Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (10 page)

Not Lucille Spinks. She seemed determined to drag the issue on forever—or until someone ratted me out. “Who are the students taking the class?”

Another deep breath calmed me enough not to holler at her. “They’re nine ladies whom the Salvation Army is sponsoring. They all need help for various reasons. Some of them are war refugees and others are people who were down on their luck. The Salvation Army is helping them out. They’re good at that sort of thing. They never turn anyone away.” I’d learned this bit of information from Johnny, who’d hit the skids after he got back from the war. He’d begun drinking heavily and credited the Salvation Army for saving his life. I have no cause to doubt his reasoning on the subject.

“
Oh,” said Lucy. “How nice of them.”

Was it my imagination, or was Lucy making cow’s eyes at Sam? I couldn’t tell. “Yes. They’re a very helpful organization. Very inclusive. As I said, they never turn anyone away.”

Then Lucy proceeded to grill me about the Salvation Army much as she’d grilled me about Sam the prior evening. By the time we finally left the church for home, I was more than ready to escape. Sam, naturally, was invited to partake of our noon dinner. It occurred to me he might have gone to our church that day just so he could come to dinner at our house, but even I, who didn’t give Sam much credit for anything, gave him more credit than that.

* * * * *

Harold Kincaid called me on Tuesday of that week and asked if I’d like to partake of luncheon with him. As I mentioned earlier, Harold didn’t live in Pasadena and he worked as a costumier at a moving-picture studio in Los Angeles. But he’d gone to visit his mother that day, and we generally got together when he was in town.

“
I have to be fitted for a tuxedo,” said he, not sounding particularly happy about it.

“
I’m surprised you don’t have tuxedoes at the studio.”

“
We do.” Harold sighed deeply. “But Mother wants me to get a brand-new one for the wedding. She’s in a dither about it.”

“
Yes,” I said. “She’s been dithering a lot recently. I thought she’d calm down after your sister got religion, but she hasn’t.”

“
Lord, no. She’d probably approve if Stacy had been saved by an Episcopalian, but Mother disapproves of the Salvation Army because they allow poor people to join their ranks. She equates poverty with evil.”

I laughed at that. “Shoot, that’s one of the reasons I like the Salvation Army. Because they don’t care if you’re rich or poor, and they don’t turn you away if you’ve slipped up in life.”

“
You and me both. But you know my mother.”

“
I certainly do. She’s a lovely woman and my best customer, but she is . . . um . . . a little scattered.”

Harold almost howled with laughter.

When he stopped laughing, I said, “Anyhow, I’d love to join you for luncheon. Do you want to meet somewhere, or do you want to pick me up?”

“
I’ll pick you up. Say twelve-thirty?”

“
Sounds good to me.”

I hung up the ’phone, happy to have something to look forward to for once.

Billy, who’d overheard the conversation, didn’t seem at all pleased.

“
Harold,” I told him.

“
I heard. I don’t know why you like that fellow so much, Daisy.”

Borrowing a gesture from Sam Rotondo, my mortal enemy, I shrugged. “He’s nice. And he’s funny, too.”

“
He’s a faggot, for Pete’s sake.”

“
He’s a nice man,” I insisted. “In spite of what you think, I don’t think he had any control over . . . that aspect of his personality.”

“
That
aspect of his personality?
Nuts.”

So there we went again. It seemed to me that anytime I managed to look forward to doing something, Billy would object to it. Kind of took the joy out of life, if you know what I mean. Be that as it may, I said, “Would you like to join us?”

“
No! Cripes, Daisy, I don’t like hanging around with people like that.”

“
People like what, Billy Majesty?” My temper began to erode. Billy’s reason for disliking Harold really irked me. It’s one thing to dislike someone because he does bad things or is mean-tempered or malicious or does something horrid to you. It’s something else entirely to dislike someone just because he’s different from you. “Like kind? Sweet-natured? Generous and funny? Are those the types of people you don’t like to hang around with?”

“
Dammit, Daisy, you know what I mean. I don’t like homosexuals, for Pete’s sake!”

“
Why not? Are you afraid Harold will try to seduce you or something?”

“
That’s disgusting, Daisy,” Billy said solemnly.

“
I just wish you could see past Harold’s one . . . quirk—”

“
You call men loving men a
quirk?
”

“
Yes I do! He can’t help what he is, Billy, any more than you can help what you are.”

And if that wasn’t the wrong thing to say, I don’t know what was. I swear, my mouth gets me into
so
much trouble. I should have learned by that time not to argue with Billy, but it annoyed me that he had such a skewed opinion of a gentle and lovely man. Harold had helped me out more than once when I’d desperately needed someone to rely on. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d been with me when the police raided the speakeasy where I was conducting a séance, but that wasn’t really Harold’s fault. He had intended to be helping me on that occasion, too.

In any case, my ill-chosen words precipitated one of the heated arguments in which both Billy and I ended up hating ourselves. Or maybe we both just hated me. It didn’t matter; I knew it was wrong to argue with my husband. Poor Billy. He really deserved a better wife than I.

By the time Harold drove up to the curb in front of our house in his lovely, jazzy red Stutz Bearcat, I was in a dismally blue mood.

“
I’m sorry, Daisy,” Harold said with true sympathy when I explained why I appeared so downcast. “Your poor husband has a lot on his plate.”

“
I know it. But so do I, Harold! And it makes me mad that he judges people the way he does.”

“
We all do it, sweetie. Believe me, your Billy is no different from ninety-nine percent of the people in the world. Men like Del and me are considered worse than murderers and rapists and other criminous people.”

I brushed a tear from my cheek. “That’s not fair, Harold.”

“
Too true, but there’s not much I can do about it. Or you, either. Besides, you’ve told me more than once that you hate Germans, and I defy you to name one genuine German you know and tell me why you hate that person.”

Grumpy now, I said, “You fight dirty.”

“
But it’s the same thing, Daisy. Your hatred of Germans is as irrational as your husband’s hatred of men like Del and me.”

“
That’s not true. Germans started that war and almost killed Billy. Neither you nor Del has ever done anything awful to Billy. Or anyone else, for that matter. At least not that I know about.”

“
True. But that doesn’t matter. People fear what they don’t understand.” He frowned as he steered his car. “Anyhow, let’s talk about something else. This subject is too depressing.”

“
All right.” After sniffling once or twice and blowing my nose, I asked, “How’d the fitting go?”

“
Like a dream. If Mother survives until the wedding, it should be a grand affair.”

“
I hope Stacy isn’t going to wear her Salvation Army uniform.”

“
Lord, no! Mother would have a conniption fit if she did. No, Mother’s having a dress made for Stacy, too.”

“
And Stacy isn’t arguing about it?”

“
Oddly enough, she isn’t. She’s really taken to this Salvation Army stuff. She’s actually trying to modify her behavior.”

“
Good Lord. It doesn’t seem possible.”

“
She’s so self-righteous about her religious turn, she’s harder for me to take than she was when she was drinking and smoking and getting arrested.” Harold chuckled.

I’d have joined him, but I was feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I sighed again. “If she keeps behaving rationally, I might have to change my opinion of her, and I’d hate to do that.”

Harold grimaced. “Don’t do anything so rash yet. This Salvation Army kick is still young.”

“
I suppose you’re right. She’ll probably have a relapse once the novelty wears off.” I regret to admit that I hoped she would.

“
Oh, I’m sure she will.”

Harold took me to a lovely and wildly expensive Japanese restaurant called the Fujiyama, where the food was delicious and the decor was quite exotic. I’d never eaten Japanese cuisine before, and this restaurant was one of two of the ilk in Pasadena, the other being a place called the Manako. I was terribly impressed with something called tempura, which was basically vegetables coated in a light batter and fried, then dipped into some kind of yummy sauce. Thanks to Harold and lots of good food, I felt slightly more cheery when we left the place and walked to the parking lot at the rear of the building.

And darned if I didn’t practically stumble over Gertrude Minneke! She stood in the alleyway leading to the street where the car was, talking to a man in a waiter’s uniform whom I’d seen carrying dishes inside the restaurant. They were deep in conversation, and both of them appeared worried. Good heavens, now what?

“
Miss Minneke!” I said in a bright voice.

Both Gertrude and her gentleman friend jumped about a foot and a half. When she landed, Gertrude swirled around, her hand pressed to her bosom, her eyes nearly bugging out of their sockets. “Mrs. Majesty!”

“
I didn’t mean to startle you,” I told her, feeling a trifle guilty, although I don’t know why.

“
Oh, that’s all right.” She kind of panted the words. “Um . . . please meet my brother, Mrs. Majesty. This is Eugene.” She took the hand of the waiter, as if showing him to me. “Eugene Minneke.”

“
Pleased to meet you,” said Eugene. His back-East accent was stronger than Gertrude’s. I could swear he also didn’t mean what he’d just said.

“
Likewise,” I said, holding my hand out for him to shake. “And this is my very good friend Harold Kincaid.”

Both Minnekes gave Harold tense smiles, and Eugene and Harold shook hands.

“
It’s nice to see you, Mrs. Majesty,” Gertrude said in an uncertain voice.

“
Yes, indeed,” I agreed. We were both lying; I could tell.

Taking Harold’s arm, I said, “Well, we need to run,” and hurried us along, sensing that Gertrude and Eugene wanted to be alone to continue their conversation.

“
What the devil’s wrong with those two?” Harold asked as he opened the door for me to enter his auto.

“
I don’t have a clue. Gertrude is in my cooking class at the Salvation Army, and she keeps disappearing every time I spot her anywhere.”

Harold got in the car on the driver’s side. “They both looked as nervous as cats.”

“
I agree. Gertrude even went to my church last Sunday. She said she wanted to talk to me about something, and then she ran away again.”

We both agreed that this was strange behavior on Gertrude’s part, but I was no closer to learning the reason for it. I decided that I was going to have a long chat with Gertrude after our class next Saturday.

When Harold dropped me off at home, I got into the Chevrolet and drove to the library. There I found every book I could find about dog breeding and showing. Oddly enough, there were quite a few of them.

And then I toddled down to the periodical section and looked up all the articles I could find in old newspapers about the Castletons.

Sure enough, I found a long article about Miss Castleton’s late fiancé. His name had been Stephen Allison, and he’d died in Flanders not long after the United States had entered the war. The most complete article I discovered was from the
Pasadena Evening Post,
a newspaper we didn’t subscribe to. The article mentioned that Mr. Allison and Miss Castleton had planned to marry, but had decided to postpone the wedding until after Mr. Allison returned from the war. Unfortunately, by the time he returned, he was in no condition to marry anyone. He’d been buried at the Mountain View Cemetery in Altadena, the same place where Billy’s mother and father were laid to rest.

I closed the newspaper, feeling tears sting my eyes. Darn it, why was life so hard? True, Miss Castleton had tons of money, but she didn’t have Stephen Allison any longer and, although I hadn’t met her yet, I’d have wagered a good deal that she’d rather have him than her father’s money.

The article had said she resided at her father’s mansion in a part of town called San Marino. In later years, Mr. Castleton would donate his gigantic house, grounds and collected art works, both paintings and sculptures, to the City of Pasadena as a museum. At that time, the place was a grand home. I wondered if Miss Castleton wandered the grounds, missing Stephen and wishing her life could be different.

By that time in my life, I’d known for decades—well, slightly more than two decades, at any rate—that rich people and the rest of us aren’t the same. Rich people didn’t have to worry about dying from want and starvation, for instance. Still, people were people, and I had a strong feeling that Emmaline Castleton and I had a lot in common, even if we came from opposite ends of the social ladder. In short, I felt sorry for her.