by Alice Duncan
“Do you need me on the set, Harold?” Lillian asked, bless her for jerking my mind away from my own unconscionable behavior and to her. “I’m exhausted, and want to go get a cup of tea and sit for a few minutes.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Harold. “What about you, Daisy? You probably need some kind of refreshment after your dealings with de la Monster this morning.”
Along with his suggestion, Harold gave me what I considered a significant look. I took that look to mean that Lola wasn’t the only person to have received an anonymous letter under her breakfast plate that morning. Golly, I was getting really tired of dealing with these people and their problems, especially since I couldn’t tell Sam about them, and he was always there. In my way. Watching. Thinking. The darned man thought entirely too much, and his years as a policeman had given him a very suspicious mind. He believed—correctly—that I knew more about the letters than I was letting on, and he’d be scrutinizing my every movement in order to catch me out. Staying clear of Sam could be extremely tiring. I already knew that from bitter experience.
“Yes,” I said, meaning it sincerely. “I’d love to take a cup of tea and maybe a little sustenance, if you’ve got a doughnut or something handy.” Although I didn’t want to, I said, “How about you, Sam? You want some coffee or anything?” This was my way of trying to make him think I had nothing to hide. Not that any of my similar stratagems had ever worked in the past, but I figured it was worth a shot.
“No, thanks,” he said, relieving my mind a whole lot. “I think I’ll watch this picture being filmed. I’m still trying to figure out why that invention of Dr. Fellowes is so blessed important that it requires a detective and two uniformed policemen.”
“It’s probably all for the sake of publicity,” I said.
However, since Sam had brought up the subject of Homer Fellowes, I glanced around to see where he might be in the overall scheme of things. It pleased me to see him standing with Gladys Pennywhistle. The two seemed to be chatting amiably—amiably being a relative term, given the natural tendency of both parties to be serious and sober at all times.
So Lillian, Harold and I walked away from the set and toward Mrs. Winkworth’s grand mansion. Naturally, Harold and I didn’t instantly begin talking about the letter problem, since Lillian didn’t know that Monty, too, was receiving letters. Instead, we talked about Lola, which helped all three of us get our frustrations out. We knew all about the venting of spleens, unlike some other uneducated and ill-informed people I might mention.
We vented in glorious surroundings. Even though I was worried about Sam and Monty Mountjoy, severely annoyed at Lola de la Monica, and wished I were home, I couldn’t help but admire the swell gardens as we strolled past them.
“Oh, my,” I said at one point. “Smell that fragrance! What is it, do you know?”
Harold lifted his nose in the air, reminding me of Spike, and sniffed. “Jasmine, I think.”
“It’s heavenly. I think I’ll ask Pa to plant some jasmine. Maybe he could plant it along the driveway so the Longneckers can enjoy the smell, too.”
“It does smell sweet,” said Lillian. “I like the gardenias by the back door, too.”
“Oh, my, yes,” I said upon a pensive breath. “We have a gardenia bush. It’s not blooming yet, but it probably will start soon. It’s near the deck in the back of our house, so when Billy and I sit out there, we can smell it.”
“I like flowers as much as the next guy,” said Harold, making me smile, “but what I want to know is how to keep Lola from kicking up a fuss for the rest of the week. It we can get this week over with, the shoot should be over. Then they’ll have to do publicity stills, and then she’ll go away. After that, it’s all editing, and they do that in the studio.”
“Really?” I was interested, not having a clue how moving pictures were made.
“Sure,” said Harold. “They don’t just send the cans to the movie houses as-is. They have to cut the film, take out parts, stick in parts and do all sorts of stuff like that.”
“My goodness. I had no idea.”
We were quiet for a few moments as we wandered the gravel path toward the Winkworth place. I wished I could just sit on one of the convenient benches placed here and there and read a book for an hour or so. But I hadn’t brought a book with me, and anyway, I had a job to do.
“I swear, Harold, I think I’m going to have to go into another line of work. I don’t believe I can take too many more Lolas,” Lillian grumbled, breaking the silence. The poor thing looked as if she’d been through a minor battle.
“Buck up, Lillian,” said Harold. “There’s only one Lola in the world, and I wouldn’t be surprised if rumors of her shenanigans on the set here put an end to her career.”
“That’s kind of a shame,” I said, although I don’t honestly know why. I neither liked nor approved of Lola de la Monica, who seemed more like a spoiled brat than a talented actress to me.
Harold shrugged. “Her choice. She’s been warned.” Turning, he gave me a broad grin, “Heck, Daisy, even Rolly’s warned her.”
“Who’s Rolly?” Lillian wanted to know.
“Daisy’s spirit control. Weren’t you and Rolly married some thousand years or so ago, Daisy?”
I gave Harold a small frown. He made what I did for a living sound like a joke, and I didn’t like it, even if he was partly right. “Yes, Harold. He is, and we were.”
“Golly,” breathed Lillian. “How fascinating.”
“Daisy can tell you all about Rolly later, Lillian. Right now, I have to talk to Daisy about something else.”
We’d reached the Winkworth mansion by that time, and we entered via the back door into the little room leading into the kitchen.
“Would you mind making a pot of tea, Lillian? I need to show Daisy something upstairs. This might take a half-hour or so. You can relax and drink all the tea you want.”
“Don’t mind at all,” said Lillian affably. “It’ll be a pleasure to be alone for a while. Even a little bit of Lola is too many people for me.”
Harold and I both laughed as we left Lillian in the kitchen. Our laughter died instantly when the door to the butler’s pantry closed and we walked through to the dining room and toward the staircase. I whispered, “Did Monty get a letter, too?”
“Yes, and he’s worried to death. So what you and I are going to do, my dear, is snoop.”
“Snoop?” I blinked at Harold, puzzled.
“Snoop,” he confirmed. “Your buddy Sam—”
“He’s not my buddy!”
“Very well. Your acquaintance Detective Sam Rotondo was right when he said whoever is writing those thrice-damned letters is in this house, and you and I, my dear, are going to find out who the culprit is.”
“We are?”
“Yes. Old lady Winkworth is out shopping with one of her maids, she’s given leave for the rest of the domestic staff to watch the filming, and there’s not another person in the house at the moment.”
“Jeepers, how many people does it take to run this place, anyhow?”
“I don’t know for sure. I think there are a couple of maids, a cook and a butler. And Miss Pennywhistle, of course.”
“All those people for one cranky old lady,” I said, disapproving, even though it wasn’t any of my business how rich people lived.
“It’s about like my mother’s house,” said Harold.
“I guess so. I just never thought much about it. Yet the woman has the nerve to deprecate her grandson’s line of work.” I made an unseemly huffing sound. “She reminds me of Billy.” Naturally, I felt instantly guilty. Luckily, I was with Harold, who only chuckled softly.
“I know. People are never satisfied. At any rate, this is about the only chance we’ll have to go through all the rooms and see if we can discover who’s behind those letters.”
“Excellent idea, Harold,” I told him.
“I think so, too. Naturally, snooping is beneath the dignity of Mrs. L
urlene Winkworth, but she doesn’t have to know anything about it. We have Monty’s blessing. This letter thing has been really hard on him.”
“I know. I’m sorry for him. I hope we can unearth the culprit.”
“Me, too. Where should we start?”
I thought about it for a minute. “Don’t people usually begin with the servants’ quarters? That’s what happens in all the detective novels I read.”
“Well . . . I guess so. They’re on the third floor.”
So Harold led the way to an unobtrusive door on the second floor not far from Monty’s bedroom suite, and opened it. There before us was a staircase.
“Oh, my,” said I. “I didn’t even realize that door opened on to a staircase. I thought it was a closet or something.”
“One does tend to hide the servants, don’t you know,” Harold said drily.
“I guess so,” I said doubtfully. “We don’t have any. Servants, I mean. So I don’t know how to go about hiding them.”
“Mother stashes hers in a little suite of rooms off the breakfast room, and Algie uses the area belowstairs for his.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember now. Edie and Quincy Applewood live in the kitchen suite, don’t they?”
“I have no idea,” said Harold. “Who are Edie and Quincy Applewood?”
“Good Lord, Harold! Edie and Quincy have worked for your mother for years.”
I was kind of appalled until Harold said, “I haven’t lived in my mother’s house for ten years, Daisy. I don’t know anything about her domestic arrangements, except for Featherstone, and he lives in an upstairs suite probably much like the one we’re going to see now.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” I’d always loved Featherstone, Mrs. Pinkerton’s butler. He was so . . . I don’t know. To my mind, he was the epitome of all things butlerish. Or butlerine. I don’t know if there’s a word for it, actually.
Anyhow, as we chatted, we climbed the narrow staircase. Indeed, it was too narrow for us to walk side by side, so Harold went up first, gentleman that he was, in order that any dragons lurking up there would attack him first, I guess. I’ve often wondered how the rules of polite behavior came about.
The upstairs room was neat as a pin. It contained two narrow beds, two dressers, two wardrobes, and it led out onto the roof of the house, which was flat. Someone, probably one of the maids, who I assumed shared these quarters, had set out a couple of folding chairs and a card table on the roof. Curious, I walked onto the roof, and thought that whoever had set the table and chairs out there had acted on a brilliant idea. What a view! Why, you could see almost forever from up there.
“Wow, these are pretty nice slaves’ quarters,” I said to Harold. “Something like this would be great for Billy and me. If he could climb stairs.” I sighed, as I nearly always did when I thought about my poor husband.
Harold snorted. “Slaves’ quarters, indeed.”
“Well, you know what I mean.”
We didn’t find anything even resembling the makings of anonymous letters in the maids’ room, even though we looked into the wardrobes and through drawers. I felt like the worst kind of meddler, but I kept reminding myself that we were on an important mission, and stuffed my offended feelings inside myself and just did it.
Nothing.
“Very well,” said Harold. “On to the second floor. That’s where Monty and Mrs. Winkworth’s apartments are.”
“Do we need to search Monty’s room?” I asked, surprised. “After all, he’s the one getting the letters.”
Harold shook his head. “We’d better. As little as I believe it, he might be writing the letters himself. God knows why. And I don’t think he’s doing it. The damned letters are upsetting him too much. Still, needs must.”
“I guess,” I said doubtfully. Then Gladys Pennywhistle occurred to me. “Where does Gladys sleep in this giant house?”
“She has a suite downstairs. Off that little room that leads into the kitchen. I doubt she’s writing the letters, although you never know.”
“True,” I said. “You never know.” I’d already considered Gladys before as the possible letter-writer, but didn’t say so to Harold. Gladys had so little imagination, it was difficult to imagine her as doing anything so outré as writing poisoned-pen letters. “Is Dr. Fellowes staying here for the duration? Will we have to search his rooms?”
“No. He has his own home near Caltech. He arrives after breakfast and generally leaves before dinner, unless Mrs. Winkworth needs a fourth for bridge. Thank God I never learned the game, or she might try to hook me.” Harold shuddered. “Anyhow, I don’t think he’s the culprit, mainly because he hasn’t had the opportunity to stick the letters where they’ve been found.”
“That makes sense.” I wasn’t disappointed. Now that a romance seemed to be blossoming between Dr. Fellowes and Gladys, I didn’t want either of them to be the guilty of party.
The search of Monty’s quarters didn’t take long, and we didn’t find anything. However, as we went through his drawers—actually, I let Howard handle the drawers as I searched the closet, I was impressed by the elegance of his belongings. To my practiced eye, it looked as if everything had been hand-tailored. No surprise there. The man was rich as Croesus, whoever he was.
“Nothing.” Harold sounded relieved.
I was relieved, too. “I’m glad. I could almost picture Lola writing those letters, but I’d be awfully disappointed to learn that Monty was the culprit.”
“You and me both.”
“So who else is left?” I asked, my mind having wandered during my appraisal of Monty’s fabulous duds. Then I thought about Monty’s mother. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Hanratty as the letter-writer, but figured I’d better ask. “Say, what about Mrs. Hanratty? Do we need to search her house, too?” It would kill me to discover that she’d been writing nasty letters to her own son.”
“Next Saturday morning. That’s when I plan to search her place.”
“Good heavens, how do you expect to manage that?” I was impressed at the coolness of his plan, if a little appalled.
“Saturday morning is when she teaches her dog-obedience classes. You know that. For God’s sake, you take Spike there.”
“Well, I know that, but how will you get in?”
“Easy. I’ve already visited her home, and Mrs. Hanratty, just like everyone else in the known universe, keeps a spare key under the doormat. I’ll just unlock the door and walk right in.”
“What about any servants? Won’t they think it odd that you’re there while Mrs. Hanratty isn’t?”
“Mrs. Hanratty, unlike her mother Mrs. Winkworth, doesn’t need a staff of thousands to cater to her needs. She has a daily maid during the week and nobody at all on weekends, when she takes her meals with her mother and Monty, when he’s in town.”
“Oh.” I was already fond of Mrs. Hanratty. Learning of her simple—well, simpler, anyway—living habits, only boosted her in my esteem. “Okay. So that takes care of her. Who’s next on our list in this house?”
“Mrs. Winkworth.”
“You honestly think we need to search Mrs. Winkworth’s quarters?” I asked him. “Surely she can’t be the one sending nasty notes to her own grandson. A grandson, moreover, who provided her these magnificent digs.” I threw my arms wide in an all-encompassing gesture meant to include the entire estate including its three mansions and extensive grounds.
“She violently disapproves of the way Monty makes his moola,” said Harold with a shrug. “She keeps wanting him to quit the pictures.”
“But then she wouldn’t have this great house, would she?”
“Probably not. I’m sure Monty still owes a good deal on this property. If he no longer worked in the pictures, he’d undoubtedly have to sell the place.”
“Does she know that?”
“I’m sure she must.”
“Good Lord. The woman’s an idiot.”
“Perhaps. But she’s old and set in her ways. She keeps waiting for her bel
oved South to rise again.”
I chuffed out an undignified breath. “She ought to be grateful she lives in Southern California, at least. Heck, Monty might have bought her a mansion in San Francisco, and then wouldn’t she have a lot to complain about?”
A laugh was all the response I got to that silly question.
“Well,” said I as we traversed the mammoth hallway to the other end of the house where Mrs. Winkworth’s suite of rooms lay, “I sure hope Mrs. Hanratty will turn out not to be the culprit. I like her a whole lot.”
“I know what you mean. Monty thinks she’s a dear, even if she is a little loud for him. He’s quite the sensitive plant, you know.”
“Oh.”
Harold laughed again, and opened the door to Mrs. Winkworth’s suite of rooms.
Chapter Eighteen
Elegant is the word that springs to mind when I recall stepping into Mrs. Winkworth’s sitting room. The furniture was all the same variety as furnished the rest of the house. Louis the Whateverth.
I stood, staring around me for a moment or two, then said, “Wow.”
“Yeah,” agreed Harold. “And every stick of furniture was paid for by Monty Mountjoy.”
Shaking my head, I said, “Why in the world would anybody complain about living in this kind of luxury, especially if she’d been saved from abject poverty?”
“Beats me,” said Harold. “I guess it was genteel abject poverty, and she misses the genteel part.”
“Hey, I think we in Pasadena are pretty darned genteel.”
“So do I, but she’s from the great State of South Carolina, and I guess they’re more genteel than we are. According to Monty, she thinks all people from the North are heathens and bullies.”
“I see. Therefore she considers genteel poverty superior to crass wealth?”
