Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] (27 page)

      
“Mind you,” Algie continued, sounding unsure of himself, “we only have Sunday to work with, since the bank is closed this afternoon, but I’m sure we can come up with something.”

      
Del seemed to be collecting his wits, which was a good thing since a banker without wits wasn’t much good to anyone, and I’d begun to believe his were permanently scattered. “Do you really think we can do something to rescue the bank, Mr. Pinkerton? At least temporarily? Something we can build upon so that the bank won’t have to close? I can’t stand the thought of all those poor people losing their money and investments. Some of them have so little, you know, and their entire life’s savings are in the bank. Mr. Pinkerton, if you can do something, you’ll be a true life-saver!”

      
“Please,” said Algie, blushing, “call me Algie.”

      
If anyone called me Algie, I’d smack him. On the other hand, Algernon was worse, I suppose. This was getting interesting, especially since Mrs. Kincaid was seriously impeding Algie’s intent as it revolved about saving the bank, because she clung to him like a limpet. I decided I might be of help there, so I walked to the sofa, gave Algie an
I’ll-rescue-you
look, and he smiled and nodded at me.

      
“Here, dear, please allow Daisy to help you compose yourself. I believe Del and I ought to start working on bank business at once.”

      
“Of course,” Del said in a contemplative tone, as if he’d just had a comforting thought, “If Mr. Kincaid
has
been killed, it would be considered perfectly decent and proper to close the bank on Monday, as a show of respect. Perhaps even extend the closure to Tuesday. That would give us even more time”

      
It was probably a good idea, actually, but Del’s timing could have been better. As soon as Algie rose from the sofa, Mrs. Kincaid let out a screech that would have shattered glass if it had been the thin kind used in our house on Marengo. Working as fast as I could, I sat next to her and threw my arms around her, relinquishing my ear drums to what could conceivably be considered a good cause.

      
Stacy heaved herself up from the other sofa and marched out of the room, a circumstance that caused a more or less universal sigh of relief. The only one who didn’t sigh with relief was Mrs. Kincaid, who was still sobbing frantically. On my blue-floured dress that I’m sure would never recover from this day’s work.

      
Which reminded me of the shortbread again. Oh, Lord, could I ever use a cup of tea and some shortbread. With as much alacrity as possible, I soothed Mrs. Kincaid’s nerves without hurting her feelings (I hope), and said, “I think we could all use some refreshments. Would you mind if I went to the kitchen and asked Aunt Vi to fix a tray?”

      
“Oh, Daisy!” Mrs. Kincaid cried, her hands clasped to her bosom in a gesture I was beginning to recognize as one she used whenever she was particularly touched by something. I’ll bet she never had cause to use it on her daughter. “You’re such an angel.”

      
I’m sure the jury would be out on that one for a long time, but I didn’t say so. Let the lady have her fancies; she deserved them. Because I didn’t trust him not to thwart my angelic purpose, I glanced at Rotondo, who nodded his approval. It wasn’t even a crabby nod, and I took heart. I imagined he could use a cup of tea, too.

      
I rushed to the kitchen. Edie had left Aunt Vi to resume her house-maidly duties by then, for which I was glad since I didn’t want to go into details at the moment. All I wanted was tea and shortbread.

      
Fortunately for all of us, Aunt Vi had made plenty. “I knew I’d need lots of it,” she told me. “You know there’s nothing as heartwarming as Scotch shortbread and tea when a person’s down in the mouth, Daisy, and if there’s any woman who needs help at the moment, it’s that poor dear Mrs. Kincaid.”

      
“I couldn’t agree more. Thanks, Vi. You’re the real angel in this family.”

      
“Don’t blaspheme, Daisy,” she said severely. But she blushed, and I knew she appreciated the complement that had been delivered to me, but should have been directed at Vi.

      
Since the tray holding the cups and tea was heavy, I carried that one. Aunt Vi arranged a brilliantly beautiful arrangement of shortbread cookies on another tray that she’d covered with a pretty doily, and carried that one to the drawing room. Someone—I suspect Harold, since he was the only person in the room with a functioning brain at the moment—had anticipated the need for an open door. I marched in with the tea tray, and Vi followed with the tray of shortbread. I could have sworn I heard drools commencing throughout the room.

      
Crying as usual, Mrs. Kincaid said, “Oh, Vi, thank you so much! You and your niece are the kindest women in the whole world!”

      
Rotondo cast a glance at a ceiling fixture, but I didn’t resent it. Too much.

      
Harold said, “You got that one right, Ma.” He mitigated the use of the word “Ma” and his use of poor grammar by kissing her on the cheek. Then he turned and kissed Vi, which I considered extraordinarily diplomatic of him, and he rose another couple of notches in my book. Harold was a peach of a guy, and that was that.

      
Vi smacked Harold lightly on the arm, which to me spoke of many such instances in Harold’s life. Bless my aunt Violet’s big heart. She and my mother and father were three of God’s greatest gifts to the world. It made me glad to know that people like Harold Kincaid, a rich and important man, knew it, too.

      
“I’ll serve the tea and cookies,” I said, taking over the duty since Mrs. Kincaid wasn’t in any condition to serve as hostess. Harold helped. I can’t even begin to tell you how soothing Aunt Vi’s shortbread and tea can be.

      
Even Rotondo’s usually grumpy face relaxed into something that looked vaguely human. “These are delicious, Mrs. Majesty. Please thank your aunt for me.”

      
By that time, Aunt Vi had left the room, of course, so I said, “Sure will. She’ll be pleased that you enjoyed them.”

      
“They’re marvelous,” Harold exclaimed. He looked as if he were experiencing a holy vision. “I
must
have the recipe! Will she divulge it, do you think? Or is she one of those people who keep these secrets to themselves?”

      
I eyed him curiously. “Do people really do that?” I’d never heard of anything as stupid as not sharing a good recipe, but what did I know? Maybe rich people did lots of unusual things the rest of us would never even think of.

      
“They certainly do.” This came from Del, who exchanged a speaking glance with Harold, from which I gathered they’d been caught in a recipe-secret-keeping plot before. Shoot, life could be really interesting when you hung around with all sorts of different kinds of people.

      
“I think I’ll leave you people to yourselves for a while,” Detective Rotondo said after consuming about three dozen shortbread cookies (okay, I’m exaggerating a little bit). “But I’m certain I’ll have to return tomorrow as soon as I gather information that might have come in at the station. And please don’t hesitate to telephone me at the station should anything of significance happen here.”

      
“Of course.” Harold stood and shook the man’s hand, which I thought was quite egalitarian of him.

      
“Yes. Of course,” said his mother more vaguely.

      
Del and Algie nodded. They were already spreading books and ledgers out on a big desk sitting under a window next to Stacy’s fainting couch.

      
“See ya,” said I to the detective, who gave me one of his better frowns in return. He didn’t bother with a verbal good-bye, which was fine with me.

      
As Del and Algie consumed tea and shortbread, they pored over the bank’s books Del had brought to the Kincaid mansion that afternoon, after it had been made clear that Kincaid had absconded. I have to admit to a certain degree of interest in the intensity they devoted to the books.

      
People’s choices in matters of careers fascinate me. I knew my dad had been a great chauffeur and had taken delight in driving moving-picture people all over the place. He could keep a body entertained for hours with some of his stories—and I imagine I’ve never even heard some of the better ones.

      
I knew, too, that Billy had been all set to go into motor mechanics before he went to war and got himself mutilated. He’d always loved automobiles. And I knew my mother was a crackerjack bookkeeper because she enjoyed working with numbers. It went without saying (any more often than I already have) that Aunt Vi was a superb cook. And, not to sound vain or anything, I even knew I was a darned good spiritualist.

      
But the notion of two wealthy men sitting down together and trying to figure out how to save a bank so that a bunch of people poorer than they wouldn’t go broke meant something special to me. I don’t know why, unless it’s because I tend to think of people who make money as being uncaring about the rest of us. And this is in spite of all the evidence to the contrary that I’ve gleaned from many different sources, including Harold and his mother.

      
By the time I knew I had to be going home or Billy would be in a perfect tantrum—not that his tantrums came anywhere close to those thrown by Stacy Kincaid, and he had a better reason for throwing them—I could see Del and Algie smiling. I took the smiles as a good omen and stood up. Mrs. Kincaid had asked to have her Ouija board brought into the drawing room, so we’d been asking Rolly a bunch of questions about the future of Mrs. Kincaid’s life and when or if it would ever brighten again.

      
Naturally, Rolly told her that her life would be full of joy and wonder after a period of chaos (chaos is always a good word to use, because it can mean almost anything). I’ve always been grateful to Rolly for showing up in my life, even if I’d made him up in the first place. You never know about such things. Maybe I didn’t make him up. Maybe he made himself up.

      
There I go: thinking again. I really ought to stop it, because thinking only confuses me.

      
“I really need to get back to my family, Mrs. Kincaid,” I told her sympathetically. “I’ll come back tomorrow if you need me.” I gave her one of my more gracious smiles, tinted with sweetness and light, in order to soften the blow she might feel at my deserting her. But hecky-darn, I had a family, too. Fortunately, I was so full of shortbread, I wasn’t starving or anything, but I was worried about my husband.

      
Mrs. Kincaid squeezed my hands so tightly, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to hold on to the Model T’s steering wheel. Thank heavens James was still there in the stables to crank for me. “Oh, Daisy,” sobbed Mrs. Kincaid, “I can’t thank you enough for coming over to help me today. I don’t believe I could have survived the day without you.”

      
All right, I know this sounds unkind, but sometimes I wish some people wouldn’t cry so darned much. I liked Mrs. Kincaid a whole lot, and I appreciated her, and I valued her even if she didn’t have a very useful brain or anything much in it, and had bred one offensive daughter, but blast it all, she cried every time anything at all happened, and it got to be a trial after a while. Maybe I was only tired. It had been a full day for me, too, and I still had to fill Aunt Vi in on all of it before I could go home to my husband.

      
Fortunately, Aunt Vi knew my situation with Billy. So to the aroma of roasting lamb and garlic-mashed-potatoes and tomato and cucumber salad, which didn’t do as much damage to my self-control as it might have done had I not consumed so much shortbread, I told Vi all the interesting tidbits of the day. Never think I left out Stacy’s nasty comments to me or her fainting fits, either. After all, we Gumms know what goes on in the world, and we appreciate hearing how the other half behaves itself, which it so often doesn’t.

      
“That child will be the death of her poor mother, if her father doesn’t finish the poor woman off first,” Aunt Vi said, tutting as she stirred the gravy. It smelled
so
good. We Gumms and Majestys didn’t eat a lot of lamb because it was an expensive meat, but I adored it when I could get it.

      
“But at least Del Farrington and Algie Pinkerton are saving the bank,” I said, hoping to make her feel better.

      
I succeeded beyond my expectations. She actually dropped her wooden spoon into the gravy pan and slapped her hands together as if she were praying. “They are? You really think they’re going to be able to save the bank?”

      
“They think so. I guess Mr. Pinkerton is something of a financial genius.” I snabbled a piece of the lamb before Vi could smack my hand. It was
so
good. “You’d never know it to look at him, would you?”

      
“You can never tell by appearances, Daisy Majesty, as you ought to have learned long before this.”

      
Lectures, lectures, lectures. I suppose that’s what mothers and aunts are for, but it did put a crimp in one’s style sometimes. “Say, Vi, I really need to get home to Billy. Would you mind filling Edie in on what’s gone on today. I promised her I would, but—well, you know Billy.”

      
“Oh, Daisy, my love!”

      
I knew a reference to poor Billy would get her. It always did. Vi felt sorry for both of us. So did I, for that matter. This time it worked out okay, because she sliced off a large portion of lamb, added some gravy and some potatoes, handed me a small jar of cooked green beans, and I left the house with a better dinner than Billy could ever get from me. Unfortunately, I hadn’t inherited the family’s cooking gene, or whatever it was.