Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books)

by Alice Duncan

  “Slaves,” I said, and shuddered.

  “You got that right,” said Harold.

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Monty. “But she’s old and set in her ways.”

  “So you’ve said.” I didn’t mean to sound as unkind as I did. But really. If ever there was an abomination perpetrated on earth, it was the practice people had of enslaving other people. I know slavery still goes on today; that doesn’t make it right.

  “Getting back to Granny, when would you like to conduct this séance?”

  I blew out a considering breath. “The sooner the better, I guess. Lola will have fewer reasons to throw temperaments if the letters stop.”

  “Good point,” said Harold. “What day is today, anyway?”

  I had to think for a minute. “Wednesday.”

  “How about Friday night? The shooting is nearly done, and that will give Daisy an evening home with her family before she has to spend another evening out.” He glanced at me with sympathy. “Her husband doesn’t like having her working day and night.”

  “I don’t blame him,” said Monty, the gallant gentleman.

  “That’s for sure. I guess Friday will be all right,” I said. “Billy’s almost used to me conducting séances on Friday and Saturday nights, even though he doesn’t approve of them.”

  “Rather like my granny doesn’t approve of my acting?” Monty asked in a sugary voice.

  “You have a point,” I admitted. “A valid point.” I thought about something else. “By the way, I think I’m going to have to tell Sam Rotondo it’s your grandmother behind the letters.”

  “Why?” Harold demanded.

  “I don’t want the police involved.” Monty sounded as adamant as Harold.

  “I don’t either,” said I. “Which is the whole point. Don’t you see? We don’t want Sam snooping into the matter and discovering things we don’t want him to discover. If I tell him who’s behind the letters, he’ll stop snooping. If I don’t, he’s sure to continue. He’s like a bulldog that way.” As I had reason to know from personal experience.

  It took a mere second or two for the two men to understand my meaning.

  “Oh,” said Harold. “I guess that’s true.”

  Monty said, “Oh. I suppose it is. But . . . what about Gran? Will they arrest her? I don’t want that to happen.”

  Thinking bitterly of my questioning of Sam Rotondo before I left home that evening, I said with regret, “I don’t know. I asked Sam if a person had to press charges against another person in order for an arrest to be made in a poisoned-pen case, but he didn’t answer me.” I sniffed. “He doesn’t trust me.”

  “Hmm,” said Harold in mock seriousness. “I wonder why that is.”

  “Darn it, Harold, there’s no reason on the face of this green earth that Sam shouldn’t trust me. I’ve helped the Pasadena Police Department more than once to catch criminals, don’t forget.”

  “How could I ever forget?” asked Harold with a shudder. He’d been picked up with me at that accursed speakeasy.

  “You know, Daisy,” said Monty musingly, “I do believe I’d have to press charges in order for an arrest to be made, although I’m not entirely sure. See if you can find out from your detective friend. Or maybe I can have someone else ask him.” He frowned. “No. I’d better not do that. I don’t want anyone even thinking that I’ve been getting letters, too.”

  I sighed as I rose from my comfy chair. “I’ll see if I can find out. Maybe I can make a general-interest telephone call to the police station and someone will answer the question. It’s a simple question, after all.” I said that mostly to make myself feel better.

  Anyhow, we agreed that I’d visit the Winkworth mansion yet again, this time on Friday night, to conduct a séance and, with luck and strong words from Rolly, get Monty’s grandmother to cease and desist writing her poisoned-pen letters.

  Sometimes I hated my job.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Again?” Billy sounded disgruntled, as well he might.

  “I’m sorry, Billy. But this is the last time. I promise. Besides, the shooting will wrap up next week, and then there will only be publicity shots to do in order to advertise the picture, and then I can come home and stay home.”

  “It’s about time,” he grumbled.

  I agreed with him. We were again seated at the breakfast table, Vi having set before us bacon, scrambled eggs and toast. You’d think scrambled eggs and bacon would be the same the world over, but I swear Vi’s were better than any others I’ve ever eaten. Of course, she baked her own bread, too, and it was so good, it was probably sinful. Most delicious or fun things were sinful, after all.

  “Besides,” I said, remembering Monty’s generous offer to treat my entire family to a wonderful meal at an elegant restaurant, “Monty Mountjoy wants to take us all out to dinner at the Hotel Castleton once shooting wraps up. He said he owes it to all of us.”

  Billy squinted at me. “How does he figure that?”

  “Well, because I’ve had to spend so much time away from home, of course.”

  “He wants to take all of us?” Vi asked, her eyes wide and her coffee cup stalled halfway to her lips. It was nice to have Vi home with us during the morning hours, although her vacation would be over soon, because Mrs. Pinkerton would be coming home from her trip with her new husband soon. “Oh, my!”

  “Say, that’s swell of him,” said Pa, who was surreptitiously feeding Spike bits of buttered toast under the table. Truth to tell, there was no need to be sneaky about feeding Spike tidbits. We all did the same thing. Spike was going to have to start watching his waistline pretty soon if we kept it up, too.

  “I thought it was a nice offer. He said the Hotel Castleton has an elegant restaurant, and that it’s close to home.”

  “I’ve heard that,” said Vi, sipping coffee and looking as if someone had offered her the moon and the stars. “Wait until Peggy hears about this!”

  Peggy was my mother’s name. Well, her name was Margaret, but everyone called her Peggy. Except me, of course, and my siblings. We called her Ma.

  “She’ll be thrilled,” agreed Pa. “I’ve seen pictures of that hotel. Even picked up and deposited rich folks there a time or two when I was a chauffeur. Won’t that be something? Imagine dining with a famous picture star like Monty Mountjoy. Won’t Jacob be jealous?” He grinned, pleased that his brother in Massachusetts would envy Pa’s hobnobbing with what might be considered American royalty.

  “Monty’s a nice fellow,” I said. “He’s not at all spoiled like Lola de la Monica, who’s a wretched person. Now she’s truly been ruined by her fame, if she wasn’t rotten to begin with.”

  I saw Billy eyeing me with misgiving and realized I shouldn’t have voiced my appreciation of Monty’s goodness. It galled me that Billy mistrusted the purity of my loyalty to him, although I did understand. Sort of. I’d probably be worried about him straying if I were confined to a wheelchair, too. On the other hand, it seemed to me that men were granted a great deal more latitude when it came to sins of the flesh than were women. Naturally, that was as unfair as everything else regarding the sexes, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. I hadn’t even been able to vote yet, since I’d turned twenty-one after the last election. But none of that mattered.

  “I’m not sure when this gala evening will be planned, but I’ll let everyone know as soon as I find out. I suspect it’ll be next Saturday night.”

  “Isn’t that the last day of Spike’s training, too?” Billy asked.

  I was glad he’d changed the subject. “It is indeed,” I said. “And Mrs. Hanratty said she’ll be giving out graduation certificates. This evening when I come home from work—if I survive another day with Lola on the set—we can practice with him. I want him to come in first.”

  I glanced at the floor. Spike, looking up at me with great hope in his big, brown eyes, wagged his tail as if he knew we were discussing him. He probably did, actually, since we’d mentioned his na
me. Knowing even as I did it that I was doing something wrong, since Spike was in danger of becoming plump, I said, “Spike, speak.”

  Spike spoke, and I tossed him another scrap of buttered toast. That dog would do virtually anything for food, which came in handy when it came to his obedience training. “Good dog.”

  Billy shook his head, but he smiled, so I guess he’d forgiven me for having a fictitious affair with Monty Mountjoy. I could have set Billy straight in seconds by revealing Monty’s secret, but I couldn’t in good conscience do so; therefore, I’d just try to be a good wife and show my husband by my good works that I was faithful to him.

  After I washed and dried the breakfast dishes, I went to our bedroom to stare into the closet and decide what to wear that day. This was the first day of June and, as I said before, sometimes June and July are overcast and cool in Southern California, but the Pasadena Star News had predicted warm weather for a while, so I chose a lightweight, light-blue French serge dress that hung straight from the rounded neckline to the calf-length hemline. I’d sewn pretty embroidered ribbon—purchased dirt-cheap at Maxime’s Fabric along with the bolt end of French serge, also dirt-cheap—at the neckline, the three-quarter-length sleeves, and down the middle of the dress. The belt was made of the same blue serge as the dress, and it tied loosely below the waist. The ensemble would be cool enough to withstand the heat of the day, and easy enough to maneuver in so that I could, if called upon to do so, wrestle Lola into submission. I prayed hard that I wouldn’t have to do that, although why God would listen to me after all the lies I’d told recently, I couldn’t say.

  “You look bright and cheery today,” Harold greeted me as I walked toward the set. I hadn’t been waylaid by Sam Rotondo, for which I was grateful. Maybe God had listened to me after all. Probably not. The fact that I’d arrived, parked, and made it to the set unscathed was undoubtedly just an oversight on God’s part.

  “Thanks, Harold. I do my best.”

  “You succeed admirably, my dear.”

  You can see why I adored Harold.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, interested that I hadn’t heard any screeching or hollering. I considered that a good sign, although perhaps I was being overly optimistic.

  “So far, Lola’s behaving, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  It was exactly what I’d asked him. “Glad to hear it.” I squinted at the set, which had been altered to reflect what looked like dozens of wounded men laid out in various poses of misery, some with dark substances strategically painted on them, I presumed to appear like blood. Ick. “What are they doing now?”

  “Big hospital and reconciliation scene,” said Harold. “Lola’s searching for Monty after the battle of something or other. She’s eventually going to find him among the wounded and take him home and nurse him.”

  “Lola?” I asked, feigning astonishment. I knew it was a picture, honest.

  “Lola’s character,” said Harold with a cynical twist of his mouth. “Tomorrow, we’re going to be shooting indoors.”

  “Where indoors?” I asked curiously.

  “The set decorators are creating a ruined plantation out of the dressing-room house even as we speak.”

  “I’ll be darned.”

  “Probably,” said a voice at my back. I jumped a couple of inches. I knew that voice.

  Turning, I said savagely, “Darn you, Sam Rotondo, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

  “I’m too big to sneak,” he said, smirking.

  He was big, all right, although clearly not too big to sneak. But I didn’t want to start an argument with Sam. I had to weasel information out of him. Besides, I didn’t want to spoil what had started out being a beautiful day. Heck, if it weren’t for all the wounded soldiers lying around, the day would be perfectly glorious in that almost-perfect setting. The trees were green, the flowers glorious, and birds chirped from their many nests on the property. Therefore, although it pained me, I smiled at Sam. “Good morning, Sam.”

  “Good morning, Daisy,” he said with insincere solemnity. Turning to Harold, he said, less cordially, “Morning, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Nice day, isn’t it? Not one tantrum so far, and it’s almost nine.”

  “Yeah,” said Sam, offering a small chuckle in honor of Harold’s attempt at humor. Then he turned to me. “To answer your question, Daisy, if you know who’s writing the damned letters, Lola would have to press charges in order for the police department to arrest the sender. Now, tell me who’s writing the letters.”

  Irked, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

  “Because I don’t like it when you keep information from me regarding a case.”

  Harold and I exchanged a significant look, and Harold shrugged. “Better tell him, Daisy. I’m sure the studio won’t let Lola press charges. Hell, it’s better for everyone involved if she never even learns who the writer is.”

  I considered Harold’s words for a second or two. It annoyed me that Sam hadn’t answered my question when I’d asked it and I’d like to make him suffer for his recalcitrance, but I knew Harold was right. Therefore, I said, “All right. But I don’t want to go into this here and now. Let’s go to one of the gardens away from everyone, and I’ll reveal all.” I said the last two words as if I aimed to impart unto him the secret of life.

  Sam, naturally, rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s go to a garden.”

  “I recommend the rose arbor over there,” Harold said, pointing vaguely westward. “There’s a gazebo there that’s nice to sit in.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, brightening. “When I first saw it, I thought I’d like to sit there for days on end and do nothing but read detective stories.” I gave Sam a look. “Books about fictional detectives, needless to say.”

  “Totally needless,” said Sam.

  So we walked to the rose garden and settled in the gazebo, and I told Sam all about finding the newspapers, glue pot, scissors and pen in Granny Winkworth’s desk drawer.

  “The old lady’s been writing the letters?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. She disapproves of picture people and believes Lola has been leading her grandson astray. I guess that’s why she wrote the letters. To scare off Lola.”

  “Damn,” said Sam, who was as baffled by her attitude as I was. “That’s flat stupid.”

  “Yes, it is. But according to Monty, she’s old and set in her ways. He just doesn’t want her to get in trouble with the police.”

  “You told him all about it, I suppose,” said Sam resentfully.

  “Of course I did. I figured I’d better. She’s his grandmother, after all, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t want to see her hauled off to jail, or anything. That’s why I asked if a person would have to file charges against the letter-writer before being arrested. Shoot, Sam, I generally have reasons for the questions I ask, you know.”

  “I do know. That’s why I didn’t answer you last night. I don’t trust you.”

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear, Sam,” I said, feeling picked on. “But see, the thing is, Mrs. Winkworth is an old lady. She may be a misguided idiot, but Mr. Mountjoy doesn’t want her hurt by all this. That’s why I don’t want Lola to know Mrs. Winkworth is the culprit.”

  “Well, crap, Daisy, that’s not fair to Miss de la Monica, is it?”

  My eyes paid a glance to the ceiling of the gazebo. Somebody kept the place swept clear of cobwebs and stuff. It was positively pristine. “Lola de la Monica is a cretinous egomaniac, Sam Rotondo. If we tell her the truth, she’ll be screeching the news from now until doomsday and undoubtedly increase her quota of temper tantrums from zero to sixty within minutes of being told the truth.”

  Sam chuffed out a heavy breath. “Well, we’ve got to tell her something. If she thinks she’s going to get more of those damned letters, she’ll still screech from now until doomsday.”

  “Yes, but I’ve figured out a way to put a stop to the letters without her being the wiser.”


  “Yeah? How?”

  He sounded as if he didn’t believe me and wouldn’t approve if he could ever be persuaded. His attitude annoyed me, but his attitude always annoyed me, so I didn’t take him to task. “I’m going to conduct another séance and have Rolly, my spiritual guide, give a specific warning that the writer of the letters has disturbed the spirits with her antics, and she’d better stop it or something bad will happen to . . . well, I haven’t figured that part out yet. Maybe I’ll have Rolly talk to her ancestor, the general, and have him be stern with her. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Mountjoy and find out what she’d hate most if it were taken from her. But Rolly will tell her that something dire will befall her or a loved one if she doesn’t cease and desist.”

  Sam stared at me for what seemed like an hour and a half. I was utterly astounded when he finally said, “That sounds like a good plan.”

  I could feel my eyes go wide. “You mean it? You actually approve of something I’m planning to do?”

  After another moment of hesitation, during which he pursed his lips and thought, I’m sure, about my many transgressions—or what he considered my transgressions—he said, “Yeah. It sounds as if that’d be best all around, and the police department won’t have to get involved in a messy situation. We don’t like messy situations,” he said with a meaningful look at me.

  “Well, then . . .” But I didn’t know what to say next. I hadn’t expected Sam to be so easy to persuade. I’d figured I’d have a fight on my hands. His capitulation almost felt like a let-down, which was downright silly.

  “When do you aim to throw this séance of yours?”

  “It’s conduct a séance, Sam, not throw one.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Friday night. Tomorrow.” I heaved a sigh. “It’ll be good to have the matter settled. I’m so sick of Lola’s tantrums, I don’t think I can stand many more of them.”