Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (20 page)

      
Okay, so I know divorce is scandalous and bad and evil and all that, I still think it’s better than being tied to a criminal—and an unpleasant one at that—for decades without recourse. I also knew Mrs. Kincaid was an Episcopalian, because of the Father Frederick connection, and they were pretty stuffy about most things. But I didn’t think they’d excommunicate a person like the Catholics do if she got divorced. Maybe I was wrong.

      
“Listen, Mrs. Majesty. I
do
appreciate your help. But I still can’t divulge particulars of the case with you. The information we have is confidential. We can’t chat with every Tom, Dick, and Harry about it.”

      
“I’m not any Tom, Dick, or Harry, blast you! I just spied for you! Against my better judgment, too, darn it, and I’ll bet I gave you valuable information. And you won’t tell me anything! I don’t blab, if that’s what’s worrying you.” I felt like calling him names, but didn’t think that would suit my dignified demeanor.

      
I could tell he’d started gritting his teeth because his jaw protrude. “I should think,” he said in a disagreeable, measured voice, “that any right-thinking citizen would be happy to assist the police in their work and in the apprehension of criminals. This case is important, Mrs. Majesty. It involves a lot of money and may well affect a lot of people if we can’t stop whatever’s happening in the bank.”

      
“I know that! That’s the only reason I agreed to spy for you!”

      
“Will you stop calling it spying?” His voice had risen.

      
“No!” So had mine. “That’s what it is! And you’re expecting me to spill my guts to you when you won’t tell me a thing.”

      
“Pipe down, will you?”

      
Now that was unfair. He’d shouted first. I didn’t point it out, because it had occurred to me that if I riled him too much, he’d stop asking for my help, and I’d be out of the picture entirely, and never learn all the best dirt about this situation. I was still incensed, though.

      
He spoke first, so I didn’t have to think up another good reason for him to tell me what was going on. “All right. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

      
Success! Boy, that didn’t happen often.

      
He leaned over his desk. I leaned over from the other side until our heads almost touched. I knew how to be confidential. Shoot, my entire livelihood was based on confidences and keeping them.

      
“The information you’ve supplied today confirms what we’d expected. A teller at the bank came in to the station last week, almost shaking with worry and fear, claiming he’d been unable to find some bearer bonds.” His dark eyes narrowed into a squint that he directed at me. I tried not to react, although his eyes were really beautiful, which I considered (and still consider) unfair. His eyelashes were dark and long. Stacy Kincaid would kill for lashes like that. “The teller seems to think your Mr. Farrington might be to blame.”

      
“He’s
not
my Mr. Farrington, and the teller is wrong.”

      
I knew it. It burned me up that Rotondo didn’t. I suspected, too, that his doubt about Mr. Farrington was based not on anything real or tangible, but because poor Mr. Farrington was a “faggot.” Nuts. I guess being a spiritualist broadens your mind, because I didn’t think it was fair to judge people just because they were different from you. Heck, Mr. Kincaid wasn’t one of “those” people, and he rotten to the core. Mr. Farrington
was
one of them, and he was a sweetheart. Just went to show that you never could tell.

      
“We’ll see,” said the detective unconvincingly.

      
I wouldn’t let him get away with that. We were still hunched together, so I whispered as harshly as I could without being overheard, “Mr. Farrington is
not
guilty. You’d better not try to railroad him, either!”

      
That got to him with a vengeance. His voice actually shook when he growled, “We are servants of the public, and we do not
railroad
people, Mrs. Majesty. I’m trying to get to the bottom of the bank mess.”

      
Glad I’d riled him, I settled back in my chair and sniffed. “We’ll just have to wait see about that, won’t we?”

      
I’ll bet he’d have run his hands through his hair or jumped up and stamped his feet if we’d been in a private place. His fellow policemen were in the room (and surreptitiously watching us, if I’m any judge of these things—and I am) so he couldn’t.

      
His jaw bunched some more. “Did you hear anything else that might be of use to us, Mrs. Majesty?”

      
I thought hard. “I don’t think so. Only that Mr. Farrington is sure Mr. Harold Kincaid’s father is behind the disappearance of the bonds, and Harold agrees with him.”

      
Rotondo’s eyebrows arched like little fuzzy caterpillars over his pretty brown eyes. “Why would the younger Mr. Kincaid say something like that?”

      
“Probably because he knows his father.” I sniffed again.

      
He cocked his head at me. “You don’t seem to care much for Mr. Kincaid, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
“Perceptive of you.”

      
“May I ask why?”

      
“Sure, you can ask.”

      
It pleased me to see his jaw bulge again. “Would you mind answering?”

      
Well, now, that presented a problem. I’d promised Edie that I wouldn’t say anything about Mr. Kincaid’s pursuit of her. It galled me that I never broke my promises. Every now and then honor and ethics can be a pain in the neck. “He’s rude, mean, insensitive, and he treats his wife badly.” There. That took care of it all, although not as specifically as I’d have liked.

      
“In what way does he treat his wife badly?”

      
Trust this man to pry. “I’m not at liberty to say.” I thought for a second and added, “Although the word ‘liberty’ might offer a clue.”

      
After a minute, it did, and I saw the light dawn in Rotondo’s eyes. I might not have liked him much, but I couldn’t say he was a stupid man.

      
I left the police station feeling as though I’d done my civic duty. Now I only hoped the Pasadena Police Department in general, and Detective Samuel Rotondo in particular, would use my information, cast aside their prejudices, and arrest the right man.

Chapter Ten
 

      
They didn’t. I might have expected as much. I also had a sinking feeling that at least part of the disaster ensuing from this failure had its roots in my spilling the beans to Quincy.

      
The telephone rang about 8:30 the next morning. Ma and Aunt Vi had already gone off to work, Billy was on the sun porch enjoying the late spring weather, and Pa was God knew where. Probably having breakfast at a café with some of his cronies or walking Brownie around the neighborhood. Pa loved to ride horses. Even though he’d always made his living with automobiles, he rued the day the horse had become passé as a means of transportation in the city. Needless to say, Brownie didn’t share his opinion.

      
I’d been in the living room dusting the furniture and sweeping the carpet with the old carpet sweeper Aunt Vi had brought home from Mrs. Kincaid’s house a couple of years earlier. As soon as I heard the telephone, I raced from the living room to the kitchen, knowing that everybody else on the party line would already be there even though it had been our ring. I harbored a faint hope that I could forestall the calling party from hanging up from sheer bewilderment.

      
Sure enough, when I picked up the receiver, I heard Harold Kincaid’s voice communing with Mrs. Barrow and Mrs. Lynch and Mrs. Pollard and Mrs. Mayweather, all of whom were on our line and all of whom were probably already busily plotting gossip about Daisy Majesty getting a telephone call from a man.

      
I sighed and butted in. “Hi, everyone. It’s for me, Daisy Majesty.” The clicks of three receivers being hung up sounded like a telegraph message in my ear. I waited for Mrs. Barrow’s click in vain. “Mrs. Barrow? This call is for me.” Mrs. Barrow’s click was perniciously loud. But she was off the wire.

      
“Harold? Is that you?”

      
“Oh, God, Daisy, you’ve got to come over to Mother’s right away!”

      
I did? “What’s the matter? Is your mother sick? Oh, Harold, she hasn’t had a stroke or anything, has she?”

      
“A stroke? No. Why would you think that?”

      
Thank God. I’d hate it if Mrs. Kincaid got sick. “Well, you sound so upset. I just wondered.”

      
“You can rest assured about her health. It isn’t that bad. At least I don’t think it is. The fact is, my father has disappeared.”

      
I was so astonished, my mouth fell open and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
It’s about time
didn’t seem appropriate, even if neither Harold nor I liked his father much.

      
“Daisy? Are you there? Don’t you disappear on me, too.”

      
I swallowed hard. “Er, yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, Harold. I was just so—so shocked. What do you mean he’s disappeared?”

      
“Just what I said. He was here last night, and he isn’t here this morning.”

      
“But where’d he go?” I’d have bet, if anyone cared, that the villain had taken off with the bearer bonds.

      
“If I knew where he’d gone, he wouldn’t have disappeared, would he?”

      
I could tell Harold was getting exasperated, but I didn’t know what to do about his present problem. “But . . . but, Harold, people don’t just
disappear
.”

      
“My old man did. What’s more, he’s evidently taken a lot of assets from the bank with him.”

      
Aha! I’d been right.

      
“But it’s worse than that, Daisy.”

      
“What could be worse than that?” Sweet Lord in heaven, he hadn’t kidnapped Edie, had he? I couldn’t ask.

      
“Quincy Applewood has disappeared, too.”

      
I thought my ears had deceived me. “Um, I beg your pardon?”

      
“Quincy Applewood. You know, the lad who parked cars for me last night. He’s gone, too.”

      
“He’s gone where?”

      
“How the hell should I know?” Harold’s voice had risen. I pictured him mopping his damp brow with a fine embroidered handkerchief.

      
“I’m sorry, Harold. But . . . Quincy? I can’t feature Quincy just disappearing. What about Edie?”

      
“That’s another thing. I presume it was Miss Marsh whom my father had been bothering.” He must have heard me suck in air, because he went on, “I don’t want to go into it right now, Daisy, but Father and Quincy had a huge fight last night. They’re both gone this morning, and everyone seems to think Quincy had something to do with Father’s disappearance.”

      
“Good heavens.” I could scarcely take it in. Since I was feeling faintish, I grabbed one of the chairs shoved in at the kitchen table and hauled it over to sit in. Then I sat.

      
“You might say that,” Harold said dryly.

      
“But, Harold, I can’t imagine Quincy doing anything to your father.”

      
“Truth to tell, I can’t, either, but Stacy’s hysterical and keeps screeching that he murdered Father and buried the body in the foothills.”

      
“She
what
?”

      
“You heard me.”

      
I’d heard him, all right. What’s more, I believed him. If there were any justice in the world, and we all know there isn’t, Stacy Kincaid would have been drowned at birth, before she’d had a chance to grow up and spread. “Good Lord.”

      
“Yeah. And then there’s your friend Detective Rotondo—”

      
“He’s not my friend!”

      
“Whoever he is, he’s here and he’s got ideas of his own that sound mighty similar to Stacy’s. Mother’s hysterical, Stacy’s throwing fits and tantrums and being a general nuisance, poor Del is out of his mind with worry about the bank, Father Frederick is wringing his hands, and poor Algie Pinkerton is in the drawing room crying with Mother. I need you, Daisy! You’re the only sane person I know!”

      
That was a nice thing to say. I glanced down at my pretty-but-almost-worn-out pink-checked house dress, covered at the moment with a white apron. I had a scarf tied around my hair to keep the dust out, and was wearing low-heeled tie-up work shoes with black stockings. I looked exactly like a hotel maid, in actual fact. I could just see myself dashing into the Kincaid mansion looking like this. Featherstone would probably bar the door against me.

      
“Give me half an hour, Harold. I need to tidy up.”

      
He agreed to it, urged me to greater speed, and we disconnected the wire.

      
Oh, boy, wasn’t Billy going to love this? With a heavy sigh and a heavier heart, I hung up my apron, put the feather duster back on the hook after shaking it out over the rose bushes (I had planned to water them to get the dust off but would have to postpone that chore), and went into the bedroom.

      
Billy had been reading the newspaper, but he’d also been watching the bedroom door and saw me come in. The paper crinkled to his lap. “What’s up, Daisy?” There was an edge to his voice already.