Strong Spirits [Spirits 01] Read Online Free PDF

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           But as far as I’m concerned, you can keep Communism, Anarchism, Socialism and all the other political “isms.” I’d bet money, if I had any to throw around on any pursuit so useless, that nobody in Russia would hire me to communicate with their dead relatives. Only rich people could afford to do that then, and only rich people can afford to do that now.
           Not only that, but it was the Kincaids of this world who gave me hope. Or people like that fellow Hearst, who started the Spanish-American War and then bought the newspapers. Shoot, all he’d had were money and words, and look what he’s done with them. You couldn’t do that in Russia, especially now, with the Czar dead and that crazy man Lenin in charge.
           “Thanks, fellas.” I saluted Quincy and James and headed for the front door. I wouldn’t have minded using the back door, but Mrs. Kincaid had been shocked when I’d asked her if she’d rather I come in that way. That had made me feel quite good, actually, and it was one of the reasons I never refused to work for Mrs. Kincaid, even when her séances were inconvenient.
           Sometimes I wondered how much money a family had to have if they wanted to hire a butler. Not that we needed one on Marengo. Heck, there’d be no place to put him if we could afford one. Everyone called the Kincaids’ butler Featherstone. Just Featherstone. Not Mr. Featherstone or First Name Featherstone. He was just Featherstone, as if he didn’t have a first name or a title.
           To judge by Featherstone’s accent, he’d come from England. I thought that was elegant. Imagine, importing a man from England just to answer your door and carry things on trays.
           On the other hand, sometimes I wondered about old Featherstone. He was so perfect for the job, it was difficult for me to believe he wasn’t acting the role of a butler, sort of like I was acting the role of a medium. Then again, maybe because my own line of work was based on misrepresentation and flummery, I was jaded.
           Because I couldn’t help myself, I grinned at Featherstone when he opened the door. I always grinned at him. He never grinned back. “Hi-ho, Featherstone. Lead me to the ghouls.”
           Stepping aside, his back as stiff as his countenance and his demeanor much more formal than that of anyone else I’d ever seen even in Pasadena, Featherstone said somberly, “Mrs. Majesty. Please come this way.” Not a smile. Not a wink. Nothing to tell me if he believed in the spiritualist nonsense I perpetrated or not. He was quite a guy, Featherstone.
           “Sure thing,” I said brightly. I followed him down the hall, contemplating whether or not it would be a good idea to whistle. I decided against it. My own physical demeanor practically radiated mysticism and the occult arts; a whistle would have been out of character, no matter what my innards felt like.
           Unfortunately, although they seldom felt jolly in those days, my innards never felt mystical or cryptic, either. Therefore, I composed myself as I followed Featherstone through the massive entrance hall and to the right, where Mrs. Kincaid had everyone gather before one of my séances.
           To most of us normal, every-day folks the room would have been called the parlor or the living room. To Mrs. Kincaid, it was the drawing room. That used to puzzle me until somebody, can’t remember who, told me “drawing room” was short for “withdrawing room,” because it was the room where people retired, or “withdrew,” to chat and visit. That kind of made sense to me, but not much.
           I had just caught sight of Edie, who was serving canapés and drinks to the guests, and had only had time to nod at her when I heard my name spoken loudly. “Mrs. Majesty!” Mrs. Kincaid had clearly been awaiting my arrival with more anxiety than was usual for her, because she was generally more