Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (6 page)

      
I felt stupid when Sam's voice, so close at my back, made me jump. I pretended to be simply moving out of his way. “Thanks.”

      
My Billy was a tall man when he stood up, which wasn't often because he was so badly crippled. He'd always been lean and lanky, though, and had never, even when he'd been in perfect health, made me feel small.

      
Sam Rotondo was big. He was not only tall, but much more heavily built than my Billy. He made me feel small no matter where he was in relationship to my shortish self. That day, I resented his bigness almost as much as I resented Vi for kicking me out of the kitchen, and chalked up another score for the bad guys.

      
I'm usually a lighthearted, optimistic person. Honest Injun, I am. It's only that life had been batting me around fairly savagely in recent weeks that I was in such sorry shape that day. I suppressed a powerful urge to kick Sam Rotondo in his big, hairy shins, and retreated to the table where I sat and awaited events. If nobody needed me, fine. I'd just stay out of the way.

      
“What are you doing, Detective Rotondo?” Ma. Glancing askance from Sam to me. “I thought you were setting the table, Daisy.”

      
I felt my mouth pinch into a wrinkled bud of its normally serenely shaped self. “The good detective took over for me.”

      
“Oh.” Ma looked blank for a second, shrugged, and set a steaming bowl on the table.

      
Sniffing, I detected the aroma of mashed potatoes. I love potatoes. Sometimes, when I'm feeling low or sick, I'll even make potato soup. I'm sure there a better recipe somewhere, but my kind of potato soup only requires potatoes, onions, water, salt, pepper, butter, and milk. Not even I could mess up potato soup. Well, except for the one time I forgot about it, and it burned, and we had to throw the pot away because we couldn't get the burned parts scraped off its sides and bottom.

      
Aunt Vi appeared at the dining room door with another platter. She smiled broadly. “Roast pork. I know that's Billy's favorite.”

      
“Anything you cook is my favorite, Vi,” said my darling Billy. See? He was still my darling Billy, in spite of our differences.

      
Roast pork was my favorite, too, but obviously nobody cared about me.

      
As soon as that thought floated through my head, I knew I had to do something, and fast, to repair my sense of proportion, not to mention my mood. In an attempt to accomplish this goal, I smiled at my aunt. “I
love
roast pork, Vi. It's my favorite, too. Along with your pot roast, roast lamb, and various other dishes, especially some of the ones with chicken.”

      
“Go along with you, Daisy. I can't understand why you're not as plump as I am, the way you like to eat.”

      
I shrugged. “I'm not going to get fat as long as I keep forgetting to eat lunch, I guess.”

      
Both Aunt Vi and Ma turned to stare at me. “Are you sick?” Ma rushed over and put a palm against my forehead. “You don't feel hot.”

      
“I'm not sick.” This was embarrassing. “I just forgot to eat lunch, is all. It's because I got a call from Mrs. Bissel and went to her place before lunch. Once I got there, I got busy and forgot all about food. Anyhow, she fed me a piece of gingerbread.”

      
“I've never understood how people can forget to eat,” said Pa musingly. “You'd never catch
me
forgetting food.”

      
One of Pa's troubles, in fact, according to Dr. Benjamin, was that he enjoyed his food too much. He'd recently suffered a small heart attack, and we all worried about him. All of us except Ma tried not to bother him with comments about food, though. He knew what he was supposed to eat and what he wasn't, and if he chose to eat it anyway, no matter how much we wished he wouldn't, we didn't complain. Besides, Ma complained enough for all of us.

      
Ma said, “Pish-tosh, Joe. You know you're supposed to be cutting down.”

      
See what I mean?

      
“I know, I know,” said Pa. He didn't mind about Ma pestering him. I guess he figured it was part of her job as his wife. “But I still never forget to eat.”

      
“Me, neither,” said Sam.

      
I could believe it. Sam Rotondo wasn't fat, but he was perhaps the least little bit on the hefty side. I bit my tongue to keep myself from saying something unkind.

      
“Of course,” Sam continued, smiling winningly at Aunt Vi, “I don't usually get to eat such delicious meals.”

      
“Aunt Vi's the best cook in Pasadena,” said Billy matter-of-factly.

      
“In the United States,” I amended. For the life of me, I couldn't make myself smile at Sam. I have a feeling the look I gave him was more like a glower or a grimace, because he appeared slightly startled. To heck with him.

      
The roast pork was delicious, as were the mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, applesauce, and salad. Ma's pie turned out okay, too, which was a surprise to me. I think Ma was a little surprised herself. Like I said, neither one of us could hold a candle to Vi when it came to cooking.

      
Conversation around the table was lively. Billy asked me about Mrs. Bissel's spirit (or ghost), and I told everyone my suspicions about stray cats or mice. I left out the spaghetti tin and the sheet, blanket, and wet bowl. I also left out my fears about bears, lions, lunatics, and escaped criminals, although I did ask Sam if he knew of any escapees who might live in the Pasadena area. He grinned at me.

      
“Not that I know of.” He shoveled another bite of pie into his mouth. “If we knew where an escapee was living, he wouldn't be an escapee for long.”

      
Billy and Pa laughed.

      
“Good.” His news didn't make me feel appreciably better, although it was rather comforting to know I was safe from any known criminals. Then again, the only way a body becomes a known criminal is to be nabbed and jailed. Who knew how many unknown villains were skulking about Mrs. Bissel's neighborhood? It was a good neighborhood and full of rich people and mansions, but that's the logical place for a criminal bent upon theft or worse to hang out, wasn't it?

      
“But,” Billy said, grinning, “one of Pasadena's finest families has misplaced a daughter.”

      
We all stopped chewing and gazed at Billy. “I beg your pardon?” I didn't really want any raisin pie, which is a little rich for me. I wanted more roast pork--so I had seconds.

      
“It's true,” said Sam. He was grinning, too. He passed a plate full of pie to Billy.

      
I didn't think losing a daughter was anything to grin about, although I didn't get nasty yet. I'd learned that a hasty temper often led to embarrassment, and I didn't want to jump the gun. Besides, I figured they were teasing me in an attempt to make me get mad and then feel foolish. I resented that. Lately, I resented everything.

      
“There's got to be more to the story than that,” I said. Then, to make sure I didn't holler at Sam for being snide and uncaring, I jammed more roast pork and gravy into my mouth and chewed viciously.

      
“There is,” said Billy. “But Sam had better tell you about it. I can't remember it all.”

      
“My goodness,” said Ma, fascinated. “How can a family misplace a daughter? I'm sure I never misplaced Daisy or Walter or Daphne.” Walter and Daphne are my siblings. They were both married and rearing their own families in 1920. “Children are too important to misplace.”

      
Have I mentioned my mother's lack of imagination? She also doesn't have much of a sense of humor. Although she's probably the sweetest, nicest human being in the entire world, she can't appreciate nonsense the way Pa and Aunt Vi and I can. “I think Sam was joking, Ma,” I told her gently.

      
“Oh.” She looked blankly from Billy to Sam to Pa, who winked at her. She colored slightly.

      
This exchange between my parents made me want to cry some more. Shoot. I knew I was in bad shape when I got mushy and sentimental because my parents loved each other.

      
“I didn't mean to be flippant, Mrs. Gumm,” Sam said, sounding chastened, although I didn't believe it. Sam Rotondo didn't give a rap about other people's feelings. Except maybe Billy's. I know for a certified fact that he never once had a thought to spare for my own personal feelings.

      
I said, “Hmmm,” and ate more pork. I was making up for my missed lunch and then some. “I thought you coppers weren't supposed to talk about your cases until they were solved.” I'd gleaned this information from the detective novels I loved to read.

      
“That's true, for the most part,” said Sam after swallowing a bite of pie. “This time, the entire city of Pasadena's going to know about it tomorrow, because the family's placing an item in the newspapers.”

      
“My goodness.” I shoveled up more mashed potatoes and gravy, interested in spite of myself. I think I even forgot to frown at Sam.

      
He turned toward me. “Do you know a family named Wagner, Mrs. Majesty? Dr. and Mrs. Everhard Wagner?”

      
I swallowed my potatoes, surprised. “The Wagners? Sure, I know them . . . kind of. Well, I don't really
know
them. They've attended parties at Mrs. Kincaid's house when I've been conducting séances. Aren't their children all grown up? Don't tell me one of them is missing.”

      
“I can't not tell you that, because one of them
is
missing.”

      
“Good grief.” I was so shocked, I forgot to take another bite of my second helping of everything. “Which one?”

      
“Their youngest daughter, Marianne.”

      
“How awful.” Ma put her napkin to her lips and for a minute, I was afraid she might burst into tears. She might not have any imagination or a sense of humor, but she was a gracious, sensitive woman, and she hated to hear about stuff like this.

      
“Do they have any idea what happened to her?” I tried to place Marianne, but she wouldn't come into focus in my brain.

      
Dr. Wagner, whom I didn't like upon our first meeting because he was pompous, supercilious, and domineering, had definitely been the head of his household. Mrs. Wagner was your average doormat. She acted as though she was scared of her husband, which seemed sensible, actually. I know I wouldn't want to get on the doctor's bad side, and I suspected his bad side was his largest.

      
I sort of began to remember Marianne, although from what I recalled of her, she was a silent, shrinking thing who was forever trying to fade into the wallpaper. Her brothers were dreadful young men. I got the feeling they'd been taught bullying techniques from their father, and had been good pupils. None of the Wagners were exactly my cup of tea.

      
After eating another bite of pie, Sam resumed his story. “At first, they thought she might have been kidnapped for ransom.”

      
“Good heavens!” Now it was Aunt Vi who looked shocked and worried.

      
“But,” Sam continued, “no ransom note has been received. Therefore, we've pretty much ruled out kidnapping for ransom. That's why they're placing a notice in the papers.”

      
“How long has she been missing?” I wanted to know.

      
“A little over two weeks.”

      
“Two
weeks
? And they're only just now trying to find her?”

      
“They've been trying to find her ever since she failed to return home from the library one evening.” Sam gave me a fair imitation of one of Dr. Wagner's supercilious sneers. “As I said, at first they feared she'd been kidnapped for ransom and they didn't want to advertise her absence or let the presumed kidnappers know they'd contacted the police department. The police have been searching for her ever since her disappearance was reported.”

      
“But wait a minute here,” I said, deciding to ignore his sneer, since I had a feeling no one else at the table would deem it supercilious, I being the only one present who considered Sam a fiend. “This doesn't make any sense to me. Marianne Wagner is a rich girl. Rich girls don't disappear for no reason. I think the ransom idea is the only one that makes any sense. Surely she couldn't just vanish off the face of the earth on purpose.”

      
Sam shrugged and scraped up the last of the pie filling on his plate with his fork. “She seems to have done exactly that, although I'm not sure about the
on purpose
part.”

      
“Hmmm.” Gee, I wasn't even hungry anymore, which demonstrates how good a juicy bit of gossip is for one's various pangs. The pork roast probably helped, too.

      
Silence settled over the table, the only noise being the soft chewing and swallowing sounds coming from some of us. After a moment, Sam sat back in his chair and looked my way again, unconsciously patting his stomach. “How much do you know about the Wagners, Mrs. Majesty? If I'd known you were familiar with them, I'd have asked you sooner.”

      
“I don't know much.” Concentrating, I tried to recollect everything I knew or had ever heard about the family. “I can't imagine Marianne running away from home. Now, if it were Stacy Kincaid . . .”

      
“But it isn't,” said Sam, and he added, “unfortunately.”

      
“Right,” I said. “That is too bad.”