Free Unsettled Spirits by Alice Duncan

wished them unsaid, but Flossie burst out laughing, so I guess she didn't mind.
    Billy reached out and grabbed hold of my velvet cape. He rubbed his pink cheek against it, and my heart melted. "Does that feel good, Billy?"
    The kid nodded. I felt tears in my eyes and ruthlessly suppressed them. My Billy and I had wanted three children. That was before he came back from the war wrecked and unable to father children. I wondered if Sam...
    But I didn't want to think about having children with Sam. Or anything else with Sam.
    "Thanks, Flossie." My voice was a little froggy, so I cleared my throat and slapped my chest as if I felt a cough coming on. I managed to frighten little Billy into hiding his head against his mother's shoulder once more, and I sighed. "Sorry."
    "Nonsense," said Flossie, as if she understood everything. She probably did.
    I took off my cape and put it over Billy. He was startled at first, but then burrowed into it, kind of like Spike burrowed into the covers on my bed at night. Flossie and I both smiled, rescuing a maudlin moment from my stupid sentimentality.
    "You know what would really help would be a photograph of Mr. Evans."
    "Oh, of course." How silly of me not to have asked for a photograph of Evans. Not that Mrs. Wright decorated her home with photos of her servants. Still, one might have existed and been a useful tool if I'd had brains enough to ask for one. Oh, well. Sam had probably confiscated any existing photos of the butler.
    "I don't have a photo. I should have asked for one. Every time I've seen him, he's been dressed impeccably and he stood regally erect. Good posture. Of course, I've only seen him when he's working. As I said, I don't know how he dresses on his afternoons off."
    "Do you have any idea how old he is?"
    "Oh, dear. I'm not good at guessing ages, but he does have graying hair. Maybe in his sixties? Fifties? My father is fifty, and his hair still is still brown, but both my mother and Aunt Vi are going gray. Evans' hair isn't all gray, though. It's mostly brown."
    "Sounds like a distinguished gent," said Flossie.
    "He looks like one," I said.
    After we chatted for about forty-five minutes, I left for home. I walked in to find the house empty and the telephone ringing. I listened carefully. Our ring. With a sigh, I didn't even bother throwing my cape on the coat rack, but went straight into the kitchen and picked up the receiver. "Gumm-Majesty residence—"
    "You needn't give the whole spiel," said Harold Kincaid. "I called to ask you to lunch at the Castleton. Emmaline Castleton and Del will come, too."
    I glanced at the clock on the wall. Its hands pointed to twelve-fifteen. A timely call, indeed. "Thanks, Harold! That sounds like a nice respite on a gloomy day."
    "What's gloomy about it?" asked Harold, avid for gossip.
    "Well, the day itself is cold but clear, but I just came from the Wrights' home, and—"
    "Oh. Evans," said Harold. "Old news. Mother babbled about Evans all last night during dinner. Your aunt outdid herself yesterday, Daisy, by the way."
    "What did she feed you?" I asked, wondering if she'd fed the Pinkertons and Harold the same thing she'd fed us.
    "Spaghetti and meatballs. Never eaten anything so delicious in my life. Not even in New York City, where all the best food is."
    I smiled at the 'phone. "That's Sam's recipe. For the sauce, I mean," I told Harold proudly. Don't ask me why I was proud, but I was.
    "You're joking!"
    "Am not."
    "Well, how about that. I don't suppose if I ask him politely, he'll give me the recipe?" Harold knew Sam didn't care for him and why.
    So I might as well tell you about Harold Kincaid and Delray Farrington now. They were lovers. I know, I know. Some people consider people like Harold and Del to be evil somehow. After talking to Harold extensively—he was one of my best friends, after all—I've come to the conclusion that people are born either to be attracted to the opposite sex or to their own. It certainly isn't a choice.