Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (23 page)

      
Thinking a formal introduction was in order, I said, “Marianne Wagner, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Harold Kincaid and Mr. George Grenville. Harold is one of my very best friends. Mr. Grenville owns and runs Grenville's Books which is, in my humble opinion, the best bookstore in Pasadena, if not the entire state of California.”

      
“Happy to meet you,” said Harold, grinning at Marianne, who stared back, wide-eyed.

      
After giving me an embarrassed nod, Mr. Grenville executed a polite bow. “It is my sincere pleasure to be of assistance to you, Miss Wagner.”

      
She lifted her head slightly, but didn't seem to want to look directly at him or get up off the couch. In a tight voice, she murmured, “Thank you so much, Mr. Grenville.”

      
Mr. Grenville swallowed and goggled slightly.

      
“And you, too, Mr. Kincaid.”

      
“Any time,” said Harold.

      
“Oh, no!” cried Marianne. “This will never happen again, I'm positive.”

      
I decided then and there that a lack of imagination isn't exclusive to my mother.

      
“Are you absolutely certain you don't mind? Are you sure it's all right for me to stay here?” Marianne gulped and allowed herself to take a peek at Mr. Grenville. Her gaze fell immediately, and she started wringing her hands.

      
It was all right for her to stay there as far as I was concerned, at least in the short term. Thinking it was up to Mr. Grenville to reassure the girl, I glanced at him.

      
He gathered up the conversational tatters and ran with them, rather like Spike pulling Billy's wheelchair across the living-room floor by means of Sam's handkerchief. He went so far as to rush over to the sofa (approximately two long strides; it was a
very
small house) and plunk himself down beside her. “Please, Miss Wagner. It's perfectly all right that you're staying here. I gather you've had a rough go of it, and I'm more than happy to help.”

      
She turned her baby-blues upon him, lifted her clenched hands to her bosom, and whispered, “Thank you
so
much.”

      
He swallowed and gazed back at her. Shoot, the two of them were gazing into each other's eyes as if they were long-lost lovers reunited after battling hordes of Cossacks and then trampling over a couple of swarms of Visigoths and Vandals for the right to be together. I took a peek at Harold, and I'm ashamed to admit that I cast a sarcastic glance at the ceiling. He looked back and winked, grinning like an imp the while.

      
“Please,” said Mr. Grenville, “you needn't thank me. It's little enough I'm doing for you.”

      
“Oh, no,” she said, still whispering, sounding as if she were on her last legs and he'd just pulled her from the jaws of a ravening crocodile. “You're saving my life.”

      
That was a teensy bit dramatic, but I'm sure she meant it. I didn't doubt but that she'd had an awful time, thanks to her scaly old man, although to dismiss my part in her rescue and devote her entire attention to Mr. Grenville was a bit much. I figured I was only tired; that's why I was crabby.

      
I cleared my throat, thereby breaking the spell. Both sofa-sitters jumped slightly and turned to look at me. “Would you like me to do some shopping for you, Marianne? I'm sure Mr. Grenville--”

      
“Call me George, please, Mrs. Majesty.” He rose from the sofa, embarrassed, although I'm not sure why. Probably because I'd caught him gawping at Marianne. She'd been gawping back, so I didn't think he needed to fret that anyone might consider him silly. Frankly, I doubt if Marianne had an ounce of judgment in her. She'd been taught never to think for herself, she'd been an apt student, and I gathered that she was already beginning to look upon George as her hero.

      
“Only if you call me Daisy,” I said with a smile. “Turn-about's fair play, after all.”

      
“Of course. Daisy.” He had a very nice smile; not quite as great as Billy's in his earlier days, but nice. Friendly.

      
Back to Marianne. “Anyhow, I doubt that George here had much of a chance to stock the pantry shelves. I'll be happy to bring you some groceries and so forth.” I turned to Harold. “And what about clothes? Marianne doesn't have a thing to wear, and she's a lot taller than I am.” It's kind of embarrassing, but my wardrobe was extensive, thanks mainly to my skill with Ma's White Side-Pedal Rotary Sewing Machine. I loved to sew, and I'd have been happy to supply Marianne with duds from my vast collection, but they wouldn't have fit her.

      
“I'll take care of that problem,” Harold promised. “I'm a costumer, after all. I have access to scads of ladies' clothing.”

      
Marianne rose from the sofa, and I saw her lower lip tremble. She seemed to be a trifle shaky on her pins, too. “Please,” she begged, sagging a little and steadying herself with a hand on the couch's arm. “I can't allow you two men to go to this much trouble on my account.”

      
Oh, brother. She'd never said anything like that to
me
, the one who'd rescued her from Mrs. Bissel's basement. I chalked it up to her having been browbeaten into believing men were the only truly capable people in the world. And this was in spite of her own experiences with yours truly, I might add.

      
“Please, Miss Wagner, don't give it another thought. It's no trouble,” George said. “It's no trouble at all.”

      
Easy for him to say. He didn't have a husband at home, wondering what he was up to and spoiling for a fight as soon as he showed up. Not to mention a policeman sitting there with him, longing for a reason to slap him behind bars.

      
“Absolutely,” agreed Harold, sounding less heroic than George, probably because his voice was high-pitched and rather thin.

      
“Be that as it may,” said I, trying to get everyone to pay attention to the important matters before I collapsed and died from lack of sleep, “do you need any foodstuffs, Marianne?” Because I knew Marianne to be useless when it came to the practicalities of life, I turned and directed a questioning glance at George. “George?”

      
“I've stocked the kitchen with bread and eggs and milk,” he said, proud of himself. “I'm sure Miss Wagner can make do until one of us goes to the grocery and dry-goods stores on the morrow.”

      
“Great,” I said. “And you sure won't get bored with all these volumes to read.” I gestured at the tons of books.

      
George grinned broadly. “Absolutely. I'll be happy to recommend reading material if you'd like, Miss Wagner.”

      
Marianne bowed her head and blushed scarlet. “Thank you. Please call me Marianne.”

      
“Thank
you
.” George gazed at her as if she were a chocolate ice-cream cone and he a starving man. “Please call me George.”

      
“Thank you,” she whispered. “George.”

      
I'd never considered George a particularly musical name until that second. Marianne's tongue caressed it as if it were a furry cat she was petting.

      
When I glanced at Harold again, I saw him staring at the ceiling as if he found the two young people as maudlin as I. Actually, I think I reacted negatively to George and Marianne's obvious attraction to each other because I was so darned pooped. All I wanted to do was forget all about Marianne Wagner, drive home, and crawl into bed.

      
“Okay,” I said, a trace too loudly, making Marianne and George, who'd taken to gazing raptly at each other once more, start, “let's look around, shall we? We can see what I'll have to bring tomorrow. I brought some clothes.” I lifted the small sack I'd packed. “My stuff's sure to be too small, but I'm also sure you'd like a change of clothes, Marianne.”

      
“Oh, yes,” she said, sounding as if she didn't mean it. I knew she did; it was only that she was unused to having people other than servants hand her clothing. I'll bet they never handed her used stuff in sacks, either. “Thank you.”

      
“You're welcome. Harold can bring you more duds tomorrow.” I made my way past the sofa to another room. “Say, this is a nice kitchen for such a small place.”

      
“I used to live here,” George explained. “When I first moved out to Pasadena, I did my own cooking. Marianne can fix some scrambled eggs and toast for supper tonight, and I'll stock the place more fully tomorrow.”

      
“Sounds good to me.”

      
When I glanced at Marianne, she was staring at the two of us as if we'd been speaking a foreign language. I sighed. “Um, that's right. I forgot you don't know how to cook very well. Have you ever scrambled an egg, Marianne?”

      
Slowly she shook her head. “I'm afraid I don't know how to cook anything at all,” she said, clearly ashamed of this deficiency.

      
George blinked at her. “Oh. Well, I'll be more than happy to scramble some eggs for you this evening. In fact, I'll dine with you, if you can call eating such a meal dining.” He laughed as if he thought that was a great idea.

      
I wasn't so sure. I mean, I was relatively sure George was a true gentleman and all that, but it was still kind of shocking for a young, unmarried woman and an slightly older, unmarried man to be sharing a house all alone without a soul to chaperone them. I didn't care what the bright young things in F. Scott Fitzgerald's books did with each other. This was Pasadena, California, where stricter rules prevailed.

      
“I have another idea,” George exclaimed brightly. “I'll lend you a couple of cooking books! There are several of them in the shop, and maybe you can teach yourself how to cook!” He added, still smiling, “You probably won't have too much else to do for awhile.”

      
Again Marianne clutched her hands together at her bosom. When she did that, she bore a striking resemblance to Mary Pickford in one of her more insipid roles. “Oh, George, would you? That would be so kind of you.”

      
“It's nothing, really.” George dug the toe of his shoe into the braided rug under his feet. “I'll be more than happy to help you learn, as well. I'm quite the cook, when it comes to eggs and toast and cheese sandwiches and so forth.”

      
“Thank you so much.”

      
“Yeah,” I said to George, attempting to sprinkle a dose of reality on their fairy tale. “That's great, George, but don't get too carried away. Marianne's in danger of being discovered, and your bookstore's situated on the busiest street in Pasadena. You've both got to be careful that nobody sees her. Her picture's been in the papers, and her family's got the police out looking for her, don't forget.”

      
Considerably sobered, George nodded. “Of course. I shan't lose sight of our objective.”

      
“Good.” I walked over to Marianne and put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you sure you'll be all right, Marianne? I'll be happy to drive you back to your parents' house if you want me to.”

      
Her blue eyes got even bigger, and she stared at me in horror. “No! Please don't do that!”

      
“I won't,” I assured her. “Don't panic. I'm only offering you the option. I don't want you to feel obliged to remain in George's cottage if you're afraid or anything.”

      
“I don't bite,” George teased. “And I'd never do anything untoward.”

      
From the blank expression on Marianne's face, I gathered she had no idea what we were talking about. I sighed heavily, wishing I'd assisted a slightly more worldly specimen of womankind to run away from home. Poor Marianne was liable to be found out because she didn't have enough sense to keep her curtains drawn.

      
That being the case, I opted to get rid of the gentlemen for a few minutes while I had a woman-to-woman chat with Marianne. “George, will you go hunt up a cooking book? Harold can help you.”

      
“What?” George looked startled.

      
Harold, who was a good deal brighter, or perhaps merely more sophisticated, than George, took him by the arm. “Come on, George. Let's find a how-to-cook book.”

      
“Oh.” George's expression of befuddlement went better with his spectacles and his calling in life than his ruddy complexion. “I see. Certainly, I'll be happy to do that.”

      
The two men skedaddled, and I gestured for Marianne to walk through the house with me. It didn't take long. The house consisted of four rooms: living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen. The kitchen was about as big as a postage stamp, but I didn't suppose it mattered since Marianne couldn't cook anyway.

      
I couldn't cook worth spit myself, but there's a difference. You see, I'd at least been taught the rudiments of the cookery arts by my aunt and my mother (although Mother was a lousy cook, just like me). I knew
how
to cook, more or less; I just didn't
like
to cook. This was especially true because my aunt Viola was the world's best cook, so there was no real reason for me to trouble myself in the kitchen.

      
Marianne, on the other hand, had grown up being waited on hand and foot by a house full of servants. I had a feeling she didn't know how to wash her own clothes, either, or maybe even wash her hair. It sure needed a good scrubbing.

      
That being the case, I figured I'd better ask her a few pertinent questions. “You've never cooked anything at all before, have you, Marianne?”