Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (26 page)

      
As I should have expected, given recent events, it turned out to be Stacy who’d crashed through the door, whatever demons possessing her having catapulted her into another dramatic role. She scanned the room, wild-eyed. “Where’s Mother? Where’s Harold? What are
you
still doing here?”

      
This last question, typically rude, had been directed at me. She’d never have asked the question of Del, since she had a crush on him. Little did she know how much luck she’d ever have in that direction, and no matter how much I’d like to clue her in, I’d never do anything so vicious to Del or Harold.

      
Since Del had picked up the cushion and looked as if he were trying to hide behind it, I guessed I had to answer the bitch—I mean the witch. “Your mother went upstairs to lie down. Father Frederick and Mr. Pinkerton are with her.”

      
“In her
bedroom
?” she shrieked, as if she’d never heard of anything so reprehensible in her life. “With two
men
?”

      
I thought about telling her that, personally, I considered young women smoking and drinking and taking drugs and hanging out at illegal speakeasies was infinitely more reprehensible than a poor bereaved woman being administered to by good friends even if they were men, but didn’t. See? Sometimes I can control myself. I said, “Yes.”

      
“I can’t
believe
this! First my father is murdered by that horrid stable boy—”

      
“He was not!” I shouted, furious.

      
“Oh, shut up! What do you know about anything?”

      
“I know your father’s a nasty old lecher who stole bearer bonds from his bank and took off to Mexico without any help from Quincy Applewood! That’s a lot more than you know!”

      
“How
dare
you speak of my father to me like that?” she screeched.

      
“Because you’re a spoiled-rotten brat, is why, and somebody should have told you so years ago!”

      
“Good God, what’s going on in here now?”

      
Thank the merciful Fates, it was Harold, standing in the open doorway and looking bewildered. I sighed and told him. “Your sister decided to throw another tantrum. Unfortunately, her audience hasn’t been receptive.”

      
“Why, you
bitch
!” Stacy made a run at me, her sharpened, brilliantly painted fingernails scrunched into claws. Harold, God bless him for a saint on earth, stuck out a leg and tripped her.

      
When she went down, she banged her head against a softish chair, so I didn’t think she was hurt much. I regretted it, too, which just goes to show how mean-spirited some of us can be without half trying. When Stacy lifted her head from the fancy Oriental carpet upon which she lay, her mouth fell open and stayed that way, which I considered a distinct improvement over her former shrillness, and made me feel pretty good.

      
Then, I guess because she didn’t want Harold or me getting the better of her, she fainted (or pretended to faint). Right smack in the middle the floor between a pie-shaped table and the elegant red velvet Louis XV chair against which she’d bumped her head.

      
Because I didn’t like her, I left her there. I got the feeling that neither Harold nor Del felt like picking her up, either, so we all sat back down on the sofa and waited for somebody else to show up, pretty much ignoring her altogether. Although I doubted our luck would be that good, there was always a chance she’d suffer a heart spasm brought about by overuse of cocaine or morphine or some other illegal substance and would die before Rotondo returned to us.

      
No such luck. Rotondo opened the door a second later and darned near stepped on Stacy’s leg, which might perhaps have broken it. Unfortunately, before he realized she was sprawled there, he spotted her, thereby preventing a providential and well-deserved punishment for the spoiled little rich girl. He frowned down at her. “What the hell’s wrong with her now?”

      
I shrugged. “First she threw a tantrum, then she tried to kill me, and then she fainted. Or pretended to faint.” It wasn’t much of a lie, and I didn’t want Rotondo to think Harold wasn’t a gentleman just because he’d tripped her, since he was quite gentlemanly as a rule.

      
Del nodded his agreement.

      
Harold said, “That’s it, all right.”

      
Mrs. Kincaid, who doubtless believed she’d chickened out earlier in the day when she’d gone upstairs and rested, must have felt stronger now, because she’d come downstairs again and was standing behind Rotondo, who stood aside politely.

      
She still looked mighty shaky, but Father Frederick had her by the right arm and Algie Pinkerton, who’d finally stopped crying, held her left arm, and they guided Stacy’s mother around her fallen child, depositing the woman on one of the red-velvet chairs. They stood beside her like knights of old guarding their queen. It might have been sort of cute and courtly if the circumstances had been different.

      
Eyeing Stacy with what I could only term curiosity tainted with disapproval, Mrs. Kincaid asked, “What happened to Anastasia? Is she ill? Shouldn’t someone pick her up? Or something?” Her face took on an expression of consternation. “Good God, she’s not been drinking, has she?”

      
“I don’t think so,” Harold said doubtfully.

      
Only because I liked Mrs. Kincaid, I said, “I’m sure she hasn’t, Mrs. Kincaid. I’m sure she was just upset by—by—” I waved my hand in a vague gesture.
Because she was a brat, was why she was upset
. Which, naturally, I couldn’t say. Nor had Stacy been drinking tea and eating shortbread with my own beloved aunt Violet, which might have sweetened her disposition a good deal had she done so earlier in her misbegotten life, not that she deserved any of Aunt Vi’s shortbread.

      
Since nobody else made a move to do so, Detective Rotondo knelt beside the fallen girl and tried to get his arms around her in a way that wouldn’t shock the onlookers. Stacy’s mother might have been dismayed had one of her daughter’s breasts been touched, even inadvertently, by a policeman. I’m sure Stacy wouldn’t have minded one little bit.

      
Rotondo finally got her on her feet, which wobbled suspiciously-I study things like that as a profession, and I can tell a fake performance when I see one—and dumped her ungently on a sofa at the far side of the room. I suspected he wanted her as far away from the important questionings as possible.

      
“Do you think she needs anything?” he asked as if he didn’t care much.

      
Mrs. Kincaid pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear, oh, dear, I just don’t know what to do. What does one do in emergencies? Administer tea? Brandy?” She realized what she’d said, and her face turned purple. “No! No! I didn’t mean brandy!”

      
“Naw,” I said. “She’ll be fine in a minute.” Again, I thought about Vi’s shortbread and decided not to waste any of it on Stacy. If Stacy ever left the room again, I might get some for everybody else, though. Even Rotondo probably deserved a bite of something good to eat every now and then.

      
“Don’t worry about her, Mother,” Harold said in a voice harder than his usual dulcet tones. “You know she only does these things to get attention.”

      
“Oh, Harold!” Mrs. Kincaid started to cry, and I though
God save me from wealth, if this is what it does to people
. I didn’t mean it, of course.

      
“I’ll take care of her, Madeline,” Father Frederick offered, which I thought was awfully nice of him considering the obstacle facing him. Heck, I wouldn’t want to tackle Stacy, even if I were God Almighty Himself. Also, I doubted very much that Stacy Kincaid ever went to church of a Sunday. Probably not even on Easter or Christmas, which just went to demonstrate how good a man Father Frederick was.

      
“Thank you.” It was the first time I’d heard Rotondo sound honestly grateful to anyone for anything.

      
Father Frederick went to the couch, sat on the edge as far away from the girl’s body as he could get, took one of Stacy’s hands and began chafing it and speaking softly to her. Praying, maybe. I hoped so. The girl needed as many prayers as she could get, and as good a Christian girl as I tried to be, I couldn’t force myself to pray for that demon-spawn-child of Satan.

      
“I appreciate you coming downstairs again, Mrs. Kincaid,” Rotondo said, again surprising me by using good manners.

      
“I felt I should,” she said, her voice hushed and shaky. “After all, it appears that my husband has perpetrated a dreadful crime.” She began crying softly. “And what if it turns out that poor Mr. Applewood killed him? Oh, poor, poor Eustace! I don’t know what my friends will think! But what if he isn’t dead, and has to go to prison? Can you imagine
me
, Madeline Kincaid, with a jailbird for a husband? Think of the horror! Think of the scandal! Oh, my goodness! Whatever will we do? My God, we might have to move back to New York and live in all that horrid snow!”

      
Algie Pinkerton, who hadn’t said much so far, having been weeping almost ever since I showed up as far as I knew, patted her shoulder consolingly. “It will be all right, Madeline. Don’t forget that a little crime and scandal, and especially an interesting murder, will only add cachet to your reputation. People will be falling all over themselves to ask you to attend their soirees and parties and theater outings. Don’t you ever read Mrs. Christie’s novels, darling?”

      
I had occasionally been inclined to think it was a shame that Mrs. Kincaid hadn’t married Algie Pinkerton instead of Mr. Kincaid, but I wasn’t so sure any longer. Although I believe everyone’s entitled to one or two
faux pax
in their lives, I thought that one had come mighty close to insanity. Then again, come to think of it, I’d committed more than one or two verbal mistakes and that was only today, so I forgave Algie. Besides, he was probably right.

      
“Algie! How can you say such things?”

      
Algie shrugged as if he couldn’t think of a good answer.

      
“And to think that Mr. Kincaid stole those bonds from the bank!” Mrs. Kincaid went on, sounding as if she were working up to another hearty hysterical fit. “People might condone murder, Algie, but
nobody
condones theft, and I’ll be married to a
convict
!”

      
Now that, to my mind, was a curious way to look at things, but, as I’ve mentioned several times already, I’m not rich and, therefore, have a different outlook on life, I’m sure. By my way of thinking, murder’s a good deal more heinous than theft, but I guess it depends. On what, I don’t know.

      
I did say, meaning it sincerely, “It’s a good thing the theft was discovered on a Saturday, though, don’t you think? I mean, whatever would people have thought if the newspapers leaked the news that the auditors had discovered the theft of the bonds? It would have been a terrible shock, and they’d probably blame the whole family for the actions of the one.” I shook my head. “Imagine all those poor people in Pasadena who’ll have lost their savings. With today to work on the problem, maybe this will give your bank people some extra time to get things under control before Monday. Maybe the bonds will be rediscovered before the bank is forced to close.”

      
That, it became instantly clear to me, wasn’t the right thing to say, either, because Mrs. Kincaid’s eyes went as round as chocolate cupcakes, Harold sucked in enough air to float a balloon, and Del Farrington slammed a hand over his heart and uttered a syllable I don’t think I heard correctly. At least I hope I didn’t, because it would astonish me if Del knew words like that.

      
Unfortunately, Stacy recovered in time to hear what I said. “What kind of comfort is that for my poor mother, you idiot fool? If that’s not the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is!”

      
Strange as it sounds, it was Algie Pinkerton who came to my rescue. Algie had never before seemed to me like the rescuing type. “No,” he said in a peculiar voice and in direct contradiction to Stacy’s insulting comment. I’d never heard him contradict anybody, and it made me happy that it had been Stacy who’d been his first. “It’s not stupid at all. In fact, I believe Mrs. Majesty has perhaps hit on a miracle cure for the bank’s ills, if not those of Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid.”

      
Del gasped and opened his baby blues as wide as a robin’s eggs. Shoot, the man was gorgeous. “What—what do you mean, Mr. Pinkerton?”

      
Algie blushed. “Ahem. I’m sure nobody knows this, but I’m quite a hand with investments.” He bowed his head as if he’d just admitted to committing a salacious and distressing crime. “It would be my pleasure—” He directed a lover-like glance at Mrs. Kincaid. Aha! I knew he cared for her! “—to assist a friend in distress. Especially such distress as this. And such a friend.”

      
It sounded to me as if poor Algie was getting his thoughts muddled up, but apparently Mrs. Kincaid didn’t think so. She clasped her hands to her bosom for no more than a second before she threw her arms around Algie’s neck and sobbed onto his shoulder.

      
Stacy, who’d managed to sit up under her own steam since nobody was inclined to help her, said, “Oh, God,” in a disgusted-sounding voice. Harold shot her such an evil look, it would have killed a lesser woman than his sister. Unfortunately, it didn’t kill Stacy. It did, however, shut her up.