Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (22 page)

      
“I'm sorry.” She looked repentant as she slugged back half a glass of milk. “I'm just so scared.”

      
“I'm sure you are.” I was, too, if it came to that, although I didn't burden the girl with my worries. “But Harold and I will be able to think of something, I'm certain.” Liar. I was certain of no such thing, at least in regard to my own personal self. But I had great faith in Harold.

      
I left Marianne to her milk and sandwich and went back upstairs to tell Billy I was leaving him for the afternoon. I anticipated he would be less trouble than usual since he had not only Sam and Pa to play with, but Spike, as well.

      
Claiming I had a séance to conduct--fortunately, Billy didn't bring up the fact that I never conducted séances on Sundays--I managed to get Marianne out of the house slightly before four that afternoon. It would have been a nice, easy walk to the bookstore on a late-fall afternoon, but I didn't want Marianne showing her face in town, so I aimed to drive her there.

      
None of the men mentioned the odd hour of the fictitious séance, either, I guess because they were involved in their gin rummy game and the puppy. I noticed several one-cent pieces stacked next to my husband's place at the card table, so I presumed Sam's game hadn't improved. I also noticed that Spike was curled up on Billy's lap, and my heart glowed. For the first time in a long time, I knew I'd done something right.

      
Ma and Aunt Vi were still visiting elsewhere when Marianne and I crept out of the house. Marianne hid behind a winter-bare hibiscus bush while I set the spark and throttle levers, turned the crank, reached inside to pull the spark lever down, then leaped into the machine and pressed the low-speed pedal, all the while praying that I would soon be able to afford a motorcar with a “start” button and a battery so I'd never have to fiddle with the lousy crank and levers again.

      
Once the Ford had sputtered to life, I scouted the area for intruders. I didn't see any, so I gestured at the hibiscus bush. Marianne dashed toward me, stooped almost double so the men wouldn't see her if they happened to look out the living room windows.

      
She scrambled into the car, huddled on the floor, and I threw a blanket on top of her. “Keep that over you, Marianne. I don't want anyone to know you're in the auto with me.”

      
“I will,” she said, her voice muffled.

      
You can imagine my feeling of relief as I pulled away from the curb, tootled up Marengo Avenue, and turned right on Colorado. We were almost in the clear! It was true that I still had to figure out how to ensure Marianne's safety in the long run, but at least I didn't have to keep her hidden in my basement any longer.

      
You never knew about people, either. It was always possible that Marianne herself would discover she possessed a modicum of ingenuity. I wasn't about to bet on it, but stranger things had happened. At least I think they had.

Chapter Eleven
 

      
“I think I'm allergic to wool,” Marianne said as I pulled up in front of Grenville's Books.

      
“Don't throw off the blanket yet,” I advised. “I don't see Harold or Mr. Grenville.”

      
“But it itches.”

      
“Then scratch. Don't show yourself until I know what's going on.” I fear my voice reflected my impatience with the girl. Here I was, putting my entire life and freedom on the line--not to mention the good opinion of my husband, if he had such a thing--and she was griping about an itch. “It's wool,” I said, straining to keep my temper in check. “Wool's supposed to itch.”

      
“I'd make a lousy sheep,” she muttered.

      
That was a pretty funny comment. I'd have laughed if I hadn't been so all-fired nervous. I was, however, vaguely encouraged to think that Marianne might develop a sense of humor if allowed to remain apart from her father's domineering influence for long enough.

      
I let the Model T idle at the curb, hoping it wouldn't have to idle for long, because it tended to overheat if it wasn't moving. Actually, it tended to overheat anyway, although its behavior was better in cool weather than it was during the summertime. It was a good thing Marianne had waited until autumn before making her bolt for freedom.

      
Squinting east down Colorado Street, which was all but deserted on this cool Sunday afternoon, I spotted a low-slung automobile speeding our way. “I think Harold's coming!” I sagged behind the steering wheel, not having realized until that moment exactly how edgy I was.

      
“Can I come out yet?”

      
“No. Keep scratching. I've got to talk to Harold about where to take you. I don't see Mr. Grenville anywhere.”

      
“I hope this works,” Marianne mumbled.

      
“You and me both.” We'd discussed Harold's plan, and she'd balked at first when she learned that Mr. Grenville was a single gentleman. I didn't tell her that most men were beasts, married or single, because I didn't want to shock her. However, when I'd pointed out that she had no choice in the matter unless she wanted to return to her father's house, she gave up her protests. She was all too eager to give up, actually. It was only fear of her father that had kept her away from home this long.

      
When I glanced at the woolen lump on the floor, I noticed it was moving in spots, as if Marianne had taken my advice and was scratching her itchy skin. I'm not really heartless; I'd have been glad if the blanket hadn't been made of wool, but gosh, a body can't have everything, can she?

      
Sure enough, the automobile turned out to be Harold's snazzy, jazzy, bright-red Stutz Bearcat. It was a great motorcar, although I didn't envy Harold too awfully much. A bright-red Bearcat would seriously compromise the image I'd so carefully crafted of myself as a serious spiritualist--if that isn't a contradiction in terms. A sober-hued, closed-in Oldsmobile or Chevrolet would be better for my purposes.

      
Harold made a U-turn in the middle of Colorado Street. I held my breath and scanned the neighborhood, waiting for a copper to whiz out and give him a ticket. No such animal appeared, and I breathed more easily. After climbing over Marianne and trying my best not to step on her, I ran over to the driver's side of his machine.

      
“Harold! I don't see Mr. Grenville anywhere!” If he'd backed out of our deal, I didn't know what I'd do with Marianne.

      
“That's because the cottage is behind his store,” Harold said, pushing his goggles up so that they rested on top of his head. I've never felt the need to wear motoring goggles. The Ford couldn't go fast enough to whip up very much wind or dust, unless the Santa Anas were blowing, and when that happened, nothing helped. “Follow me.”

      
“Right-o.” I raced back to the Model T, jumped over Marianne's still-huddled form, and put the car into gear. With a cough and a chug, the old Ford pulled away from the curb and followed Harold around the corner and into the bumpy, unpaved alleyway. Harold and I pulled up in front of a tiny doll's-house of a cottage.

      
After parking, Harold vaulted over the Bearcat's door, and trotted over to me. “Where's the girl?”

      
I pointed to the woolen heap on the floor. Marianne's voice floated to our ears. “Is it safe to get out yet?”

      
“She's allergic to wool,” I explained to Harold.

      
“Too bad,” he said. “Wait just a minute longer, Miss Wagner. I've got to see if George is in the house. I don't have a key.”

      
He walked up to the door of the tiny abode. Before he got there, the door was flung wide, and George Grenville stood there, smiling, his wire-rimmed spectacles gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Darned if I didn't nearly swoon from sheer relief. “He's there!”

      
“Can I get up yet?” Marianne asked again. She was beginning to sound a trifle desperate.

      
“Just another little minute,” I promised her.

      
George walked over to the Model T. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Majesty. I understand you have a delivery for me.” He chuckled, as if he thought this was a good game. I thought that, as a game, the entire situation stank.

      
“Thank you so much, Mr. Grenville,” I said with absolute sincerity. “We didn't know what to do.”

      
“Glad to help a damsel in distress,” he said gallantly, if a wee bit tritely. He peered into the automobile. “Er, where is the damsel?”

      
I looked up and down the alley. “Are you sure it's safe?”

      
“Sure,” said Mr. Grenville. “The whole town rests on Sunday afternoons. There's nobody around for miles, and there won't be until around seven, when evening church services begin.”

      
“Thank goodness for that.” I leaned over and grabbed the blanket. “Okay, Marianne. Scoot.”

      
She did exactly that, tumbling from the automobile, pushing off from the running board, and streaking to the open door of the cottage, crouched low for fear someone might notice her. Harold followed her into the cottage, and I got out of the automobile and folded the blanket. I was about to put it back in the rumble seat where we kept it, when I thought about something. “Will you need this, Mr. Grenville?” I sniffed the blanket. “It smells a bit like gasoline.”

      
“I don't believe so, Mrs. Majesty. I've stocked the place with blankets and linens.” He was enthusiastic and set to enjoy his part in our melodrama. I silently wished him luck and hoped he'd remain sanguine for as long as we needed him.

      
“Thank you awfully, Mr. Grenville.” I guess tension and nerves had been keeping me alert because as soon as rescue appeared on the horizon, I suddenly felt as if I was about to drop in my tracks from fatigue. A yawn took me by surprise, and I slapped a hand over my gaping mouth, embarrassed. “So sorry. Didn't get much sleep last night.”

      
“I can well imagine.” Mr. Grenville rubbed his hands. “Please, Mrs. Majesty, let me show you the amenities. I fear there aren't many of them.”

      
“You're a peach to allow Marianne to stay here. Believe me, the girl needs help.”

      
I guess I sounded grave because he lost his smile. He was an apple-cheeked fellow, slim and of medium height. He looked much too healthy and athletic to be a book-seller. His hair was dark brown, and he didn't cut it as often as he ought. At the moment, it curled around his ears and kissed his collar, looking as if it might tickle. His gray-green eyes owlish behind his specs, he said, “I'm sorry she's in distress. Can you tell me about it?”

      
Hesitating, I walked to the door of the cottage where I turned to face the port in Marianne's personal storm. “Maybe I'd better leave that to Miss Wagner. Please know, though, that she
really
needs your help. Heck, she wouldn't have run away without a good reason.”

      
“I'm sure that's true.”

      
“She's not flighty,” I went on, fearful lest he believe Marianne to be one of those modern-day “lost youths,” who were always defying everybody and getting into trouble. “She's not the sort of girl to do anything drastic without good cause.” And if that wasn't the truth, I didn't know what was. “She's actually quite shy. She's definitely not one of your 'I'll-say-she-does' girls.”

      
“I see.” Mr. Grenville's gray winter suit was a trifle baggy, although it looked as if it had cost a pretty penny before he'd rumpled it beyond salvation. At the moment, he had his hands shoved into his jacket pockets and was staring at the ground, a serious expression on his face. “It's a shame she felt it necessary to run away from home.” Lifting his head, he stared me straight in the eyes. “But if you believe her reason was adequate, I'm sure it was.”

      
I nodded. “It was. Truly.”

      
“Very good, then. I'll do what I can to help her.” Reaching behind me to open the door like the gentleman he was, he gestured for me to enter, saying as he did so, “I must say, I don't care for her father, based on the few times he's been in the store.”

      
“You're a discerning individual,” I said darkly.

      
“Ah. I see. Her father, was it?”

      
“Her entire home life is rotten,” I said, trusting Mr. Grenville to forgive me the slang.

      
He seemed to. He closed the door behind the both of us, and we stood there, looking at Harold and Marianne, who looked back at us, Harold with a grin, Marianne as if she were set to meet her executioner.

      
Thinking it might relax her, I made a small joke. “Heck, Marianne, I drove you here in a Ford, not a tumbrel.”

      
Harold's grin broadened.

      
George Grenville chuckled.

      
Marianne continued to stare at me at me blankly, and I deduced she wasn't a big reader. “That's what the fellows in the French Revolution used to haul the aristocracy in when they took them to the guillotine.”

      
“Oh.” Her knees gave out on her, and she sat with a plop on the sheet-covered sofa behind her.

      
From the boxes of books stacked everywhere, I deduced Harold was right about the cottage being where Mr. Grenville kept new shipments and extra copies of the volumes he sold. The small sofa upon which Marianne sat had been shoved against a wall and had indentations in it that looked as if they'd come from boxes, undoubtedly also filled with books. There were bookcases, too, stuffed with books, and books lay stacked on the bar counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. From where I stood, it looked as if the man's whole life was built from books.