Free High Spirits [Spirits 03] by Alice Duncan

theirs.
           “Daisy?”
           I made a face at Billy and mouthed, “Mrs. Kincaid.” She was in a tizzy too. Last night’s horrors, which I had conveniently tucked away and not considered yet, flooded back to taunt me. “Good morning, Mrs. Kincaid.” I used my soothing spiritualist voice because she needed it. It wouldn’t have hurt if someone had used some soothing techniques on me, but, of course, I wasn’t as lucky as Mrs. Kincaid.
           A party-line person picked up her receiver just then; I heard the click. Since she didn’t speak but only breathed in our ears, I knew it was Mrs. Barrow, the premier party-line snoop of all time. At least Mrs. Mayweather and Mrs. Pollard had the grace to hang up when they realized the call wasn’t for them. Our other party-line member, Mrs. Lynch, evidently actually listened to the rings and didn’t often pick up her receiver if the ring belonged to someone else. Not Mrs. Barrow, who tried her hardest to remain on the wire during my calls. I’m sure my calls were more interesting than hers, but it was still annoying.
           “Oh, Daisy!” Mrs. Kincaid sobbed.
           I didn’t want Mrs. Barrow to hear anything Mrs. Kincaid might have to say, given the events of the prior evening, so I said, “One moment, please, Mrs. Kincaid. We have another person on the wire.”
           “What? What?” Mrs. Kincaid, who didn’t have to worry about party lines since she could afford a wire all her own, sounded confused, which was a normal state of affairs.
           “Please wait one moment,” I repeated. Then I said, aiming for a tone that combined velvet with sharp spiky needles in an effort to shame Mrs. Barrow (which never worked), “Please hang up your receiver, Mrs. Barrow. This call is for me.”
           I heard a “Humph” and a click, and Mrs. Kincaid and I were alone on the wire—except, perhaps, for the woman at the telephone exchange, which meant I’d have to persuade Mrs. Kincaid not to carry on about speakeasies or arrests during her call. Allowing my head to fall back, I surveyed the ceiling and sighed silently, wishing everything in my life wasn’t such a struggle. I mean, wouldn’t you think I could at least have had peace on the telephone? But no. Not me.
           Pardon me, please. I didn’t mean to whine.
           In my best, most syrupy medium voice, I ignored the frustration roiling in my breast and spoke again. “I can tell you’re upset, Mrs. Kincaid.”
           “You always know, my dear,” she sobbed. “It’s your particular gift.”
           I glanced at the ceiling again, amazed that she should consider my knowledge in this instance as a sign of my supernatural powers, completely ignoring the fact that not only was she sobbing into the receiver, but that I’d been there when the speakeasy was raided. For Pete’s sake, Stacy and I had darned near been arrested. But never mind. I told myself to be grateful for the gullibility of some people since it provided Billy and me with a much better income than we might have had if everyone else in the world had been rational.
           “I do my best,” I said modestly. Because I didn’t want to discuss anything in front of Billy, I said, “But please, let’s not discuss this on the telephone, Mrs. Kincaid. You never know who might be listening.” I spared a moment to hope that Medora Cox, an old high-school friend of mine, wasn’t working the telephone exchange that morning because I’d just maligned all telephone operators.
           Mrs. Kincaid gasped. “You’re right. You’re so wise, my dear.”
           If that were so, I wouldn’t have been in the pickle in which I found myself that day, but I didn’t argue with her. “Why don’t I visit you this morning? Would ten o’clock be all right with you?”
           “Oh, yes, dear. Thank you so much. Please bring your cards. We can use my