fiends. The idea tickled me, and I calmed down some more.

      
I didn't budge from the basement door, though. “You must leave me to deal with this alone.” I lowered my voice to a thrilling whisper. “The spirit walks.”

      
“It did more than walk,” Ginger said, sounding more than slightly miffed. “It must have tripped over something to make that awful noise.”

      
Darn her. Here I was putting on one of my best extemporaneous performances, and she had to get all practical on me. I eyed her with disfavor. “Please. I know what I'm doing.”

      
Very slowly, Mrs. Bissel began backing away from me, toward the swinging door to the pantry, making her staff back up or risk getting squashed under her tread. “We'd better get back upstairs, girls. Daisy's right. She knows what she's doing, and we'd only be in the way.”

      
God bless her. Not only did she have the best dogs in the world, but she trusted me. I nodded. “Please, all of you. Go on back upstairs. I'll deal with the spirit belowstairs.”

      
As if she were unsure about any of this, Mrs. Bissel said, “Will you let me know what happens, Daisy?”

      
“Of course.” What did she think? That I'd run away, like Marianne Wagner, never to be seen again? Not very likely, no matter how much I sometimes wanted to. But more than that, I wanted Billy's puppy--and it was beginning to look as though I'd get it, too, if these people would only go away and leave me to deal with Marianne.

      
Unless she'd escaped through the other exit down there as I dealt with Mrs. Bissel and crew. Darn. I wished I hadn't thought about that--or better, that I'd thought about it sooner, so I could have locked the other door from the outside. Impatient now, I repeated, “Please. All of you need to go back upstairs so that I can finish my job here.”

      
“I don't know,” Mrs. Cummings said doubtfully.

      
Frustration gnawed at me. I looked imploringly at Mrs. Bissel. She was the boss, after all. “Mrs. Bissel?”

      
“What?” She blinked several times before she understood, then she jerked. “Oh! Yes, of course, Daisy.”

      
She turned and made herding motions with her arms. I must say her appearance was quite . . . remarkable, I suppose is the best and least insulting word for it. Clad in a bright purple dressing gown with a matching purple sleeping cap covering her tightly curled gray hair, she resembled a gigantic eggplant with a growth. Mrs. Cummings, Ginger, and Susan, after sending me a variety of last glances--Ginger rolled her eyes--obeyed their mistress.

      
Mrs. Bissel was the last one out the door. I tried to reassure her. “I'll let you know the result of my work as soon as I can, Mrs. Bissel, but that may be sometime tomorrow. Please don't come into the kitchen until you hear from me.”

      
“Of course, dear. Please be careful.”

      
“I will be. Thank you.”

      
I gave them plenty of time to get upstairs. I didn't want anyone barging in on Marianne and me. When I was pretty sure we wouldn't be interrupted again, I grabbed the untouched tray of food Mrs. Cummings had left for me, opened the door, noted with gratitude that Marianne had turned on the light, and charged down the basement steps as fast as I could. By that time, I was positive Marianne had escaped.

      
You can imagine my elation when, panting from my headlong dash, I paused at the foot of the staircase to catch my breath and saw her sitting on the mangle, her hands covering her face, sobbing as if her heart was broken. I gulped air and told myself to proceed with caution. Not that I believed Marianne would harm me, but I needed her cooperation, and she wouldn't give it if I handled this wrong.

      
“Marianne?” I stayed near the staircase and spoke softly so as not to spook her. “My name is Daisy Majesty, and--”

      
“I know who you are,” she interrupted, her voice thick with grief.

      
“Mrs. Bissel and her staff thought the basement was haunted and asked me to get rid of the ghost. But the ghost is you. You gave everyone quite a scare.”