Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (4 page)

      
I think Quincy and James and I felt somehow akin to each other. We were all three trying to make a living from wealthy people, and both of our professions were dependent upon people who possessed more money than sense. I mean, face it, most people couldn’t afford to own a dozen horses in those days any more than they could afford to hire spiritualists.

      
Be that as it may, I liked Mrs. Kincaid. I know there’s a big Red movement in the country, even to this day. In 1920 there were strikes in progress everywhere, and there had been a depression raging since the war ended. Lots of soldiers couldn’t find jobs, and the dollar’s value had dropped to less than fifty cents of its value in pre-war money, which hurt us more than it did people like the Kincaids. A few people thought they were being funny when they said that a man without a dollar was fifty cents better off than he once was, but it wasn’t funny to us. There’s always been a huge division between rich folks and the rest of us and there probably always will be.

      
But as far as I’m concerned, you can keep Communism, Anarchism, Socialism and all the other political “isms.” I’d bet money, if I had any to throw around on any pursuit so useless, that nobody in Russia would hire me to communicate with their dead relatives. Only rich people could afford to do that then, and only rich people can afford to do that now.

      
Not only that, but it was the Kincaids of this world who gave me hope. Or people like that fellow Hearst, who started the Spanish-American War and then bought the newspapers. Shoot, all he’d had were money and words, and look what he’s done with them. You couldn’t do that in Russia, especially now, with the Czar dead and that crazy man Lenin in charge.

      
“Thanks, fellas.” I saluted Quincy and James and headed for the front door. I wouldn’t have minded using the back door, but Mrs. Kincaid had been shocked when I’d asked her if she’d rather I come in that way. That had made me feel quite good, actually, and it was one of the reasons I never refused to work for Mrs. Kincaid, even when her séances were inconvenient.

      
Sometimes I wondered how much money a family had to have if they wanted to hire a butler. Not that we needed one on Marengo. Heck, there’d be no place to put him if we could afford one. Everyone called the Kincaids’ butler Featherstone. Just Featherstone. Not Mr. Featherstone or First Name Featherstone. He was just Featherstone, as if he didn’t have a first name or a title.

      
To judge by Featherstone’s accent, he’d come from England. I thought that was elegant. Imagine, importing a man from England just to answer your door and carry things on trays.

      
On the other hand, sometimes I wondered about old Featherstone. He was so perfect for the job, it was difficult for me to believe he wasn’t acting the role of a butler, sort of like I was acting the role of a medium. Then again, maybe because my own line of work was based on misrepresentation and flummery, I was jaded.

      
Because I couldn’t help myself, I grinned at Featherstone when he opened the door. I always grinned at him. He never grinned back. “Hi-ho, Featherstone. Lead me to the ghouls.”

      
Stepping aside, his back as stiff as his countenance and his demeanor much more formal than that of anyone else I’d ever seen even in Pasadena, Featherstone said somberly, “Mrs. Majesty. Please come this way.” Not a smile. Not a wink. Nothing to tell me if he believed in the spiritualist nonsense I perpetrated or not. He was quite a guy, Featherstone.

      
“Sure thing,” I said brightly. I followed him down the hall, contemplating whether or not it would be a good idea to whistle. I decided against it. My own physical demeanor practically radiated mysticism and the occult arts; a whistle would have been out of character, no matter what my innards felt like.

      
Unfortunately, although they seldom felt jolly in those days, my innards never felt mystical or cryptic, either. Therefore, I composed myself as I followed Featherstone through the massive entrance hall and to the right, where Mrs. Kincaid had everyone gather before one of my séances.

      
To most of us normal, every-day folks the room would have been called the parlor or the living room. To Mrs. Kincaid, it was the drawing room. That used to puzzle me until somebody, can’t remember who, told me “drawing room” was short for “withdrawing room,” because it was the room where people retired, or “withdrew,” to chat and visit. That kind of made sense to me, but not much.

      
I had just caught sight of Edie, who was serving canapés and drinks to the guests, and had only had time to nod at her when I heard my name spoken loudly. “Mrs. Majesty!” Mrs. Kincaid had clearly been awaiting my arrival with more anxiety than was usual for her, because she was generally more composed than this.

      
Maybe she was edgy because of the purpose for this séance. It was one thing to raise a long-dead uncle from the Great Beyond. It must be unnerving to be trying to get in touch with a young man who was only a year or so dead, and who was still deeply mourned. Thinking about it made me want to shudder, so I stopped thinking. Anyhow, Mrs. Kincaid was rushing over to me, holding both hands out, so I didn’t have time to entertain gruesome thoughts or walk across the room and chat with Edie. Anyhow, we were both working, so I couldn’t have done more than say hello.

      
“Good evening, Mrs. Kincaid.” She was a truly nice woman. I appreciated her friendliness to me, a Gumm. We Gumms weren’t accustomed to being fawned over by rich people. Not even I, who’d been dealing with them for years, more or less on an equal footing. I was no longer skittish as a cat in huge mansions, but I didn’t think I’d ever get really used to them.

      
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Mrs. Majesty. Here, let me introduce you to everyone.” Still holding on to my hand—I was glad I’d remembered to put on my black gloves—she led me into the thick of things.

      
There must have been more than twenty people there including Mrs. Kincaid’s husband, who didn’t join in these social gatherings as a rule. He wasn’t a sociable man and he never smiled, maybe because he, like Billy, was confined to a wheelchair.

      
I don’t think he’d ever been cheerful like Billy, though. He looked as if he’d been a grump from birth, and I wondered why Mrs. Kincaid had married him. After all, she was the one with the money. She might have married Mr. Algernon Pinkerton, who was a good friend of hers and was very friendly and merry, or even Father Frederick, who was as nice as they come, and since he was an Episcopalian, even though he was a priest, he was allowed to marry. I think. Then again, maybe he was married already. I never saw him with a wife in tow, but it isn’t wise to suppose too much, even though I love to do it.

      
But she hadn’t. She’d married Mr. Eustace Kincaid for some reason beyond my ken. Rumor had it that Mr. Kincaid had been a clerk in her father’s stock-brokerage firm in New York when they’d met. Now he sat stoop-shouldered in his wheelchair, his face a mask of glowering disapproval. His eyes, which were black and piggy and small, made him look mean and hateful even before you realized he really
was
mean and hateful.

      
He nodded to me, giving me a smile that reminded me of lemon juice and unripe persimmons. Wrinkles radiated from his pinched lips, and his eyebrows were gray and bushy and recalled to my mind caterpillars or unshorn sheep. His voice was as thin as his hair, both of which were far thinner than his eyebrows. “Good evening, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
Thank God for my supply of gracious smiles. I tossed one at Mr. Kincaid and said, “How do you do, Mr. Kincaid?” in the deep velvety voice I’d cultivated for my business.

      
“Not well,” he said.

      
He said no more, which left me sort of dangling there uncertainly. After mulling it over for a second or two, still smiling graciously, I murmured, “I’m so sorry,” and moved away from the old goat, wondering if reading the Spanish phrase book I glimpsed when his lap robe stirred would cheer him up. Perusing Spanish phrases didn’t sound like my idea of a cheery occupation. I’d rather read a novel, but maybe it was a rich man’s thing. Whatever the reason for the phrase book, I don’t like cranky people, and I
really
didn’t like Mr. Kincaid.

      
Fortunately, Mrs. Kincaid never paid much attention to her husband. She’d already flitted off to another group of people where she stood, looking at me in anticipation. I wafted after her, leaving old Kincaid to his wheelchair, his Spanish phrase book, and his crotchets, and went up to the group with which Mrs. Kincaid stood.

      
Mr. Pinkerton was there, smiling at my approach, as was his wont. It felt as if I were leaving winter behind and entering a springtime garden, so different was Mr. Kincaid from Mr. Pinkerton. He’d even asked me to call him Algie, although I never did, mainly because every time I said his name I thought of moss and scum on a pond, and I tended to giggle.

      
“This is my sister Ruth Lilley, Mrs. Majesty,” Mrs. Kincaid said when I joined her group. “Ruth, let me introduce you to Mrs. Desdemona Majesty. We call her Daisy.” Mrs. Kincaid smiled as if I were her favorite child or a playful puppy.

      
“How do you do, Mrs. Majesty.” Mrs. Lilley listlessly extended her right hand to me.

      
I didn’t have any trouble knowing what to say to this lady. I recognized the lines of anguish on her face as the same kind I’d seen on lots of faces since the war started, including my own. I took her hand in both of mind and applied gentle pressure. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Lilley. I hope I can help you this evening, if only for a little while.”

      
Tears welled in her eyes, and I felt awful for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Majesty.” She returned the pressure of my hands. “I must say, I wasn’t very enthusiastic when Madeline suggested we hold a séance for Bartholomew, but you seem like a kind woman. I’m sure you mean well.”

      
“Oh, yes,” I said, almost bursting into tears myself. “What I do is only meant to ease the hearts of those of us who are left behind on this plane.” I’d learned to talk like that, about planes, dimensions, altered states and so forth years before. It was second nature to me now.

      
“Mrs. Majesty suffered her own tragedy, Ruth,” Mrs. Kincaid said in something of a stage whisper. “Her husband of only a few months was grievously wounded in the war and is now confined to a wheelchair.” I expected her to add something about her own husband who was similarly confined, but she didn’t. I got the feeling she didn’t think about Mr. Kincaid any more often than she was forced to, which made sense to me.

      
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Lilley tightened her grip on my hands and looked even more miserable than she’d looked before.

      
Darn it. I hated it when people felt sorry for me. “We’re coping. Thank you for your sympathy. My loss is nothing compared with yours.” This was getting deep and sticky, and I really wanted to change the subject.

      
Mrs. Lilley left off squeezing my hand and patted it before letting it go, as if it was too heavy for her to hold any longer. “You’re a nice girl, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
“Please,” I said, “call me Daisy. Everyone does.”

      
“Very well. Daisy.” For the first time since I’d entered the room, Mrs. Lilley appeared interested in something. “Is Daisy short for Desdemona?”

      
At least one person asked me that every time I did one of these things. I gave her my standard answer. “In a manner of speaking.” I wasn’t going to admit to this poor sad woman that I’d adopted the name when I was ten years old because I thought I was merely playing a silly game.

      
Algie Pinkerton beamed at me as if I were something wonderful when Mrs. Kincaid dragged me off. I didn’t feel wonderful. I felt terrible when I looked back and saw Mrs. Lilley standing there, looking small and lost and alone.

      
It was hard losing a husband and a cousin to war, as I knew full well; but it must be pure hell to lose a child. I couldn’t bear thinking about it. Not that I’d ever have children if things continued the way they were going, since poor Billy was unable to sire kids any longer. That was too unhappy a situation to contemplate at present, so I concentrated on comparing the sisters.

      
Mrs. Madeline Kincaid was a well-preserved woman of middle age, maybe fifty or thereabouts. She had brown hair that I imagined she dyed, because my ma was fifty, and she had gray hair. Of course, Ma’d had to work for a living all her life, and hard work might have faded the color from her hair follicles. I understand that sometimes happens.

      
I don’t know for a fact that Mrs. Kincaid dyed her hair, but she was a nice-looking woman. Not pretty exactly, but
nice
, as in friendly and kind. Her clothes were something wonderful. I’m sure she didn’t make them herself, although they were custom-made, like her Ouija Board had been. Well, I knew for a fact that she had a lady come in to her house and sew for her, because I knew the lady, Mrs. Liljenwall, who was a friend of my mother’s.

      
Mrs. Kincaid always dressed in the latest fashions even though she was a teensy bit plump. She never looked dowdy, though. She was tall enough to wear her clothes well in spite of her heft.

      
Her sister, Ruth Lilley, was something else again. She looked like she’d been through hell and come back singed. She was very thin. Actually, emaciated is the word that springs to mind when I think about Mrs. Lilley. I don’t know if she she’d always been thin, or if she’d lost weight after her son was killed overseas, but she could stand to borrow a few pounds from her sister. She, too, was dressed in the height of fashion, although she looked sort of as though somebody had thrown her dress over her head while she wasn’t looking, like a department store mannequin. Her gown was black and had an interesting lacy bodice, her hair was a mousy brown and had recently been marcelled. And she was as pale as a ghost.