Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] Read Online Free Page A

Bissel's herd of wild dachshunds indoors go into their announcement act. They cheered me up even more than the sight of the gorgeous horses in the field had.
           I don't know what it is about dachshunds. They're so short and funny looking, yet they think they're such tough cookies. Perhaps I identified with them because I felt so puny and yet acted so tough myself. Who knows? Probably Dr. Freud could tell me, but I don't speak German and never want to, so his diagnosis wouldn't help me much.
           Mrs. Bissel didn't have a butler, as did Mrs. Kincaid. She did, however, have a live-in housekeeper and a couple of housemaids. It was one of the maids, Ginger Sullivan, who opened the door to me. I knew Ginger from school.
           I grinned at her, but she didn't grin back. I considered this reaction strange, since Ginger and I had always been friendly. “Hi, Ginger. How are you?” I could hardly hear myself for all the barking.
           Evidently Ginger was accustomed to the dogs, because she didn't seem fazed in the slightest. “Scared to death,” she said flatly, opening the door and allowing me entry and several of the dogs outlet. “This place is haunted. I hope you can get rid of it, Daisy, because I'm about to quit.”
           “Golly, Ginger, I didn't know it was so bad.”
           She shivered. I knew she wasn't faking it, either, because I saw the gooseflesh on her arms when she rubbed them. “I've never been so scared in my life.”
           Now, this was an ominous declaration, for certain. It wasn't good for anyone, including Ginger and me. Jobs weren't as easy to come by as they had been before the war, and the whole country had sunk into a depression. Ginger wouldn't be talking about quitting her job for no good reason, because there was no guarantee that she'd be able to find another one.
           As for me, I could almost imagine Mrs. Bissel being frightened about nothing, but if Ginger confirmed her employer's estimation of the basement situation, it meant there truly
was
something down there. And I was expected to get rid of it. I wondered if Pa or Billy had a gun somewhere. Not that I knew how to shoot a gun, but still . . .
           I'd have liked to ask Ginger some questions, but Mrs. Bissel emerged into the huge entry hall from the front room, her arms outstretched, managing somehow to avoid stepping on any of the dogs frolicking at her feet and mine. She was clad in a shocking maroon day dress (shocking because it was such a vibrant color for so large a woman). She looked like an ambulatory purple whale. If I ever get fat, I'm sticking to basic black.
           Some of the dogs jumped up on me, digging their sharp little doggie claws into the skirt of my beautiful black dress, but I only bent down, spoke softly, and gently disengaged the claws. Not even for a lovely hand-made black wool frock would I alienate a client by hollering at her dogs.
           Fortunately, Mrs. Bissel hollered at them for me, so my skirt was spared except for one tiny snag that I knew I could fix in a jiffy. She also clapped her hands, which seemed to affect the dogs. They all stood back, sat down (it was difficult to tell whether they were standing or sitting because their legs were so short) gazed up at me, and a chorus of tails swept the floor. Gee, those dogs were cunning! I really wanted one.
           “Daisy's here, Mrs. B.,” Ginger announced informally (and unnecessarily). At Mrs. Kincaid's house, nothing was informal. Mrs. Kincaid's butler, Featherstone, probably wore his butler suit to bed at night. I preferred Mrs. Bissel's more relaxed standards.
           “I'm so glad you could come, Daisy!” Mrs. Bissel beamed at me and gave me a small hug. “Sorry about the welcoming committee.”
           “I don't mind,” I told her honestly. “I love your dogs.” I glanced at the floor and tried to count, but the dogs kept moving around.