Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (16 page)

      
As things stood, well . . . Life was complicated, and singing in the choir slightly mitigated the tensions I occasionally perceived in our home and in the community.

      
I even have a pretty good voice, although I have no ambition to sing on the vaudeville stage or in the grand opera. My voice doesn’t vibrate enough for opera (and I’m not fat enough), and I’d have a heart attack and die if I ever had to sing a solo on a vaudeville stage.

      
My voice was good enough for our choir director, though, and that’s what mattered. This morning, Lucille Spinks and I were going to sing a duet, in fact. I don’t mind singing with other people. It’s when they’re on their own that my vocal chords shrivel up and begin croaking.

      
My family has always attended the First Methodist Episcopal Church (North) on the corner of Marengo and Colorado. It was approximately two and a half blocks down from the Chinese Methodist Episcopal Church which I’d always wanted to attend just to see, but have never quite dared, since I obviously wouldn’t exactly blend in, if you know what I mean.

      
Our church was only a few blocks from where we lived. When the weather was fine, as it was this Sunday morning, we liked to walk. The whole family attended, including Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi. Mrs. Wilson from next door with Pudge in his Junior Boy Scout uniform and looking neater than usual, often walked with us. They did so that day.

      
Billy was in a good mood. I’d told him about the Stacy affair, placing special emphasis on how she’d attacked Detective Rotondo, and he’d laughed about it.

      
You never knew how he’d take anything. He could easily have used Stacy’s deplorable behavior as another stick to beat me with, but instead he chose to find the incident amusing. I wondered if it was the morphine laughing, but didn’t dwell on the possibility. My poor broken husband needed the pain relief morphine afforded him—and I needed it almost as much as he did. Pitiful, but there you go.

      
“What are you and Lucy singing today, Daisy?”

      
Billy had acquiesced when Pudge had volunteered to push his chair. I’d shrieked inside when the boy had asked but Billy took it in good temper, for which condescension I was infinitely grateful. Pudge, as a Junior Boy Scout, put a lot of emphasis on doing good deeds. Billy, as a ruined ex-soldier, didn’t often appreciate his enthusiasm.

      
Lucy had wanted us to sing “Alas! and did My Savior Bleed,” and the choir director, Floy Hostetter, had liked the selection. I’d objected. Easter had fallen on April 4, sort of mid-way through the season. That was almost two months ago, and I’m sure most of the congregation wouldn’t have cared what we sang. But it seemed to me as though we’d been singing Easter songs until the day before yesterday. Besides, summertime was right around the corner.

      
So what, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

      
“Alas! and did My Savior Bleed” is a beautiful old hymn. We always hauled it out at Easter time, which is totally appropriate, and I sang it with all my heart during the Easter season. But it seemed a trifle dismal to me with springtime over and summer hurtling toward us as fast as it could. I’d suggested a bouncier tune, “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

      
Mr. Hostetter had visibly paled, winced, and wrinkled his nose. He equated my choice with the Salvation Army, which I had to admit made sense. In those days you could hardly pass a street corner that didn’t have a Salvation Army band on it playing “Onward Christian Soldiers” with women jangling their tambourines to the rhythm, trying to get people to cough up their pennies and nickels to help feed the poor and dry out the drunks. But I still liked it. I did, however, offer an alternative which was eventually approved of by all parties.

      
Therefore, Lucy and I aimed to sing “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus.” I liked it pretty well, and it was nice and soldierly, which I sanctioned. Ever since the war started, I’d been feeling militant. After it ended and Billy came back to me, I’d been downright bloodthirsty.

      
Lucy had a much prettier voice than I. Not only that, but she was a soprano and perpetually took the melody. Next life, if there is one, I want to come back as a soprano because they always get the good parts. As luck would have it, I’d learned to read music when I was a kid (some rich picture star had given Pa a piano when I was seven. Heck, I could read music before I could read Tarot cards), so I never had much trouble picking up my part.

      
“We’re going to sing ‘Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus’ right after the Doxology. Wish us luck.”

      
“Aw, you’ll do swell, Miss Desdemona.”

      
When I glanced over, I saw Pudge gazing at me with adoring eyes. God bless the child. “Thanks, Pudge.” I smiled, but felt obliged to point out that we were approaching a street corner. I could just imagine what horrors would ensue if Pudge managed to dump my poor husband out of his chair because he was staring at me. “Corner,” I mouthed at him.

      
Pudge gave a start of surprise, but managed to avert the approaching calamity. He said, “You’re welcome.”

      
“You and Lucy sound good together.”

      
This kind and pithy statement had emerged from my own husband’s mouth, and it shocked me nearly out of my georgette-covered skin. He didn’t generally offer compliments, being more apt to criticize.

      
“Thanks, Billy. I hope I don’t go flat during the chorus. The alto part drones a little bit there, and sometimes I sag.”

      
“You don’t sag yet,” murmured my husband with a grin and a wink.

      
The wink nearly did me in. As often as Billy drove me crazy with his crankiness and whining, there were other times, like today, when he could drive me to the brink of tears by acting like the Billy he used to be. Since I’d never, ever, in a million years, demonstrate how much pity I felt for him, I winked back. “Thanks, sweetie.”

      
I did sometimes worry that my voice would deepen as I got older. It would be mortifying to have to sing with the men in the tenor section. If that ever happened, I’d just have to garner good will through some other church activity, I supposed. Maybe I could work in the kitchen, feeding the poor. If somebody was poor enough, he probably wouldn’t cavil too much at eating my cooking. It was a sad fact, but I hadn’t inherited my aunt’s culinary talents.

      
We arrived at the church in a good mood, communally speaking, and greeted friends and neighbors with gusto. I love people. Billy used to be a friendly fellow, too, although his cheery nature had suffered debilitating injuries along with his body in late years. Today, though, he smiled and chatted with as much evident pleasure as I did.

      
I had to leave him in Ma’s care while I nipped to the choir room to don my robe. I was looking forward to singing the duet with Lucy because, truth to tell, I’m kind of a performer at heart. That’s undoubtedly another reason I enjoyed my line of work so well and was so good at it.

      
Lucy, a blue-eyed blonde who was pretty enough to make up for her lack of brain power, claimed to be as nervous as a sparrow being eyed by a hawk. She sure fluttered around enough to prove it, although I didn’t buy it. It was my opinion, and I’ll bet I’m right, that Lucy had been taught from the cradle how to act like a helpless female. She’d been a good pupil, too. She was about my age, maybe a year or two older, and I swear to goodness, the woman couldn’t walk across the street without a male escort.

      
I’m sure she figured some nice man would marry her and take care of her for the rest of her life. I wished her luck. Although my parents were too smart to have taught me to be helpless, I’d harbored the same fantasy about marriage once. Show’s how much anybody can tell about life before it happens. If I ever had children, and the prospects looked mighty dim back then, I aimed to teach them all, male and female, how to get by in the world with or without help, because you just never knew what life had in store for you.

      
There I go, rambling again. Sorry.

      
Anyhow, Lucy and I and the rest of the choir members put on our robes. To the strains of “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing” (I learned later that this is traditionally the first hymn in all Methodist hymnals, although I still don’t know why), the choir climbed the stairs to the loft above the pulpit. I loved sitting there, because I could see everyone in the congregation and study the ladies’ best clothes.

      
Apparently I’d been paying too much attention to the new summer fashions that day, because I didn’t see Detective Sam Rotondo lurking in the congregation until Lucy and I descended the stairs and approached the front of the podium for our solo. I almost died then and there.

      
What the heck was
he
doing here? I couldn’t think of any answer to that question that might auger good for me. It was all I could do to subdue my shock and nervousness enough to start my part of the duet on the right note. I think I did okay, in spite of the detective glowering at me from the third pew from the back, but it was hard.

      
After our pastor, Reverend Merle Smith, spoke the last “Amen” of the day and the choir had sung a parting benediction hymn, I raced down to the choir room and threw off my robe. I prayed like mad that I could get to my family and the other hungry Methodists munching cookies and punch and hide amongst them well enough so that Rotondo wouldn’t be able to find me.

      
No such luck. I’d even positioned myself with my back to the door, behind Billy and his wheelchair, and had begun an animated (on my part, at any rate) conversation with Mrs. Smith, our pastor’s wife, about the relative merits of cherry punch versus lemonade, but it was no good. I sensed Rotondo approaching, kind of like I imagine a field mouse senses the approach of a hungry fox. I gave up, turned around, and saw him looming over Billy, staring directly at me. Billy was gazing up at him, and he appeared puzzled. Small wonder, as the detective was frowning pretty fiercely.

      
Peeved, I frowned back. “Detective Rotondo.” I was proud of the gritty tone of voice I achieved.

      
“Mrs. Majesty.” He sounded about as overjoyed as I felt, which was not at all.

      
Billy continued to peer at the detective and still looked puzzled. Seeing no other alternative, I introduced the two men. “Billy, this is Detective Rotondo. Detective Rotondo, my husband, Billy Majesty.” I should have introduced him as William, because it was stuffier, but it was too late now.

      
“How do you do?” my polite Billy asked. I could tell he wouldn’t give a wooden nickel to know how the detective did.

      
“Very well, thank you. And you?” By the same token, it was clear that Rotondo didn’t give a rap about Billy’s state of wellbeing.

      
I couldn’t conceive of any reason for a representative from the Pasadena Police Department to appear at my church unless he aimed to arrest me for fortune-telling. That was frightening, but seemed unlikely. Didn’t you have to be caught in the act for them to arrest you for that sort of thing? Nobody from the police department had been present at the séance. And that wasn’t fortune-telling anyway.

      
The memory of my Tarot cards and the Ouija board lying on the Kincaids’ coffee table when Rotondo entered the parlor wormed its way into my brain, and I went cold. I’d never let on. “Detective Rotondo is investigating the problem with Miss Kincaid, Billy.”

      
“Oh?”

      
My husband was clearly annoyed that the police had pursued me all the way to church to talk about Stacy Kincaid. I was, too. No money had changed hands during the Tarot episode. Or the Ouija board one, either. I’d only been at the Kincaids’ out of a sense of goodwill and fellowship. They couldn’t arrest me for that, could they? My palms started sweating.

      
“May I speak to you for a moment, Mrs. Majesty?” Rotondo sounded stern, which scared me.

      
He’d never get my goat if I could help it. “Of course.” I waved a hand, gesturing at the milling throng of Methodists. “Be my guest. Speak to me.”

      
I saw his jaw bunch as he gritted his teeth. “In private?”

      
“Why on earth do you want to talk to my wife in private?” demanded Billy. Bless his heart.

      
“Yes,” said I. “Why do you need to talk to me in private?”

      
I figured that if his teeth ground together any harder, his jaw would break. I wondered if I could annoy him enough to achieve that result. Probably not. He must be used to dealing with tougher cookies than I could ever be.

      
“It’s about the Kincaids,” Rotondo said. He didn’t want to say that much; I could tell.

      
Billy and I exchanged a glance. He shrugged, as if to give me his blessing. I turned back to Rotondo. “All right, but I don’t want to leave my family for long.”

      
“This won’t take long,” he promised.

      
“I’ll make sure of it.” I know I sounded kind of snotty, but I didn’t care. “I guess we can talk in the kitchen.” A glance at Mrs. Smith confirmed my guess. She looked as if she’d like to come along and eavesdrop, but I whispered that I’d explain everything later, and started for the kitchen. I felt Rotondo behind me like a bear about to swat me with a paw and eat me for lunch.

      
I waited until we were both inside and Rotondo stood next to the wood-burning stove (we were collecting money for a new stove, but you know how church projects go. We’d probably have enough money for a new stove by 1930) before I closed the door. I didn’t even slam it, and was proud of myself.