Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] Read Online Free Page A

the days of our innocence, before the War had spoiled everything. I didn’t even mind dusting up the fallen blossoms every hour or so, although my mother complained about the mess.
           I had gotten into the habit of telling the people who hired me that I fasted and meditated upon spiritual matters before a séance, but that was a lie. Or, rather, it was part of the job. The truth was that I went about doing whatever it was I was doing until it was time to leave for a séance. This day I paused on the back porch steps to inhale several gallons of orange-blossom-scented air and decided life was worth living for a little while longer, Billy or no Billy.
           “Gee, Miss Desdemona, you look swell.”
           This reverent comment was delivered in a tone of absolute adoration by Pudge Wilson, the neighbor’s kid. He was skinny as a rail and had more freckles than the Pasadena Fire Department’s resident Dalmatian. I don’t know why or when anybody’d thought to call him Pudge, but Pudge he’d always been, and Pudge he was. And bless his heart, he appreciated me, even when my own husband didn’t.
           “Thanks, Pudge.” I gave him a gracious smile. I had learned to smile graciously as part of my trade. People seemed to be awed by gracious smiles delivered by ladies who conducted séances; don’t ask me why.
           “That’s a real pretty dress.” Pudge had harnessed Brownie, the horse my dad had brought home from work one day several years before, to the pony cart. We had a dumpy little Model T Ford, also delivered by my father. It was one that had been given to him by some now-rich movie star who didn’t need it any longer, but I liked to exercise Brownie when I could. He didn’t appreciate my consideration, deeming exercise as akin to torture. Pudge, holding Brownie’s reins, stared at me as if he intended to fall on his knees and start worshiping at my feet any second.
           “Thanks, Pudge.” I kept the gracious smile going as I handed him a nickel. Pudge was a nice kid.
           He was also correct about my attire. I’d made the dress myself using the new, side-pedal White rotary sewing machine I’d bought for Ma, and it was a stunner—the dress, I mean. The sewing machine was, too, but I wasn’t wearing that. The gown was a long black silk number, and it tied at the side hip with glossy black-satin ribbons. It would have been straight, too, except that I had one or two bulges that marred its sleek lines. On the other hand, I was a woman, for the good Lord’s sake, and women were supposed to have those bulges, whether the prevailing fashion called for a “boyish slimness” in American women or not. Naturally, I bound my breasts, but that didn’t help a whole lot.
           At any rate, where the dress tied at my hip, I’d sewn on a big, scalloped appliqué of shiny black beads and silk embroidery (also created by yours truly) that glimmered in the late evening sunlight. The effect would be truly dazzling by candlelight. Which, actually, was the whole point.
           One red lamp with one candle burning inside was the only light I allowed during a séance. I was fortunate that the cranberry glass through which the candlelight glowed brought out the best in me.
           My hair had darkened over the years from a bright coppery color to a darker, more sedate reddish chestnut. My skin, thanks to my mother strong-arming me into wearing sunbonnets all the time when I was a little kid, bore a few faded freckles, but no more than that. Those few I managed to hide with pale, pearly rice powder. I wore no lipstick, which gave me an interesting pallor. I’d developed a walk that was kind of like a waft, if you know what I mean, and which made people think of spirits even before the séance began.
           Over the years, in fact, I’d polished my act to a high gloss. I was darned good at my job, which made Billy’s complaints and