Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (26 page)

Both Harold and I kept a weather eye on Dr. Homer Fellowes.
He not only didn’t seem to notice that he was under observation, but he did nothing of a suspicious nature. I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed about that or not.

“Do you think he might be a Communist?” I whispered as we watched the shooting one day. The scene being filmed was one in which Lola,
wearing
a beautiful black gown with big hoop skirts and a wide-brimmed black hat,
tearfully
bade
Monty Mountjoy, clad in a pr
istine Confederate Army uniform
, farewell as he
went
off to war. I was, of course, talking about Dr. Homer Fellowes, whose grand invention was being used at that very
moment
. I was only whispering, by the way, because I didn’t want Sam to overhear our conversation. There was no other reason to be quiet, since the picture being shot was a silent. Well, they all were in those days.
As the camera cran
ked away, it made so much noise
any dialogue would have been drowned out.

“I don’t know
,” said Harold
.
“
I’ve been watching him, and so far the only odd thing I’ve been able to detect about him is his fondness for Lola.”

“Oddly enough, I think that’s fading a trifle. He was actually looking at her askance during this morning’s tantrum.”

Harold rolled his eyes. “Askance? If he had the
gigantic
brain he’s supposed to have, he’d have strangled her and then walked out of the room and slammed the door.”

It had been a fairly awful scene. Lola had been peeved about the fit of her costume. Rather than discussing the matter with Harold and Lillian Marshall in a sane and civilized manner, she’d ripped out a side seam and pitched a fit. Poor Gladys Pennywhistle had been caught in the middle of her antics and received an arm across the face that knocked her glasses askew and sent her sprawling onto her bottom in the costume tent. I was more pleased than not when Dr. Fellowes assisted her to her feet
and frowned at Lola
. Maybe there was hope for those two yet.

Unless, of course, he turn
ed out to be a rampant Bolshevist
who was writing nasty letters to screen stars because they were rich. The more I thought about that scenario, the less I liked it. Dr. Fellowes must have made a ton of money
with
his invention. Besides, if he was so creative about motion-picture equipment, wouldn’t he have been able to think of something diff
erent to write in those letters than the identical silly message time and time again?
The repetition of the same tired line seemed to point to a lesser intelligence than the one
lodged
in
Dr. Fellowes’
head.

Of course, there was always Gladys. She was not only female, but, while she had great intelligence, she was possessed of no imagination at all. I’d been keeping my eye on her, too, but she hadn’t done anything out of the
ordinary except gaze moony-eyed
at Monty once or twice.
After that morning’s scene, when Monty hadn’t rushed to her rescue and Dr. Fellowes had, I got the impression her infatuation with Monty might just be
slipping a trifle
, as was Dr. Fellowes’s with Lola. As far as I was concerned, it was past time for the both of them to come to their senses.

Then again, Harold had once told me that smart people are no more sensible than stupid ones when it came to
ma
t
ters of the
heart
, and I suppose he was right. I’d noticed before that common sense has v
ery little to do with romantic
love.

“What about Gladys?” asked Harold, as if he’d read my mind. “She seems gooey about Monty. Do you suppose she might be writing the letters? She’s female
, at least,
and
you claim all these letter-writers are female.”

“I’ve thought about her,” I admitted.

“Personally, I think she fits the frame better than Dr. Fellowes does.”

“But you just said she’s gooey about Monty. Why would she write to him as well as Lola?”

Harold huffed. “You know what the press has made of Monty’s so-called
Casanova
image.
According to the press, he uses women like hankies and tosses them
a
side when he’s through with them.
Maybe she’s trying to get him to lay off the other girls and stick to her.” He eyed Gladys, who stood under an elm tree across the set from where we were. “If she believes his press, she’s not as smart as Mrs. Winkworth claims she is.”

“Oh, she’s smart, all right,” I confirmed. “I went to school with her. She actually understood and enjoyed algebra.”

Harold turned to gaze at me with horror-filled eyes. “You’re not serious!”

“I am serious.”

“Good God.”

I couldn’t have agreed more, although I was unable to say so because suddenly Sam Rotondo appeared at my side
. How typical
.

I said, “Hey, Sam.”

“What are you two talking about?”

I eyed him with some disfavor and felt like asking “What’s it to you?” but didn’t. “We’re not conspiring to rob a bank, if that’s what
you’re insinuating
.” My tone was rather chilly.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Sam, sounding disgruntled. As well he should. “I’m only bored to death and thought maybe you were discussing something interesting.”

Hmmm. Did he mean that? I searched his face. By gum, he appeared honestly dejected. “You really hate your job here, don’t you, Sam?” The chill in my voice warmed up some.

“I detest it. It’s a rotten job. I should be out solving crimes, not here guarding a damned motion-picture invention that nobody cares about.”

“I thought
you said
the Germans wanted to steal it,” I reminded him.

“Huh
. That’s what the chief told me
. I think
the German scenario
was just a bunch of hooey invented by the studio. They only want
ed
people to think that infernal machine is important so people will come to see this picture when it comes out.
It’s what they call ‘good press,’ I think.
”

Harold, who didn’t talk to Sam much because he knew what Sam thought about men like him, actually grinned at Sam. “You’ve finally got a grasp on the motion-picture biz, Detective Rotondo.
It’s all razzle-dazzle and has no substance to it at all.
You hit the nail right, smack on the head.”

Sam grunted again. “I think it stinks. This is a waste of manpower and money. The only person on this set who might do anything criminal is that idiot actress. Lola what’s her name.”

“De la Monster,” I said softly.

“Beg pardon?” Sam eyed me oddly.

I sighed. “De la Monica.”

“Yeah. Stupid name for a stupid woman.”

It later seemed odd to me that Sam Rotondo, of all people, should have given me the only laugh I
had
all week.

Chapter Fourteen

But Saturday rolled around at last, and Billy and I got to take Spike to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Training School in Brookside Park.

Ma and Pa were taking a walk in our lovely neighborhood, which positively dripped with pepper trees during the springtime, and Aunt Vi had gone upstairs to her room where, she said, she aimed to write a letter to her sister in
Kentucky
.
Kentucky
sounded like a pretty exotic place to a westerner like me.
I’d read about the Kentucky Derby and seen photographs of beautiful women in huge hats and mustachioed gentlemen in white suits. I’d also seen pictures of
Kentucky
in the
National Geographic
and had noted how green and lush everything was there.
Aunt Vi had told me drily that people paid for all that green with suffocating heat and humidity
, not to mention mosquitoes and other buggy beasts
, so I’d decided I liked California just fine, thank you.

I w
as just about ready to fold up Billy’s collapsible
bath chair
and stick it
in the carrier on
the back of the Chevrolet when a knock came at the door. Spike, who was already excited—he loved these Saturday outings, too—set up a barking fit that might have awakened the dead.

“That must be Sam,” Billy said, stopping me in mid-stride as I aimed for the front door.

I turned. “Sam?”

“I asked him to come with us today,” said Billy. “Thought he might enjoy watching you teach Spike how to behave.” He grinned.

Oh, boy.
It wasn’t bad enough that I had to endure Sam Rotondo five days a week; I now had to endure him on Saturdays, too? Life truly didn’t seem fair to me. I said, “Oh.
How
nice.”
Then, with more vehemence than usual, I hollered, “Spike! Sit!”

Darned if he didn’t sit. I tell you, those Pasanita Dog Obedience people really knew their stuff.

“Good boy,” said I to my obedient dog, who was straining every nerve in his body to get to the door. His black tail whipped back and forth across the floor like mad.
It occurred to me that if we attached a dust cloth to Spike’s tail, he could clean the wooden areas of the living room that weren’t covered with rugs. What’s more, now that I knew how to teach him stuff, I’d bet I could train him to do it!

I’d already forgiven Billy and Sam for planning this morning’s jaunt by the time I opened the door. “Hey, Sam. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” He eyed Spike, who was still, against his nature but
obedient
to his training, sitting.
“Wow, did he learn how to do that at school?”

“Practice makes perfect,” I said, so proud of my dog, I could bust.

What a good
boy
! Beaming at Spike, I said, “Okay!” thereby giving him the signal that it was all right for him to relax and greet his friend.
Have
I mention
ed
that Spike once piddled on Sam’s shoe when he was a very young puppy? Well, he did, and that action forever cemented
Spike’s
place in my heart.

He didn’t piddle on Sam that day. In fact, you’d have thought Sam was his long-lost best friend whom he hadn’t seen in eons instead of the man who came over to play cards several evenings out of every week. Sam bent over and gave Spike a good petting. I watched, my head tilted to one side, trying to decide if I still disliked Sam as much as I thought I did.

But thinking proved as useless as it ever did,
I
not being cut of Homer Fellowes’s cloth, so I gave it up. Besides, Mrs. Hanratty didn’t tolerate lateness in her students. Therefore, I folded the bath chair and headed out to the Chevrolet, which was parked in our driveway.

Sam forestalled me. “Hey, let me do that.”

“Thanks, Sam, but it’s not heavy,” I told him. “I can carry it.”

“For crumb’s sake, Daisy, let the man act like a gentleman, will you?” said Billy.

I got the feeling he was annoyed about something—probably the fact that he couldn’t do gentlemanly things any longer—so I didn’t fight for the privilege of carrying out the bath chair. I said, “Thanks, Sam,” and left it at that.

“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I turned to look at Billy, who had uttered the comment. “Beg pardon? What do you mean?”

“It’s all right to let people do things for you from time to time, Daisy. I can absolutely assure you that Sam has no ulterior motive. He only wanted to help.”

His words confounded me, and I told him so. “I still don’t understand, Billy. It’s okay with me if Sam wants to carry the bath chair to the motor.”

“You don’t like Sam doing anything for you. Admit it, Daisy. I don’t know why the devil you dislike him so much.”

“I don’t dislike him!” I declared, feeling my face flush, mainly because I’d just been
wondering
if I still hated Sam or didn’t hate him. “He irks me sometimes because he’s got me involved in some scary situations, don’t forget.”

“Hey, don’t you forget that it was your blasted job that got you involved in those situations. If you worked as an elevator operator, you never would have become embroiled with bank robbers or bootleggers or anarchists.”

Feeling miffed and unsettled—Billy had only told the truth—I fell back on my good old stand-by excuse. “My job as a spiritualist—”

“Pays better than a job as an elevator operator. I know. I know.” There was a note of defeat in Billy’s voice that unsettled me.

“Well, it does.”

“I know
.”

“Anyhow, most of the time my work is perfectly innocuous. Those examples you mentioned were . . . anomalies.”