Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (16 page)

He glanced up at me from his
Saturday Evening Post
. I must have looked guilty because he said, “Let me guess: you have a job this evening.” His sneer was a work of art.

I closed my eyes and
swallowed another sigh
. He clearly wasn’t going to make this easy. Therefore, to keep matters simple, I said, “Yes. I have to return to Mrs. Winkworth’s estate. Harold needs to talk to me about something.”

“Harold?” Billy’s nose wrinkled. “What could he have to discuss with you?”

“I’ll tell you when I get home,” I said. It had been a hard day, and I didn’t like Billy’s tone of voice. “All I know is that it involves me making more money, and, therefore, I’m going to visit with him at Mrs. Winkworth’s home. I’m sorry if you don’t approve.”

“Doesn’t much matter if I approve or not, does it? I don’t have any say in these matters, since you’re the one who brings home the bacon. Right?”

I laid a hand over his. “Please, Billy. I don’t know what Harold needs, but he’s my friend
and he evidently
requires
my help with something.”

He looked at me for a long time, and I nearly started crying. Then he gave my hand a short squeeze and said softly, “I’m sorry, Daisy. You work too hard. What you need is a whole man.”

That nearly undid me completely. With vehemence—but keeping my voice low so my folks wouldn’t hear me—I said, “What I need is
you
, darn it, Billy Majesty. I love you. I married you because I loved you, and I still love you, and I don’t want anybody else. I wish you’d get that through your thick skull!”

His expression softened and
he
squeezed my hand again. “I believe you, Daisy.” Shaking his head, he said, “But you deserve so much more.”

“I
want
you
, Billy,” I said, my voice thick. I hated my tendency to get emotional all the time, but I couldn’t help it.
“I don’t
want
anybody else.”

He’d have heaved a sigh of his own if he could have. “Well, you’ve got me, for whatever I’m worth.”

“You’re worth the world to me,” I said stoutly. Then, figuring more words would only start me crying again, I rose, kissed him, and said, “I hope to heaven this isn’t going to take too long. I’m about to fall over in my tracks.
I didn’t realize being Lola de la Monica’s so-called spiritual advisor would be such hard work.
”

“Good luck,” he said
, smiling
. And he went back to his
Saturday Evening Post
.

Feeling like the Wreck of the Hesperus, I rose from the window seat, told my parents I’d be back in a little bit and why, and went out to the Chevrolet. When I got behind the wheel, I took a minute to stare into the dark night sky—it was about eight o’clock by that time—and wish things were different.

But they weren’t, so I pushed the self-starter, let out the clutch, and chugged down the hill to Del Mar, where I hooked a left, drove to Allen Avenue, turned right, and then took a left on San Pasqual. The guard at the gate knew me by that time, so he opened the gates as soon as I gave my name. I drove to the same parking area I’d
used
on the night of the séance, walked to the back door, and knocked.

For the longest time I stood there, wondering what was taking the door-answerer so long to get to the stupid door. Then the door was flung open in my face, and there stood Harold Kincaid, frowning at me. “Why the devil
did you come to
the back door? You’re not a servant, for God’s sake!”

Oh, brother. I didn’t bother to explain, but just walked into the little room off the kitchen and said, “I’m really tired, Harold. I hope this won’t take long.”

“I hope so, too. I still have work to do on costumes. That damned de la Monster creature has put us behind schedule already, and we haven’t even begun to shoot the picture yet.”

“Good name for her,” I told him, meaning it sincerely.

He took my hand. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to take my bad mood out on you. I’m just so frustrated with that female. You’d think I’d
have become
accustomed to
stupid women by this time.”

“I hope you’re talking about your sister
and Lola de la Monster
and not me, Harold Kincaid.” I meant it as a joke. I think.

“My sister and my mother,” said Harold, shocking me, although I don’t know why. I thought his mother was stupid, too
, though
I’d never tell him that.

“I brought Lola’s letter,” I said in order to change the subject.

“Good. Come upstairs to Monty’s room, and we’ll show you the latest one he got.”

As we passed through the dining room into the front hallway, Gladys Pennywhistle entered the hallway from another room. She jumped when she saw me. “Daisy! What are you doing here at this hour?”

Because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I told her, “Harold needed me to go over something with him.”

She squinted at me as if she didn’t believe me. “Were you going upstairs?”

I glanced at Harold, hoping he’d take it from here. He did, bless him.

“I need Daisy’s advice on a couple of things. We’re going to be visiting in Monty’s rooms because we need his input.”

“I see.”

I could feel Gladys’s eyes on us as we climbed the stairs, and the incredible thought that she might be jealous crossed my mind. I felt like screaming at her that Monty didn’t care any more about me as an object of desire than he did her
. That
snotty thought had only been prompted by my state of exhaustion, I’m sure.
But I could feel my headache creeping back
on stealthy feet, stopping
right
behind my eyeballs and taking up residence there
. Stupid day.

Anyhow, we got to Monty’s door and Harold knocked. Monty smiled his award-winning smile when he saw me and stepped back. “Please come in, Daisy. I’m very happy you could
join us
tonight. I know it’s a terrible imposition.”

He was so nice, and I was feeling so nasty, it took some effort for me to say, “It’s nothing. Really.”

“I hope it’s nothing, but I’m afraid it’s not.
I mean I’m afraid it’s something.
” Monty led the way to the sitting room
, which housed a sofa, the chairs I mentioned earlier and a coffee table. Well, and a fireplace, but there was no fire
. Did I mention that his “bedroom” consisted of a suite of rooms? Well, it did. I didn’t inspect it at any length, since I was there merely to do a job, but I
deduced
there
to be
a
sitting room, a bedroom, a dressing room and a bathroom, mainly because that’s the way the suites in Mrs. Pinkerton’s house were set up.
“Now that Lola’s getting letters, too, I don’t know what to do or where to turn.”

“Daisy will help us get to the bottom of the matter,” Harold said bracingly.

I’d have snorted, but knew better. I did, however, eye the two men with some interest. As far as I knew
,
Harold
and his
special gentleman friend
,
Delray Farrington
were happy as a couple of clams. They
shared quarters together in San Marino, which was just down the street from San Pasqual. Well, perhaps “quarters” is insufficient to describe Harold and Del’s home. It was, in short, another mansion.

But that’s beside the point. At that moment, I tried to determine if I could spot anything warmer than friendship between Harold and Monty. I decided there wasn’t and felt better, although I did ask Monty if he had a
headache
powder.

He looked at me with some concern. “Yes, I do. Do you have a headache? I’m so sorry. It’s probably Lola, isn’t it?”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, grateful for his understanding. “Yes. She’s driving me crazy.”

He shook his head with what seemed like sincere sympathy. “She drives everyone crazy. If she doesn’t shape up, she’s going to be black-listed pretty soon.”

“Black-listed?”

“Unless the pictures a person makes earn so much money that it’s worthwhile to put up with their quirks and idiosyncrasies,” Harold
answered for Monty
, “the person soon becomes useless as a property. Lola is quickly becoming more trouble than she’s worth.”

My goodness
. That sounded terrible. Although I guess it wasn’t. Heck, if any employee caused his employer too much grief, the employee would be fired, wouldn’t he?
Or, in this instance, she?
I guess it wasn’t any different in the pictures than it was in real life. For some reason, that made me feel better, don’t ask me why. Maybe it was because these people made
so much money
, as Billy had pointed out. It was kind of nice to know the
folks
behind the scenes didn’t tolerate too much nonsense from idiots like Lola de la Monica.

Then Monty handed me a paper filled with salicylic powders, a glass of water and a spoon, so I stirred the powders into the water and downed them, hoping that, if nothing else, the vile taste would drive my headache away. When the ghastly mixture was all the way down, I shuddered, handed the glass back to Monty and said, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry this mess is so hard on you.”

He
sounded so genuinely concerned
that I studied his face for any sign of
fraudulent emotion. I didn’t see any. The man’s aspect exuded honest anxiety about my welfare. I appreciated him for that. “It’s not your fault. My l
ife isn’t exactly rosy
at the
best
of times.”

As he turned and carried the glass and spoon back to the bathroom, where, I suspected, a maid would clean it up the next day, he said, “Yes. I’m
awfully
sorry about your husband, too. Harold has told me
the
horrors he went through in the war and how you’re both doing your best to cope now.”

I shot a glance at Harold, who frowned. Harold did a lot of covering-up of honest emotions with humor, but I gathered he’d had a serious chat with Monty about Billy and me. Then he gave me a little shrug, and I smiled at him to show him I appreciated his friendship
.

And then I thought
Enough of this maudlin stuff
, and said, “May I see the letter you found this morning, Monty? I want to compare it to the one Lola got.”

“
I have
it right here,” said Harold, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a slightly crumpled
,
folded piece of paper.

So I dug in my handbag and found the note Lola had received.

“
The paper looks the same,” I said before we’d unfolded either document.

“Well,” said Harold, “lots of paper looks alike. Paper’s paper, after all.”

“Don’t let Sherlock Holmes hear you say that,” I warned him. “He’d point out the different grades of fiber and the watermarks and all sorts of other stuff.”

“Good God. You’re not going to
compare watermarks and grades of paper
, are you?”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t know a watermark from a milk stain.”

Monty rejoined us. “What are you two laughing about?”

He sounded a trifle peeved, so I tried to soothe him. This was no joke to him. The letters might not be a life-or-death matter, but they were possibly career-ending, and that was important.

“We were just comparing watermarks,” said Harold.

“Watermarks?” Monty split a glance between us and pulled up another of those medallion-backed chairs that were so pretty. “I didn’t notice a watermark on my letter.”

“No,” said I, deciding to get down to business. The powders I’d drunk hadn’t affected the pain in my head yet, and I truly didn’t feel like joking around. “I didn’t see one on Lola’s either. Let’s spread them out on the coffee table and compare them.
”

Following this sensible suggestion, we did just that. I leaned over and squinted, trying to discern any differences between the two missives.
Both letters said exactly the same thing, exactly the same way, even down to the penned-in exclamation point
s
at the end of each:

CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS
OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE!

I pointed to the bottom
s
of
the
pieces of paper. “Do you suppose this started out as one sheet of paper and somebody folded it and then tore it across the fold? That’s what it looks like to me.”

Reaching out, I turned Lola’
s letter upside down so that it
s torn bottom matched up with the torn bottom of Monty’s letter. “Well . . .”

“I can’t tell,” said Harold. “One piece of paper being very like another.” He shot me a tiny grin. “But you might be right.”