by Alice Duncan
After she did her sinking routine, Mr. Fellowes, if it was he, knelt beside her and took her hand. “Is there anything I can get for you, Miss de la Monica? A glass of water perhaps?”
I felt like telling him that nothing so prosaic as a glass of water would do for this particular fainting maiden, but didn’t. Rather, I glanced toward the doorway through which we’d just entered the room and was relieved to espy Gladys Pennywhistle bustling toward us, John Bohnert at her heels and looking peeved.
“Thank you so much, Homer darling, but I need Mrs. Majesty right now,” Lola said in a voice that might have heralded her eminent demise if she weren’t acting, which she was, so it didn’t.
Homer Fellowes got to his feet, his expression radiating his defeat and unhappiness that he couldn’t continue to be the hero of the hour.
“I’m right here, Miss de la Monica,” I said, my tone reverting to its soothing spiritualist quality. I reminded myself to keep it there, no matter what this ridiculous female did in the future.
“Is everything all right in here?” John Bohnert gazed down with displeasure at his star. I guess some directors get used to all types of histrionics, but John appeared to be reaching the end of his tether with this particular actress.
“I believe Miss de la Monica only needs a little spiritual guidance. We won’t be long,” I assured him, praying I was right. Glancing at the solid, ever-practical Gladys Pennywhistle and then at the awe-stricken Homer Fellowes, I had a brilliant idea. “Why don’t you and Mr. Fellowes make up some tea, Gladys? After Miss de la Monica and I chat for a while, I think a bracing cup of tea will be just the thing.”
“It’s Doctor Fellowes,” Gladys said in her practical voice. She wasn’t reproving me, only setting me straight. “And that might be a good idea.”
“Please, Dr. Fellowes,” I said, latching on to the man’s arm, “go with Miss Pennywhistle, if you will. I’ll deal with this situation.”
“Eh?” Dr. Fellowes glanced from the sprawling star on the sofa and blinked at me. “Beg pardon?”
“If you will please accompany Miss Pennywhistle to the kitchen and prepare some tea, we should be ready for you again in about ten minutes.”
“Uh . . . I mean . . . I don’t know how to prepare tea,” said the hapless Dr. Fellowes.
“I’m sure Gladys does. You can carry the tray,” I told him, thinking that he and Gladys would make a perfect pair. They were both brainy, and Gladys had that helpful, practical streak that would assist the ineffectual professor, who only, apparently, knew how to invent things.
“Yes, indeed. Thank you, Dr. Fellowes. I can use your help.” And Gladys led him away, much as Mrs. Hanratty might lead one of her well-trained pups.
“It won’t take any longer than ten minutes?” John asked in my ear. “We’ve got to finish dealing with the costumes today, and this damned temperament has already set us behind schedule.” He glanced at his watch, one of those nifty new wrist-band varieties, and frowned down at the sofa some more.
“I’ll deal with her,” I promised him. “I’ve had lots of practice with hysterical women.”
And that was the truth. My spiritualist persona had been weaned, so to speak, during the former Mrs. Kincaid’s many hysterical moments.
He huffed with irritation. “I hope to hell you’re right.” And he stomped off, I guess to do something director-like.
After sending one exasperated glance ceilingwards, I sat next to Lola on the sofa and took one of her limp hands. “Now, you must let me help you, Miss de la Monica. What has happened that has you so upset? I’m sure that, with the help of the spirits, my constant guides and companions, I can assist you through whatever has transpired.” I wanted to add, to put you in this nonsensical state, but didn’t.
With a dramatic moan and a theatrical sigh, Lola de la Monica reached into one of her grass-stained white pockets and withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper. She whispered, “Read this.”
So I did. By golly, it was a threatening letter! The poison seemed to be spreading. The thing said, in big, black letters that looked to have been cut from a newspaper:
CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE!
Whoever had cut the words out of the newspaper couldn’t find a decent exclamation point, I guess, because he or she had added one at the end of the message in bold, black ink that was darker than the newsprint.
“My goodness,” I said, considerably taken aback. I’d figured she’d been throwing her fit to garner attention. That motivation probably had a good deal to do with it, but this particular fit had been precipitated by considerably more than mere dramatic instinct. This might well be serious. I wondered if Monty had received another letter. “When did this arrive?”
With a preliminary moan of weary tragedy, Miss de la Monica said, “It was waiting for me in my dressing room.”
That seemed odd. An inside job, in fact! “Where is your dressing room?”
She looked upward, as if she were a petitioner beseeching God for some type of miracle. “Upstairs,” she whispered. “At the end of the hall to the right.”
“I think I’d better go up there and look around. Do you—” My words ceased abruptly. I’d been going to ask her if she wanted me to telephone for the police, but then I remembered that the police were on the premises already in the person of Sam Rotondo, and that if I called this letter to his attention, the discovery of Monty Mountjoy’s letters probably wouldn’t be far behind. And behind the discovery of them, might well come the reasons for the letters having been written in the first place, if Harold and Monty were right about that. Sam might be annoying, but he definitely wasn’t stupid. However, any such discovery would put an end to a very nice man’s career as a picture idol. Then where would his stupid, ungrateful grandmother be?
Drat Sam Rotondo and the entire motion-picture industry! Except Harold Kincaid. None of this was his fault.
“No!” cried Lola, seizing my hand and holding onto it in an iron grip. “Don’t leave me!”
Oh, brother.
But I only said, “Very well. I believe now would be the proper time for some spiritual intervention. Shall I pray with you?”
By the way, I’d only begun praying with my clients after Johnny Buckingham had prayed with—and for—Billy and me when I’d found Billy’s secret stash of morphine syrup. Anyhow, Johnny’s prayer had comforted me, and my prayers seemed to comfort my clients. I felt a little cheesy about praying with them, since I had my own personal doubts about God . . . well, not about God, per se. But I had a hard time believing that everyone who didn’t believe exactly as we Methodist-Episcopals did were going straight to hell. Judging others didn’t sound much like Jesus-thought to me. But who was I? Merely a young, married spiritualist who was trying to make a living. So I asked the woman if she wanted me to pray with her.
Lola whispered, “Oh, yes. Please.”
Since she still wore her fake Spanish accent, I considered her request all part of her act. Nevertheless, I acquitted her of being entirely at fault in this case, given the nasty letter and all. So I prayed with her, calling upon God to protect His precious daughter Lola de la Monica. I hoped to heck God would know who I was talking about, since I was certain that wasn’t her real name.
After a fervently whispered “Amen” that immediately followed my own, Lola said, “I must be a mess. Can you go with me to my dressing room now? I should freshen up, but I don’t want to go up there alone.”
At that moment, Gladys returned with Dr. Fellowes, who carried a heavy tea tray laden with tea things. Bother. Now I wished I hadn’t asked the two of them to prepare tea.
“Here’s the tea,” Gladys said unnecessarily.
Dr. Fellowes carefully laid the tea tray down on the coffee table before the crushed-velvet sofa and stepped back, the better to gaze worshipfully at Lola de la Monica. He didn’t speak.
“Thank you very much, Gladys and Dr. Fellowes. As soon as Miss de la Monica freshens up a bit, I’ll see that she gets a good
, strong cup of tea to carry her through the next few hours.”
Gladys glanced at the watch pinned to her shirtwaist. “Better hurry. You’ve only five minutes left. I don’t think Mr. Bohnert will be pleased if Miss de la Monica delays production further.”
Lucky me. Now I was responsible for getting John’s schedule back in line. Why me, God? But I already knew the answer to that stupid question. This was my life. And I had to deal with it.
“We’ll hurry,” I assured Gladys. Then I grabbed one of Lola de la Monica’s hands and all but yanked her off the sofa.
She grunted softly, but didn’t object. Rather, she meekly followed me up the stairs. When we reached the top, I stepped aside and followed her, since she knew where her dressing room was. As she’d said, it was the last room on the right. As we approached the door, she seemed to shrink back. I braced myself for another fit, but she only said, “Please. You open the door. I’m so afraid.”
Since she couldn’t see me, I puffed out my cheeks and rolled my eyes. Then I passed her and turned the knob on her door. Voila! The dressing room, presumably as she’d left it.
“Do you see anything amiss?” I asked as soon as we’d entered the room.
Lola stood at the door, her hands clasped at her bosom, glancing with profound fear around the room.
I waited.
And waited.
Until I got fed up with waiting. “Well? Do you see anything amiss?”
Gradually, Lola drifted into the room, still glancing around as if she were a gazelle who expected a lion to pop out and devour her at any moment. At last she spoke. Goody gumdrops. “I . . . don’t know. My maid picked up after me.”
Must be nice. I said, “Well, can you poke around and tell me if anything is different than it should be? Where did you find the letter, by the way?” I probably should have asked her that in the first place.
She pointed a willowy finger at the huge, ornate mirror in front of which sat a huge vanity covered all over with pots and boxes and bottles. Face cream, powder and perfume, I presumed. “There. It was propped against the mirror.”
Hmm. I walked over to the mirror and inspected it, looking for fingerprints. Not that fingerprints would have helped me one teensy bit, since I’d already determined not to tell Sam Rotondo about the lousy letters. What a stupid job I’d taken on! It didn’t matter, though. I guess the maid had cleaned the mirror, too, because it sparkled, fingerprint-free against the wall. It was probably all for the best.
It took some prodding, but at last, after only ten or fifteen minutes, I got Lola de la Monica downstairs and out of the house. We forwent—is that a word?—the tea, since I didn’t want to irritate Mr. Bohnert any more than was absolutely necessary.
I hadn’t anticipated receiving any praise for my valiant efforts on behalf of The Fire at Sunset, but I sure as anything didn’t expect John Bohnert’s, “For God’s sake, what took you so damned long?”
Chapter Seven
I must have looked as annoyed as I felt, because John instantly came to my side. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I know this isn’t your fault.” He turned like a tiger on Lola de la Monica. “Get into the costume tent instantly, Lola. You’ve delayed us long enough for one day.”
Lola sniffed and said, “I received a great shock, John, and I think you’re a brute to treat me so.”
“Sorry for your shock. Sorry I’m a brute. Now get the hell over to the costume tent.”
With drooping shoulders and a heartbreaking sigh, Lola took off in the direction of a huge, white tent: the costume tent, I presumed. At least she’d changed clothes and was no longer clad in grass-stained white. Now she wore a simple white day dress. I guess the woman had a thing for white. Perhaps she’d read Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White recently or something. For what it’s worth, I always thought Collins missed the boat on that one. Why any man would prefer the simpering heroine to her go-get-‘em sister just because the heroine was beautiful is beyond my understanding. Not that it matters what I think.
“Maybe I’d better go with her,” I said, feeling tentative. I wasn’t sure exactly what my job was here, after all. Sure, I was supposed to be Lola’s spiritual advisor, but I’d already performed that duty admirably—in spite of having taken a trifle too much time about it, which wasn’t my fault but that of Lola, who hurried for no man, not even John Bohnert—and didn’t know what to do next.
“You might as well. She’s apt to throw another fit unless you’re close by.” John eyed me keenly. “I don’t suppose you have any idea what prompted the first one, do you?”
I sure did. Rather than lie outright, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not well acquainted with Miss de la Monica yet. Perhaps I’ll come to understand her better in the days to come.”
“God help you,” snapped John, and he turned on his heel and stamped off toward a group of people who shuffled about some yards away. I guess Lola’s antics had made them late with their duties, too.
This job was going to be a miserable one if it required keeping Lola de la Monica on schedule. From what I’d seen of her so far, the woman thrived on drama. It actually occurred to me that she might have manufactured the letter trick in order to have an excuse to throw her recent temperament.
But no. She couldn’t know about the letters Monty Mountjoy had received, so she couldn’t have taken the idea of her threatening letter from his. As far as I understood at the time, the only person who knew about Monty’s letters except Monty was Harold. And me. Nuts.
Anyhow, I headed to the costume tent without any enthusiasm at all for what I might find within it.
The first thing I found within it was Sam Rotondo. So far, my day was perfect (I’m being sarcastic). Naturally, he scowled when he saw me. Figuring what the heck I walked over to him. “H’lo again, Sam.”
“What the devil took that confounded woman so long to get to the tent? She was supposed to be here forty minutes ago.”
I frowned up at him. “What do you care?”
“I care because the City of Pasadena is paying a good chunk of money to have a detective and two uniformed officers at this idiotic picture shoot. If Miss de la Monica is late every damned day, it’ll delay production and cost the city far more money than they budgeted for.”
As much as I hate to admit it, that made sense to me. I’d already discovered that Sam didn’t want to be here any more than I did, so I could hardly fault him for his sour mood, although he didn’t have to take it out on me.
“You can thank me that it didn’t take longer than forty minutes,” I told him with asperity. “The woman threw a fit, and I had to calm her down.”
“Good God.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t like having to be here, either, after this morning’s scene. I thought it might be fun to observe a picture being made, but so far it’s just boring. Well, except for calming down Miss de la Monica, but that’s just business as usual. Well,” I amended for the sake of honesty, “she’s more annoying than most of my other clients.”
A corner of Sam’s mouth slanted up. “You’ve had plenty of practice dealing with frantic women, I reckon.”
“I reckon.” Then I glanced around the interior of the tent, which was hot and stuffy and would probably only get hotter and stuffier as the day progressed. There were tons of people there, some of them worker bees and some of them picture folks. Well, the picture folks were worker bees, too. Drones. I guess Lola de la Monica was their queen, to continue with the beehive motif. Shoot, with a queen like her, this particular hive was going to be in big trouble. I’ll bet regular queen bees don’t have dramatic tantrums and throw the rest of the hive off-kilter. “It sure takes a lot of people to make a movie, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. And this is just for the costumes.”
“I saw more people outside, waiting for Mr. Bohnert. Miss de la Monica held up their daily duties, too, from what I could gather from the frowns directed at her.”
Sam eyed me with what appeared to be real sympathy. “I don’t l
ike my job here, Daisy, but I’d rather have mine than yours.”
“Thanks, Sam. I think I would, too.”
Just then I spotted Lillian Marshall, who appeared harried, talking earnestly with Miss de la Monica, who wore a mulish expression on her beautiful face. Oh, dear. I had a feeling my services were going to be called upon again soon.
I was right. Harold Kincaid popped out of the cluster of people surrounding Lola, glared wildly around the tent, spied me and hollered, “Daisy! Over here!”
Giving Sam one last, forlorn peek, I headed for Harold.
Sam said, “Good luck” as I walked off. I appreciated him in that instant, which didn’t surprise me until later, when I related the incident at the supper table.
Harold dashed over to hurry me along. “The damned woman is giving Lillian the fidgets. She doesn’t like her costumes.”
“What’s not to like? I think long skirts and petticoats and hoop skirts are really pretty.”
“They are. Lola de la Monica isn’t.”
“She actually is, Harold,” I said reprovingly. “She’s beautiful, in fact.”
“On the outside, maybe. On the inside, she’s filth and dirt.”
“Powerful words, Harold Kincaid. Methinks you’re annoyed with the lady.”
“Lady, my foot. If she didn’t have those dark looks, she’d be a nobody.” Meditatively, he added, “I wonder how many directors she had to sleep with in order to climb the ladder.”
