by Alice Duncan
“Harold!” It was probably silly of me, but I was shocked. I’d heard all the stories and read all the articles. I understood that some women were willing to do pretty much anything to get parts in the pictures, but . . . Well, I didn’t like to think about it.
“Don’t kid yourself, Daisy. Happens all the time. God knows her talent is mediocre. The only thing she’s got going for her is her looks, and they aren’t going to carry her much farther if she keeps slowing down production on picture sets.”
“Has she done this sort of thing before?”
Harold made a horrible grimace. “All the time. Her fame has gone to her head, and she’s become practically impossible to work with.”
Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. Leaning so that he could whisper in my ear, he said, “Monty got another letter this morning. He’s really worried, Daisy. I hope you can find out who’s sending the damned things.”
“I’m so sorry. Miss de la Monica got one, too. That’s what precipitated this latest bout of nerves.”
Harold snapped to attention and stared at me, astounded. “Good Lord, really?”
“Yes. She showed it to me. Hmm. It might be interesting to compare her letter to the one Monty received.”
“Yes, it would be.” He began walking again and I gamely tagged along. “They have to be from the same person, don’t you think?”
I shook my head. “I guess. I don’t have any prior experience with poisoned-pen letters, but I doubt there could be more than one writer of them on a picture set. Lola’s letter was propped against her mirror when she got to her dressing room this morning.”
“So was Monty’s.”
I didn’t like to see my friend appear so worried. “Can you get me Monty’s letter? Maybe, after today’s work is done, we can compare the one to the other. I saved Lola’s letter in my pocket.” I patted said pocket.
“Yes. We’ll do that. But right now you’re going to have to get the damned woman into her costume.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yeah,” said Harold. “Lucky you.”
So, sucking in a deep breath and praying my temper wouldn’t snap, I knelt beside Lola. Smiling at Lillian, I said in my silkiest spiritualist voice, “What seems to be the problem here?”
Lillian spoke. I saw her jaw bulge and had a feeling she’d been grinding her teeth. “Miss de la Monica doesn’t like her costume.” Lillian waved at an absolutely gorgeous dress that looked as if it had been sewn for a debutante attending a ball held in an old Georgian plantation ballroom. Dark blue with pretty flounces and a full skirt that must have taken yards and yards of fabric, I thought it was swell. I glanced at Lillian, who shrugged as if she couldn’t comprehend Lola’s obstinacy any more than I could.
Swallowing my sigh, I turned to Lola. “Why don’t you like the gown, Lola? It’s beautiful, and it fits the period perfectly.”
She frowned at me. “It’s blue.”
Lillian and I exchanged a glance. I asked, genuinely puzzled, “What’s wrong with blue?”
Pressing a manicured hand to her heart, if she had one, Lola said, her Spanish accent considerably thicker than it had been a minute before, “Lola de la Monica wears white.”
I thought for a second or two, trying to make sense of her words. “You only wear white?”
“Yes.” If she lifted her chin any higher, she’d be able to see down the back of her dress.
“Um . . .” I cast my mind back to the last flicker I’d seen with Lola de la Monica in the cast. “Is this wearing-white thing something new? I distinctly recall you wearing a dark gown in By the Light of the Moon, with Douglas Fairbanks.”
She nodded regally. “I had a vision. The Virgin Mary came to me in my vision and told me to wear nothing but white.”
Good Lord. Stalling for time, I said, “What an amazing vision.”
I could feel Lillian steaming like a tea kettle about to start whistling any second. I also heard her teeth grinding. For the sake of her dentition, I hit upon what seemed to me to be a brilliant idea. “Perhaps the Virgin Mary meant for you to wear white as a rule. While you’re working, I’m sure She wouldn’t mind if you wore colors.”
Lola’s head snapped around, and she gave me a good, hot glare. “Nonsense. Es mi vida.”
I knew that much Spanish from school. She’d just told me this was her life; meaning, I’m sure, that she’d darned well wear anything she wanted to, and to heck with anyone who told her otherwise. Therefore, feeling desperate, I decided to take another tack. First I opened my eyes wide. Then, although I still knelt, I reeled slightly, grabbing for Lillian’s arm. Turning my face away from Lola, who seemed startled by these antics, I tipped Lillian a wink, hoping she’d catch on that I was performing.
She must have had lots of experience dealing with actors, because she understood instantly. “Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Majesty! Whatever is the matter?” She overdid it a trifle, but that was all right.
“I . . . I feel . . . I feel the spirits gathering. They . . .”
Then I flopped down to the tent floor, which, fortunately for me, was covered with some kind of canvas carpeting. Or maybe all tents had canvas flooring. I wasn’t a camper, so I didn’t know beans about tents.
“What the hell’s going on here?”
Sam. Heck and darnation! He was on his knees beside me in a flash and reaching for me, I presumed, to pick me up. Opening my eyes a slit, I mouthed at him, “No!” I guess he understood, because he withdrew his hands, stood, glowered at Lola and Lillian and repeated his question. “What the hell is going on here?”
When Lillian next spoke, her voice quivered. Either she was trying not to laugh, or Sam had scared her. Knowing what Sam looked like when angered, I suspected the latter. “M-Mrs. Majesty was speaking with Miss de la Monica when . . . when she muttered something about spirits and fell over.”
Lola said, her voice awed, “The spirits, they came to her. For me.”
Jeez Louise. I could imagine the conceited woman with her hands still pressed to her bosom, looking down upon me, certain she believed she’d just spoken the truth.
Sam knew better, of course. He also knew why I was there. Fortunately for me, Sam had a brain, even if he did use it against me more often than not. This time, he actually helped matters along. “Well, you’d better listen to her. I didn’t believe that spiritualist bullsh—nonsense when I first met her and her husband, but she’s made a believer out of me.”
Liar, thought I to myself. Still, I also thought, Thank you, Sam, and began to moan softly.
“Oh, my goodness!” Lillian cried. “Whatever can be the matter with her?”
Don’t overact, Lillian, I told her silently.
But Lola, who always overacted, didn’t seem to notice. Rather, she reached out a hand to me as my eyes fluttered open. I was an expert at that eye-fluttering maneuver. Used it all the time during séances.
“Mrs. Majesty?” she said softly. “Daisy?”
I sat up and said unoriginally, “Wh-where am I?” Very well, it was hackneyed line; so what? It was probably invented for scenes like this. I pressed a hand to my forehead, as if I felt woozy.
Sam said, “In the costume tent.” His voice was as dry as old bones. I wasn’t surprised.
“Wh-what happened?”
Sam said, “You fainted. The spirits attacked you.”
Darn him anyhow! Not daring to show anyone watching how peeved I was, I said a breathy, “Oh. Oh, yes. I remember now. It’s coming back to me.”
All right. I know the dialogue wasn’t prime. It didn’t matter. I was an expert at my craft, and I knew what I was doing, as you’ll soon see.
“Need any help getting up?” Sam asked sardonically.
I didn’t dare give him the scowl he deserved. Instead, I said in a shaky voice, “Yes. Please.”
He reached down and yanked me to my feet. That time I did frown at him, because Lola couldn’t see my face. He grimaced back at me. He would.
“Here
, Daisy. Please take this chair.”
Lillian thrust a folding chair under me, as if she feared I was going to fall over again, bless her. I gave her a wan, grateful smile and whispered, “Thank you.”
“What did the spirits say?” Lola asked, eager to get to her part of the story, which was the only one that counted in her estimation.
“May I please have a drink of water first?” I asked plaintively. “These spells take so much out of me.”
Rolling his eyes, Sam said, “I’ll get you some water. Tell the lady what she wants to know, and let’s get this show on the road. It’s already behind schedule.”
What a chivalrous gent.
Lola snarled, “Men.” Then she said, “While he’s getting your water, please tell me what the spirits said.”
Boy, there was sure nothing subtle about Lola de la Monica, or whatever her name was. Because Sam was right and the picture was already behind schedule, I decided to give in. At a séance, of course, there would have been no time pressure, but this was a picture set. I heaved a sigh, which felt good and seemed appropriate.
“The spirits told me that you may wear colors during pictures, Lola. They said your job is to grace the silver screen, and the contrast between your beautiful skin and the deep blue of the gown will look much better on black-and-white film than white on white will.”
There. If that didn’t move things along, I didn’t know what would. A glance at Lillian showed me she was grinning like a fiend and liked my act better than Lola’s.
“That’s very true, Lola,” she said.
“Yes, it is.” It was Harold. Where had he come from? Well, it didn’t matter.
“It is?” That was me, and I’d asked because I was honestly curious.
“White on you would completely wash you out of the picture, Lola,” said Harold brutally. “It would look like hell, and you would look like hell. Your vast number of fans wouldn’t like that, and neither would you. All you have is your looks, after all.”
He could have left off that last part, but evidently the first part of his speech had struck Lola. Hard.
She lifted a hand to her generous mouth and said, “Oh, my. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Nor did the Virgin Mary,” muttered Lillian.
I hoped Lola hadn’t heard her.
* * * * *
After that little glitch about colors, the fitting of Lola’s costumes went well. She didn’t throw another tantrum until the cast, crew, Sam and I went to take lunch, which was a catered affair taken al fresco on a cement slab that had been poured under yet more spreading oak trees in back of the house Pansy Hanratty used as hers. Folding tables and chairs had been set up, and the lunch was served buffet-style. I thought it was a very accommodating and nifty way to serve a whole bunch of people in a short period of time.
Not Lola.
I’d walked to the lunch area with her, Sam clomping at our heels, and Homer Fellowes fawning along at Lola’s side. I wanted to let him have her, but Lola clung to me as if I were hers and hers alone. Which, all things considered, I kind of was.
As soon as we entered the dining area, Lola stopped dead. Naturally, since she was attached to my arm, I stopped, too. By this time, I had a headache, was quite hungry and was finding it difficult to keep my temper.
In a very sweet spiritualist voice, I asked, “What’s the matter, Lola?”
She lifted her chin, making me want to pop it with my fist. Of course I didn’t do anything so unrefined. “I cannot dine among this mob.”
Homer Fellowes, chump that he was, said, “I’ll get something for you and take it to your dressing room, Miss de la Monica.”
She eyed him as if he were a worm she wanted someone to squish for her. Naturally, she wouldn’t squish anything herself. “My good man, I never want to see that dressing room again.”
John Bohnert, who had come to the dining area shortly after we did, overheard her. “What do you mean you never want to see that dressing room again?”
Lola whirled, taking me with her. I darned near stumbled and fell. Fortunately for me—boy, I never thought I’d ever say that—Sam was right there and caught me before I could skin my knees on the cement.
“Evil has penetrated that room. I cannot use it again.”
Oh, boy, she was back on her high horse with a vengeance. I gazed pleadingly at Sam, God knows why.
But, by gum, he came through again!
“The police will make sure that your room is safe, Miss de la Monica.”
She turned to give Sam a scowl. I guess she didn’t like her temperamental turns met with such practicality.
“What a brilliant idea!” I said brightly. “And I can make sure there are no evil spirits remaining in the room, too. I’ve done an exorcism before.” That was technically true, even though the being I exorcised wasn’t a spirit.
Suffice it to say, I never did get lunch that day. Poor Homer Fellowes carried a tray of food back and forth from the mobile canteen—that’s what the picture folks called it—to various spots on the grounds where Lola thought she might be able to take sustenance. She finally settled on a bench about a mile and a half away from the canteen. I’m only exaggerating a little bit. However, she got her lunch. When she finally allowed me to return to the canteen, everything was on its way to being cleaned up.
Sam, who had wisely stayed behind whilst Lola was searching for exactly the right spot to partake of her luncheon, took pity on me and gave me the last couple of bites of his cherry pie and a biscuit he’d been saving for later. Neither one was as good as anything Aunt Vi might have fixed, but by that time, I didn’t care.
I sank down onto a bench opposite Sam and gratefully swallowed his leavings. “Thanks, Sam. I don’t think I’m going to survive this job.”
“She’s a piece of work, all right.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
By the time I got home after the shoot that day I had a raging headache, and I never wanted to see Lola de la Monica again in my lifetime. Since, however, I’d signed on for the duration, I staggered into the house, said a brief howdy to Billy and Aunt Vi, and retired to our room, where I downed some salicylic powders and lay down for twenty minutes or so. That’s all the time I was allowed before I had to get up and set the table for dinner.
Chapter Eight
“And that Homer Fellowes person, the one who’s supposed to be so smart and who’s got three entire policemen there to guard his invention, thinks she’s the cat’s meow.”
My family and I were gathered round the table on the evening of my first day on the job, and I regaled them all with the events of the day. Fortunately for me, the powders had worked, and my headache was down to a dull throb by dinnertime. I hate to admit it, but I hadn’t been able to wait until Vi got the chicken on the table, but snabbed a wing and got my hand slapped for my efforts. I told Vi I’d been deprived of food since breakfast and hadn’t eaten anything except an old dry biscuit all day long, but she said that wasn’t any excuse for bad manners. I told her she ought to spend a day with Lola de la Monica and see how mannerly she was. Vi only clucked her tongue at me and said, “Go on with you, Daisy.” She said that a lot. I’m not sure what it means.
“Good Lord,” said Billy, staring at me. “I can’t believe anyone can be that . . .”
He apparently couldn’t think of a good word for what Lola de la Monica was, so I tried to help him out. “Self-absorbed? Conceited? An obnoxious care-for-nobody? Self-centered? A selfish pig? A ridiculous human being?”
My mother said, “Daisy,” in the tone she used when she disapproved of something I’ve said, generally to Sam. But Sam was in my good book that day. He’d saved my skin several times, in fact. Tonight, all my grievances were directed at Lola de la Monica. I hadn’t yet told Billy that I had to return to the Winkworth mansion that evening, since Harold, Monty and I still had to compare threatening letters. Billy wouldn’t like that one little bit. Neither did I, but I’d promised.
“She sounds like all of those things,” said my darling Billy, who occasionally still showed remnants of the wonderful person he used to be.
“She is,” I said, reaching for another piece of chicken. “And then some.”
“It’s such a shame,” said Aunt Vi, tutting. “She’s such a beauty to look at. It’s too bad she’s not lovely on the inside, too.”
“Sure is,” said Pa. “I’ll never be able to watch one of her pictures again without remembering how hard she is to work with.”
“You can say that again,” I told him. I took another helping of mashed potatoes and gravy to go along with my second piece of chicken.
“Didn’t they feed you on the set?” asked Billy, eyeing my plate. “I know you like your food, but . . .”
Again he ran out of words. Again I helped him out. “No! No, they didn’t feed me on the set. That’s why I came home with a roaring headache. They would have fed me on the set, if Lola de la Monica hadn’t latched herself on to my arm and not let me go. By the time I finally got back to the canteen, they’d cleaned up everything.”
“That stinks,” said Pa, who didn’t like to hear about people going hungry.
“My goodness,” said Ma. “No wonder you’re eating like a pig.”
I frowned at her. “I’m not eating like a pig. I’m taking second helpings because I’m starving to death. But I’m using good table manners as I do it.”
Ma primmed her lips, but didn’t comment. Therefore, I took a second helping of green beans, feeling defiant, although not nearly so hungry as I’d been when we sat down to dinner.
“So that’s why Sam’s there? To guard this fellow’s invention? And the fellow’s name is Fellowes? That’s kind of funny.” Billy actually grinned.
“It would be, if he weren’t so pathetic. I was hoping to fix him up with Gladys Pennywhistle, since they seem so admirably suited to each other, but he’s got eyes only for Lola de la Monica, and Gladys has eyes only for Monty Mountjoy.”
“Yeah?” said Billy. “And what about your eyes?”
This wasn’t the first time Billy had shown signs of jealousy. For pity’s sake, a year or so ago, he accused me of running around with Johnny Buckingham! Johnny Buckingham, the most upright, moral person on the entire face of the earth! And besides that, I’d never cheat on my Billy, no matter that our circumstances were far from ideal. I didn’t do things like that. I loved him, and I was loyal to him.
