Unsettled Spirits (34 page)

"Oh, they do not." I thought of the recent production of
The Mikado
, and sidestepped a trifle. "Well, they didn't used to, until your friends came to town and decided to produce an operetta there."

With a grin, Harold said, "Yeah. Blame it on me. It's all my fault."

I whapped him on the arm. "Don't be silly. Still, it probably is your fault."

"Nevertheless, the point is that you can't rule out Barrett Underhill or Glenda's father."

"Oh. Well, I guess the younger Mr. Underhill might have poisoned his father, although I don't remember seeing him in church that day. I don't even know what the girl's father looks like."

"Kind of like a skinny dill pickle, actually," said Harold. "Tall, skinny and sour."

"You have a way with words, Harold."

"Yeah, I know."

We chatted a bit more, and then Harold left, and I went back to sleep.

* * *

Sam came to the house bearing a bouquet of flowers for me, which I thought was nice of him. His bouquet didn't hold a candle to the one Mrs. Pinkerton had Harold bring me, but Sam's was from his heart—I think he had a heart—and Mrs. P's was from guilt.

"Thank you, Sam!"

"Looks like you didn't need them," said he, glowering at the magnificent bouquet of roses, bird of paradise, baby's breath, carnations, and I don't know what all else. Sam's bouquet consisted of chrysanthemums, which I'd once mentioned to him I liked a lot. And he'd remembered. Guess the big galoot
did
have a heart.

"I like your bouquet better, Sam."

"Sure you do."

"I mean it!"

"All right. All right. What's in that big cardboard box out there on the table?"

"I haven't looked at everything. Mrs. Pinkerton sent it to me via Harold when she realized I really was sick and Pa hadn't been lying to her all week long. She sent me some pickled herring, but Pa said he'd eat it."

Sam shook his head. "That woman's a real peach."

"She can't help it. She was born rich. I think that does odd things to people. Since I'm clearly too unhealthy to go to her house, she asked if she could come here."

Sam's dark eyes opened wide, and his fuzzy eyebrows lifted. "You're joking!"

"Am not. But I told her I'd call her as soon as I could, and that the doctor had forbidden visitors. That's a lie, but she didn't need to know it."

Speaking of which, a tap came at my door just then, and Flossie and Johnny Buckingham toddled into my room. Flossie held a plate piled high with cookies.

"Oh,
thank
you!" I said to two of my favorite people. Well, Sam was a favorite, too, but in a different way.

"They're oatmeal cookies," said Flossie. "With raisins. I think they're supposed to be good for you."

"I read that oats are healthy food," said Johnny a shade doubtfully.

"She's not a horse," muttered Sam.

Johnny grinned. "Maybe not, but I still read somewhere that oats are a healthy food for people to eat."

"Thank you both. Flossie, you're a gem. And so are you, Johnny."

"Want a cookie?" asked Flossie with a bright smile.

My stomach lurched. "Not yet, thanks. I haven't been able to eat a whole lot since I got sick."

"You sound terrible," said Flossie. "You poor thing. Have you been drinking tea with honey and lemon? I think that's supposed to be good for sore throats."

"Oh, yes. Ma and Aunt Vi pour tea with honey and lemon down my throat every time they get a chance."

"Mind if I take a cookie?" asked Sam, eyeing the plate of cookies as if he hadn't eaten all day. Come to think of it, given his schedule, he might not have.

"Take two. They're small," said Johnny with a grin.

"They are not," I said. "They're huge. They look delicious, Flossie. Thank you so much."

"You're more than welcome," said she, and she lifted a corner of the towel she'd had draped over the mound of cookies and offered the plate to Sam, who took Johnny's advice and grabbed two of the delightful oat-filled rounds. After taking a quick bite, he said, "These are great." He looked at me and tilted his head slightly. "You might want to get the recipe from Mrs. Buckingham, Daisy."

Ruefully, I said, "Wouldn't matter if I did. I'd manage to ruin them somehow."

"Daisy, that's not true," said Flossie, clearly dismayed by my comment. "You taught that wonderful cooking class at the church, and you didn't ruin a single thing."

Although he was chewing, Sam managed a grunt that said Flossie was dead wrong about her assumption.

I frowned at him. "Well, I didn't ruin anything at the
class
, Sam Rotondo. It was only when I tried to reproduce one of the recipes at home that I made a slight error."

Sam still couldn't talk with his mouth full, for which I was grateful, because he might have spilled the beans. Actually, they were peas. And they were supposed to be piled on top of some hard-boiled egg slices in a little castle-shaped bread thing. Only I slipped up a tiny bit and used baking soda when I was supposed to use flour, so my efforts to feed my family suffered a humiliating defeat that evening. I preferred not to remember that dismal attempt at conquering my culinary deficiency.

"Don't you dare say a word, Sam, or I'll hit you."

After he swallowed, he held up a hand. "I didn't say a word, and I won't."

"I sense a story here somewhere," said Johnny.

"You'll never hear it from me," said Sam.

Flossie only appeared confused, so I said, "Why don't you put the cookies on the kitchen table, Flossie. I know my family will love them. I might even try one with my tea this evening."

Eyeing me critically, Johnny said, "You're losing weight again, Daisy. I think you should at least try to eat."

Nuts. Ever since I went into a decline after Billy's death and nearly starved myself to death, the entire world seemed intent upon monitoring my eating habits. "Don't worry, Johnny. I'll eat more when I get better. Listen to me. Do I sound well and healthy to you?"

"Gotta admit, you don't sound good at all," said Johnny.

"She's been sick since Sunday," Sam informed Flossie and Johnny with a frown. I guess he'd managed to eat his second cookie, since he no longer held a cookie in either hand. "Really sick. She might even be contagious still."

"Doc Benjamin said the 'flu is generally not contagious after the first couple of days," I said. "Don't worry about carrying my germs to little Billy." Frowning at Sam, I said, "Stop trying to frighten my friends away, Sam Rotondo."

With a laugh, Johnny said, "Don't worry about us. We're immune to just about everything, I think. The good Lord knows, we've been exposed to everything from the influenza to leprosy—"

Sam and I chorused, "
Leprosy
?"

Nodding, Johnny said, "Yup. But leprosy is less contagious than the 'flu. Poor person who had it lived in Africa, where the disease is more common. But it can be treated these days with chaulmoogra and resorcin and camphor."

"What in the world are... Never mind." Not that I didn't care about the cure for leprosy, because I was glad there was one, but I was already sick and didn't feel like getting sicker.

"We shouldn't talk about such things with Daisy being so ill, Johnny," said Flossie. "I do believe it was the first time I'd ever heard her chastise her husband, even though it wasn't much of a chastisement."

Johnny took it well. "You're right. Well, we don't want to wear you out, Daisy. Get lots of rest and gargle with hot salt water. It might help that croak of yours."

"Johnny!" cried Flossie. She gave him a little punch on the arm and then giggled. "Don't pay any attention to him, Daisy. He's just being mean."

I laughed, too. Sort of. Didn't sound like much of a laugh, but it was supposed to be one. "Johnny couldn't be mean if he tried, Flossie. I know all about him. He's a softie."

The exchange of glances between husband and wife would probably have been outlawed if anyone the least bit puritanical was there in my bedroom to see it. Fortunately, the only witnesses were Sam and me, and neither of us disapproved. In fact, my eyes almost started to drip again, but I forced myself not to cry.

Have I mentioned how much I hate being sick?

Chapter 28

I stayed in bed until Sunday. Didn't even come out for meals, although my mother and Aunt Vi brought me foodstuffs on trays. I told them they didn't need to do that, because I felt like a loafer, but they scolded me and told me to stay in bed because I was sick and did I want to get a relapse and die?

Well, no. Not really.

Sam surprised me. I guess the box of stuff Mrs. Pinkerton made Harold cart over had inspired him, because he kept bringing me nice things like detective novels from Grenville's Books on Colorado Boulevard, and even some Chinese soup in a jar.

"Chinese soup?" I asked, peering at him from my mound of pillows.

"It's spicy. The guy at the restaurant says it's better than anything else he knows of for sore throats and chest congestion."

"Thank you, Sam."

I noticed he was eyeing my neck, and I wondered if my nightie had slipped or something. I pressed a hand to my front and felt the ring Sam had given me on the chain Sam had given me. I'm sure I blushed, because I felt myself get hot, and I knew I no longer had a fever.

"Well," said Sam, frowning slightly. "At least you're wearing it somewhere."

"I love it, Sam," I said in a feeble voice. I no longer croaked, but I did have laryngitis, which made me whisper whether I wanted to or not.

Sam sighed deeply.

"I love you, too, Sam," I said, and I held out my hand to him.

He took my hand and sat next to me on the bed. We didn't get all mushy or anything because the rest of my family had come home and were cluttering up the house. Besides, I still didn't feel healthy.

"I love you, too, Daisy," said he.

I sniffled.

Then Pa came to my bedroom door and said, "Dinner's ready, Sam. Daisy, do you feel like eating anything tonight, or will you stick to soup and bread and butter?"

"Maybe somebody can heat up this Chinese soup Sam brought me from..." I glanced at Sam, and he nodded, so I continued. "From the Crown Chop Suey Parlor."

"It's supposed to be good for sore throats and congested chests," said Sam. "Wish I'd known about it a week ago, because she could have really used it then."

"Really?" Pa appeared impressed, so he took the jar Sam handed him. Sam got up from the bed next to me, and they both walked into the kitchen.

I sighed, missing Sam. And he'd only been gone five seconds. Sometimes I think I'm just nuts.

However, Ma came in a few minutes later bearing a tray on which a steaming bowl of soup resided next to a bread-and-butter sandwich, which had been neatly cut into four triangles. In our house, we don't cut off the crusts, because... well, why would we?

"I don't know about this," said Ma. "Just breathing the fumes makes my eyes water."

"Oh!" Disconcerting. However, Sam had told me it was spicy. "I'll give it a try. Um... Better bring me a glass of water, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. In fact, that's a good idea." Ma vanished into the kitchen after placing my dinner tray on my night stand and returned a few moments later with not one, but two, glasses filled with water. "I don't think one's going to be enough," said she as she placed the two water glasses on the tray next to the steaming bowl.

She was right. I've never tasted anything so spicy in my entire life, and that includes the little bowls of salsa Mijares serves with their meals. Oh, but it was tasty! It sounds silly, but it felt healthy going down. I had to take two sips of water for every sip of soup, but I managed to drink all of it. The bread and butter helped quell the burn a bit, too.

Anyhow, where were we? Oh, yes. Sunday. I stayed home from church that day because I couldn't speak and still felt weak. I asked my family to please say hello to everyone for me and to please tell Mr. Hostetter I'd probably be able to attend choir rehearsal on Thursday.

Four pairs of eyes turned to glare at me (Sam was there, too), and I amended my statement. "If I'm well enough, I mean."