Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (17 page)

      
I did, however, slam my hands on my hips when I turned to face him. “Okay, what the heck do you mean by following me to church?”

      
He wasn’t intimidated. Figured.

      
“Frankly I’m surprised to see you
in
church, Mrs. Majesty. I shouldn’t think church would be compatible with your occupation.”

      
I think I sneered at him. I strove for a sneer at any rate. “I’m not surprised that you’re surprised. So many people have no understanding of my work. Unless that’s what you want to talk to me about, let’s drop it.”

      
“Very well.”

      
Thank God. “How’d you find me, anyhow? Don’t tell me you have spies watching me.”

      
“Why the devil should I put spies on you?”

      
“That’s what I want to know.”

      
He huffed. “I asked one of your neighbors. Mr. Wilson said you’d gone to church, and which church, so I came here.”

      
“Huh.” I glared at him.

      
He glared back.

      
Because I wanted him to know how much I resented what I considered an intrusion into my private life, in case he’d missed it from my reaction so far, I added, “I don’t appreciate being accosted by a police detective at church.”

      
“I needed to talk to you.”

      
“Be that as it may, I don’t know any more about Stacy Kincaid this morning than I did yesterday, and I already told you that much. I don’t know anything about her. What’s more, I don’t want to.” Now that I was confident that he didn’t aim to arrest me, I felt comfortable getting mad at him.

      
“I’m not here about Miss Anastasia Kincaid,” Rotondo said, sounding something like I’d always sort of figured the Oracle at Delphi might sound—like a portent of ill fortune, if not death and destruction. “This might be said to concern Mr. Eustace Kincaid, Miss Kincaid’s father.”

      
I perked up. “Oh! Do you mean to tell me Edie finally complained?” What a brave woman, to tell the cops. I was impressed.

      
“Who’s Edie?” Rotondo asked, bursting that happy bubble.

      
Shoot. Maybe he
was
going to arrest me. “Never mind. Why’d you chase me down here? What have I done wrong? I am
not
a fortune-teller.”

      
“No? What are you, then?”

      
“A spiritualist. I am a spiritualist, Detective Rotondo. Many people appreciate the work I do. If you don’t, that’s not my problem, and I don’t relish having you suspect me of being a crook.”

      
“I don’t suspect you of being a crook, for the love of God!”

      
“Huh. You look as if you suspect me of any number of awful, illegal things.”

      
His lips tightened. It was an interesting phenomenon to watch since his skin tone was olive and when his lips pinched like that, the wrinkles were kind of yellowish. When I got home from church, I was going to see what color my wrinkles were. I suspected they’d be more white than yellow, which pointed out fascinating differences in people’s diverse ethnic backgrounds. Which was totally irrelevant.

      
“The fact that I disapprove of your business isn’t at issue at the moment,” he said, plainly irked, which pleased me doubly. “The reason I came here today is that you seem to be friendly with the Kincaids.”

      
“I told you everything I know about Stacy Kincaid last night.”

      
“You didn’t tell me anything about Stacy Kincaid. You only related what happened after your séance.”

      
I watched him when he said the word “séance,” but didn’t detect any signs of derision. Good thing.

      
He went on. “I need to know as much as you can tell me about the Kincaids as people. The family. All of them.”

      
I didn’t want to tell him anything. Since I didn’t know much, however, I figured it wouldn’t hurt. “I don’t know a single thing about the Kincaids except that Mrs. Kincaid is nice and Mr. Kincaid isn’t, their daughter’s a pill and their son’s a peach, and that they all seem to have more money than sense. If you want me to tell you anything else, you’re going to have to tell me why.” That was good. I was getting better at these verbal sparring matches with Detective Rotondo.

      
Rotondo didn’t want me to get any better at it. He looked as if he’d like to turn around and march out on me, but couldn’t because of his job. That made me feel much more cheerful.

      
“Mrs. Majesty, irregularities have been reported to us regarding the records at Mr. Kincaid’s bank.”

      
I’m sure I looked as blank as I felt. “So what? I mean, you can’t possibly suspect me of stealing from the Kincaids’ bank? How the heck could I do that?”

      
“No, no, no. I don’t suspect you of banking irregularities. I’m not accusing you of anything. Will you please get that through your head?”

      
“Huh.”

      
“The reason I’m here today is to ask you to listen and watch when you visit the Kincaids. I want to know if any of them mention anything about the bank.”

      
“What? I’m not going to spy—”

      
“I’m not asking you to spy!” he interrupted. “All I want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open when you visit the Kincaid home. There are problems at the bank, and Mr. Kincaid is the bank’s owner and president. He might mention his worries at home. Right now, we’re looking at Mr. Farrington—”

      
It was my turn to interrupt. “No! He’s too nice to do anything illegal.”

      
Rotondo’s response was a pitying smirk. Okay, so I know that nice people can steal things as easily as mean people can, and probably do from time to time, but I didn’t want Lieutenant Farrington to be guilty of theft. I wanted Mr. Kincaid to be acknowledged as the villain I knew him to be. Discovering and proving that he was a thief as well as a lecherous old goat would be a perfect way to do it. “All right, I know his being nice doesn’t mean anything. But I really don’t believe Mr. Farrington is a criminal.”

      
“You never know what motivates people to do the things they do. Perhaps he’s had financial troubles. Maybe he’s been gambling. You can’t know everything that goes on in a person’s life.”

      
“I suppose not.” Betcha I could tell Rotondo more about Mr. Farrington’s life than he knew already, but I’d never do it. I liked Mr. Farrington too well.

      
“So, are you willing to do this? I’m not asking much of you, Mrs. Majesty. And if you really want to save Mr. Farrington’s skin, maybe you can discover something to his credit.”

      
He said it as if he didn’t believe it, but I knew he was wrong about Farrington. Darn it, I made a living out of studying people, and Delroy Farrington was no thief. He might be a depraved fiend, according to my husband, but I’d bet money that he was an honorable one.

      
“I don’t know. Why don’t you raid the bank or something? Or go talk to Mr. Kincaid?”

      
Again I saw the phenomenon of an olive-skinned man wrinkling his lips. And his nose. I got the feeling Detective Rotondo didn’t like me much, which suited me fine. “The Kincaids are a prominent Pasadena family, Mrs. Majesty. We don’t want to ruffle their feathers if we don’t have to.”

      
I know I managed a sneer that time. “Yeah. Money talks. Even to the police.”

      
He didn’t like that at all. “I can assure you that we don’t play favorites, Mrs. Majesty. But even
you
must realize that we have to tread softly in this situation.”

      
“Right.” I sounded completely disgusted, which is what I’d intended.

      
“Besides, their daughter is giving them enough trouble. We don’t want to add to their troubles.”

      
I squinted at him. “Darn it, you already know that’s the only thing you could have said that would make me go along with spying on the Kincaids, don’t you?”

      
“I’m not asking you to be a spy!”

      
“That’s right. I forgot, I’m only supposed to be a sneak and an eavesdropper.”

      
He sucked in a deep breath and held it, probably to keep from bellowing at me. All in all, I was quite gratified that I’d managed to upset him. I still resented the way he’d bully-ragged Mrs. Kincaid the other day. Not to mention the way he overtly disapproved of my line of work. And chasing me down at church was pure-D mean, if you ask me.

      
“So you agree to keep an open mind about this, and to let me know if you hear anything that might be of interest to the police regarding the banking problems?”

      
I shrugged. “Sure. I guess so.”

      
“This matter needs to be kept quiet, Mrs. Majesty. I’m sure you can imagine how many people might be affected by problems with this bank, and many of them aren’t in any shape to swallow monetary losses. We need to keep it under our hats until we know what’s going on. Can you keep this matter to yourself? The alleged bank irregularities? It won’t do to broadcast anything too soon, and might even be considered slander, if no irregularities are discovered.”

      
Oh, brother. This was just swell. I wouldn’t be able even to tell Billy about it. Feeling beleaguered, I snapped, “I don’t gossip.” That was a lie, but Rotondo didn’t have to know it. “Anyhow, I can’t imagine the Kincaids yakking about bank problems in my presence. We aren’t exactly bosom buddies, you know.”

      
“I thought you were a friend of the family.”

      
“I
am
a friend of the family, but they don’t blab to me about their deepest, darkest secrets, for heaven’s sake!”

      
“We’ll see.” It looked like it cost him a lot to tack on a surly, “Thank you.”

      
I huffed and retreated to the security of my family. They were all huddled together along with Mrs. Smith, glancing at the kitchen and muttering with each other. I knew they could hardly wait to hear whatever our conversation had been about. And I couldn’t tell them a single thing. Nuts.

Chapter Nine
 

      
I was wrong about not being blabbed to or around by a Kincaid about the family’s banking woes. The very next night, Monday, I conducted the séance for Harold and his Hollywoodland friends, and darned if I didn’t overhear a worried conversation between Harold and Delroy Farrington about the very matter Detective Rotondo had asked me to listen for.

      
Harold had a house of his own in San Marino, a community a few miles south of Pasadena. Boy, what a beautiful area
that
was. Huge mansions with gigantic lawns, lined with flowering shrubs and fragrant trees, and fabulous gardens, not to mention Duesenbergs, Daimlers, Cadillacs, Stutzes, and about a billion other expensive automobiles.

      
My Model T felt out of place there. I could tell. I offered it comfort as it chugged down Lake Avenue, and thanked my lucky stars I had the machine instead of the pony cart, since Brownie didn’t play favorites. He’d have been just as likely to poop in San Marino as in Pasadena, and I’d have felt obliged to pick it up. I wasn’t dressed for that.

      
Oh, but the homes were something special. Henry Huntington, the railroad robber baron, had a place there with acres and acres of gardens and rolling lawns, fancy lights and exotic plants. He even had peacocks wandering around to give the place atmosphere. Not that it needed them. Shoot, even without peacocks, the Huntington place had atmosphere enough for me.

      
I knew about it first-hand because Mrs. Huntington had hired me to play fortune-teller at a Halloween benefit she’s given to raise money for the hospital they were building. Gladys Millbrook, one of my friends, had graduated from Pasadena’s Sawyer Business School, and worked there as her secretary. Gladys had taken me all through the house and over the grounds. You could get lost there if you wanted to, which didn’t sound like a half-bad idea.

      
Not long after that, the Huntingtons donated their house and grounds to the city of Pasadena to be used as a museum and art gallery. I thought that was a very generous thing for them to do, although I also wondered what they were getting out of it. Probably because I was born and reared a Gumm, I tend to be skeptical about rich people doing charitable deeds for no reason.

      
Harold’s house wasn’t a mansion like his mother’s or Mr. Huntington’s. It was a swell place, though: two stories, Mediterranean style, huge lawn, gorgeous garden with tons of roses, and a little orange kitty cat named Marmalade. Harold said peacocks squawked more than cats, and he didn’t like the racket. I suppose he was right.

      
Marmalade was okay as cats go, but she made me want a dog. Not a big dog; a smallish dog that would sleep on Billy’s lap and give him something to pet. I know Billy got bored sitting in his wheelchair all day. He and Pa got along fine, but Pa was much older than Billy. Also, Pa could still get around, even though his ticker wasn’t so good anymore. He had his friends and clubs and card games, and made the most of them. Although he generally asked Billy to join him when he went out and about, Billy’s interests ran more towards baseball and automobiles than cards and old men’s chatter.

      
Poor Billy had such a difficult time getting around that he was stuck at home most of the time, a lot of it by himself. I’d always thought it was a shame that he didn’t like to read more, although he did enjoy some of my detective novels. Which made one thing he didn’t complain about regarding my personal self and habits.