by Alice Duncan
“Anyway,” Mrs. Hanratty continued. “I do want to congratulate you on your progress with Spike. Some people—” She shot a meaningful glance at the poodle lady. “—refuse to become truly responsible for their pet’s behavior. Obedience in a dog all depends on the human. Dogs are wonderful, but they don’t learn on their own, any more than children do. I know that from experience, believe me.” She gave us one of her hooting laughs, and I have to admit to being rather surprised. I hadn’t pegged Mrs. Hanratty as a mother, although what did I know? But I’d always associated her with dogs, not children.
“Thank you very much,” I said sincerely. “This class has been wonderful for all of us. I think Saturday is our favorite day of the week.” I glanced at Billy for confirmation, and he nodded.
“They are. It makes me happy to see Spike and Daisy out there in the ring. You’re an excellent teacher, Mrs. Hanratty.”
“Why, thank you, young man.”
Billy held out his hand, and Mrs. Hanratty shook it. Darned if she didn’t blush!
The three of us, Billy, Spike and I, went home pleased as punch with ourselves that day.
Chapter Three
It was Harold Kincaid who filled me in on what I thought were the details of Sam’s case, but which turned out not to be the case, which was probably just as well. If Harold had been right, Sam would have been furious that Harold had talked.
As it was, Sam himself eventually let on why he’d been posted to the Winkworth place during the picture shoot. I don’t know why he’d been so reticent about the matter at the dinner table, since the reason seemed trivial to me once he’d revealed it. I just chalked up his reticence to him being Sam. Any time he could muddy an issue, he’d do it. Or so I thought in my crabby mood.
The Saturday of Mrs. Winkworth’s séance had finally arrived. The morning, during which Spike had once again distinguished himself among the other dogs of Pasadena, had been lovely, but I had to go to work that night. In many ways, I was looking forward to the séance as an adventure. Heck, I was going to meet one of the most handsome and wealthy men on the planet, after all. That fact didn’t stop me from wanting to spend a quiet evening home with my family. But needs must, so I did.
I drove our lovely Chevrolet down Lake Avenue to San Pasqual, where I dutifully turned left, drove to Mrs. Winkworth’s magnificent estate, and pulled the machine up to the guardhouse in front of a massive wrought-iron gate. A guard posted at said gate asked who I was, I told him, and he pressed a button to allow me entry into the estate’s grounds.
Let me tell you, the grounds were grand, too. I arrived, as requested by Gladys Pennywhistle in a follow-up telephone conversation, at seven o’clock. At the time of Gladys’s call, I’d figured Mrs. Winkworth wanted to look me over and interview me before she allowed me to perpetrate my spiritualistic gifts on her guests. That was all right with me, since it gave me ample opportunity to study Mrs. Winkworth’s beautiful home.
The drive up to the house was lined with jacaranda trees, all of which were blooming madly on this pleasant May evening. As I drove nearer to the house, one of the rose gardens—I learned later that there were several rose gardens on the estate grounds—came into view. Later in the summer, the roses would bloom like crazy, and there were blossoms even in May that took my breath away. Flowers flourished everywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many anemones or ranunculus, and the hydrangea hedges made me blink.
I got the feeling Mrs. Winkworth liked her flowers. I wasn’t surprised to see two magnificent magnolia trees standing guard at the portcullis. I figured she’d had them planted there as a reminder of her genteel southern roots. It must have cost somebody—probably Mrs. Winkworth’s grandson—a bundle to plant adult trees like that. Unless they were there when he’d bought the estate, although I doubted it, magnolias not being as plentiful in Pasadena as they were in South Carolina; at least I didn’t think they were.
Gladys had told me to drive my Chevrolet under this spectacular piece of architecture—the portcullis, I mean—and park in a small paved area at the back of the house. I might be a spiritualist, but I was still hired help, and hired help entered through the back door. I didn’t mind, being accustomed to such treatment by that time. Many of my regular clients like Mrs. Pinkerton and Mrs. Bissel were happy to have their staff greet me at their front doors, but when I worked at a house that was new to me, I tried to be polite and follow tradition. This seemed to me as though it might be especially important when it came to the elderly southern belle who was Lurlene Winkworth.
As soon as I stepped out of the Chevrolet, however, who should rush up to greet me but Harold Kincaid! Boy, was I happy to see him.
“Harold! I didn’t know you were going to be here!” I gave him a friendly hug, which he returned.
“Monty asked me to come.”
“I didn’t realize you knew him all that well,” I said, surprised. Harold had told me lots of stuff about the picture business, and he’d also told me that Monty Mountjoy liked to read and listen to music, and Gladys had mentioned he and Mr. Mountjoy were acquainted, but I hadn’t expected them to be such close friends that Harold would be invited to Mrs. Winkworth’s séance.
Harold took the bag into which I’d placed my tarot cards—in case anyone wanted me to do a reading after the séance—in one hand, and hooked my arm through his on his other side. “I know him, all right, and he’s in some pretty hot water. I’m hoping you can help us out with it.”
Oh, dear. I didn’t like the sound of that, especially when my mind instantly connected Monty Mountjoy’s hot water with Sam Rotondo’s next assignment. The one he refused to talk about. “Oh?” I tried not to sound as troubled as I felt.
Harold led me to a back door that didn’t look like one, being every bit as beautiful, if not as elaborate, as the front one. But here, too, flowers abounded. A cunning Cecile Brunner rose arched over a trellis right before you got to the door, and geraniums lined the brick path leading to it. By the way, in Pasadena geraniums grow like weeds, and it had astonished me when I learned that people in colder climes cultivated them with the same vigor and care they devoted to other plants. Somewhere nearby, I smelled the heavenly aroma of a couple of—or perhaps a couple of dozen—gardenia bushes.
“Boy, this place is really a doozy, isn’t it? The gardens are almost more beautiful than your mother’s.”
“They’re infinitely more spectacular than Mother’s gardens,” said Harold in a no-nonsense voice. “Monty’s grandma loves her flowers almost as much as she cherishes her sacred southern roots.” I got the impression Harold wasn’t particularly impressed with either of Mrs. Winkworth’s partialities.
Then again, Harold had once told me that his special friend Del attended “Our Lady of Perpetual Malice” Church in Pasadena. He’d meant Saint Andrews. Harold wasn’t impressed by much, probably because he grew up as a rich boy in the upper echelons of Pasadena society, whereas I’d climbed a perilous ladder to gain small glimpses into that same society, and I still felt as though I was merely peeking into heaven when I visited a place like Mrs. Winkworth’s.
“I asked Gladys to have you come early,” Harold continued, surprising me yet again, since I’d assumed Mrs. Winkworth had wanted to inspect me before allowing me at her guests. “You and I need to talk to Monty before this shindig begins.” He opened the back door, I stepped inside, and Harold shut the door behind us. He studied me critically. “You look smashing as always, my dear. I presume you stitched that magnificent ensemble on your trusty Singer?”
I smiled, pleased that he’d noticed. Then again, Harold was a costumier, and he always took note of people’s clothes. In fact, I had a superior wardrobe, thanks to the trusty White, not Singer, sewing machine Harold had mentioned. I bought material on sale at Maxime’s Fabrics on Colorado Boulevard, and had a swell bevy of beautiful, tasteful evening gowns to wear when I conducted séances or attended spiritualistic parties. In those days, lots of rich folks enjoyed throwing spiritualistic part
ies. Spiritualism was the “in” thing, which made it handy for me.
That evening, I wore a fashionable but sober-hued velvet gown. Well, it was black, and I guess that’s about as sober as you can get, isn’t it? Anyhow, it was supposed to be a tubular shape, and it pretty much was, except where my hips marred the straight line. Naturally, I wore my bust-flattener. The dress was augmented by a bias-cut, diaphanous, hip-length silk-chiffon cape that attached to it via narrow, beaded ribbons. I’d done the beading myself, by golly, with beads purchased cheaply at Nelson’s Five and Dime. The beading was repeated on the V-shaped hip yoke and the edges of a short, straight train in back. I made sure never to let the sun damage my skin, which appeared milky white against the black of my gown. Believe me, I cultivated my spiritualist persona religiously, and it was nice to know that someone besides me appreciated my efforts. I felt elegant that night, and I was glad that Harold thought I looked it, too.
“Yes, indeedy. I did make it on my trusty sewing machine. Well, I did the beading with needle and thread,” I confessed. “The White can’t handle beads.”
He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know how you do it, Daisy. But you always look as if you just stepped out of Vogue.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Harold,” I said, only half-teasing.
“Yes, it probably is. But come on, Daisy. We need to talk to Monty before the magnolia lady finds you’re here.”
At that moment, Gladys stepped into the little room occupied by Harold and me. She said, “Oh, good, you’re here.” Not a blink did she give my dazzling evening costume. Or me, for that matter, except to register my arrival. That was Gladys Pennywhistle all over.
I walked over to her and took her hand. “It’s so good to see you again, Gladys.” If she wasn’t polite, I sure was going to be.
She blinked, her brown eyes huge behind the lenses of her strong spectacles. “Oh,” said she. “Yes. It’s good to see you, too, Daisy. I mean Desdemona.”
“Just call me Daisy, please, Gladys.” I glanced at Harold. “But Harold told me that Mr. Mountjoy wanted to see me before the séance begins.”
Gladys wrung her hands. This gesture was one I hadn’t seen on her before. The ever-confident Gladys Pennywhistle I’d known had never evinced any signs of distress unless her marks weren’t up to her exacting standards in school. It surprised me to see her evincing them in spades that evening. “Yes. Yes, please. Come this way.” She then blinked at Harold, whom I think she’d forgotten all about. “You, too, please, Mr. Kincaid.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs. Winkworth is in the front parlor.”
Ah, yes, the front parlor. The room we plebian Gumms and Majestys called the living room, I presume. I’d learned a lot in my business. Mrs. Pinkerton called her living room the drawing room. The only drawing that ever went on there, as far as I knew, was the withdrawing of my tarot cards from the darling little bag I’d sewn to hold them.
“Mr. Mountjoy would prefer to keep this meeting from her.”
I shot a glance at Harold, who nodded vigorously. Oh, dear. This problem of Mr. Mountjoy’s was beginning to sound worse and worse—and I didn’t even know what it was yet.
Anyway, Harold and I followed Gladys. We’d been standing in a small room off the back door. That room led to the kitchen, and from there we walked through the butler’s pantry. Then we turned left, walked through an enormous and elegant dining room into a broad hallway, and eventually got to a high, spiraling staircase. From what I could see of the décor of the home as Gladys sped us along, the entire place was fabulous. I wanted to stop and poke around, but didn’t. I was the hired help. Perhaps later, if I found favor with Mrs. Winkworth, I could have better access to the house and its furnishings.
Gladys kept up a speedy clip. Although I wore pointy-toed black evening slippers with Louis heels, I was able to keep up with her, but that’s probably because I practiced training Spike a lot. A real lady would have been out of breath by the time we got to the top of that staircase. Harold and I then had to chase Gladys down another hallway, where I only caught glimpses of pictures on the wall and hoped I’d get to investigate them all more closely later.
At last, Gladys stopped at a closed door and tapped lightly upon it. A masculine but slightly reedy voice called, “Gladys?”
“Yes, Mr. Mountjoy, it is I.” Proper. That’s what Gladys was. “I’ve brought Mr. Kincaid and Mrs. Majesty.”
The door opened and there, in all his manly perfection, stood the star of the silver screen, Mr. Monty Mountjoy. I very nearly fainted on the spot.
However, spiritualists are supposed to be above such unseemly behaviors, so I swallowed my excitement and smiled my beguiling spiritualist’s smile at the absolutely gorgeous male who stood before me.
Harold didn’t have the same problem I had. He said curtly, “Thanks, Gladys. I’ll take it from here.”
Gladys, holding her hands folded at her waist and gazing worshipfully at Mr. Mountjoy, said, “Very well.”
“Thank you, Gladys. You’re a gem.”
Boy, oh boy, if Monty Mountjoy had smiled at me like that, spiritualist training or no, I do believe I’d have swooned. Even steady, practical Gladys gulped audibly.
With effortless efficiency, Mr. Mountjoy managed to get Harold and me inside the room and shut the door in Gladys’s face. And he didn’t even seem rude as he was doing it. Astonishing how suavity can assist people through ticklish situations, isn’t it?
As soon as the door closed, Harold said, “I’m sure Daisy can find out who’s doing it, Monty,” leaving me as much in the dark as I was before.
Feeling a little sickish—I really, really hated to become embroiled in other people’s problems, even though I seemed to do it all the time—I said, “Find out who’s doing what?”
“That’s what we need you for,” said Harold. Big help.
“Please, Mrs. Majesty, take a seat. Harold, you’re being a brute to my guest. Behave civilly, sir, or I shall have to call you out.”
“Oh, please!” said Harold grumpily.
“No, really,” said Mr. Mountjoy. “Please, Mrs. Majesty, have a chair.”
For Monty Mountjoy I’d do pretty much anything. I didn’t tell him that, of course. “Thank you.” I made sure my voice didn’t go shrill and I didn’t simper or anything like that. I upheld my image, even in a room filled with Monty Mountjoy. Well, and Harold Kincaid, but he didn’t count. Anyhow, I sat in the lovely chair to which Mr. Mountjoy gestured me.
Harold grabbed another elegant chair—I think those types of chairs were French and named after one of those Louises they had over there a long time ago. Louis XIV? If I’d been born rich, I’m sure I’d know—hauled it over to mine and sat with an irritated huff. “We don’t have much time, Monty. I really think you need to get to the point. Don’t worry about Daisy. She won’t be shocked.”
I turned my head and stared hard at Harold, not trusting this “she won’t be shocked” thing one tiny little bit.
Monty Mountjoy turned his back on us and walked slowly to a window—which was covered, I might add, with perfectly beautiful lace curtains. There he drew one of the curtains aside and gazed out onto his grandmother’s gardens. He sighed deeply. I’m sure the view from that window was gorgeous, but his sigh didn’t sound like one of appreciation. My apprehension edged ever so slightly upward.
Silence grew thick in the room after that, until Harold finally burst out with, “Damn it, Monty, spill it!”
I smacked him on the knee, his knee being close by. “Don’t swear, Harold.”
Harold rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
So much for that. Perhaps I should take Harold to Mrs. Hanratty’s obedience class.
After what seemed like eons, Monty Mountjoy turned from the window and joined Harold and me, pulling up yet another elegant chair. I can’t remember what those types of chairs are called either, although I’m almost sure they were French. You know the kind I mean. They had medallion b
acks that were worked in a shiny brocade fabric as were the seats, no arms, and I’m pretty sure even one of them would cost as much as our Chevrolet.
“My problem is very embarrassing and troubling, Mrs. Majesty,” Mr. Mountjoy said in a serious voice.
“Embarrassing, mainly,” said Harold. “And if you don’t nip it in the bud, it might well ruin your career, Monty. You know that as well as I do.”
“Um . . . what problem is that?” I asked politely, trying to move things along. We had less than an hour before I had to go downstairs and conduct a séance, for heaven’s sake.
Then Monty Mountjoy did something very unusual. He heaved a sobbing sigh, lifted his hands, and buried his face in them.
Harold huffed with annoyance yet again. Such a show of impatience wasn’t like my good friend Harold, so I knew that, whatever the matter was, it was bad. “For God’s sake, Monty, I’ll tell her then!”
“Yes. Please. You tell her,” came his muffled voice, from behind Mr. Mountjoy’s hands. “I don’t think I can say it.”
So Harold turned to me and said, “Monty’s getting threatening letters.”
I blinked. I probably gasped, too, but I don’t remember. “Threatening letters? That’s terrible!” I saw Mr. Mountjoy peeking between his fingers and said the first thing that popped into my mind. “Um . . . have you told the police about these letters?” I couldn’t imagine Sam and two uniformed officers being assigned to a job featuring threatening letters, but what did I know?
“He can’t tell the police, Daisy. If he tells the police, everything will come out, and then his career will be over.”
“And my family,” moaned Mr. Mountjoy pitifully. “It would ruin my family. I don’t care about my career, but my family . . .” His words trickled out.
“You’ll care about your career soon enough when the money stops flowing,” Harold said in what could only be called a ruthless tone.
I shook my head, bewildered. “But what do you want me to do? If you can’t go to the police, how on earth can I help?” After considering the matter for a second, I asked, “Why the heck can’t you go to the police?”
