Unsettled Spirits (8 page)

"And here's another one for you. It's a children's book, but it's truly darling. It's called
The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle
, by a fellow named Mr. Hugh Lofting. Dr. Doolittle is a most interesting character, and he meets up with some fascinating creatures."

What the heck. "Thank you. I'll give it a read."

"I think you'll like it. And here are a couple of Edgar Wallace novels. We just got in his last Lieutenant Bones book,
Bones in London
, and I do believe we're going to be getting
Bones of the River
soon. It takes so long for books to travel from Great Britain to us, you know."

"Yes. I know. And there are so many good British authors, too." I decided there was no real need for the note of sadness in my voice. After all, some Americans wrote good books, too. As if to prove it, Miss Petrie lifted
One of Ours
, by Willa Cather. "Here. You might enjoy this one."

"Thanks." Truth to tell, and I know Willa Cather is an American icon these days, but I'd found her books a trifle flat. But please don't tell anyone that. My favorite American author was Mrs. Mary Roberts Rinehart—or she had been before she began writing books about the war.

"And I
know
you'll like this." And she lifted a book called
The Secret Adversary
, by Mrs. Agatha Christie.

"Oh!" I cried, perhaps a trifle too loudly, because Miss Petrie glanced around the library. More quietly, I said, "Is this another one with that little Belgian fellow in it? I loved
Murder on the Links
and
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
."

"Monsieur Poirot? No. This is one features a married couple, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. They're spies. Of a sort."

"Oh. Well, I'll give it a try." I wasn't much excited by spy stories, but I expected Mrs. Christie would have given her characters and plot a nice twist or two.

"Here's another one I think you'll enjoy. It's
The Film Mystery
, by Mr. Arthur B. Reeves. It's not a new book, but we just got this copy in. I know you enjoyed his Professor Craig Kennedy books."

"Yes, I did. Thank you!"

"And here are two newish Edgar Rice Burroughs books for your father," said Miss Petrie in her normal librarian's voice. "I know he likes Mr. Burroughs." She set out
Tarzan the Terrible
and
Tarzan and the Golden Lion.

"He might have read this one," I said, holding up
Tarzan the Terrible
, "but Pa probably won't mind rereading it. I love rereading books." A case in point was Mary Roberts Rinehart's
The Circular Staircase
, which I must have read a dozen times by that particular day.

"Speaking of that," said Miss Petrie as if she'd been reading my thoughts, "at last Mrs. Rinehart has left the war behind."

And she set
The Breaking Point
on the desk before me. I gasped and clasped my hands to my bosom. "Oh, I'm so glad!
The Amazing Interlude
about did me in. I'm so glad she's through with war stories." I had too many of my own that yet haunted me. I didn't need to read about anyone else's. "Thank you so much, Miss Petrie! These will keep my family and me happy for days and days."

"I've saved the best for last," said Miss Petrie, a gleam in her eye. Again, she reached under her stool where, I presume, a shelf had been built into the booth. She revealed her next selection with quite a bit of élan, for her.

"Oh,
thank
you!" I felt like gasping and clasping my hands to my bosom again, but restrained myself. There, before me in Miss Petrie's smallish hands, was
The Great Roxhythe
, by Miss Georgette Heyer, another British lady writer. I hadn't read many of her books, mainly because she hadn't written many, but I'd adored every one I'd read.

"You'll love it. It's really... wonderful." Miss Petrie sort of breathed the last word on a soft sigh.

I understood. Miss Heyer wrote the best, most thrilling, and most romantic books I'd read to date.

Whatever would the world be without books in it? I didn't even want to consider the possibility.

"Well, drop by any time," she said, in a wistful sort of voice. "Just to chat, if you feel like it."

I'd gathered for some time by then that Miss Petrie led a rather lonely life. But I loved chatting with her, so I'd be in again soon. I silently promised her that. Then I figured, what the heck, and promised her aloud, "I will." Then I scooped up my treasure trove of books and staggered to the check-out desk with them. Oh, happy day!

That afternoon, after I'd dusted and dust-mopped the house, carpet-swept the carpet, and set the table for dinner, I lounged on the sofa in the living room with Spike curled up on my lap and read. Miss Petrie was absolutely correct.
The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle
was charming. So, after reading that one, I sank more deeply into the sofa cushions and buried my nose and imagination in
The Great Roxhythe
. Oh, my. There I was, in Restoration England, in the very court of King Charles II. I was almost sorry when Vi came home, fixed dinner, and I had to put the meal on the table.

Not that dinner wasn't as delicious as ever, what with Vi teasing our palates with spaghetti and meatballs, a great big green salad, and some garlic bread she'd made with sourdough French bread (which she'd also made). Yum.

"This is so good," I managed to say between bites.

"The sauce is Sam's recipe," Vi told us.

"Speaking of Sam, where is he tonight?" asked Pa.

Everyone at the table looked at me. A trifle annoyed, I said, "I don't know. I didn't see him today. Anyhow, I'm not his keeper." I was engaged to marry him, but they didn't know that, darn it.

"Daisy," said Ma in a mildly reproving tone of voice. "I know the two of you sometimes have little tiffs—"

I sat up straight in my chair, dropped my fork and interrupted my mother, something I seldom do. "Little
tiffs
? The big galoot drives me
crazy
!"

"Piffle," said Ma. "I know the two of you are... Well, let's say you're friends." She gave the word a deeper meaning and I understood perfectly. Crumb.

"Huh," I said, reminding myself of Sam. Oh, well. I saw my dinner companions exchange a series of glances and knowing looks and figured I was doomed. So I just kept eating.

Along about the end of dinner—we all had seconds. Actually, I think I had thirds—a knock came at the door, and Spike went into his usual "a friend has come to call" frenzy, wagging his tail like crazy and barking fit to beat the band. Because Spike was so happy, I assumed the caller to be Sam, and I was proved correct when I opened the front door and saw him there, looming and glowering.

"C'mon in," I told him, ignoring his ominous mood.

"Thanks."

"Want some dinner? There's plenty left, and it's delicious." We were generally through with dinner and cleaning up by the time Sam's knock came at the door. But as I said, we'd had seconds. And thirds.

He removed his hat, coat and scarf, hung them on the coat rack next to the front door, and said, "I didn't mean to come during dinnertime. I figured you'd be finished by this time." His stomach growled and he slapped a hand over it. If he'd been anyone else, he'd have been embarrassed.

"Dinner was especially good tonight," I said, ignoring his growling tummy. Poor guy. A bachelor had a rough time of it, I reckon. "Your recipe for spaghetti sauce."

He sniffed the air. Since the mouth-watering aroma of Italian sauce had permeated the air hours ago, he didn't require a large sniff. "Ah. Smells great."

"Come and have some."

"I didn't come here to eat," he said, sounding grumpy, which wasn't unusual.

"Pooh. You're hungry. We have food. Tons and tons of food. So come eat. You can tell us why you visited us as you dine."

"You sure?" He peered down at me as if he were truly concerned that we'd think he was taking advantage of our good natures.

"Of course! Come on, you big lug." And I dragged him to the table, where everyone greeted him with cheer and helpfulness. Ma had already set another place for him. Beside me. Any time I set the table when I knew Sam was to join us for a meal, I sat him across from me. My mother, the matchmaker. Bless her heart. I think I mean that in the southern sense. Or maybe not.

"So glad you joined us, Sam!" said Pa. "I wondered where you were, but Daisy said she didn't know."

Ma sniffed meaningfully.

"This is your recipe, Sam, so you really
should
eat it with us," said Vi, dishing out a lavish portion of spaghetti and meatballs for the family detective. I handed him the bread basket after he'd taken his plate, and Ma set a bowl full of green salad before him.

"Thank you very much. I honestly didn't mean to interrupt. I figured you'd be through with dinner by this time."

"Yes, yes. We know," I said. "We're kind of late this evening. But why are you here, if it's not to eat?"

"Daisy," said Ma. She would.

After swallowing his first bite of spaghetti, complete with half a meatball, Sam closed his eyes in rapture for a second, and said, "No, but I'm here about Evans."

"Who's Evans?" asked Pa.

"Who's Evans?" asked Ma.

"Did you find him?" asked Vi.

"Oh, Sam, how wonderful! Tell us all about how the Wrights reacted to a police presence in their grand home!" said I.

Sam scowled at me. But honestly, can you blame me?

"They weren't pleased."

"I can imagine." I couldn't help grinning.

"Who's Evans?" asked Ma again.

"Oh, is he the butler who disappeared?" said Pa.

"That's the one, all right," I told him, all but rubbing my hands with glee. "So, tell us, Sam. What happened to Evans? And what did the Wrights and their servants tell you?"

"We don't know, and not much," said Sam, taking a bite of garlicky sourdough bread.

I could tell he considered this a meal made, if not in heaven, at least as close as we mortals could get to it. I expect he missed the food of his childhood. Well, heck, I knew he did, because he'd told me all about the foodstuffs available in New York City. I still hadn't asked Vi if she knew any recipes for pumpernickel bread. As for falafel, curried goat, tandoori chicken, pizza pie, and the other delights Sam had told me about time out of mind, I'm sure I'd have to go to New York City to get any of those things. Maybe if we ever got married, we could honeymoon in New York. I'd wait to ask him, since I didn't want to start anything, if you know what I mean.

"So what happened?" I asked after I'd waited until he'd had another bite of spaghetti. He twirled his spaghetti with his fork sort of balanced on his spoon. I guess that's the proper Italian way of eating spaghetti, but I never tried to do it that way. In fact—Sam considers this akin to blasphemy—I often cut my stringy spaghetti noodles into smaller bites and scooped 'em up. Oh, well.

"The Wrights were aghast to see uniformed policemen at their door," said Sam, taking a sip of tea. His family probably drank red wine with their spaghetti, but that was in New York City. I got the feeling people didn't pay a whole lot of attention to Prohibition laws in New York City.

"I can imagine," I said, wishing I'd been there to see it.

"But nobody claims to know anything. Nobody claims to have seen Evans since Friday afternoon sometime. We searched his rooms. His clothes and other possessions were still there. We presume he took his wallet with him, and there's one suit of clothing missing."

"Which he was probably wearing," I said, bemused. What the heck had happened to Evans?

"Precisely." Sam stopped talking and ate some more. My parents and Vi and I all exchanged puzzled glances.

"What kind of shoes was he wearing? Do you know?"

"Nope. Nobody knows how many pairs of shoes or what kinds of shoes the man has."

"Did you ever meet Evans, Vi?" I asked.

"Nope. I don't meet the staff at other wealthy people's houses as a rule."

"I suppose not." I turned to Sam. "Did you check the hospitals and morgue and stuff like that?"

"Daisy," said my mother, but not forcefully. She wanted to know where Evans was, too.

"Yes, we did. No Evans."

"Hmmm. I wonder what in the world happened to him."

"We all do," said Sam.

My family and I quit pestering him after that and let him alone to finish his dinner, but Ma and I discussed Evans as we cleaned up the dishes. We came to no conclusions about what could have caused the man to fall off the edge of the world. How odd that he just left the house one day and vanished.

Sam and Pa played gin rummy in the living room.

Chapter 7