by Alice Duncan
I should have expected the question from him. Everyone else at the table just took it for granted that someone at the Winkworth estate needed my services. Not Sam. He suspected I was up to something. The fact that he was right didn’t endear him to me one little bit.
“When I was trying to calm Lola down today, she asked me to come over and comfort her with the Ouija board and the tarot cards after dinner tonight.”
“She’s staying at the Winkworth place?” asked Ma.
“Yes. She and Monty Mountjoy both are staying there for the duration of the shoot. Of course, it’s natural for Mr. Mountjoy to stay there, since both his mother and his grandmother live on the property.”
“You’re sure it’s Lola you’re going to see?” asked Billy.
I gaped at him. “Who else would I be going to see? I work for her.” Oh, Lord, he wasn’t going to have a fit of jealousy again, was he? Last year he’d practically accused me of having an affair with Johnny Buckingham, of all people.
Billy shrugged. “He’s a good-looking man. You’re a good-looking woman.”
“Thank you. I’m also a married woman, Billy Majesty.” My feelings were honestly hurt by his words. I would never, ever, cheat on my husband, and if he didn’t know that by this time he’d never learn.
“Daisy’s a good girl,” said my staunch father. “We brought her up right.”
Billy smiled at him. “I know. I guess I just can’t help worrying sometimes. Heck, look at me.” He gestured at the wheelchair, which Sam had pushed up to the table. “I’d hardly blame her for being interested in a whole man.”
“Billy,” I said, shaking my head. “You honestly don’t understand by this time that I love you? I’ve loved you all my life. Well, since I was five, anyhow.”
He gave a comical grimace. “I guess I can’t forget that. Heck, you chased me all over creation when we were kids.”
“Darned right I did,” I said, striving for a light tone that didn’t feel right at all. Inside, I felt as heavy as if my heart were made of lead. “And I finally wore you down, too.”
“You did,” agreed Billy. “I tried to escape, but you caught me in the end.” He grinned, looking genuinely happy. I didn’t know what to think, personally.
“I think that’s so romantic,” breathed Flossie, who had a romantic disposition in spite of her early life of hardship on the mean streets of New York City. She’d been working on trying to rid herself of her eastern accent, and was doing a darned good job of it. I really liked Flossie. She’d been through a lot and had lifted herself up by her bootstraps, as it were. Sort of like Johnny, actually. The two were good for each other.
After we’d eaten entirely too much of Vi’s delicious pork roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots, and a lovely gelled salad into which she’d inserted celery, pineapple and a bunch of other goodies, Ma and I cleared the plates from the table and brought out the dessert dishes.
“Apple crumble for dessert,” said Vi, fetching it. “With cream.”
Be still, my heart. “I love your apple crumble, Vi,” I said in a rapturous voice.
“You love everything,” she said, but she appreciated my words; I could tell.
Dessert, as ever, was a wonderful end to a wonderful meal. I felt very sorry for Vi, who had lost her only child in the war and then her husband to the Spanish flu, but the Gumm-Majesty household was much the richer for her tragic losses.
Flossie, Ma and I washed the dishes while the men settled in the living room, chatting. I was sure they’d break out the card table pretty soon and begin playing gin rummy, since that’s what always happened when Sam came to dinner. I hoped Flossie wouldn’t mind if Johnny joined them, and told her so.
She laughed. “Oh, my, no. My poor Johnny works too hard. He needs some time to have fun with friends every once in a while. Anyhow, I brought my knitting.”
“You knit?” I asked her, impressed. “I’ve always wanted to learn to knit.”
“I can teach you.”
Ma heaved a sigh. “I try to knit every now and then, but I’m terrible at it. I’m much better at crocheting.”
“I can teach you, too.”
“I’d love that. Thank you, Flossie. What are you knitting at the moment? Baby things, I expect.”
“I’m knitting a little matinee sweater. Actually, this is the third one. People have told me that you can never have too many of them.
“That’s the truth,” said Ma, nodding wisely.
I’d never even thought about matinee sweaters for babies, since I’d never have any, but the notion brought up an interesting question. At least I thought it was. “What colors are you using? I mean, you won’t know if the baby’s a boy or a girl until it’s born, so I guess you’re steering clear of blue and pink.”
“Yellow, green and white so far,” she said.
“You look so happy, Flossie,” I blurted out. “I’m so glad.”
“I am happy, Daisy. And it’s all because of you.”
“Nuts. You and Johnny were destined to find each other.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know about that. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d probably be dead by now.”
“Now that’s a dismal thought,” said Ma, interested in our conversation in spite of herself.
“But it’s the truth. Surely you know the story, Mrs. Gumm,” said Flossie.
Ma colored slightly. She knew the story, all right, every sordid inch of it. “Um . . . yes. You were most unfortunate, dear. But that’s in the past now.”
“It is. And it’s all because of Daisy,” Flossie repeated.
I said, “Nuts,” again, and dropped the subject, because it embarrassed me. Flossie and I had met in a speakeasy. She had at the time been what’s commonly known as a “gangster’s moll,” and I was there to do a séance. Honest to God. What’s more, I didn’t want to be there at all. I’d been all but forced into doing the séance for the sake of Mrs. Pinkerton, then Mrs. Kincaid. Anyhow, life had been pretty darned perilous for a while, but it all turned out all right in the end, which I guess is the important part.
At any rate, I was glad Flossie didn’t anticipated being bored when I took my leave, which I did shortly thereafter. I didn’t want to go to the Winkworth estate again that night almost as much as I hadn’t wanted to go to that accursed speakeasy. But duty called.
After the last dish had been put away, I decided to do something I’d been dreading. Heading into the living room, I smiled at the company and said, bold as brass, “Say, Sam, if you figure out who’s been writing Lola those letters, will you arrest the writer?”
I guess I’d interrupted some kind of interesting conversation, because Billy, Sam, Johnny and Pa all swiveled to gape at me. Billy said, “What letters?”
Bother. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so precipitate. Often, in fact. I blame my straight-arrow nature on my being born under the sign of Sagittarius, although I’m sure that’s unchristian thinking on my part. “Lola de la Monica has been getting threatening letters,” I told my husband. And the rest of the guys, but he’d asked the question.
“Why are you asking about arresting the letter-writer,” Sam asked in full suspicious-of-Daisy mode.
“Just wondering,” I said with a smile that felt as counterfeit as it probably looked.
Sam rose from the sofa, where he’d been sitting next to Pa. “Daisy, if you know who’s—”
“Darn it, Sam, all I want to know is if you can arrest someone for writing the stupid letters. Or does somebody have to . . . what do you call it?” I couldn’t think of the right word, not being particularly acute about police matters, even though I read detective novels all the time.
“Press charges?” Billy asked, trying to be helpful.
I shot him a grateful smile. “That’s the word! Does someone have to press charges, or can you arrest a person for writing anonymous letters without anyone, um, pressing charges?”
The way Sam was glowering at me, you’d think he suspected me of writing the idiotic l
etters. “Why do you want to know that?” he asked again.
I huffed. “Oh, never mind,” I said. “I was just curious, was all.” Not to mention the fact that I really needed to know. It would make all the difference in the world if Monty would have to press charges against his grandmother, because he wouldn’t. However, if Sam could arrest the old lady without having charges pressed against her—gee, that sounds odd—then it wouldn’t matter, and I’d be more than happy to tell Sam all about her misguided attempts to get her grandson to quit the picture business.
Much to my disappointment, Sam didn’t blurt out an answer. Rather, he scowled at me every minute as I kissed my husband and my father, gave Johnny a sunny smile, and even allowed Sam a pleasant look as I headed toward the front door.
By the time I’d said my good-byes, persuaded Spike that he couldn’t go with me and got into the Chevrolet, night had fallen, so I didn’t even have the consolation of pretty scenery as I drove south on Marengo. What’s more, I was bone-tired. Lola de la Monica could really take the stuffing out of the people who had to work with her.
Harold and Monty were happy to see me, though, even if Gladys didn’t appear overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t think she really cared much, though, since I noticed she was again paired with Dr. Homer Fellowes at a bridge match being waged in the living room. Mrs. Winkworth was partnered with John Bohnert, poor fellow, who had probably been finagled into staying for dinner and bridge. The only problem with bridge, as I saw it, was that the proponents of the game always seemed compelled to rehash the last evening’s game again the following day. Everyone I knew who played bridge did that. I wasn’t enamored of card games or I might have learned bridge and done the same thing myself, thereby boring all my acquaintances who didn’t play the game. Odd how life works sometimes, isn’t it?
However, I was there to conduct a pow-wow with Monty and Harold, so I forgot all about bridge as soon as Monty opened the door to his suite of rooms. He seemed happy to see me, and even gave me a little hug. The sitting room was as pleasant as ever, and it held a scent of some masculine cologne and some probably very expensive pipe tobacco.
“So you found the culprit, and it’s Granny!” He broke into laughter.
I think I was glad about that; I mean his sense of humor about what had been a harrowing ordeal seemed considerably better to me than him wanting to seek revenge on his nasty old grandmother. I told him so.
“Oh, Gran’s all right, really. It’s only that she disapproves so strenuously of the dissipated lives of so many picture people.”
“Your life isn’t dissipated,” I pointed out with some bitterness. “And I think she was a beast to send you those letters.”
“I think so, too,” Harold piped in from the sidelines.
Monty gave a most elegant shrug. I swear, every single gesture the man made might have been choreographed. He dressed well, too. That evening he wore tan flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a rather raffish scarlet neckerchief. His smoking jacket was dark brown and had those leather patches on the elbows. I’m not altogether sure what use those patches served, but they looked good. Of course, just about anything would have looked good on Monty Mountjoy.
“Gran’s only old and set in her ways,” said Monty.
“I think you’re being very generous,” I said.
“But we still have to figure out how to get her to stop writing the letters,” Harold said, bringing our attention back to the matter at hand. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter, Daisy?”
“Actually,” said I, rather proud of myself, “I have, and I think I can do it.”
“You do?” Monty’s eyes opened wide, and he appeared both surprised and pleased.
“I figured you’d know what to do.” Harold’s voice held a note of satisfaction that I appreciated.
“Let’s all sit down and get comfortable, and you can explain your idea to us, Daisy,” suggested Monty, gesturing to a sofa and two chairs neatly arranged before a fireplace, unlit this warm evening.
So we all sat, Monty offered us all drinks, I refused, Harold took a cream sherry, and our session began.
“What I recommend is that I perform another séance. During that séance, I can have Rolly make a general announcement to those present that the writer of the letters is known to the spirits on the Other Side, and they disapprove. Heartily disapprove, in fact. Then he can say something along the lines that if the writer doesn’t stop sending the letters, something truly awful will happen. None of your grandmother’s innocuous threats for Rolly, Monty. I fear Rolly might have to put the fear of God—”
“Or the devil,” Harold slid in slyly.
I nodded. “Or the devil into her, but at least she’ll stop sending the letters. I can almost guarantee it, your grandmother being more amenable to discipline than Lola. I truly tried to get Rolly to make Lola behave, but—”
This time it was Monty who interrupted me. “He did, though. I mean you did. She’s at least a hundred percent better than she was before you got Rolly to talk to her.” He shook his head. “Good God, what a strange conversation we’re having.”
I laughed. It was the first time I’d felt like laughing in days. But it really was an absurd conversation. Talking about a patently spurious spirit giving advice to misbehaving adults, and those adults actually taking the spurious spirit’s advice might make anyone laugh.
“Say, Daisy, I’d like to take you and your family out to dinner at the end of this shoot,” said Monty then, surprising me. “You deserve to be feted for your hard work on the set. You’re the only one I’ve ever met who’s been able to affect Lola’s behavior in any way at all, and it would be my great pleasure. Besides, Harold’s told me of your many sacrifices on his mother’s behalf, and I know full well how you’ve sacrificed yourself for this picture.”
I could feel myself blush. “Oh, but really, that would be too—”
“No, it wouldn’t,” said Harold, as if he’d proffered the invitation and not Monty. “If anyone deserves a night out, it’s you. Besides, you know darned well your family would love to meet Monty. Well, maybe Billy wouldn’t, but your mother and father and aunt would.”
“Well . . . thank you, Monty. I’d love it. And I have a feeling Billy would enjoy it. That’s very nice of you.”
“I was thinking about the Hotel Castleton. They have a beautiful restaurant there, and . . . well, Harold’s told me about your husband’s afflictions, which he incurred in freeing of Europe from the Kaiser’s iron grip. If we dined at the Castleton, your husband wouldn’t have very far to go to get there. It would be my true pleasure to host a party in your honor and his.”
Darned if his words didn’t bring tears to my eyes. What a swell person Monty Mountjoy was. “Thank you,” I said, feeling humble. “That would be wonderful.”
“Thank you. You not only assisted us with Lola, but you and Harold discovered who was writing those letters, which had been fretting me for weeks now.”
“I still can hardly believe your own grandmother wrote the letters, Monty. I think . . . well, I think it stinks, and I think you’re being overly nice in forgiving her.”
Yet another elegant shrug. “I’ve known my grandmother all my life, Daisy, and I understand her perhaps a little better than you do.”
“You must, if you can forgive her for writing those horrid letters. And to think of all you’ve done for her, too.”
He gave a more-or-less whimsical smile. “My mother and I came to grips with the old lady’s prejudices and idiosyncrasies a long time ago. Gran will never be brought to see that the glorious South lost the Civil War and that it’s never going to ‘rise again,’ as they like to say. Besides, South Carolina was the very first state to secede from the Union. For Gran and folks like her, that’s a point of pride.”
“Oh, brother,” I said before I could stop myself.
He chuckled. “I know. However, it’s difficult for Yankees to understand how some southerners feel about the conflict. And Gran’s own gran
dfather was a high-ranking Confederate officer, don’t forget. A colonel, in fact. He was even wounded in action.”
I thought, but didn’t say, proving yet again that occasionally I pause before I speak, that that was the way wars ought to work. Make the high ranking people or, even better, the guys who start the wars, fight them and leave the young men at home where they belong. What I said was, “I see. I suppose I can understand that.”
“Not only that, but she believes all the publicity she reads in the papers,” said Harold, “even though Monty’s told her it’s mostly bunkum. She honestly believes the bright lights of Hollywoodland are leading her grandson astray.”
“That’s only because she worries about the state of her grandson’s moral health,” said Monty, grinning. “She’s had many burdens to bear as regards her family, don’t forget. She was totally appalled when Mother began teaching dog-obedience classes, considering anything to do with dogs except hunting beneath the dignity of a fine old southern family. Then, when I went into the pictures, she nearly died of horror.”
“Even though you lifted her from poverty to all this.” I waved my arms in an all-inclusive gesture.
“I probably should have bought her an old plantation in South Carolina, but it seemed a stupid thing to do, since it would have cost more to fix up one of those dilapidated places than it cost to buy this entire complex. This way I got a home for Mother, too. And even one for me, should I ever need a retreat. I do like being around my family, even if it is . . . odd.”
“Your family’s no odder than any other family I’ve met,” I told him. It was the truth, too. My work had taken me into all sorts of homes, mainly those of the rich and foolish, and there wasn’t one of those homes that didn’t keep, or at least try to keep, the secrets of its owners. No matter what the family, it could be guaranteed to contain people who were eccentric, if not downright evil. Heck, Harold Kincaid’s own father was a rotter through and through. I could go on listing prominent families in Pasadena and tell you their oddities from now to kingdom come, and there’d still be some left over.
“I know you’re right,” he said. “Still, I understand Gran’s reasons for being unhappy about living here and about Mother and me and how we earn our livings. If we lived life according to the tenets of her childhood, we’d be sitting in a dilapidated plantation and growing tobacco and owning slaves.”
