Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (34 page)

      
Rolly didn't speak to Czar Nicholas that evening. Rather, he had a chat with one of the Czar's late daughters. They'd all been killed by Bolshevists in 1917, an incident that had given me a poor opinion of Bolshevists in general.

      
In my estimation, it's all well and good to revolt against an oppressive government, but there's no reason to take it out on the kids. Heck, it wasn't the children's fault their father was a Czar any more than it was their fault their mother was a nitwit who believed in that wicked charlatan Rasputin.

      
Not that I consider all charlatans wicked, mind you. If I did, I wouldn't have a leg to stand on in my arguments with Billy. But from all I've ever read about the Mad Monk, he was crazy, and a drunk to boot, and the Czarina was an idiot to believe a word he said--not that her being stupid was any excuse to murder her. Boy, I tell you, having scads of money and power doesn't necessarily mean you also have brains.

      
Of course, there were lots of people in Pasadena, California, who believed in my own fictional psychic powers, and I didn't deplore their naivety. But there's a difference between Rasputin and yours truly. Rasputin was only out for himself, in my opinion. I, on the other hand, was trying to support a family.

      
Besides that, darn it, my work helped to comfort bereaved people. Believe me, in those days there were tons of people who had lost relatives and lovers and husbands in the war or in the 'flu pandemic, and they all needed solace. I did my small best to provide it, thereby helping them cope with the remains of their lives, in spite of what Billy thought.

      
I didn't mean to rant again. All I meant to do was explain the séance for Count Ivan Romanov (if he really was a Romanov which, I gather, is the name of the Russian royal family. Sam said he doubted it, but Sam doubted everything).

      
I felt a good deal of tension in the room as everyone took their places. After all, it wasn't every day I performed before royalty, even the deposed variety. The people who attended the séance had met each other in Mrs. Wright's ultra-fancy drawing room before the séance began, which was a normal procedure. I'd been kind of hoping that Harold Kincaid would be there, although I hadn't expected it. My expectations were met, which meant I'd have to go through the whole evening without the support of one of my best friends.

      
But everything went quite well after I got started. Nobody fainted. Nobody screamed. Rolly spoke in his best, most mellifluous Scottish burr, letting the count know that the Czar was coming to terms with what had happened to him and his family. Rolly also said that the Czar continued to care about Russia and his former people.

      
I let everyone know that poor Nick was worried about the Bolshevists.
Everyone
was worried about the Bolshevists in those days. You'd think there was a Bolshie hidden under every bush and behind every tree, waiting to pounce on passersby, from all the hair-raising articles published in magazines and newspapers.

      
Personally, I don't know if I've ever even met a Bolshevist. If there were any living in Pasadena at the time, they were keeping a mighty low profile.

      
You know, when I'm doing séances, I never really know what's going to come out of my mouth. I'm not claiming any kind of rapport with the spirits; I'm only saying that I must be able to sense people's feelings and expectations, because I alter Rolly's words to fit the way I gauge the emotional environment at the time, and I take my cues from what I sense about the company I'm in--if that makes any sense.

      
That night I knew, without knowing how I knew, that the count wouldn't believe me if I had Rolly interpret for the Czar. I knew the names of Nicholas and Alexandra's daughters because I'd read about them. The name that popped out of my mouth when Rolly was talking through me was Tatiana. As soon as her name hit the air, I felt the count, who sat next to me, jerk slightly, and heard a soft exclamation leave his lips.

      
Ever since those terrible men killed the Russian royal family, there's been speculation about Anastasia, one of the daughters. Women have been turning up all over Europe, practically from the first, claiming to be her. That night, for some reason beyond my ken, I made Rolly tell the count that Anastasia was with her family. Or, in other words, she was dead.

      
Maybe the thought of a poor princess wandering alone in a world that had murdered the rest of her family was more painful than I could bear. Maybe I'd been concerned with Marianne for too darned long and was thinking of her and Anastasia as cut of the same cloth. I do know that I could perceive similarities between the two, neither of whom was fit to live in the world without plenty of help. I'm not sure. All I know is that the count broke down and sobbed at the end of the séance.

      
At first (after I'd spent some time coming out of my “trance”) I felt awful about his unhappy tears. Then, after he'd composed himself, took my hand in both of his and kissed it, I realized that between us, Rolly and I had managed to give him some kind of peace in his soul. Does that sound pompous? It's not meant to. It's the truth.

      
Since it was a Friday night, when I finally left the Wrights' mansion and went home again, Sam was there, playing gin rummy with Pa and Billy. I had anticipated this, and was, therefore, prepared for his ill-will when I walked into the house. Ma and Aunt Vi had already gone to bed, since they were used to early hours.

      
Naturally, Spike started barking as soon as he heard the Model T pull into the driveway. I had to spend the first few minutes of my return home petting him and telling him what a good doggy he was.

      
Dogs are so soothing. At least the kind you can pick up and cuddle are. The evening had been stressful, I was feeling keyed up when I got home, and I'd have given almost anything not to have to put up with Sam, but I could practically feel my rampaging nerves settle down as I stroked the dog.

      
“Hey there, Daisy,” Billy said. He'd looked up and smiled at me when I opened the door, which was a distinct improvement over what I'd anticipated his greeting would be. “How'd it go tonight?”

      
“Pretty well, thanks. How long are you guys going to stay up losing your money?”

      
“Not much longer,” said Pa. “Sam's got to work tomorrow.”

      
“On Saturday?”

      
“A detective's work is never done,” Sam growled, slapping a card on the discard pile.

      
Still holding Spike, I moseyed over to the card table. It's probably stupid, but the fact that I didn't dare tell the men that I believed I'd served a useful, not to say kindly, purpose that night annoyed me. They'd only have laughed at me. So, after resettling the puppy in Billy's lap, I told them inconsequential things about the séance: the fancy clothes all the people had been wearing; the monocled, bearded count; and the gist of Rolly's conversation with Tatiana.

      
Billy, who'd taken to studying his rummy hand, peered up at me again, his eyes wide, I presume in wonderment. “How on earth do you come up with that sort of stuff, Daisy?”

      
I shrugged. “Beats me.”

      
“Does it hurt?” Sam's contribution. He was trying to be funny, I suppose, because Pa laughed.

      
“My little girl has a way about her. She knows what to say to people.”

      
I kissed him on his balding head. “Thanks, Pa.”

      
“You're probably right.” Billy. Grudgingly. “She sure seems to know what to say around rich people, and whatever it is, it convinces them to keep throwing money at her.”

      
Sam only grunted.

      
Feeling feisty, I said, “Whatever I do, it works. I make
very
good money at it. Besides that, how many times has
your
hand been kissed by a Russian count, Sam Rotondo?”

      
He darned near dropped his cards, and his face took on such a horrified expression that
I
laughed. He shook his head, muttered, “Good God,” and went back to his game.

      
Before I took myself off to bed--I was bone-tired--I went to Billy and kissed him on the cheek. He put an arm around my waist, which was unusual, and I appreciated it. “Winning?” I asked, as a rush of love for him galloped through me.

      
He grinned. “You bet.”

      
“Good.” Because I hoped--ridiculous, but true--that it would help Billy come to terms with my job, I said, “Mrs. Wright paid me a lot of money. And the count gave me a piece of jewelry that looks as if it's covered in diamonds. I tried to refuse it, but he wouldn't let me.”

      
“Why'd you try to refuse it?” Pa wanted to know.

      
“I didn't think I deserved it. But the count disagreed. He wouldn't take it back when I asked him to.”

      
“I'll just bet he didn't,” said my husband, although he didn't sound cross.

      
“It's true,” I said, indignant. “I was actually shocked when he handed me the thing. I think it's a bracelet.”

      
That got everyone's attention, except for Spike, who had evidently run himself ragged that day, because he'd curled up on Billy's lap and was sawing logs like nobody's business.

      
Pa put his cards face-down on the table and stared at me. “You
think
? You mean you haven't even
looked
at it?”

      
“No. It was . . . I don't know. I felt funny about it. I didn't want to accept the gift, and then it would have been awkward to gawk at it. It looks awfully expensive.”

      
“I sure hope it is,” said my husband, his beautiful brown eyes sparkling, which was something they didn't do often. “Where'd you put it?”

      
“In my handbag. Want to see it?”

      
They all said yes, so I opened the bag and dug around in it until I felt the piece of jewelry. When I pulled it out, it was trailing my hankie, which I disengaged gently. The gem-encrusted bauble darned near blinded me when I held it out over the card table and the jewels flashed in the light. I'd been right: it was a bracelet. And it was jammed with so many precious stones, I could only blink at it.

      
It seemed to have the same effect on everyone else in the room. No one spoke for several seconds as their eyes adjusted to the light glinting off the jewels. I finally broke the silence. “Gosh, it looks even more expensive now than it did then. Do you think the gems are genuine?” If they were, maybe we'd be getting a new automobile sooner than I'd expected.

      
“It would be a mighty shabby trick of the count to play, to give you something like that and have it turn out to be paste,” Pa said after another few seconds.

      
“May I see it?” Sam held out his big hand, palm up.

      
I frowned at him. “Why? Has somebody reported a Russian bracelet having been stolen? If you think I pilfered the darned thing, Sam Rotondo--”

      
He interrupted. “No. I just want to look at it up close. My uncle was a jeweler in New York, and I know something about gemstones.”

      
“Really?” Billy brightened. “Maybe you can tell us if Daisy's count gave her a fortune tonight, or only a child's plaything.”

      
“Heck,” I muttered. “No kid's going to play with that if I have anything to say about it.”

      
“Maybe you ought to take it to Arnold's Jewelry Store,” Pa suggested. “I expect they can tell you if the stones are real or fake.”

      
Sam had been turning the bracelet in his hand, holding it up to the light, and squinting at it hard. It was the first time I'd had a chance to feast my eyes on the thing myself. It was really something.

      
Diamonds and emeralds had been set in a gold design that resembled vines twining together. Rubies twinkled on the ends of stems that trembled, catching the light in a way I considered truly amazing. As I've already mentioned, I don't wear jewelry. If I did, I doubt that I'd wear anything that flashy, but it was a marvelous piece of work.

      
“It's Russian, all right,” Sam at last. “And I'd say the stones are genuine.”

      
“You can tell Russian jewelry from American jewelry?” I don't think my tone of voice held scorn.

      
“Sure. A trained jeweler can tell if a piece has been made by craftsmen from France or Germany or Russia or most other places that have particular conventions in the art of jewelry making. This,” he held up the bracelet, sending multicolored sparks flying through the room, “is Russian. It was either made there, or it was made by a Russian in this country. Or any other country, I should say. After the revolution, thousands of Russians made a bolt for it, and most of them took up their old professions in their new countries.”

      
“After what I read today about Siberia, I don't blame them for scramming out of there,” murmured Billy.

      
Sam sighed. “No, I don't, either. There are hundreds of Russian Jews living in New York City. Many of them are skilled artisans.” He looked up at me and handed me back the bracelet. For once, he didn't appear contemptuous or disapproving. “Looks to me as if you have yourself an honest-to-goodness treasure here, Daisy. Take care of it. Or,” he said, breaking into a grin, “sell it and get yourself a new motorcar. I think the Ford's about to call it quits.”

      
Boy, oh boy, I wished he wouldn't smile like that. He doled his smiles out sparingly, and between one smile and the next, I always forgot what a difference they made in his demeanor. When Sam Rotondo smiled, he looked almost affable. And he definitely looked handsome.