Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (14 page)

      
The detective questioned Mrs. Kincaid for a few more minutes. He wasn’t as gentle as I thought he should have been, given what I knew about the fragile nature of her personality and her present state of nervous distress, but maybe he thought she was like her husband and deserved to be bully-ragged. I don’t know how he could have thought that since she’d already gone through two hankies in his presence. Maybe he was just a stinker.

      
Finally Mrs. Kincaid broke down completely and could no longer speak to the detective. I rushed over to her, held her close as she cried on my shoulder, and glared at Rotondo, who stared back coldly. My uncertainty about him tilted toward dislike again. Harold sat down on the other side of his mother and patted her on the back. He didn’t glare at the policeman, and it occurred to me that he might think the man was attractive in the same sort of way that I thought he was attractive, if one discounted his cold nature and gruff attitude.

      
Then I told myself not to be depraved, and I wondered if Billy had been right. I hated to think it. It did seem, however, that my association with Harold, now that I knew what he was, was having a deleterious effect on my innermost thoughts. I tried not to dwell on the possibility, but applied myself to comforting Mrs. Kincaid.

      
Detective Rotondo started in on Mr. Kincaid then. Mr. Kincaid wasn’t having any of it. He answered approximately four of the detective’s questions, shouted at him that he didn’t have to put up with “this sort of thing,” propelled his wheelchair around, and aimed it at the door, causing the poor uniformed man standing there to leap aside or get run down. I hoped to heaven Edie was hiding somewhere, because the notion of the beast cornering her gave me a stomachache.

      
Detective Rotondo sighed heavily, brushed his curly hair back from his high forehead, and leveled a glance at Harold. Fortunately Mrs. Kincaid had stopped blubbering, so I was able to concentrate on the questions and answers exchanged by the two men.

      
Johnny was still scribbling madly in his notebook. I wondered if policemen had to learn a form of shorthand, then decided they’d have to if they expected to take down what everyone said during an interview verbatim. Or maybe they just did their best. You’d run the risk of getting a lot of things wrong that way. Then again, I’ve heard that policemen often got things wrong in their reports.

      
Was that thought a result of my declining morals? This was getting too darned complicated.

      
Featherstone appeared as if by magic again, this time to announce the arrival of Father Frederick. I was glad to see him for Mrs. Kincaid’s sake. She uttered a small cry of welcome and burst into tears again. Father Frederick hurried over to the sofa and, smiling at Harold, commenced comforting his friend, thus leaving Harold to the mercy of Detective Rotondo.

      
Harold didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he initiated the conversation. “I’ll be happy to talk to you, Detective, although I have to say I’m ignorant of most of my sister’s more outrageous behavior.” In a tone of subdued confidence, he added, “We’ve never been close.”

      
All of my worries about Harold went up the chimney, and I decided he was a shrewd judge of character and of sound moral fiber. What the heck. Maybe this men-loving-men stuff was something he couldn’t help.

      
Billy would tell me I’d gone beyond the point of no return, I’m sure. But darn it, Harold was a good man. He was a whole lot nicer than most of the other men in his social class whom I’d met.

      
Since Mrs. Kincaid was in the helpful hands of Father Frederick, and since the detective was occupying Harold, I didn’t see any need for me to stay there any longer. My Tarot cards still lay on the table next to the Ouija board. I gathered them together, shuffled them once, and put them in the little cloth bag I’d made for them. It was a nice bag, made of a black silk-and-cotton blend. I’d embroidered silver stars and moons on the neck. When I pulled the drawstring tight, the stars and moons bunched together into a cluster of glittery silver. I’d found some black velvet cord at Nash’s Fabrics, and the overall effect suited my business to a T.

      
Trying to be as discreet as possible, I rose from the sofa and tippy-toed toward the door, giving Johnny a wink as I passed. He grinned and kept writing. I’d almost made it to the door, wondering if I was going to have to bump smack into the policeman barring it before he’d step aside, when a voice behind me stopped me in my tracks.

      
“Mrs. Majesty.” It was Detective Rotondo.

      
I turned slowly and gave him a stony stare. “Yes?”

      
“I’d like to ask you a few questions, too, if you don’t mind.”

      
I did mind. What the heck did I know about Stacy, except that she was a spoiled brat? I decided to say so, leaving out the brat part. “I don’t know a thing about Miss Kincaid, Detective. I’ve only met her twice. Maybe three times.”

      
“Nevertheless, please take a seat here.” He gestured at a chair across from him. He also sounded irked, annoyed, and as if he didn’t like one single thing about me.

      
I resented that. I also didn’t think I had to take it. After all, I was only here because Mrs. Kincaid had asked me to come. I wasn’t involved in Stacy’s misdemeanors. Or felonies. Gee, I hoped it was a felony. That was mean of me, I know, but she was such a skunk. Also, I wasn’t exactly your typical shrinking violet, having been reared a good Gumm, so I told the man what I thought of him and his manners and his taking a seat.

      
“Listen, Detective Rotondo. I’m only here at Mrs. Kincaid’s request. I don’t know Stacy. I don’t know what she does for fun. I don’t
care
what she does for fun.” I offered Mrs. Kincaid an apologetic glance, but I don’t think she took it in. She looked as if she were in shock at hearing me talk to an officer of the law as I was doing. “I didn’t know there were any speakeasies in Pasadena, and I assure you, I wouldn’t frequent them if I had known. Furthermore, I don’t like your attitude.”

      
If his mother was in shock, Harold was tickled pink. I could tell. He even gave me a victory salute with his thumb and forefinger pressed into an O. Bless his heart, too.

      
Rotondo’s dark face got darker, either with embarrassment or fury. I suspected the latter. Nevertheless, when he spoke to me again, his tone was conciliatory. “I beg your pardon if I was peremptory, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
I sniffed. “Peremptory, my foot. You were rude.”

      
I could see his jaw clench. He had a good, square jaw and would have made a good cowboy in the pictures. Or, better yet, a pirate. Nobody cared if pirates looked sort of exotic. Not that Rotondo was exotic exactly. He was more . . . Oh, heck, I don’t know. Turned out he was Italian, so I guess that’s what he looked like. Whoever heard of an Italian cowboy?

      
“Please,” he said, shoving the words out through his teeth, which I could hear grinding, “forgive me and take a seat. I’d like to ask you some questions, even though you aren’t acquainted with Miss Kincaid.”

      
“Oh, I’m acquainted with her,” I said to be annoying, and it looked as if I were succeeding admirably. “I just don’t run around in her social circles.” Since there were two Kincaids present, I didn’t say that unlike Stacy, I had to work for a living, but I felt like saying it.

      
“I’m sure.” I think he was trying to insult me, but I’m not sure. “Nevertheless . . .” He gestured again at the chair.

      
After gazing at the chair and at him and then at the chair again, I sighed as if this whole thing were more trouble than it was worth. Which was true, actually. But I sat in the chair, primarily because I’m a snoop. Can’t help it. And, in justification, snoopery does come in handy in my work, although I was mostly just interested in this situation.

      
Besides all those excuses, wouldn’t Ma and Aunt Vi want to know the dirty details? Yes, they would, in case you couldn’t guess the answer to that one on your own.

      
I still wore my hat, so I plopped my small handbag in my lap, folded my hands—sans gloves. You can’t work the Ouija board with gloves on—on top of it, sat up straight, lifted my chin, and gazed pointedly at Detective Rotondo. “Yes?”

      
He rolled his eyes, an action to which I took exception, although I didn’t say so. Darn it, though, I hated it when my struggle to attain the dignity that should by right be mine if for no other reason than because I made a good living, fell flat. “When did you last see Miss Anastasia Kincaid?” Rotondo asked as his first question.

      
And that brought up another point. Why couldn’t
I
have been named something elegant like Anastasia? It was hard enough fighting off the laughter of kids when your last name was Gumm. Anastasia at least had a little class. But that wasn’t the point here. “The day before yesterday.”

      
“What were the circumstances?”

      
“It was here, in the Kincaids’ house. Some of Mrs. Kincaid’s friends had gathered here that evening.”

      
“To what purpose?”

      
“I conducted a séance for Mrs. Kincaid and her sister, Mrs. Lilley.”

      
He smirked as if he’d caught me committing some embarrassing crime. “Fortune-telling is illegal, Mrs. Majesty. You said you knew that.”

      
“Of course, I know it,” I snapped back. I was ready for this one. “When I conduct a séance, I assure you, I am not telling fortunes. Quite the reverse, in fact.”

      
“No, indeed.” Mrs. Kincaid had perked up. Her words were as crisp and hard as little green apples. “There was absolutely no fortune-telling involved.”

      
“Daisy works within the law, Detective,” Harold added, sounding irate on my behalf. I loved these people. If we could only get rid of Mr. Kincaid and Stacy, we’d all get along just fine.

      
“So you weren’t telling fortunes.” Rotondo’s smirk turned into a sneer.

      
“Right.”

      
“You were conducting a séance.”

      
“Right.” Let him sneer. I knew my work was important to people, whether he wanted to believe it or not.

      
“Just exactly what does this séance-conducting involve?”

      
“I don’t see why that’s relevant,” I said, and rather imperiously if I do say so myself.

      
He grunted. I expected him to demand an answer to his question but he didn’t, for which mercy I was extremely grateful. I mean, if this fellow thought fortune-telling was bad, what would he think of chatting with dead people? “And you say Miss Anastasia Kincaid was there?”

      
“I said no such thing. I said I saw her after the conclusion of the séance.”

      
“Where?”

      
“In the Kincaids’ drawing room.”

      
“What were you doing?”

      
“Talking to people.”

      
“After this supposed séance of yours?”

      
“Yes. After the séance concluded.” Early, thanks to Medora Louise Trunick. “There was no supposition about it.”

      
“That’s so,” averred Mrs. Kincaid.

      
“Indeed,” supplied Harold.

      
Rotondo quit trying to stare me down and looked over at Harold. “You were there, too?”

      
“I was.”

      
Rotondo shook his head and returned his attention to me. “So you saw her. Did you speak to her?”

      
Had I spoken to her? “I don’t remember . . . Oh, yes. I did speak to her.” I’d got off one of my better cutting remarks, as a matter of fact. That didn’t happen often, since I’m so easygoing as a rule. Easy-goingness could be a disadvantage when you had to deal with people like Stacy Kincaid. “Just a couple of words. We aren’t well acquainted.”

      
“And you weren’t involved in her activities earlier in the evening?”

      
“How could I have been?” I asked, exasperated. “I’d been conducting a séance here in this house, and she wasn’t here.”

      
“Right. Your séance.” His sneer became more pronounced. “So you have no idea what she’d been doing earlier in the evening?”

      
Well, I’d sort of assumed she’d been at a speakeasy guzzling gin and smoking since that’s what her appearance had pointed at when she’d made her grand entrance, but I didn’t
know
she’d been doing those things. “No.”

      
He sighed. “Very well. Thank you for your time.” The thanks were both grudging and sarcastic.

      
“You’re ever so welcome.” I rose with a huff. Because I wanted Mrs. Kincaid to know I was still available for her any time she needed me, I turned and gave her hand a squeeze. She drew me down and pecked me on the cheek, which was awfully sweet of her. I mean, it isn’t often a Gumm gets kissed by a rich society lady. Then I shook hands with Harold, who gave me a speaking look—I didn’t understand what it was meant to convey, unfortunately—and turned to go.

      
A commotion at the front door froze all of us in our tracks. Featherstone didn’t even have time to do his silent-materializing act before Stacy Kincaid, in the all-too-evident flesh, stormed the room as if she were intent upon taking prisoners. After rushing past the policeman at the door, she dashed forward for about three more feet, then screeched to a halt. With every appearance of loathing, she glared at Detective Rotondo and snarled, “You!”