Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (38 page)

“I’ve heard that,” said Vi, sipping coffee and looking as if someone had offered her the moon and the stars. “Wait until
Peggy hears about this!”

Peggy was my mother’s name. Well, her name was Margaret, but everyone called her Peggy. Except me, of course, and my siblings. We called her Ma.

“She’ll be thrilled,” agreed Pa. “
I’ve seen pictures of that hotel. Even picked up and deposited rich folks there a time or two when I was a chauffeur.
Won’t that be something? Imagine dining with a famous picture star like Monty Mountjoy. Won’t Jacob be jealous?” He grinned, pleased that his brother in Massachusetts would envy Pa’
s hob
nobbing with what might be considered American royalty.

“Monty’s a nice fellow,” I said. “He’s not at all spoiled like Lola de la Monica, who’s a wretched person. Now
she’s
truly
been ruined by her fame
,
i
f she wasn’t rotten
to begin with
.
”

I saw Billy eyeing me with misgiving and realized I shouldn’t have voiced my appreciation of Monty’s goodness. It galled me that Billy mistrusted the purity of my loyalty to him, although I did understand. Sort of. I’d probably be worried about him straying if I were confined to a wheelchair, too. On the other hand, it seemed to me that men were granted a great deal more latitude when it came to sins of the flesh than were women. Naturally, that was as unfair as everything else regarding the sexes, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I hadn’t even been able to vote yet, since I
’d
turned twenty-one after the last election.
But none of that mattered.

“I’m not sure when this gala evening will be planned, but I’ll let everyone know as soon as I find out. I suspect it’ll be
next
Saturday night.”

“Isn’t
that
the last day of Spike’s training
, too
?” Billy asked.

I was glad he’d changed the subject.
“It is indeed,” I said. “And Mrs. Hanratty said she’ll be giving out graduation certificates. This evening when I come home from work—if I survive another day with Lola on the set—we can practice with him. I want him to come in first.”

I glanced at the floor.
Spike, looking up at me with great hope in his big, brown eyes, wagged his tail as if he knew we were discussing him. He probably did, actually, since we’d mentioned his name. Knowing even as I did
it
that I was
doing something
wrong,
since Spike was in danger of becoming plump,
I said, “Spike, speak.”

Spike spoke, and I tossed him another scrap of buttered toast. That dog would do virtually anything for food, which came in handy when it came to his obedience training.
“Good dog.”

Billy shook his head, but he smiled, so I guess he’d forgiven me for having a fictitious affair with Monty Mountjoy. I could have set Billy straight in seconds by revealing Monty’s secret, but I couldn’t in good conscience do so; therefore, I’d just try to be a good wife and show my husband by my good works that I was faithful to him.

After I washed and dried the breakfast dishes, I went to our bedroom to stare into the closet and decide what to wear that day. This was the first day of June and
, as I said before,
sometimes June and July are overcast and cool in Southern California, but the
Pasadena Star News
had predicted warm weather
for a while,
so I chose a lightweight, light-blue French serge dress that
hung
straight from the rounded neckline to the calf-length hemline. I’d sewn pretty embroidered ribbon—purchased dirt-cheap at Maxime’s Fabric
along with the bolt end of French serge, also dirt-cheap
—at the neckline, the three-quarter-length sleeves, and down the middle
of the dress
. The belt was made of the same blue serge as the dress,
and it
tied loosely
below
the waist. The ensemble would be cool enough to withstand the heat of the day, and easy enough to maneuver in so that I could, if called upon to do so, wrestle Lola into submission. I prayed hard that I wouldn’t have to do that, although why God would listen to me after all the lies I’d told recently, I couldn’t say.

“You look bright and cheery today,” Harold greeted me as I walked toward the set. I hadn’t been waylaid by Sam Rotondo, for which I was grateful. Maybe God had listened to me after all. Probably not. The fact that I’d arrived, parked, and made it to the set unscathed was undoubtedly just an oversight on God’s part.

“Thanks, Harold. I do my best.”

“You succeed admirably, my dear.”

You can see why I adored Harold.

“What’s going on?” I asked, interested that I hadn’t heard any screeching or hollering. I considered that a good sign, although perhaps I was being overly optimistic.

“So far, Lola’s behaving, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

It was exactly what I’d asked him. “Glad to hear it.” I squinted at the set, which had been altered to reflect what looked like dozens of wounded men laid out in various poses of misery, some with dark substances strategically painted on them, I presumed to appear like blood. Ick. “What are they doing now?”

“Big hospital and reconciliation scene,” said Harold. “Lola’s searching for Monty after the battle of something or other. She’s eventually going to find him among the wounded and take him home and nurse him.”

“Lola?” I asked, feigning astonishment. I knew it was a picture, honest.

“Lola’s character,” said Harold with a cynical twist of his mouth.
“Tomorrow, we’re going to be shooting indoors.”

“Where indoors?” I asked curiously.

“The set decorators are creating a
ruined
plantation out of the dressing-room house even as we speak.”

“I’ll be darned.”

“Probably,” said a voice at my back. I jumped a couple of inches. I knew that voice.

Turning, I said savagely, “Darn you, Sam Rotondo, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I’m too big to sneak,” he said, smirking.

He was big, all right, although clearly not too big to sneak. But I didn’t want to start an argument with Sam. I had to weasel information out of him. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil what had started out being a beautiful day. Heck, if it weren’t for all the wounded soldiers lying around, the day would be perfectly glorious in that almost-perfect setting. The trees were green, the flowers glorious, and birds chirped from the
ir
many
nests
on the property. Therefore, although it pained me, I smiled at Sam. “Good morning, Sam.”

“Good morning, Daisy,” he said with
insincere
solemnity. Turning to Harold, he said, less cordially, “Morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Nice day, isn’t it? Not one tantrum so far, and it’s almost nine.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, offering a small chuckle in honor of Harold’s attempt at humor. Then he turned to me. “To answer your question, Daisy, if you know who’s writing the damned letters, Lola would have to press charges in order for the police department to arrest the sender. Now, tell me who’s writing the letters.”

Irked, I asked, “Why didn’t you
tell me this
last night?”

“Because I don’t like it when you keep information from me regarding a case.”

Harold and I exchanged a significant look, and Harold shrugged. “Better tell him, Daisy. I’m sure the studio won’t let Lola press charges. Hell, it’s better for everyone involved if she never even learns who the writer is.”

I considered Harold’s words for a second or two. It annoyed me th
at Sam hadn’t answered my quest
ion
when I’d asked it
and I’d like to make him suffer for
his recalcitrance
, but I knew Harold was right. Therefore, I said, “All right. But I don’t want to go into this here and now.
Let’s go to one of the gardens
away from everyone, and I’ll reveal all.” I said the last two words as if I aimed to impart
un
to him the secret of life.

Sam, naturally, rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go to a garden.”

“I recommend the rose arbor over there,” Harold said, pointing vaguely westward. “There’s a gazebo there that’s nice to sit in.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, brightening. “When I first saw it, I thought I’d like to sit there for days
on end
and do nothing but read detective stories.” I gave Sam a look. “Books about fictional detectives, needless to say.”

“Totally needless,” said Sam.

So we walked to the rose garden and settled in the gazebo, and I told Sam all about finding the newspapers, glue pot
, scissors
and pen in Granny Winkworth’s desk drawer.

“The old lady’s been writing the letters?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes. She disapproves of picture people and believes Lola has been leading her grandson astray. I guess that’s why she wrote the letters. To scare off Lola.”

“Damn,” said Sam, who was as baffled by her attitude as I was. “That’s flat stupid.”

“Yes, it is. But
according to Monty, she’s old and set in her ways. He just doesn’t want
her
to get in trouble with the police.”

“You told him all about it, I suppose,” said Sam resentfully.

“Of course I did. I figured I’d better. She’s his grandmother, after all, and I was pretty sure he
wouldn’t
want to see her hauled off to jail
,
or anything. That’s why I asked if a person would have to file charges against the letter-writer
before being arrested
.
Shoot
, Sam, I generally have reasons for the questions I ask, you know.”

“I do know. That’s why I didn’t
answer
you
last night
. I don’t trust you.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,
Sam
,
” I said, feeling pick
ed on. “But
see, the thing is, Mrs. Winkworth is an old lady. She may be a misguided idiot, but Mr. Mountjoy doesn’t want her hurt by all this. That’s why I don’t want Lola to know Mrs. Winkworth is the culprit.”

“Well, crap, Daisy, that’s not fair to Miss de la Monica, is it?”

My eyes paid a glance
to
the ceiling of the gazebo. Somebody kept the place swept clear of cobwebs and stuff. It was
positively
pristine. “Lola de la Monica is a cretinous egomaniac, Sam Rotondo. If we tell her the truth, she’ll be screeching the news from now until doomsday
and undoubtedly increase her quota of temper tantrums from zero to sixty within minutes of being told the truth
.”

Sam chuffed out a heavy breath. “Well, we’ve got to tell her something. If she thinks she’s going to get more of those damned letters, she’ll still screech from now until doomsday.”

“Yes, but I’ve figured out a way to put a stop to the letters without
her
being the wiser.”

“Yeah? How?”

He sounded as if he didn’t believe me and wouldn’t approve if he could ever be persuaded. His attitude annoyed me, but his attitude always annoyed me, so I didn’t take him to task. “I’m going to conduct another séance and have Rolly, my spiritual guide, give a
specific
warning that the writer of the letters has disturbed the spirits with her antics, and she’d better stop it or some
thing bad will happen to . . . w
ell, I haven’t figured that part out yet.
Maybe I’ll have Rolly talk to her ancestor, the general, and have him be stern with her.
I’ll have to talk to Mr. Mountjoy and find out what she’d hate most if it were taken from her. But Rolly will tell her that something dire will befall her or a loved one if she doesn’t cease and desist.”

Sam stared at me for what seemed like an hour and a half. I was utterly astounded when he finally said, “That sounds like a good plan.”

I could feel my eyes go wide. “You mean it? You actually approve of something I’m
planning
to do?”

After another
moment of
hesitation, during which he pursed his lips and thought, I’m sure, about my many transgressions—or what he considered my transgressions—he said
, “Yeah. It sounds as if that’d
be best all around, and the police department won’t have to get involved in a messy situation. We don’t like messy situations,” he said with a meaningful look at me.

“Well, then . . .” But I didn’t know what to say next. I hadn’t expected Sam to be so easy to persuade. I
’d
figured I’d have a fight on my hands. His capitulation almost felt like a let-down, which was downright silly.