by Alice Duncan
“Gladys?” Harold shrugged. “She’s doing her best. She’s the old lady’s secretary and, as such, doesn’t have a lot to do with the set as a rule, but even she tried to talk Lola this morning. So far nothing’s worked.”
“Oh, dear.” Sounded as if it was going to be another spectacular day for yours truly.
As long as we were walking on these glorious grounds, I decided to look around and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. What lay ahead for Harold and me—that is to say Lola de la Monica and her hysterics—was most assuredly going to be ugly, so I figured I’d take in as much beauty as I could along the way.
The Winkworth place was honestly exquisite. It was, as I’ve mentioned earlier, immense, fully capable of supporting three large, mansion-like houses, and each of those houses had its own grounds. I don’t know how many square acres of prime Pasadena real estate the Winkworth estate took up, but it was probably as much as was used by the California Institute of Technology nearby.
Paths led here and there on the grounds, each leading to different places—you know, special gardens and so forth. In the distance to the right, I noticed a pretty pergola, which would be a delightful place to sit and read a book with one’s dog at one’s feet, or on one’s lap if one’s dog was Spike. The path Harold and I trod upon led past one of the rose gardens, too. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many rosebushes in my life as had been planted on the Winkworth estate.
Curious, I asked, “Did this place come with all three houses on it already, or did Monty have to buy three separate properties and tack them together?”
“Oh, no. He bought up the old Hollis place. In the old days, it was sort of a compound, where old man Hollis kept his family corralled. Or as much of the family as he could tolerate, anyhow.”
“Ah. Wasn’t Charles Hollis in partnership with Henry Castleton?”
“Yes. They owned the railroad together and made millions.”
“On the backs of all those poor Chinamen,” I muttered, remembering a conversation I’d had with Mr. Castleton’s daughter a few months earlier.
Harold shot me a grin. “Don’t forget the backs of the Irish and a bunch of other poor immigrants who laid out those tracks and died for the privilege of doing so.”
“Yeah, but nobody ever says someone has an Irishman’s chance. It’s always a Chinaman’s chance,” I reminded Harold. Which, in turn, reminded me about how unfair Fate is to everyone with total impartiality. Fate hadn’t dug its vicious claws only into Billy and me. I heaved a huge sigh.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?”
Good old Harold; back to being his own lovable self again. I was glad for it. “Nothing, really. I was just thinking about how unfair life is sometimes.”
“Oh, Lord, don’t start in on that, or I might begin to feel guilty.” Harold had come from a very wealthy family.
“You have nothing to feel guilty about,” I said staunchly. “Your father might have been a crook and your sister might be a witch, but you’re neither of those things.”
My sentiments might have been pure, but I could have phrased my opinion better. However, it didn’t matter. Harold threw his head back and roared with laughter, so I guess he didn’t mind. Well, I knew he didn’t mind. We’d been over this ground before. Not physically. I mean we’d talked about our families together. The Winkworth place was new, to me at least.
“I’m glad you’re my friend, Daisy,” he said when he stopped laughing and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I’m glad you’re my friend, too, Harold.” For some stupid reason, I felt like crying again. Shoot. To cover it up and change the subject, I said, “I don’t suppose Monty’s received any more ugly letters, has he?”
“Not yet, but the day’s young.”
His good mood had fled, and I felt a little bad about that until I realized the path upon which we walked had bent, and the dressing-room house loomed ahead, looking like an enormous marble tomb in the sunlight. Gaggles of people stood about outside of it, I presume waiting for Lola to get over her temperament so they could all start working. Watching all those folks waiting for one silly woman to stop being stupid and start to work irked me. “Are all of those people waiting for Lola?”
“Yes,” said Harold grimly. “They’re all awaiting her majesty’s pleasure. Damn her.”
“Good heavens. Is she really worth everyone’s time?”
“Of course, she isn’t!” He practically snarled it. “But she’s in this picture, under contract, she’s the damned star, and nobody can do anything until you can calm her down.”
Oh, goody. Lucky me. I said weakly, “Lead on, Harold.”
Chapter Ten
Harold hadn’t been exaggerating the state of Lola’s hysteria. I could hear her wailing long before we got near the first bunch of people, from which broke away Gladys Pennywhistle, Sam Rotondo and John Bohnert as soon as they spotted us. They hurried over. To me, naturally.
“She’s really in a state this morning, according to Harold,” I said before Gladys or John could both regale me with separate accounts of Lola’s antics.
John wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “This is going to kill the picture! We have to get that woman to do her job, or we’re all sunk.”
“Can’t you fire her and call in another actress?” I asked, honestly curious. “I mean, filming hasn’t started yet, has it? How much trouble would it be to replace her?” Of course, if they replaced her, I’d be out of a job, but it wasn’t a job I liked a whole lot.
“Sounds like a smart plan to me,” grumbled Sam, who didn’t care for women throwing tantrums on his watch. Not that I’d ever thrown a tantrum in front of him, mind you, because I didn’t do stuff like that. But I’d listened to enough of his stories around the dinner table to know how little he cared for hysterical females.
“It sounds like a brilliant plan,” snarled John. “But the producers want Lola. Besides, she’s under contract and she’d sue us if we fired her.”
“But she’s not fulfilling her contract,” said Gladys. She would point that out. Practical. That was Gladys. “How could she sue you? Isn’t there some kind of clause in her contract that requires her to do her job in a timely manner?”
“Anyone can sue anyone,” said Sam. His voice carried a trace of cynicism, and I remember hearing a diatribe or two from him about lawyers around the dinner table, too. “She might not win a suit, but it could cost the studio a bundle.”
“Precisely,” said John. “It would cost the studio more money and publicity than it would be worth, providing we can get the bitch to do her job at all.”
I was a little surprised he’d used the B-word with ladies present, but I guess he’d come to the end of his rope.
He turned to me. “Can you please do something with her, Daisy? Everybody else has tried and failed.”
Feeling poorly equipped for the task before me, I nevertheless said, “I’ll do my best.”
“She’s going to put a spell on her dressing room,” said Harold drily. “In the meantime, will you get the carpenters to get a stout lock installed on the damned door? And put someone there overnight to watch the place, too, will you?”
“Why do you need anyone to watch the room?” Sam’s keen gaze flipped from Harold to me and back again.
Oh, dear. Nobody was supposed to know about those stupid letters. I’d have to remind Harold in private that Sam was a lot smarter than he looked, and that he’d better watch what he said in front of him if he didn’t want Sam finding out about them.
Fortunately for us, Harold was a quick thinker. “Lola thinks some spirit or ghost has been rummaging around in her dressing room. So Daisy offered to put a spell on it to keep out evildoers from beyond this pale. But I figure a new lock and a guard would help, too. Something she can see, don’t you know.”
“Huh,” said Sam, sounding far from convinced. Darn him. I guess this is what comes from being in a profession like his for so long. He never believed anything anyon
e ever said to him without proof.
With a deep and heartfelt sigh, I decided not to stick in my two cents, since that would only deepen Sam’s mistrust. Rather, I said to Gladys, “Will you please lead me to the lady?” My voice, I fear, conveyed my reluctance.
Gladys gave an indignant sniff. “I don’t know how much of a lady she is. She certainly doesn’t act like any lady I’ve ever known.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” said I. I remembered my handbag, but decided it couldn’t come to any harm in the Chevrolet. There was no money in it, after all, and I didn’t expect I’d need my tarot cards for this. Lola was in no state to sit still and be foretold to.
As ever, Gladys was garbed sensibly. She wore a plain brown-and-white striped skirt along with a plain white shirtwaist. Eyeing her from behind, I decided the skirt was probably part of a suit, the jacket of which Gladys had opted not to wear due to the heat. Smart girl, Gladys. Naturally, she wore sensible, lace-up shoes with cotton stockings. I still thought that, providing neither she nor Homer Fellowes was the nutty letter-writer, they’d be perfect together.
That thought, as well as any others that might have been floating around in my brain, flew out of it as soon as we approached the front parlor of the marble house. I cast a beseeching glance at the ceiling, hoping God would see me and take pity upon me, although I didn’t expect much from that quarter. I’m sure God had his attention on bigger, more important things.
“No, no, no, no, no!” screeched the voice of Lola de la Monica. Even though she was supposed to be hysterical, I noticed she was keeping her pseudo-Spanish accent in place. “I can’t do it! There’s evil there!”
“But you don’t need to go there at all this morning, Miss de la Monica.” Homer Fellowes. Trying to reason with her, which, under these circumstances, might be likened to someone trying to reason with a tornado. Lola was wound up and spinning out of control, and it was going to take more than mere reasoned persuasion to get her calmed down.
Gladys gave a peremptory rap on the open door, and we entered the room. Homer glanced up, saw me, and his relief was almost palpable. “Oh, good.” Turning back to a weeping Lola, who’d flung her white-clad self on the crushed-velvet sofa again, he said, “Mrs. Majesty is here, Miss de la Monica. I’m sure she’ll be able to . . . um, do something for you.”
Completely disregarding Homer’s tentative hands, which were hovering over her—I guess he didn’t have the nerve to put them on her writhing form—Lola nearly upended him as she leaped up from the sofa. “Daisy! Oh, my God! Daisy! I need you!”
Because I anticipated her next move, I braced myself so that we both didn’t fall over backwards when she flung herself at me; she only managed to spin me around so that I was facing the other direction. “There, there,” I said, patting her on the back. I felt like paddling a different part of her anatomy. Hard. As she sobbed onto my shoulder—thank God I’d worn a lightweight, washable cotton frock that day—I glanced over her heaving back and saw a line of men glaring at the spectacle, all with their hands fisted and planted firmly at their waists. I rolled my eyes at them.
Sam looked the most disgusted of the lineup.
Harold shook his head. He appeared pretty disgusted, too.
John Bohnert said, “Can you do something about her?” as if Lola were a troublesome pest in need of an exterminator. He was probably right.
Lola lifted her head and shrieked, her voice right, smack next to my ear and nearly deafening me, “Do something about me? I’m in psychical torment, you horrid beast!” And she recommenced sobbing onto my shoulder.
After heaving a heavy sigh, I said, “Why don’t you gentlemen wait outside for a moment or two? I’ll take care of this.”
Sam said, “Huh.”
Harold said, “Good.”
John Bohnert snapped, “Be quick about it.” He looked at his wristwatch as he turned and marched out of the room, his knickerbockers flapping in the wind he made. The man was definitely tense.
“Get hold of yourself, Lola,” I said in a firm but soothing spiritualist voice. I’d had tons of practice soothing Mrs. Pinkerton when she was hysterical, although I have to admit that Mrs. Pinkerton wasn’t nearly as physical in her frantic fits as Lola. “This will never do. If you need my help, you must calm down at once.”
I led her to the sofa across from the crushed-red-velvet one. The beige one. I figured it would be difficult for darned near anyone to carry on effectively against a beige background. Firmly but gently, I pressed her down. Then I sat next to her quickly, just in case she decided to try flinging herself flat in spite of the dull background. Taking her hands, I said, “Tell me why you’re in this state this morning. Surely you haven’t received another letter. Have you?” I hoped she hadn’t. She was difficult to deal with even without real threats to complicate matters.
She shook her head. “No. But I know where yesterday’s letter came from.”
“You do?” Boy, maybe this would solve all of our problems. I was ecstatic for about a second and a half, until Lola spoke again.
“Yes. From the Beyond.”
Nuts. Stupid woman. I said, “Nonsense. The spirits don’t need to write poisoned-pen letters. In fact, they couldn’t if they wanted to. They’re insubstantial beings. They may visit from time to time, if given sufficient cause, but they never write letters.”
Her lower lip stuck out so far, she looked like my niece in a pout, and she crossed her arms over her chest in a posture of defiance.
Figuring I’d best hurry this along, I ignored both her posture and her pout and went on, “There’s no need for this carrying-on, Lola. You’re only annoying the people you need to further your career by delaying production in this way. I’ll be more than happy to conduct an individual séance with you this evening, after the rehearsal is over.” Oh, boy, Billy was going to love another late night out on my part. Still, this, as I kept reminding us both, was my job.
She brightened minimally and looked at me. Her eyes, for all the supposed crying she’d been doing, were remarkably dry and un-puffy. Hmm. Play-acting all along, by golly. After the day’s work was done, I might just remind her that she was in danger of ruining her reputation and that people who mattered in the industry were getting sick of her antics. Naturally, I’d couch my lecture in esoteric, spiritualistic terms. And I’d probably call Rolly in to impart it. Even though Lola de la Monica seemed to possess a thickish head, I believed I could get Rolly to do his part in straightening her out.
Which brings up a salient point, but it’s one I’d run across before. People were ever so much more apt to take home truths from Rolly, a fictional gentleman I’d made up when I was ten years old, than they were from a real, honest-to-goodness human being. You figure it out. It’s beyond me.
Lola sat in mulish silence for a moment or two, then sniffled once to show me she was still in distress. I refrained from smacking her with some difficulty. “You neglected to put a charm on my dressing room yesterday,” she said sulkily.
“I’ll do that first thing. As soon as you go on out to the set and begin rehearsing.”
“No! I must be there with you when you do it.”
I was very firm in my reply. “You may not be there when I do it. When I cast charms, I have to work alone.” Figuring it wouldn’t hurt and might just help, I went into one of my patented spiritualist routines. “You see, Lola, I have a special ability to communicate with those from the Other Side.” Whatever that was. I didn’t add that part. “It is very important that I attain a special spiritual state of mind, and in order to do that, I need to meditate and concentrate on the realm beyond our understanding. My spiritual conductor to that other realm will assist me. Any other human being present will only disrupt the psychical connection. It’s exhausting work, and it takes a lot out of me. I definitely need to work alone with my control.”
Was I good at this nonsense, or was I not?
“Well . . .”
Lola clearly wanted to pout some more, but I pu
t the kibosh on her stubbornness. I wasn’t above doing some play-acting of my own, by gum. “If you won’t take my advice on spiritual matters,” I said, icing up my spiritualist’s voice a notch, “there’s no reason for me to be here. Perhaps you can find another—”
“No!” she squealed, again nearly rendering me deaf. “You can’t desert me!”
“I can and will, if you refuse to follow my instructions. I believe I’ve been referred to you as a competent spiritualist, Miss de la Monica. Is that correct?”
She sniffled again, sounding less pouty and more desperate. “You’re the best. Everyone says so.”
“Then,” said I, gentling my voice, “you need to allow me to do my job whilst you do yours. Your job in this instance is to go out to the set and begin rehearsing. My job is to place a special spell on your dressing room so that no otherworldly entities can harm you. The letter,” I reminded her, “was not placed against your mirror by a supernatural force. It was put there by a human being, so you don’t need to fear the Other Side when it comes to letter-writing.”
Bowing her head and folding her hands in her lap, she whispered soulfully, “Very well. But you must come out with me. When I am with the others, you may then come back to this house and place your spell.” She thought for a micro-second. “Perhaps you should place a charm on the entire house.”
Oh, brother. Was this woman a selfish cat, or was she not a selfish cat? I ask you! I said, “Placing charms and spells is an exhausting business, Lola. One room a day is my limit. If I drain my psychical abilities, I won’t be able to conduct a proper individual séance with you this evening.”
Billy was absolutely right about my line of work. That is to say, he was right in that it was pure hogwash. I still maintain it wasn’t evil.
Lola heaved herself up from the sofa and expelled a long, weary sigh. “Very well. I understand. I, too, must suffer for my art.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes and giving her the raspberry with effort. Rather, gathering my self-control around me like a mantle—or perhaps a mantilla would be more appropriate, given Lola’s Spanish mien—I rose from the sofa and took her arm. “Good. I’ll see you out to the others, and then I’ll go to your dressing room.” Maybe I’d just take a little nap there, in fact. There wasn’t anything else I could do that would benefit anyone in Lola de la Monica’s stupid dressing room.
