Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (41 page)

      
“Hope I haven't made you wait too long,” I said breathlessly.

      
George rose and walked over to me, both hands extended, a smile a mile wide on his face. “We just got through with all the preliminaries,” he told me. “You're right on time.”

      
“Huh,” said Sam.

      
When I looked at him, he was peering at his pocket watch. I figured he was only being unpleasant for the heck of it, so I paid him no mind and rushed over to Marianne after I'd given George a big hug. “I'm so happy for you, Marianne!”

      
She'd stood up when she saw me. When I handed her the flowers and said, “These are from Billy and me,” she threw her arms around me and started crying. Oh, boy. Why do I have this effect on some people?

      
“Oh, Daisy, I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me. You even spoke back to my father!”

      
“So did you,” I reminded her.

      
I'd done more than talk back to her old man, but I didn't mention it. In Marianne's mind, standing up to her father was the bravest thing a person could do. Risking imprisonment didn't even show up on her list, I'd wager. I glanced at Sam over Marianne's bowed head, but he hadn't hauled out the handcuffs, so I figured I was safe at least until the ceremony was over.

      
“It was nothing,” I purred.

      
“Yeah, yeah,” said Sam, as cross as ever. “Let's get this show on the road. We were only waiting for you. The judge is ready.”

      
Since it didn't seem appropriate to snap at Sam with Marianne and George, madly in love and eager as anything, standing there watching, I smiled graciously. “Of course. Let's go.”

      
It took very little time to tie the knot; much less time that I remembered from my own wedding. I guess that's because this one took place before a judge at City Hall. Marianne and I both cried, of course. What's the point of attending weddings if you can't cry during them? Sam eyed me as I dabbed at my eyes, but I only lifted my chin and tried to pay no attention. He was big, though, and hard to ignore.

      
When it was over, I wrote my name on the form the clerk handed me. The judge and the clerk and Marianne and George and I were all grinning like mad. Sam signed his name, too, looking as sober and unmoved as ever. I felt like a mother hen watching her chick grow up when George took Marianne's hand and they began walking down the corridor toward the front door of the building.

      
Sam and I flanked the happy couple. “What do you plan to do now?” I asked. “Or do you even know? This was kind of sudden.”

      
George laughed. “I think what I'll do right now is drive Marianne to her new home and carry her over the threshold. I left the store so abruptly, I don't think I even remembered to turn out the lights, so I'd better go back and lock up.”

      
“I'm so happy,” Marianne whispered.

      
“I'm glad, darling,” George told her lovingly. “So am I.”

      
I vaguely recalled Billy talking to me in that sappy tone of voice once or twice before he left for France. After heaving a huge sigh, I said, “I hope you two will have a wonderful life together.”

      
“I'm sure we will,” said George, sounding as if he believed it.

      
“I'm so happy,” Marianne repeated. She, on the other hand, sounded as if she was in a trance--a real one, as opposed to the ones I used in my job.

      
Sam and I walked them to George's Cadillac and stood there, waving, until the motorcar got lost in the traffic. I sighed again. “Well, that's over.”

      
“Yeah,” said Sam. “I don't suppose you'd like to tell me about it.”

      
I glanced up at him and chewed my lip for a second. “Um, there's nothing to tell. Nothing more than you already know. Honest.” My gaze fell to his hands, just to make sure he wasn't reaching for his gun or the handcuffs or anything else of a restraining nature.

      
“Huh.” He turned, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, and walked toward his Hudson.

      
Was I really going to get off that easily? I took a step after him, intending to ask if he planned to arrest me, but stopped. What was the matter with me, anyway? Might as well accept good fortune when it presented itself, even if I didn't believe it would last. Still a little shaky, I went to the front of the Model T and grabbed the crank. I really hate cranking cars. I couldn't wait until I could replace the old clunker.

      
The blasted car wouldn't start. I cranked and fiddled with the choke wire and the high-speed pedal and the low-speed pedal, and the Model T sat there like the chunk of metal it was, and wouldn't even cough at me. Standing back, I put my fists on my hips and glared at it. Glaring at the Ford was approximately as effective as glaring at Sam Rotondo, which means not at all.

      
“Need a lift?”

      
It was Sam. Of course. With a sinking feeling in my heart, I gave up. I knew my escape from justice had been too good to last. “Thanks, Sam.”

      
He got out and opened the door for me, a courtesy I hadn't anticipated from this source. Since his car didn't require a crank or a choke wire or a high- or low-speed pedal, all Sam had to do was press the starter button and drive. What freedom!

      
Concluding I'd best not think about freedom, since I was probably going to lose mine soon, I sat sedately and stared out through the windshield. Sam didn't speak. So I didn't, either.

      
It wasn't until he pulled up in front of our bungalow on Marengo that he turned to me. I braced myself. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked.

      
“There's nothing to tell,” I said. I knew the cuffs were only seconds away from my wrists.

      
Sam didn't move. He only stared some more. I stared back. He knew I was lying. I knew he knew. He knew I knew he knew.

      
And still he said nothing.

      
At last I said, “Listen, Sam, are you going to arrest me or not?”

      
“For what?”

      
“
I
don't know! You said something about obstructing justice, although I have no idea what justice I obstructed.”

      
He didn't speak. My nerves began to jump around like water on a hot griddle.

      
After what seemed like forever, he released a huge breath, shook his head, and said, “You're home.”

      
I knew that. After a moment, I said, “That's it?”

      
“That's it.”

      
I swallowed and decided to pretend it really
was
it, at least until something awful happened. “Thanks for the ride, Sam.”

      
“You're welcome.”

      
He didn't get out to open the door for me. I didn't push my luck and did it myself.

      
Spike was overjoyed to see me. Billy seemed happy, too.

Chapter Twenty
 

      
We went up to the foothills and chopped down a Christmas tree after church on Sunday. The weather was as crisp and clean as anything, and we had a great time.

      
Pa and I sawed down the six-foot fir tree that Billy and I had picked out, and the two of us laid it in the pony cart. Although Pa had gone down to the courthouse and fiddled with the Model T until it started, we'd decided the motorcar was too untrustworthy to be taken into the mountains. Brownie, our stubborn old cart horse, was unreliable, too, but at least he didn't have to be cranked (being plenty cranky to begin with, according to Pa, who liked his puns).

      
Aunt Vi and Ma met us at the door when we returned and brought the tree in. We drank hot cocoa and ate Aunt Vi's delicious Christmas cookies while we decorated the tree.

      
I've always treasured the memory of that afternoon, because it was so wonderful to be in the bosom of my family and to have no more than the usual problems hanging over my head. No longer did I have to worry about Marianne or her bestial father or whether she'd be discovered hiding in George's cottage. All I had to worry about was Billy, my morals, and Sam coming over all the time to irk me. I was accustomed to those problems, so I was comfortable again.

      
Along about five o'clock, a knock came at the door. This wasn't an unusual happenstance, since we were a sociable family and it was the season for visiting one's neighbors. I trotted over and opened the door, scooping up Spike along the way, since I didn't want him barreling outside.

      
A special-delivery messenger stood at the door in his gray uniform and cap, holding out a parcel. I thanked him, tipped him, and took the parcel indoors, thinking it was probably a Christmas present from one of our relatives back east, even though it was extremely unusual for them to spend money on special delivery--and a
Sunday
special delivery was unheard of in my family.

      
The package was addressed to me. I nearly dropped it when I read my name.

      
“What is it?” Billy wanted to know.

      
For that matter, everyone wanted to know what it was. They gathered around me as if I were a magnet and they were steel shavings.

      
“I don't know.”

      
“Is it a Christmas present?” asked Ma.

      
“I don't know.”

      
“Why don't you open it and find out?” my practical husband suggested.

      
Because I was afraid of it, was why. I couldn't say that. I turned the package over in my hands. It didn't
look
like a bomb. It didn't look like Christmas present. At last I said, “What the heck,” and untied the string. And then I sat with a
whump
on the sofa, staring for all I was worth at the contents of the package.

      
“Daisy, what is it?” Billy sounded worried.

      
“What's wrong, darling?” Ma.

      
“Is it something bad?” Vi.

      
“Say, little girl, what's going on?” Pa.

      
I held up several greenbacks. They were fifty-dollar bills. “It's . . .” I had to swallow. “It's money.”

      
My family uttered a collective gasp and stood mute, as if they were all unable to speak. I was in the same condition myself. With shaking hands I lifted the card and opened it. It read,
Thank you so much
, and it was signed,
Diane Marie Cutler Wagner.
I held up the card for all to see.

      
I couldn't accept the money. I didn't need to be paid for doing a good deed. Leaping to my feet, I rushed to the bedroom, snatched my coat out of the closet, stuffed the money into my handbag, and raced to the door. “I'm going to have to take the Ford. Wish me luck.”

      
They all knew where I was going, because I'd told them about George's participation in the Marianne affair. I didn't know if they'd be at the bookstore. In fact, I was pretty sure they wouldn't be, but the store was closer to our house than George's house on Catalina, and I didn't dare show up at Dr. Wagner's house. If the bookstore failed me, I'd try to coax the Model T up Catalina Avenue.

      
For once my luck was good. Lights glowed in the store as I parked the Model T. I ran to the front door and whacked on it until George unlocked it and pulled it open.

      
“Daisy! For heaven's sake, what's wrong?”

      
I pushed past him into the store. My hands were almost frozen solid. “Is Marianne here?”

      
“Marianne? Sure, she's here. So's her mother. We were just showing her around the store.”

      
I probably looked like a raving lunatic when I turned on George. “Mrs. Wagner's here? Now?”

      
“Daisy, what's the matter? Has something happened to Billy?”

      
“Billy?” I stared at him. “Why should anything have happened to Billy?”

      
“I don't know, but something's obviously wrong.”

      
“No. No. But I need to talk to Mrs. Wagner. Now.”

      
Shaking his head as if he were giving me up as a lost cause, he said, “Of course. Come with me.”

      
Marianne and her mother sat together behind the counter, holding hands. Mrs. Wagner looked even worse than when she'd attended the séance. She looked as if she hadn't slept for a month, there were huge circles under her eyes, and there was a big bruise on her cheek. I could guess who'd put it there. Somebody would be doing the world, not to mention Diane Wagner, a big favor if he shot Dr. Wagner dead.

      
Rising from her chair, Marianne glowed at me. “Daisy! I'm so glad you came! You know my mother, don't you?”

      
Mrs. Wagner got up, too, and gazed at me shyly. “How do you do, Mrs. Majesty?”

      
“I'm fine, thanks. It's good to see you, Marianne.” I sucked in a huge breath. I hadn't even counted the money, and we could sure use it, but I hadn't earned it. I fumbled a bit, but managed to pull the package out of my handbag. Thrusting it at Mrs. Wagner, I said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Wagner, but I can't accept this.”

      
She didn't take it, but only smiled sadly. “I won't take it back, Mrs. Majesty. It's yours.” She gestured at the package.