by Alice Duncan
He shrugged, still looking helpless, which irked me. Darn it, it was his life being ruined. Helplessness didn’t seem appropriate to yours truly. Then again, he was a man and accustomed to having everything done for him, unlike most of us women, who had to wait on everybody else.
Can you tell I was in a really bad mood?
Monty finally said, “Sure.”
For several seconds, we all stared at each other, Harold and I from our chairs, and Monty from the middle of the room. Then I decided I’d had enough. Scooping up both letters, I folded them and put them into my handbag.
As I rose, I said, “I think the best thing we can do is study the people around us for the rest of the week. Maybe one of them will give some kind of clue.”
“What kind of clue?” asked Monty.
The question was sensible, but I didn’t like it. It annoyed me. Then again, everything seemed to be annoying me that evening. “I don’t know! If anyone acts or looks suspicious, keep an eye on him. Or her.” It occurred to me that Gladys Pennywhistle might have a reason for sending threatening letters to Lola de la Monica, if she really thought Lola and Monty were carrying on a steamy affair. She might have sent similar letters to Monty for the same reason, although that seemed a far stretch of the imagination, given what appeared to be her fondness for him. Still, you never knew about these things.
And then I bethought myself of Homer Fellowes.
My eyes must have registered something, because Harold said, “What is it, Daisy?”
I shook my head, making the pains behind my eyes clank together and hurt. “Nothing, probably. I was just thinking of Homer Fellowes. He’s got a definite thing for Lola. He’s one of those absent-minded professor types, and from everything I’ve ever read, they tend to be a little crazy. Maybe he thinks he can win her if he drives you off or scares her away from you.”
It sounded feeble to my own ears, but Harold and Monty exchanged a speaking glance.
“By God,” said Harold. “You might have something there, Daisy.” Turning to Monty, he said, “Let’s keep an eye on him, Monty. It can’t hurt, and it just might help.”
The demon of logic overtook me at that moment, and I asked, sounding pathetic to my own ears, “Are you sure you don’t want to tell Sam Rotondo about these letters? He’s a detective, after all, and he’s stationed here through the end of the shoot. It would give him something to do besides bother me, too.”
A resounding duet of “No’s” struck my ears, so I sighed and took my leave.
I fell into bed about nine-thirty that night, thinking longingly of the morphine syrup in Billy’s dresser drawer. But I figured sleep would cure my headache eventually.
Chapter Nine
Shakespeare was right about sleep being good medicine. While it didn’t exactly knit up the raveled sleeve of all my cares, it did cure my headache. Even sans headache, I was still loath to face another day with Lola de la Monica.
“It’s your own fault,” said Billy unsympathetically as I hunched over my coffee cup the morning after my first day on the set. “You get yourself into the darnedest messes sometimes, Daisy.”
“I know it,” I said. Actually, it was more of a whimper.
To my surprise, Billy reached across the table and took one of my hands, which had been gripping my coffee cup. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re doing your best to make a good living for us. And you’re doing a swell job. I just hate that you have to be the one to do it.”
Good Lord. Was this my Billy Majesty speaking? I blinked at him and said, “Thanks, Billy. That means a lot to me, especially now that I have to deal with that stupid actress. I do try, you know.”
“I know you do.”
Spike stuck his cold, wet nose on my bare calf at that moment—I being clad in my nightie and bathrobe—and I squeaked, breaking the mood. “Darn it, Spike, don’t do that!” I dropped a piece of bacon for him, which was his point in nosing me in the first place. He didn’t have to go to obedience school to get his humans to obey him. And they say dogs aren’t as smart as people. Huh.
“Do you think we’re spoiling Spike?” I asked Billy.
He chuckled. “Of course, we’re spoiling Spike. He’s our child.”
Good Lord. I stared at my husband again. It was probably just as well that he’d lifted the morning paper and couldn’t see me, because his words had touched something deep within me.
When we got married all those years ago—well, five years ago, but it seemed longer—Billy and I had planned our life together. We’d aimed to have three children, and it didn’t matter to either of us if they were boys or girls. We were going to live with his folks for a couple of years before Billy, working at the Hull Motor Works, had saved enough money to purchase a little home of our own. He’d already begun saving, in fact, since he’d always had a job or two even during his high school days. We married right after I graduated from high school, and we were on top of the world.
Now look at us. Thanks to the Kaiser, Billy couldn’t father children, thereby assuring that I’d never have any; Billy’s parents had perished in the influenza pandemic, weakened, no doubt, by grief over their mutilated son; and we lived with my mother and father and my aunt, who’s only son had been killed in the war and whose husband had also succumbed to the Spanish flu. Oh, boy. You just never knew what life was going to throw at you, did you?
Feeling like crying but restraining myself, I said, “I guess you’re right. I just never expected a child of mine to have such short legs.”
Fortunately for my state of mind, Billy chuckled again. “Heck, you’re short. I guess he took after you.”
Ah, yes. Billy had been tall. And strong. And so very handsome, especially in his army uniform. I suppressed my sigh. “I guess so.”
Then, because I had to, I rose from the table and began gathering dishes. Pa had gone out already. He aimed to walk to the little corner grocery store on the corner a couple of blocks south of us and buy some navy beans. His Massachusetts boyhood had given him a fondness for baked beans and brown bread. His family had eaten baked beans and brown bread every Saturday evening during his entire childhood. I guess every section of the country has its own traditions. Personally, I liked baked beans, but I was kind of glad Pa didn’t insist we eat them every Saturday.
“Good luck at the set today,” Billy said, his nose still buried in the newspaper.
“Thanks. I’ll need it. Yesterday, Miss de la Monster was so fussy, I never even got lunch. Well, I guess you knew that. I made up for it at dinner, but I never did get rid of my headache until I slept it off. Shoot. I hope she behaves better today.”
“I don’t suppose you can turn her over your knee and spank her, could you? Spanking did wonders for my behavior when I was a kid.”
I stared dreamily out the kitchen window as I rinsed the breakfast dishes, thinking about how much Billy’s suggestion appealed to me. From the kitchen window I had a lovely view of our next-door neighbors’ driveway, which didn’t look nearly as ugly as it sounds because it was lined with pretty flowers. “Boy, I wish I could. The thought holds a whole bunch of charm.”
“But,” Billy said, understanding lacing his voice, which surprised me, “if you did that, you’d lose your job.”
“I sure would. And word would probably get around, and then my business would suffer.”
“Not if they knew anything about Miss de la—what did you call her?”
“De la Monster. That’s Harold’s affectionate name for her.”
“Huh. Harold comes up with some good ones. I have to give him that.”
“He’s a nice man, Billy,” I said, always a little defensive about Harold around Billy.
“I know. You’re forever telling me so. You’re probably right.”
I turned from the kitchen sink to stare at my husband’s head. It wasn’t like Billy to be so kindhearted when it came to Harold and men like him. Wondering about his change of attitude and not a little worried about it, I said, “Are you
feeling all right, Billy? Do you need me to call Dr. Benjamin or anything?”
The paper lowered and Billy turned his head to stare back at me. “What? Why? Do I sound sick? Well, sicker? I’m not. I’m still the same. Crippled, unable to breathe, in pain. The usual. You don’t need to call the doctor.”
“It’s just that you usually aren’t so easy-going when it comes to Harold.”
Billy only shrugged, so I was left to make what I could of his mood, which seemed quite mellow this morning when compared to his moods most mornings.
Because I couldn’t help myself, I decided the change in mood on Billy’s part meant something. The only problem was I couldn’t figure out what.
And then I decided there was no use worrying about Billy’s moods. I had to get ready to go to work.
After I dried and put away the last dish, I slumped off to our bedroom, which was directly off the kitchen. There I took a careful squint at my collection of clothes, which was, as I may have already mentioned, extensive, due to my sewing skills and my enjoyment of sewing. I justified what might have seemed an extravagant wardrobe by telling myself I had to look good for my job. People didn’t expect their spiritualists to show up to work in pretty little gingham house dresses or plain old skirts and shirtwaists. No. I had to look like a spiritualist.
However, the merry month of May was still upon us, and the day would indubitably be warm. Therefore, I removed from the closet a becoming cotton day dress that came to about my mid-calf—not an especially flattering length for anyone, but all the mode—with blue-and-white checked cap sleeves and bodice and a blue flared skirt. The dress was extremely comfortable and wouldn’t look out of place with my short-heeled, black, pointy-toed shoes. I could wear my straw hat and plop a ribbon of the same blue-and-white checked fabric around the brim to take the place of the tan ribbon the same hat had sported the day before. See how easy it is to look modish when you sew your own clothes? Well, it is.
After I’d selected my costume for the day and laid it out on the bed, I went to the bathroom, performed my ablutions, fixed my hair, which, in a daring mood I’d had bobbed and shingled the year before, dabbed a mere trace of light face powder over my freckles—freckles are not fashionable on spiritualists—and returned to our room to dress, fetch my handbag and put on my hat.
And there was Billy, swigging morphine syrup from the bottle he kept in the top drawer of our birdseye-maple bureau. Before he spotted me, I stepped aside, hoping he hadn’t seen me. As soon as I heard the drawer close, I made a noise in the hall and entered the room. Billy smiled at me, and I was pretty sure he hadn’t seen me see him.
Lord, Lord, Lord, sometimes I wondered why our lives had to be like this. Then I remembered I was a Methodist, and Methodists believe all humans have been provided with a set of rules and free will, and that it was up to us what we made of our lives. I guess that doctrine included evil Kaisers and young soldiers with romantic notions of going off to war to fight against evil to save the world. And their brides. It’s that free-will thing that gets so many of us into trouble, although I wasn’t sure what free will had to do with my current life situation, except that I had selected to marry Billy and he had chosen to go off to war. I hadn’t done anything to stop him, either, because I’d been imbued with the same romantic notions he’d had. Boy, were we stupid. But we weren’t alone in our stupidity.
Knowing there wasn’t a single, solitary thing I could do in aid of Billy’s problems, I smiled as I tossed the dress over my head. “I’m really glad I can sew,” I said as I tugged it down over my hips. “This entire ensemble cost twenty-five cents. Well, plus two cents for the thread. I got the material from two bolt ends at Maxime’s, and the hat at Nelson’s Five and Dime.”
“You’re very thrifty, Daisy,” said Billy.
I thought I detected a note of admiration in his voice, and glanced up quickly. By golly, I was right. His face expressed admiration, too. I grinned. “Thanks. I do try, you know.”
“You try very hard,” said he. “I’m sorry you have to try so damned hard.”
I went over to him. Since I hadn’t yet put on my shoes and he hadn’t yet regained his wheelchair, I had to reach up and stand on tiptoes, but I put my arms around him and kissed him soundly. “I love you, Billy. I don’t have to try so very hard, you know. I love to sew, and I love making my own clothes. And being a spiritualist is really fun most of the time.”
“I know.”
He returned my embrace and even my kiss, which surprised me, Billy not being given to shows of open affection very often. I guess he felt so diminished as a man, he didn’t want to start anything he wouldn’t be able to finish. Not that I cared about that. Our first few fumblings after we wed and before he went off to war had been perfectly satisfactory for him, but they hadn’t done much for me. I imagine we were just too young at the time to know what we were doing. And now it was too late. But I’ve said more than enough about that.
“Well, I’d better put my shoes on and get going. Lola awaits. Darn it.”
“I hope she treats you better today than she did yesterday.”
“You and me both.”
Shortly thereafter, I sailed out to the Chevrolet with a heaviness in my heart for which I couldn’t account. I guess I felt guilty because Billy had been so nice to me that morning. Now I ask you: how much sense does that make? None. That’s how much.
Nevertheless, by the time I got to the Winkworth estate, told the guard who I was, and drove the Chevrolet to the area provided for parking, I hadn’t been able to put Billy’s strange morning mood completely out of my mind. It was shoved out, hard, as soon as I stepped out of the automobile.
“Daisy!”
Harold. It looked as if he’d been waiting for me. Impatiently. Rushing up to me, he grabbed my arm and started tugging. “Harold!” I cried, “wait a minute! I have to get my handbag.”
“To hell with your handbag. You forgot to exorcise the demons from the monster’s dressing room yesterday, and she refuses to set foot in it today until you do so. You can come back for your handbag after you get her moving.”
Already annoyed at being hauled along behind Harold like a sack of potatoes, I snapped, “I’m not late. Why are you in such a tizzy? I’m supposed to arrive at the set at nine o’clock, and it’s got to be earlier than nine.”
“You’re not late, and it’s not you,” Harold said grimly. “It’s her. We were supposed to be rehearsing by the time you got here.” He snorted. I’ve heard that bulls will do the same thing before they charge at one. Being a city girl and not acquainted with the habits of bulls, I don’t know that for a fact. “She didn’t even need to go to her dressing room this morning, but she refuses to begin rehearsal until she can get in there and powder her damned nose, or whatever it is she wants to do with it. Personally, I’d like to flatten it for her.”
Golly, Lola must really have got Harold’s goat this morning. I’d never heard him express violent wishes before. “I’m sorry she’s such a pill, but slow down, will you? My hat’s falling off.”
Harold stopped walking as abruptly as he’d started, let go of my arm and ran both hands through his hair. I don’t know if I’ve described Harold, but he was of about average height, slightly overweight, had a face that might be described as cherubic and thinning brown hair, which probably didn’t take kindly to having hands run through it. His gentleman friend, Del Farrington, was tall and handsome. Yet the two of them seemed to go together like ham and eggs. Or something more romantic. Actually, the first time I ever saw Del, he was in his army uniform, had his back to me, and he looked so much like my Billy that I nearly fainted dead away on the spot.
Gazing at my friend with honest concern as I straightened my hat and caught my breath, I said, “Good heavens, Harold, she must be having a truly terrible fit if she’s got you in this state.”
“She’s driving everyone nuts,” he said bluntly. “I have a feeling this is her last picture. I’m only sorry her last picture wasn�
��t her last picture.” He squinted at me. “If you know what I mean.”
I nodded. “I understand. Um . . . where are we going? To that big marble building with the dressing rooms?”
“Yes.” Harold sucked in a lungful of air. The morning was fine, with none of the smog that sometimes settles in the beautiful San Gabriel Valley where Pasadena is located. “Can you put a spell on her room or something, so she won’t do this to us again?”
We started walking once more, albeit more slowly, thank God, and I thought about Harold’s question. “As to that, I can do it, but it’s going to take more than a spell to make sure no more notes appear there. I mean, I’m a fake, remember?”
“I remember. Too bad.”
When I glanced at him, I saw that his eyebrows were lowered, and he looked to be in deep contemplation. Probably of breaking Lola de la Monica’s neck. He said, “I guess I can get the carpenters to put a special lock on her door.”
“That might help, as long as it’s not one of the carpenters sending the letters.”
“Oh, God, don’t say that!”
“Sorry, Harold. I suspect it’s someone closer to the action than a carpenter who’s the poisoned penner. Still, we don’t really know who the letter-writer is.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve taken any particular note of Professor Fellowes this morning, have you?”
Harold let out a breath. “Yeah. He’s hovering over Lola as if he’s afraid she’s going to expire from her fear of dressing-room ghosts.”
“Really? Gee, I don’t understand how anyone can find behavior like hers attractive.”
“I don’t, either, but he seems to.”
“What’s going on with Gladys Pennywhistle?” I asked then, thinking that, while I could imagine her detesting Lola, I couldn’t quite feature her sending nasty notes to Monty Montgomery. Now if she’d sent a threatening letter to me in the misguided assumption that Monty favored me, Gladys would seem a more probable letter-writer.
