Daisy Gumm Majesty 05-Genteel Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  It’s a good thing I didn’t anticipate applause when I led Lola out to do her job, because we sure didn’t get any. Lola got black looks from most everyone. Harold mouthed, “Thank you, Daisy,” but had the good sense not to say it aloud. John Bohnert, who’d been pacing and had his back to us, received a tap on the shoulder from Lillian Marshall, whirled around, saw us walking toward the set, and looked as if he wanted to bellow at Lola. In order to prevent any more theatrical displays from her, I grimaced at him, and he controlled his urge. He seemed mighty peeved when he stomped over to us, but at least he didn’t yell.

  “So.” He glared at Lola. “Let’s get busy. We’re atleast an hour behind schedule already. Add this delay to yesterday’s, and we may never get this picture in the can.”

  With no reluctance whatsoever, I handed Lola over to the not-so-gentle hands of John Bohnert. It might have done her good if he had hollered at her, but it would also have probably precipitated some more delays, so I only breathed a sigh of relief.

  Shoot, the day had barely begun, and I was a wreck.

  “Do you think the woman’s nuts, or is she just an idiot?”

  Sam.

  My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, Sam. One of those things, I expect. Maybe both.”

  “She’s definitely a pain in the neck. And other parts of the body.”

  Harold.

  I said, “You’ve got that right.”

  “Thanks for getting her out here,” Harold said. “I’ve got to check with Lillian about the costumes. Then I need to talk to you. Will you be in the dressing room?”

  “I guess so,” I told him. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  “I can offer you a job as a seamstress. You sew better than anyone I have on staff.”

  I think Harold was only joking, but I said, “How much do you pay?”

  “Not as much as you make casting spells.” Harold trotted off toward the gathered mob at the rehearsal set.

  “Are you really going to cast a spell on her dressing room?” Sam again.

  “I suppose so. Might as well.” I heaved yet another sigh. “Casting spells is a darned sight easier than dealing with Lola.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Sam. “I want to see how you do this.”

  “You would.”

  He chuckled. I didn’t really mind him coming along. It wasn’t as if he didn’t already know I was as phony as the tooth fairy.

  “No. Really,” he said. “It will be interesting to watch you work.”

  I frowned at him. “You’re as much of a fraud as I am, Sam Rotondo, you know that?”

  He splayed a big hand across his chest. “Me? Me? A fraud? Perish the thought.”

  We stumped along back to the big marble house where the dressing rooms were located in silence for a minute or two. Then I said, “You know very well I’m not going to be casting any sort of charm on that idiot’s stupid dressing room.”

  “I know it.” He chuckled again. “But I’ve only been here for an hour or so, and already I’m bored to death. I honestly don’t think anyone is going to try to steal Professor Fellowes’s invention. It galls me that I have to spend all my time here for however many days or weeks this picture is being filmed. Talk about a waste of manpower and the city’s money.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Me, too.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So, what are you going to do? Just stand in the dressing room and say ‘boo?’ ”

  After glancing around to make sure nobody who counted could overhear our conversation, I said, “Actually, I was thinking of taking a nap.”

  For the first time I could ever remember, Sam Rotondo burst out laughing. Gee, he was usually so grim. His good humor took me somewhat aback.

  He got over it quickly. I wasn’t surprised about that. What had surprised me was his laughing in the first place.

  “So how’s Billy doing?” he asked, back to being serious again.

  “Not very well.” I glanced up at him. “You already know that, Sam. You’re with him darned near as much as I am.” Before he could say anything nasty, I hastened to assure him my comment wasn’t intended as a barb. “And he needs your friendship, especially now. He . . . he seems to be getting weaker. Worse, he seems to have lost hope. He won’t even try to walk anymore.” I swallowed the lump of tears that had formed in my throat, as it always did when I considered the state of my husband’s health. “The only thing he seems to enjoy doing anymore is attending Spike’s dog-obedience lessons on Saturday mornings, and they aren’t going to last forever. I don’t know what to do to help him.”

  Sam had already shocked me once that morning. He did so again when he laid his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it, Daisy. You’re doing the best you can.”

  Boy, a year and a half ago, if anyone had told me that Sam Rotondo would one day say something kind to me in regard to my husband, I’d have scoffed—after I stopped laughing. I darned near cried again. But I didn’t and was proud of myself. “Thanks, Sam. It’s . . . it’s really rough. I love him so much, you know. I’ve loved him all my life.”

  “I know.”

  “And it’s so difficult to watch someone you love decline the way Billy’s doing.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s right. You do know, don’t you?”

  It was Sam’s turn to sigh. “When Margaret was dying of tuberculosis, I kept thinking there must have been something I could do for her. For a long time I thought that if I’d only found a job out here on the west coast sooner, it might have made a difference to her health. It’s taken me years to believe the doctors were right when they told me I couldn’t have done anything to help her, no matter how much I tried. She had tuberculosis, and that was that.”

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling miserable. “It’s so hard.”

  We were interrupted at that maudlin point by the sound of someone hurrying up behind us. Turning, we found Harold approaching.

  “Daisy, I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  “Sure, Harold.”

  Sam, who shared Billy’s opinion about men of Harold’s stamp, frowned, but he didn’t say anything cutting. “Want to watch Daisy cast a spell on Miss de la Monica’s dressing room? That’s what I’m going to do.”

  With a brief laugh, Harold said, “Sure. Why not?”

  So the three of us tramped into the big, cold marble building and walked up the carpeted stairs. Since we couldn’t fit three across on the staircase, I gestured for Sam to go first, sensing Harold had a reason for having hailed me. As Sam tromped up the steps ahead of us, sure enough, Harold gave me a significant look. I lifted my right eyebrow. Or maybe it was my left. It doesn’t matter. Harold understood my unspoken question, and he nodded.

  Oh, dear. Monty had received another letter.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sam came to dinner at our house that night. That wasn’t anything unusual. What was unusual was that I was the one who invited him.

  “It’s because I told Lola I’d perform a personal séance for her this evening,” I explained after I’d proffered the invitation. “Billy’s going to hate my going out two nights in a row, and I was hoping you could play gin rummy with him and Pa while I’m at the Winkworth place.”

  Naturally, Sam frowned. “I don’t know, Daisy. I hate to spring myself on your aunt unannounced.”

  “I’m inviting you, Sam. Billy needs you, because I won’t be there, and he’s going to pitch a fit. I need you.” Boy, I hated saying that. “If you’re there—”

  “He won’t throw a fit in front of me. Is that it?”

  Feeling defeated, deflated, abused and battered by the Fates, I snapped. “Yes! Yes, that’s it. Darn it, Sam, this is my job! Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it but I did take it, and now I have to do it to the best of my ability. If I can get Lola to stop delaying the action every day, maybe the picture will finally get finished and we can all go home again. Do you think I like dealing
with that ghastly woman?”

  Sam held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No. I know you don’t like dealing with her. And I know you’re just doing your job. Sort of like I’m just doing mine.” He scowled hideously for a second. “But will you at least telephone your aunt and let her know to expect an extra person for dinner? Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman wanted to rest from her duties, too, and had planned to serve Campbell’s soup and toasted-cheese sandwiches. Which would be all right with me,” he hastened to assure me.

  I eyed him speculatively. “Would Campbell’s soup and cheese sandwiches be much different from what you generally fix for yourself?”

  The sound he made was something between a snort and a laugh. “Hell, no. It would be considerably better than what I generally fix for myself.”

  “Very well. I’ll ‘phone Aunt Vi. She’ll probably be thrilled.” I turned to Harold. “Is there a telephone in this house?”

  “Sure. I’ll show you.”

  Turning to Sam, I said, “Will you excuse us for a minute? I’ll be right back to cast my spell.”

  Sam said, “Huh.”

  It figured.

  Anyhow, I did call Vi, propounded my scheme for Sam coming to dinner and why, and she seemed quite pleased, at least about the Sam part. “Really, Daisy, I know you earn a good income doing what you do, but deserting your husband day and night is going pretty far.”

  I was stunned. While Vi occasionally chastised me for saying something she didn’t approve of, she’d never before chided me about my wife-hood.

  “Deserting him?” I repeated, hardly able to believe my ears.

  “Well . . . I don’t mean deserting him, exactly,” Vi said, backtracking slightly. “But I know he hates it when you leave him after you’ve been away all day.”

  She was right. I told her so. “You’re right, Aunt Vi. I’m so sorry about all this. It’s Lola de la Monica. She’s an absolute horror to work with, and in order to get her onto the set I had to promise to hold a personal séance for her this evening. I promise you and Billy that it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh, Daisy.” Vi hesitated for so long, I thought we’d been disconnected by the operator. “I know I shouldn’t say anything, but I worry about Billy. He seems so different lately.”

  So she’d noticed, too, had she? “I know, Vi. Sam and I were just talking about the same thing. That’s why I wanted him to come over tonight, so he could keep Billy and Pa company. I really don’t want to have to come back to this place tonight. I just feel so responsible now that I’ve been hired. Nobody else can get the woman to behave herself. I plan to sic Rolly on her tonight.”

  “I understand,” said Vi. “I know you’re doing your very best, Daisy.”

  She sounded so sincere, my emotions nearly got the best of me. Again. I really had to get a grip on my nerves. “Thanks, Vi. See you after work.”

  “Take care of yourself, Daisy.”

  “I will.”

  Turning from the telephone, I met the handkerchief Harold was holding out for me. “You looked like you might need it,” he said kindly and without a hint of sarcasm.

  “Thanks, Harold, but I’m not crying.”

  “You sure?” He eyed me keenly.

  “Well . . . not yet anyway.”

  “Before we go back up to the monster’s dressing room, I want you to see this.”

  The telephone kiosk was directly beneath the staircase, and I didn’t trust Sam to keep to his own business. Therefore, after casting a glance upstairs—I didn’t see a lurking Sam—I snagged Harold’s sleeve and hauled him into another room. This one looked as if it might serve as a kitchen if this house were ever to house anything akin to a family rather than a bunch of actors’ dressing rooms.

  Lowering my voice, I said, “All right. What is it?”

  Harold handed me a sheet of paper. On it, in the same cut-from-the-newspaper format as the other letters I’d seen, I read:

  CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE!

  Again, the exclamation point had been penned in. I frowned at the missive for a moment. “Not a particularly original thinker, our letter-writer, is he?”

  “Or she.”

  “Or she,” I admitted. I didn’t want to, being a woman myself. However, since I knew it to be only fair, I said, “Women have so little power in the ordinary course of nature, they might just feel letter-writing is the only way they have to express themselves.”

  “You aren’t like that,” Harold reminded me.

  “True, but I’m not an ordinary woman. And I catch heck for it all the time, too, even though I make more money doing what I do than if I held a regular woman’s job.”

  “Well,” said Harold, probably thinking he was speaking judiciously, “don’t forget that men traditionally have families to support.”

  I lifted my head so fast, I almost sprained my neck. “Darn it, Harold Kincaid, I have a family to support! Why I should earn less than a man for doing it is beyond me!”

  Harold winced. He should, the rat. I’d never heard such rubbish come from his mouth before, and it had shocked me. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Sorry about that, Daisy. I really do know better.”

  “I should hope so.”

  Still feeling a little miffy, I shoved the letter back at Harold. “Here. You’d better keep this. We can discuss it with Monty this evening. I’ve got to come back here to do a personal séance for Lola.”

  “Lola,” said Harold. “Fah.”

  I couldn’t have phrased it better myself.

  Anyhow, Harold and I reclimbed the stairs, entered the room, and found Sam waiting for us, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a frown on his face. I frowned back. “I was only using the telephone,” I told him. “Just like I said I’d do.”

  “How’s your aunt?” he said, unfolding his arms—and a good thing, too. Rotten, suspicious man!

  “She’s fine, and she says she’ll be pleased as punch for you to come to dinner. Then she scolded me for leaving Billy again.” I don’t know why I added that last part. I really do know better.

  “Good for her,” said Sam.

  I wasn’t surprised, but I’d had enough of being bullied for one day and let Sam know it. “Curse you, Sam Rotondo! I have to earn a living for my husband and myself! And my father, too, for Pete’s sake, since he can’t work any longer. If you think I enjoy leaving Billy to deal with idiots like Lola de la Monica, you’re an even bigger fool than I thought you were!”

  He held up his hands in a defensive gesture, and I noticed that both he and Harold stepped away from me. I guess they could tell I was nearing my breaking point. What I wanted to do was continue ranting for another fifteen or twenty minutes at the both of them.

  Instead, I sucked in at least a gallon and a half of Lola-scented air—we were in her dressing room, and it smelled just like she did. Whatever the scent, it was probably “white” something-or-other—and said, “Enough of this.” I turned to Harold, who dared step forward a pace. Brave man. “Are you getting a new lock for the door?”

  “Yes. The crew’s going to install it today.”

  “Good. Then let me wave my magic wand for a second or two, and we can get the heck out of here. I hate this room. It smells like her.”

  “Tell me again why you need a special lock for this particular door,” said Sam, blast him.

  I, being accustomed to Sam’s suspicions being directed my way, answered for Harold. “Lola thinks somebody’s out to get her.”

  Sam scratched his chin. “How does she figure that? Anyhow, you said she thought spirits were haunting her.”

  “That, too,” I said, not wanting to get into the letter situation.

  “I don’t see how a new lock will keep out a ghost.” I just hated when Sam got logical on me.

  “A new lock won’t keep out a ghost. Or it wouldn’t if ghosts existed.” I shrugged. “You figure it out. I think she wants the spell and a new lock because she’s an egomaniacal crazy woman.”
/>   “That would be my guess, too,” said Harold, bless him. “But since she does believe someone’s out to get her—either spirit or human—and she’s already caused so many delays, I figured a lock and a guard would be cheaper than more delays.”

  “I see,” said Sam, as if he were reserving judgment until he discovered exactly which one of us was lying to him.

  “So I’d better put a spell on this room and get it over with,” said I.

  “Are you serious?” Sam again.

  “Why not.” So I walked to the middle of Lola’s dressing room, turned a full circle, and said, “Boo!” Dusting my hands together, I said, “There. That should do it. Let’s get to the set in case Lola decides to pitch another fit.”

  Both Sam and Harold laughed, and I felt minimally better.

  * * * * *

  Ma and I were setting the table when I heard Sam and Billy whispering together in the hall. Mind you, they talked together all the time when Sam came to dinner or to play cards, but I hadn’t noticed them whispering before. Therefore, when Ma went back to the kitchen to retrieve an extra bowl—Aunt Vi had prepared her special French onion soup as a first course that evening, bless her heart—I tiptoed to the door to the hall and listened. I know one isn’t supposed to eavesdrop, but I’d been doing more than my share of it lately. Anyhow, this was my husband and his best friend whispering, I was mortally worried about my Billy and was curious as to why he deemed it necessary to speak to Sam in secret. The following is what I heard:

  “Don’t talk that way,” Sam whispered vehemently.

  Oh, dear. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Listen, Sam. You know as well as I do that I’m not going to last much longer. I’m getting weaker all the time. I’m just asking you to watch out for Daisy after I’m gone. Is that such a bad thing for a fellow to ask of his best friend?”