Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (29 page)

      
“I understand that, of course.”

      
“Good. Marianne herself seems a little shaky on that part of our melodrama, so I'd appreciate it if you'd impress upon her the importance of staying out of sight at all times. Will you do that?”

      
“Of course. And I resent your implications that Marianne--Miss Wagner is--isn't--”

      
I was getting tired of this. “Cut it out, George! She swung the door wide open in my face not an hour ago! Watch her, will you? And make sure she understands the importance of keeping out of sight!”

      
He sucked in about seven gallons of air and let it out in a whoosh before he said, “Certainly,” and left it at that.

      
“Good. I'm going home now, but I'll be back later. I do have a family to care for, you know. My sole responsibility in this life doesn't begin and end with your sweetheart.”

      
“She's not--” Again, he caught himself. “I beg your pardon, Daisy. I know you have other responsibilities.”

      
“Very well.” Because I truly didn't want George to hate me or consider me some kind of hard-hearted Hannah, I produced a smile from where I keep a few in reserve for when I can't offer a client a genuine one, and gave it to him. “I didn't mean to scold you, George. I hope you know that. I'm only concerned for Marianne's safety.”

      
I think that did the trick. His frosty demeanor crumbled like breaking ice, and he laid a hand on my arm. “I'm sorry I took your solicitude the wrong way, Daisy. But please be assured that I will never, ever, in any way, do anything improper as regards Miss Wagner. She's--she's--”

      
I braced myself for another long list of laudatory comments on a girl I considered as bland as custard. Fortunately, George decided to stop before he'd stuttered himself into a deep hole.

      
Catching his breath on a third “she's,” he said simply, “I will do my utmost to shelter her from life's storms.”

      
This sounded serious, but I was too tired to question him further. I left him to his books and Marianne and coaxed the Model T home again. The poor motorcar was becoming crankier and crankier (so to speak) with each passing day.

      
Not that my duties ended there. After first attempting and failing to placate my husband, who begrudged every moment I spent away from him, I changed out of my spiritualist suit and into a woolen skirt and white waist, this one decorated with navy-blue flowers on a white background that not even Harold could disparage.

      
Then I found a length of cord in my sewing basket and fashioned it into a combination collar and leash. Then, after throwing a sweater on over my waist and helping Billy into his jacket, he and I and set off to Nelson's Five and Dime Store on Colorado Street to purchase a regular collar for Spike. Billy held Spike's home-made lead, and I pushed Billy's chair.

      
Billy's mood got better when he understood that I intended to spend the remainder of the afternoon with him. The crisp December air gave him a boost, too. The day was glorious. No devil-winds tried to blow me off my feet, no fog clogged Billy's lungs, and no rain threatened any of us. Clouds with gray centers and white edges hinted of storms to come, but the weather was perfect for walking, and we all three enjoyed it.

      
Spike had never been for a walk on a leash before, naturally. After a few false starts, when he attempted to chase after something interesting and the leash stopped him with a jerk that flipped him over backwards, he got the picture.

      
“He's a smart little guy,” said Billy, his voice ripe with pride for his new puppy.

      
His approval tickled me for a second before it made me sad. Billy would have been
such
a good father. It was a crime that all of his fatherly instincts had instead to be lavished on Spike. Granted, Spike was a cutie-pie and would ultimately prove to be of less trouble than a child, but one can't really compare the two.

      
“Smart enough to know how not to get himself strangled,” I agreed, laughing at Spike's antics. We'd walked approximately two blocks when this conversation took place, and I don't think Spike had lifted his nose off the sidewalk more than twice, the first time when he'd tried to hare off after the Wilson's cat Samson, and the second time when he'd attempted to rush across the street and attack a dog that was at least ten times as big as he was. Spike might, as Billy claimed, be smart, but he had a rotten sense of proportion.

      
Shortly after that, Spike's energy started to flag. He was only a puppy, after all.

      
“Put him in my lap,” Billy suggested.

      
So I did. As we walked, several people smiled at us and stopped to praise the adorability of Spike, thereby giving Billy more reasons to appreciate his new pup. It made me happy to know that I'd done something right for once.

      
In other words, we had a pleasant walk. Not a sharp word passed the lips of either of us, and Spike was a wonderful companion.

      
In those days, shops and stores didn't bombard their customers with Christmas merchandise until after Thanksgiving had come and gone. That day, shop keepers were hanging holly branches and mistletoe, and the idea of Christmas made Billy and me both feel jollier than usual. I think Spike had something to do with our good moods, as well.

      
Christmas music is my favorite. Mr. Hostetter had already begun rehearsing the choir for our Christmas cantata, and I imagined Aunt Vi would begin making Christmas cookies soon. My mouth watered at the thought.

      
As we approached Nelson's, I thought about the ice-cream sodas Billy and I used to take together at their soda fountain. Maybe we could get one today. Billy's chair prevented him from comfortably reaching the counter, but perhaps he wouldn't mind sitting at one of the little round tables at the side. As I contemplated whether or not to ask him about it--you could never tell how Billy would take things--he interrupted my musings.

      
“What color collar do you think we ought to get for Spike, Daisy?”

      
“Do they make them in different colors?”

      
“Sure they do! Sam and I talked about it last night. I don't suppose they sell colored collars and leashes in far-off, rural villages, but in big cities like New York and Pasadena, where lots of rich people live, they even sell them with diamonds.”

      
“Good Lord.” Sam and he
would
have talked about it, wouldn't they?

      
Well, I suppose I shouldn't be grumpy just because Billy had talked to Sam before he'd talked to me. Anyhow, he sounded positive regarding the collar issue, so I guess he--or Sam--knew what he was talking about. I squinted at the puppy with an eye to style. “I think he'd look quite spiffy in red. What do you think?”

      
“Red's good,” admitted Billy. Sometimes he opposed anything I said just to be contrary, but that day I guess he'd decided to be agreeable. “Better than blue, I guess. Or maybe he'd look good in green.”

      
“Green's good,” I concurred, although I thought Spike would look much more Spike-ish in red, because red would set off his glossy black coat so beautifully. The color of the dog's collar wasn't worth arguing about.

      
Billy was absolutely right about the different colors available in collars and leashes. We got Spike a lovely red-leather collar (I made sure Billy thought it was his own idea), and a cunning, woven, red-and-green plaid leash. He looked quite dashing as he trotted out of Nelson's, his tail held high, and his shiny black doggie ears flopping. He was all dressed up for Christmas.

      
I couldn't help smiling. Spike had such a
presence
about him. He was definitely king of our own small Pasadena hill.

      
When we got home, wonderful food smells greeted us as soon as I opened the front door. Good old Aunt Vi was on the job--and our meals didn't have to take a detour through Mrs. Kincaid's house first, either, for the next couple of days. Ma and Pa had both come home, and they were delighted with Spike's new clothes.

      
“Now all he needs is a little red Santa hat, and he'll be perfect for the season,” Pa said, grinning as Spike showed off his pretty new collar by chasing the knotted sock Billy threw for him. He was sure an energetic little guy.

      
“Oh, boy, wouldn't
that
be a sight,” Billy said, also grinning.

      
So far, the afternoon was progressing nicely. Billy hadn't said a single snide thing to me since shortly after I returned from Grenville's Books, and he'd remained relatively cheerful during our entire walk and all the way home. Also, he hadn't taken any morphine that I'd seen--and I'd been watching. I hoped I wouldn't spoil his good mood when I left him to drive back down to Greenville's in order to visit Marianne after supper. I didn't dare not go, since I still had my doubts about leaving George and her alone together.

      
Not that I had the slightest doubt that George had meant his passionate declaration of chivalrous intent. But shoot, even book sellers are human. Given the circumstances, what with his apparent adoration of Marianne and hers of him, anything was likely to happen, no matter how strong George's moral fiber.

      
Marianne herself was built of such weak stuff that she'd bend in the merest breath of a breeze. It wouldn't take even a full-blown storm to crumble her defenses. I just wanted to make sure, is all.

      
“That nice policeman came by a little while ago, dear, and I invited him for dinner.”

      
My gaze whizzed from Spike, who was growling and shaking the sock as if he were trying to kill it, to Ma, who'd spoken. “What nice policeman? Sam Rotondo?” What the heck was the matter with my family, anyhow, that they all thought Sam was such a nice guy? Were they all blind that they couldn't see how sly the man was? He was forever poking and prying into other people's business.

      
Okay, I know Sam was a detective, and I suppose it was his job to snoop into criminal activities, but the darned man was always suspecting
me
of evil deeds, and I didn't think it was fair. Granted, this time there might be the tiniest little reason for Sam to suspect me of having something to do with Marianne Wagner, but
he
shouldn't know that.

      
“Yes, that nice man who took us all out to dinner last week. I'm so glad you got to know him, Billy. He's such an asset to the family.”

      
Oh, brother.

      
“Yeah,” said my husband. “Sam's a nice guy. What's even better is that he's a lousy gin rummy player.”

      
Pa laughed. I didn't, but I did come up with a smile. It was a struggle. “I'm going to change clothes,” I told my treacherous family as I headed to our bedroom.

      
I don't mean that. My family wasn't treacherous, even though they were singularly blind when it came to Sam Rotondo. As I hung up my skirt and waist, I decided that if Sam could be sneaky, so could I.

      
The relationship between George and Marianne might ultimately prove to be Marianne's salvation. I wasn't sure what the laws were in the state of California, but I thought a woman could get married without her parents' permission at the age of eighteen. I knew you had to be twenty-one before you could vote, and you used to have to be twenty-one before you could drink (before it became illegal for anyone at any age to drink), but I wasn't sure about the marriage deal.

      
Then again, if they
could
get married without Marianne's parents' permission, the
Star News
published notices of applications for marriage licenses once a week. Did they print all the names, or just some of them? It would be a terrible thing if notice of a pending marriage between George and Marianne appeared in the newspaper before they could tie the knot. Her father would see it for sure.

      
Wasn't there some sort of waiting period between the issuing of a license and the time the marriage could take place? I couldn't remember from my own wedding.

      
Of course, I might be jumping the gun. For all I knew, George intended to love Marianne from a distance, like Lancelot should have loved Guinevere if he'd given half a hang about Arthur and his kingdom. George seemed to be a terrible romantic. Sometimes romantics had a hard time dealing with reality.

      
Egad. I didn't need Sam Rotondo to drive me crazy; I was doing a great job on my own.

# # #

      
If there's anything I love better than Aunt Vi's pork roast or roast beef or roast chicken (or a dozen other of her wonderful meals), it's her roast leg of lamb. And to dine on leg of lamb on a Monday night was particularly special, since we generally had to wait until Easter, or at least Sunday, and then get it left-over from Mrs. Kincaid's dinner. I almost didn't mind having Sam there, the food was so good.

      
Besides, I aimed to pump him. I'd read plenty of detective novels. Surely, I could question somebody without him cottoning on to my motives for doing so.

      
I suppose I could have been wronger (if that's a word), but I'm not sure how. I was trying so hard to sound guileless, too.

      
“Why do you want to know that?” he asked in response to my question about the legal marrying age in California. He'd already gone squinty-eyed, the rat.

      
“Just curious,” I said with a sprightly grin.