Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (36 page)

      
“Shoot, Johnny, you caught me at my absolute best, as you can see.” I patted the scarf tied around my head as if I were a showing off the latest fashion in chapeaus.

      
He chuckled. “It's all right, Daisy. I know you're a hardworking girl.” He must have spotted Billy behind me, because he waved and said, “Howdy, Billy. We're just out collecting for the Army.”

      
Billy returned Johnny's greeting. “Happy to donate to your army, Johnny. The one I joined, I'm not so sure about.” He dug in his pocket even as I ran to the kitchen to get a couple of dimes out of the sugar bowl.

      
After I'd dropped them into the tambourine and shut the door, the phone rang
again
. This time it was Mrs. Bissel. As soon as I heard her voice, I froze, the awful possibility that she had yet another visitor in her basement having struck me. Hard. Thank God, it wasn't that. She only wanted me to conduct a séance for her.

      
Rolly had no misgivings about appearing to a house full of silly people and dachshunds, so we arranged a date, and I resumed cleaning . . . and the telephone rang.

      
I dropped the dust mop and uttered a low growl, which startled Spike, who ran, yipping, under the sofa. I guess Billy had heard us, because he said, “I'll get it.” It wasn't easy for him to reach the telephone, and I wondered why he was still being nice to me. This was the fifth or sixth day in a row during which he hadn't been snide or fussy or grumpy once.

      
A terrible notion occurred to me, and I vowed to check on Billy's supply of morphine syrup before the day was out. If I found that he'd either started hoarding it or drinking even more of the stuff than I already knew he drank, I was going to have another talk with Dr. Benjamin.

      
Maybe--sweet Lord, have mercy--I'd even talk to Sam. Billy liked Sam, and Sam liked Billy. What's more, and as much as I resented Sam's almost-constant presence in my life, I knew he'd have a better chance of talking sense into Billy than I'd ever have.

      
The possibility that Billy might be saving his medicine in order to do away with himself scared the wits out of me. It was infinitely worse than the possibility that he was becoming addicted to the stuff.

      
But Billy would never do that. He was . . . he was . . .

      
Oh, Lord, he was a shell-shocked cripple who had no use for the life he was forced to live, and I loved him more than I could bear.

      
I was standing in the living room, the dust mop at my feet, staring through the dining room into the kitchen and wondering how to protect my husband from himself, since nobody'd protected him from the damned Germans, when Billy rolled his chair from the kitchen to the dining room. Seeing me standing there, staring at nothing, he stopped rolling and gazed at me quizzically. “What's the matter, love? Anything wrong?”

      
Yes, there were tons of things wrong. I forced myself to smile. “Nope. Just wondering who was on the 'phone.”

      
“Don't know, but it's for you.”

      
“It would be.” Leaving the dust mop on the floor, I went to the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest like a funeral march. I wished I could stop imagining horrible things.

      
This time the caller was George Grenville. My heart did another sickening dip, and I prayed that Marianne hadn't done anything stupid. Anything
else
stupid, I suppose I should say. “What's up, George?” I asked.

      
My voice must have betrayed my worry, because George hastened to reassure me. “Not a thing, Daisy. I only wanted to know if you believed it would be out of line if I dined with Mar--with the person in-- Oh, you know what I'm talking about.”

      
“I know.” Jeepers, I guess he'd taken my tantrum of a few days before to heart. He'd never asked before if he could take a meal with Marianne; he'd just up and done it. “I should think so, as long as everything remains on the up and up.” I expected him to take exception to my condition, and he did.

      
“I am
not
a scoundrel,” George declared.

      
“I never said you were.” Actually, if one were merely to look at George, about the last thing in the world you'd expect him to be was a scoundrel. A football player, maybe. A teacher, even. You'd probably even come up with bookstore owner before you'd think
scoundrel
. The fact remained, however, that he was supposed to be protecting Marianne Wagner, an unmarried female with no worldly skills, and I didn't want there to be a hint of scandal attaching to either one of them.

      
“You act as though you consider me the lowest of the low,” George said sulkily. “That's why I called you today. I didn't want you to jump to any unsavory conclusions.”

      
I glanced around to see where Billy was in the overall scheme of things. I didn't want him to know about Marianne, because then he'd be part of the conspiracy. Collusion. Whatever it was. He wasn't too close, but I still thought better of naming names over the telephone. “I'm sure you're a virtual knight in shining armor, George. But the person we're talking about is a babe in the woods, and she needs our help. She doesn't need more problems to contend with, even those that come about through misinterpreted kindness.”

      
“Granted.” His tone was resentful, but at least George was admitting that I might have a valid point, which was a step in the right direction.

      
“That being the case, and knowing you to be a gentleman, I'm sure that your dining together would be appropriate.”

      
“Wonderful!” Relief blew through the telephone wires along with the word. “And tomorrow, too?”

      
I sighed again. “Tomorrow, too.” What the heck. If they were destined for each other, perhaps proximity would prompt George to spring the question. That would get the girl out of my hair quite nicely.

      
Of course, there was also the possibility that continued socializing with each other would give George a clue as to how much work he'd have to do if he aimed to marry the wench. She didn't know how to do a darned thing, and he'd have a job of it to bring her up to snuff. I could have told George how difficult it would be for him to earn the bacon and keep house, too, because I did it all the time. And I even had Aunt Vi to cook for me.

      
After that, I managed to get through the remainder of my house-cleaning duties without any more interruptions. When I was done cleaning house, Billy and I took Spike for a walk, and then I took a jaunt to the bookstore to check up on my charge. It was a fair hike, but the day was beautiful, and I felt like walking.

      
A brisk breeze blew the leaves around, and I noticed that the cheeks of my fellow pedestrians were pink with the weather and exertion. Everyone was in a Christmas mood, and everyone I passed greeted me. I returned the compliment. Cheer was in the air, by gum, and I had a hard time worrying about anything, even Billy.

      
Marianne was fine. George was fine. Heck, even I was fine. After I returned home, I became even finer when Aunt Vi came home with our supper, left over from the dinner she'd fixed for Mrs. Kincaid. That night it was chicken a la king. God bless my aunt. If I ever had to cook for Billy and me without her, we'd surely starve.

      
The next day after church, I took another toddle to the bookstore. I was pleased to find Harold there, measuring Marianne's frocks with an eye to making them fit better.

      
“Daisy, my love!” Harold cried around a mouthful of pins. He was on his knees on the rug, taking tucks in a creamy-white bodice. “Long time, no see.”

      
“It's only been a few days, Harold.” I missed him, though, when I didn't get to talk to him all the time. Harold Kincaid was the only person in the whole world in whom I could confide anything and everything. He was the only one besides Dr. Benjamin who knew how much I worried about Billy.

      
“True, true,” said Harold. The fabric slipped and he muttered, “Get in there, you little fiend.” I loved to watch Harold work. He treated fabrics as if they were naughty school children. Being quite the seamstress myself, I understood.

      
“Where's Del, Harold? I thought maybe he'd come visiting with you.”

      
I liked Del Farrington, although Del and I weren't as close as Harold and I. You'd think it would be the other way around, since Harold could be critical and sarcastic, while Del was never anything but polite and sweet. Or maybe Harold's biting side was the reason we got along so well. He thought my line of work was a hoot, he appreciated me for being good at it, and he also knew how difficult life could be if your situation was out of the ordinary. So there you go. Who can tell about these things?

      
“Del's attending mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Malice.” Harold glanced up and winked at me.

      
I'm sure I looked as astounded as I felt. “He's
where
?”

      
Grinning, Harold elaborated. “Actually, he's at Saint Andrew's. I like my name for the place better.”

      
“Oh. I didn't know Del was a Roman Catholic.”

      
“Mercy, yes. He'd go to mass every day in the week if he could. He can't, because he has a bank to run, but he's
tres
religious, you know.”

      
Goodness gracious. “No, I didn't know.” And I'd never have guessed in a million years, either.

      
Delroy Farrington, a perfectly gorgeous young man, had been born in Louisiana. He had moved to California after the war, and had secured a position as cashier in Mr. Eustace Kincaid's bank. He and Algie Pinkerton had taken over the bank when Mr. Kincaid did a bunk. But Del was a homosexual, and for some reason I never considered that people like that would go to church, or be welcomed there if they did. Wasn't there some sort of rule against it? I didn't ask, although Harold would have been totally unembarrassed to tell me. Marianne's presence held my tongue.

      
Harold went on, stabbing pins in the bodice at approximately one-inch intervals along the seam. “I keep telling him that being Catholic is ill bred and that he ought to transfer his allegiance to the Episcopalians, which are almost the same but not quite and infinitely superior socially, but he won't hear of it. He was an altar boy in New Orleans, and he won't switch for anything.”

      
“Oh.” I have to admit that Harold's glib attitude toward religion grated on my sensibilities a teensy bit. I cherished my association with our Methodist church, and not only because it helped to keep my reputation above-board. Nevertheless, I knew better than to object, because Harold was perfectly able to become even more caustic than he already was. Besides, he was entitled to his opinion.

      
During this conversation, Marianne sat on the tiny sofa, her hands folded in her lap, looking upon Harold and me with eyes as big and as blue as the sky outside. I deduced she wasn't accustomed to people being flippant about churches and church-going. I wasn't, either, if it came to that.

      
She dared drop a tidbit into the conversation. “I haven't been to church for over a month now.”

      
“What church do you normally attend?” I asked politely. I intended to check the larder for supplies, but didn't want Marianne to feel as though I considered her a burden even though I did, so I chatted with her first.

      
“We go to Westminster Presbyterian. I--I like it all right.” As if she couldn't stand not dropping his name every chance she got, she added, “Mr. Grenville attends the First Congregational Church. I think they call it the Neighborhood Church now.”

      
“Ah. Unitarian,” said I. I kind of liked the Unitarians. They took in everybody, not unlike the Salvation Army people, although I had a hunch the Unitarians preferred their souls accompanied by a good deal of money, while the Salvation Army didn't care.

      
“Wise choice,” said Harold. He slipped the last pin into the bodice and stood, creaking slightly. Harold was a trifle overweight, and I didn't get the impression that he favored vigorous exercise. “If I went to church, I think I'd attend the Unitarian church.”

      
“You don't care for church, Mr. Kincaid?” Marianne asked timidly. I think she was shocked.

      
“Church is all right. I'd rather sleep in on Sunday mornings.”

      
“Oh.” She gazed at Harold, seemingly lost in wonder that somebody would admit aloud to such a preference.

      
“You're going straight to heck, Harold. You know that, don't you?”

      
He winked at me. “I've known it for years, Daisy dear.” He flung the bodice over his arm, scooped up several other items of dress that he'd marked for alteration, and looked around for his hat.

      
Marianne whispered, “Oh, my.”

      
I felt kind of sorry about having dismayed her, but honestly, the girl had no sense of humor at all. Before I could apologize, a knock came at the door. Marianne jumped to her feet, and her cheeks flushed becomingly. Obviously, she expected the knock to be George's. Their relationship, if they had one, was clearly progressing like wildfire.

      
“I'll see who it is,” said I, suiting the action to the words. Marianne stood beside the sofa, her hands clasped, her eyes eager. For her sake, I hoped it was George.

      
It was. George stood outside the front door of the cottage, bearing in his arms several covered dishes. He must have picked up enough food for an army battalion. I swung the door open. “Howdy, George.”