Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (39 page)

      
“You're telling me.” He'd been hunched over slightly, but straightened and glanced at me, grinning. “Don't pay any attention to me, Daisy. I'm only griping for the heck of it. Didn't mean to spoil the day.”

      
Goodness gracious, what
was
the matter with the man? He
never
apologized for being crabby! “You're not spoiling anything,” I told him. I'm afraid my voice might have wobbled slightly because I was so alarmed by Billy's recent behavior. “What happened to you was brutally unfair, and you have every reason in the world to resent it.”

      
“Resent it,” Billy murmured. “Right. I guess I do resent it.”

      
“I know.” I sniffled and felt stupid. “So do I.”

      
“I'm sorry you're stuck with a cripple, sweetheart.”

      
“Stop saying things like that!”

      
“Okay.”

      
And he did. He didn't say another sour word the whole time we were out of the house.

      
His behavior was driving me crazy. Something was terribly wrong. I vowed that as soon as I got rid of Marianne Wagner, I'd have a heart-to-heart chat with Dr. Benjamin and--Lord help me--Sam Rotondo. My stomach tightened at the notion of talking about personal matters with Sam, but I'd endured worse in my life.

      
“Could you push me for a while, Daisy? My arms are getting mighty tired.” He didn't mention his lungs, but the wind was bitter, and I'm sure they were hurting, too.

      
“Sure, sweetheart. Let me put the packages in the basket.” Pa had attached a basket to Billy's wheelchair for exactly this purpose. Pa could do darned near anything. He was such a helpful man.

      
“It's a beautiful day,” Billy opined.

      
I stared at the top of my husband's head, bemused. Billy never commented on the weather. He was right, though. “It sure is.”

      
The sky was as sparkly a blue as I'd ever seen it. There were clouds piled up around the San Gabriel mountains, covering their peaks in mounds of white flannel.

      
Billy said, “Bet we see snow on those peaks tomorrow morning.”

      
“It's sure been cold. Wonder if it will snow down here.”

      
“I doubt it. It never snows in Pasadena.”

      
“It might snow in the foothills, though.”

      
“Maybe.”

      
“It would be kind of fun to pick out a tree in the snow.”

      
“You think so?” Billy sounded skeptical.

      
“Sure. It would be so--so--seasonal.”

      
He chuckled.

      
“It would be nice if it snowed here, though.” Trying for a smidgeon of optimism, I added, “Every now and then we get sprinkles of the white stuff.”

      
“Not very often.”

      
“True. But I wouldn't mind if it snowed a little bit in town. I think our bungalow would look very pretty in the snow.”

      
“I don't know. It might look pretty, but it wasn't built for heavy weather. It'll probably be frigid indoors.”

      
I shrugged. “I could build a fire in the fireplace. That would be cozy.”

      
“Don't get your hopes up,” Billy advised.

      
Matters more important than snow were plaguing me that day, and it occurred to me that I might take care of the most pressing one while we were on our Christmas-present-buying jaunt. “Say, Billy, as long as we were out, why don't we walk to Grenville's Books? I want to get a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories for Pa.”

      
“Sounds good to me, if you don't mind pushing me.”

      
“I don't mind, Billy.” I wanted to cry, but I didn't mind pushing his chair.

      
“Great. I want to see if they have any books about Siberian history.”

      
This was so surprising, it dried up my tears. “Siberia! Good heavens, Billy, why do you want to read more about Siberia? It's a terrible place, isn't it?”

      
“Well,” he equivocated, “I wouldn't want to live there, but that article in the
National Geographic
was interesting. Siberia's a fascinating place. If I were able to get around, I'd like to travel there someday.”

      
“Siberia. Good Lord. Now, if it had been the article on Haiti that had fostered an interest in tropical islands, I could understand it. But . . . Siberia?” I couldn't help it; I laughed.

      
Nevertheless, I was happy to oblige his urge, hoping I'd have a chance to slip over to the cottage and tell Marianne about her mother.

Chapter Nineteen
 

      
We heard the commotion before we got to the store. My heart jumped to my throat. In an instant, my mind filled with visions of policemen surrounding the joint with their guns drawn. Those images faded as soon as they'd come, only to be replaced by visions of Marianne's brothers tearing up the bookstore and beating George to a pulp.

      
“Golly, listen to that,” Billy said. “I always thought bookstores were quiet places.”

      
“Me, too.” I hurried up, but couldn't go too fast for fear of hitting a bump and spilling Billy out of his wheelchair.

      
I knew the sounds of altercation signified another problem. My life was already filled as full as it could hold with troubles, and I didn't need this one, whatever it was. As if that mattered.

      
As soon as I opened the door, I saw what was wrong. My heart, which had stuck in my throat half a block back, sank downward and lodged in my sensible walking shoes.

      
It was over. I was doomed. I would spend the rest of my life behind bars--and then what would happen to Billy? Speaking of whom, Billy craned his neck to see around me and inside the bookstore, so I took a step back and pushed him the rest of the way in. Might as well; there was no use running away from it. My sins had found me out.

      
I didn't want to face them. But I'd stepped into the breach of my own free will when I'd aided and abetted Marianne, so I had to. Billy would hate me now. My stock with Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi would plummet straight to heck, too.

      
Because I'd rather have been struck by a bolt of lightning, boiled in oil, and/or hanged from the tallest tree in Pasadena than to have shown how scared I was, I walked up to the scene of the brouhaha, leaving Billy's chair a few feet from the back counter.

      
Facing the problem was more than Marianne had done. My lips tightened as I featured how she'd come to this pass: she and George had flouted my orders. I knew it. And now we were all in the soup. Marianne had crouched down in front of the counter, her fingers twisted into claws and pressed to her face, hiding her mouth. Her eyes were as round as blue golf balls and radiated terror.

      
George, on the other hand, had adopted a fighter's stance, fists clenched, feet spread wide, cheeks blazing with ire, eyes furious behind his sparkling eyeglasses. His jaw bulged because he'd clenched teeth so tightly, and sweat bedewed his forehead. Poor guy. I sure wouldn't want to confront Dr. Wagner--although I figured it was my duty to do just that.

      
That being the case (and knowing this was at least partially my fault), I walked up to Dr. Wagner and stuck out my hand. “How do you do, Dr. Wagner, my name is Daisy Majesty.”

      
He was a good-looking man; tall, stately, with a head of thick gray hair and a little goatee and moustache that were always well-trimmed. I know clothes, and I could tell that Dr. Wagner's dark woolen suit had been tailored to his measurements. He could have posed for a fashion plate.

      
All the other times I'd seen him, he'd been acting the part of a wealthy, sophisticated doctor, all smiles and oily aplomb. Not that day. That day, his eyes bulged, his face had turned brick red with fury, his usually princely moustache and goatee bristled, his hat had tilted askew, there were flecks of foam at the corners of his mouth, and his gloves, which I guess he'd ripped off in order to slap George's face with, had fallen to the floor. He pivoted to confront me as if I were a charging rhinoceros. It was a good thing he wasn't armed. It was also a good thing I was prepared, or I'd have turned tail and skedaddled out of there so fast, nobody would even have seen me.

      
“What do you have to do with this?” he bellowed.

      
I blenched but didn't back down. As far as I was concerned, it was past time somebody stood up to this beast. “Not a thing until this minute. I don't like it when people bullyrag my friends.

      
“Bullyrag?” he roared.

      
“Yes. I refuse to talk to anyone who yells at me, and I don't allow people to yell at my friends, either.”

      
“Daisy, it's probably--”

      
Dr. Wagner interrupted George's feeble attempt to get me to shut up. “And exactly what does that mean?”

      
He was still hollering, so I folded my arms over my chest and clammed up. His face got redder and veins bulged in his forehead. I reflected wistfully that he might have an attack of apoplexy and die, but knew he probably wouldn't. My problems are never solved that easily. “Stop yelling,” I commanded. “If you want to learn what happened with your daughter, you must calm down.”

      
Dr. Wagner spun on his daughter, who flinched away from his heated stare, virtually squashing herself against the counter. She looked as if she were trying to disappear. “My daughter is coming home with me right now!” he stormed. “This is scandalous! How long have you been living in sin with this man?”

      
“Living in
sin
?” Now it was George who roared. Marianne covered her ears.

      
“Stop it!” I said--rather loudly, I fear. Oddly enough, they did stop it, for a second or two. It was long enough for me to say, “There's been no sinning done here. The only sinning was yours, and it prompted your daughter to run away from home!”

      
“Good God.” That was spoken in a low, tight voice, and by Billy, but I didn't have time to soothe my husband at the moment. If such a thing could be done, there would be plenty of time for it later, when he visited me in jail.

      
I wondered if Dr. Wagner would get dizzy from all the precipitate whirling he was doing. This time he whirled on me. “Stay out of this, you! This has nothing to do with you!”

      
“It does now,” I retorted. “And quit yelling right this minute.”

      
To my surprise, he did. At first I thought it was because he'd decided to obey my command, but I was wrong.

      
Sam Rotondo marched up to us. I hadn't heard him enter the store--well, who could hear anything with Dr. Wagner bellowing at the top of his lungs? I was not happy to see him. Neither was anyone else, to judge by the expressions on their faces. I glared at him. He glared back at me, so we were even and things were progressing normally.

      
“What's going on here?” he demanded. “We got a report of a disturbance.”

      
“So they sent a detective?” I asked. Sarcastically.

      
“Yes.” Sam wasn't sarcastic. He was as frigid as an iceberg. I decided it would be better not to goad him.

      
“I,” said Dr. Wagner, “am Dr. Everhard Wagner. This young lady is my daughter.” His face started to lose a little of its high color, and my hope for a deadly fit or a heart attack faded accordingly. “I intend to take her home with me.”

      
Marianne cried, “No!”

      
So did I.

      
“Let's calm down here,” Sam suggested. He glanced at Billy, who only grinned and shrugged to let Sam know that all this was new to him.

      
“I will not calm down!” howled the doctor. “I intend to collect my daughter right this minute and get out of here! I've never heard of such a thing!”

      
“How old is Miss Wagner?” asked Sam, although he already knew the answer to that one.

      
“She's eighteen years of age. She's a minor. I am still her legal guardian, and I intend to exercise my authority right now.”

      
Okay, that was too much for me. My biggest fear was that Sam would go along with the wretched man because, without knowing the full story, he would perceive no other action possible on his part. I took a giant step and slid myself between Sam and the ogre. I mean Dr. Wagner. It was a tight squeeze, but I'm little.

      
“Oh, no, you don't,” I said boldly (more boldly than I was feeling, if you want to know the truth). “Marianne ran away from home because you beat her--and worse. I'd never even heard of a father actually doing those things to his own daughter until I learned about
you
!” I turned on Sam, whose mouth was slightly open, as if he'd been going to say something before I preempted him. “Isn't it a crime to beat a child, Sam? And to touch a child in . . . in . . . er, inappropriate ways?”

      
That took care of Dr. Wagner's complexion. It passed up red entirely and turned a bright fuchsia pink. “
How dare you
!” he screamed.

      
So I turned on
him.
“I dare because it's the truth. Marianne told me so.” Back to Sam. “Well? Isn't it a crime? Marianne is, as Dr. Wagner himself admits, under age. Not to mention his own daughter. Isn't that a crime, Sam?”