by Alice Duncan
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Harold heaved a sigh. “Well, let’s get to it. Her maid does a pretty good job of keeping everything spiffy, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” I said, admiring a built-in bookcase crafted of some no-doubt wildly expensive imported wood. Curious, I walked to the bookcase and scanned the book titles. No murder mysteries for Mrs. Winkworth, thank you very much. Poetry seemed to be her particular pleasure in life. Old poetry. The sonnets of Shakespeare, James Leigh Hunt, William Wordsworth. I was kind of surprised to see an Edith Wharton novel on the shelves, and wondered if Mrs. Winkworth had disapproved of The Age of Innocence. Probably.
But I most assuredly wouldn’t find a glue pot and cut-up newspapers in the bookcase, so I wandered off to another room, which turned out to be the bed chamber. Hoity-toity, indeed. But no signs of crumpled newspapers or chicanery.
Then I walked into a room that looked as if Mrs. Winkworth used it as sort of an office. There stood one of those dainty little French desks, with curly edges and gilt, adorned with scented paper and an array of pen holders and so forth. Believing that this particular search was doomed to failure, I pulled open the top drawer.
And I gasped.
“Harold!” I cried. “Come here!”
Harold did, at a run, and we both stared into the open drawer. Here’s what lay there: shreds of clipped-up newspapers, a pair of scissors, a glue pot, and a jar of black ink. I inspected the pens in the pen holders and, sure enough, there resided a fountain pen with the exactly width of nib that had been used to create all those blasted exclamation points. I lifted out a sheet of newspaper. “This is the Los Angeles Times,” I told Harold, feeling more than slightly stunned.
“And here’s a Pasadena Herald.” He lifted up another newspaper. “And a Star News.”
“I’m surprised the word tragedy appears so often in the papers,” I said musingly.
Harold, who knew his stuff, said, “I’m not. Look here.”
I looked. There before me, bold as brass, on the theatrical offerings page of the Los Angeles Times, I read the words: “King Lear, a tragedy by William Shakespeare.” Only the word tragedy had been neatly snipped out. “Well, I’ll be darned,” I whispered, faintly benumbed. “Why, the wicked old crone.”
“Speaking of wicked,” said Harold, “I wonder . . .” He flipped through more of the Times. “No. I don’t see it here.”
A thought occurred to me at that moment, and I picked up the Pasadena Herald. Yup. There it was: The Wizard of Oz, by L. Frank Baum, being presented as a play for children at the Shakespearean Society. “Look here, Harold. See the cast of characters? She’s cut out the ‘wicked’ before the witch.”
“Funny that the Shakespearean Society is putting on the Baum play instead of King Lear, huh?”
“I suppose so, but that’s immaterial. Whatever are we supposed to do now?”
“Lord, I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to tell Monty.”
“But we can’t tell Lola,” I said, my mind conjuring images of Lola murdering Mrs. Winkworth in a fit of passion. “And somehow or other we have to get the old bat to stop sending the letters.”
“You’re right, of course,” said Harold. “Lord, what a pickle.”
“I can’t believe that woman sent her own grandson those awful letters!” I said, becoming indignant all over again. “Why, he’s done everything for her! What ingratitude! Shakespeare had it backwards. What’s sharper than a serpent’s tooth is a nasty old granny who doesn’t appreciate what her grandson’s done for her.”
“Well . . . Don’t forget Stacy, Daisy.”
Stacy Kincaid, Harold’s ghastly sister, was indeed a problem child, and not even I could deny that. Stacy had been a thorn in my side for as long as I’d known her. “I guess that’s true. Maybe it works both ways.”
“The next important question is whether or not to tell your detective buddy.”
“Sam?” I stared at Harold, aghast. “No! We should definitely not tell Sam!”
“I don’t know. If we don’t tell him, he might keep snooping and discover that Monty’s been getting letters as well as Lola, and then his secret will come out, and his career will be over. Let’s talk about it some more later. Can you come over tonight? Maybe the three of us—you, Monty, and I—can work out some sort of strategy that will keep the secret from Lola and at the same time get the old woman to stop writing the letters. We don’t want the police to know Monty’s been getting the letters, that’s for sure.”
“True.”
“Can you get away tonight?”
I heaved yet another heavy sigh. “I suppose so. Billy’s going to hate it.” It occurred to me that I might ask Sam over for dinner again that night. And maybe Flossie and Johnny Buckingham, too, if Aunt Vi didn’t mind. That would give Billy lots of company while I was at the Winkworth mansion, plotting. Plotting. Gee, that sounds like such an ominous word. But we’d be plotting for good and not for evil, so that took some of the bite out of the word.
“But we’d better get downstairs now. Poor Lillian’s probably wondering what’s happened to us.” Harold grinned at me. “Maybe she’ll start a rumor that the two of us are having an affair.”
My eyes must have opened wide in horror, because Harold said, “Not really, Daisy. Lillian knows exactly what I am. And your own moral rectitude is well known in the City of Pasadena and its outer reaches.”
“I should hope so. That wasn’t even funny, Harold.”
“I guess not.”
We put things back into Mrs. Winkworth’s desk drawer as closely as possible to the way we’d found them. I was still figuratively shaking my head in wonder and disgust as we descended the grand staircase and moseyed to the kitchen. Mrs. Winkworth. Of all people. Writing snotty letters to the grandson who’d provided her with the means to live a life of ease and luxury. It sure didn’t seem fair to me.
As soon as we entered the kitchen, Lillian said, “Gee, you guys, I was about to send out a search party.”
“Sorry. We had some stuff to discuss. My mother’s coming home soon, you know, and I want Daisy to perform a special séance for her.”
Could Harold lie like a rug, or could he not? I was impressed.
“Oh, boy,” said Lillian. “I’d love to come to one of your séances, Daisy. I’ve never been to one.”
Because I had an image to protect and project, I said, “Perhaps we can arrange that one of these days. Séances take a lot out of me, but the attendees seem to get benefit from them.”
I noticed Harold rolling his eyes but didn’t kick him, because I didn’t want Lillian to see. “Daisy’s the best spiritualist in Pasadena,” he said, so I forgave him the eye-roll.
“That’s what everyone says,” agreed Lillian, perking me up some. It was nice to have a good reputation.
She poured Harold and me each a cup of tea and set a plate with two doughnuts on it on the kitchen table. I reached for a doughnut and took a sip of tea.
And then an absolutely brilliant idea occurred to me, and I knew exactly what we might do to make Mrs. Winkworth cease and desist from writing those God-awful letters. A séance! If Rolly could (almost) make Lola de la Monica behave herself, I’d be willing to bet he could threaten the silly Mrs. Winkworth into submission. But I couldn’t tell Harold about my bright idea then; the revelation would have to wait until the evening. In the meantime . . .
I finished my doughnut and tea and said, “Say, Harold, where’s the telephone in this place? I need to make a couple of ‘phone calls.”
“Under the stairwell, I think, just like in my mother’s house.”
“Be right back,” said I.
Harold was right about the positioning of the telephone. So I first dialed Aunt Vi to ask if she’d mind if we had three guests for dinner that night, providing two of the guests could come. Sam was a given. He always came over when we invited him to dinner.
“Why, I guess so, Daisy. Who do you plan to invite?”
“Sam, for one. A
nd then I’ve been wanting to see Flossie and Johnny Buckingham for the longest time, but this stupid job is keeping me away from home and visiting all day. I thought maybe we could invite them for dinner, too.”
“Oh, my!” said Aunt Vi, and I could hear the eagerness in her voice. “That’s a lovely idea, Daisy. I’d be happy to see Johnny again. And isn’t his wife expecting?”
“She sure is, and I bet she’d be pleased as punch not to have to cook for one night.”
“I’m sure that’s so. Have you already asked them, or will you ring me back and tell me if they’re able to make it. If they can, I do believe I’m going to fix a pork roast.”
Oh, yum! I loved Aunt Vi’s pork roast. Of course, I loved everything Aunt Vi cooked. “I’ll telephone the Salvation Army right now and get back to you, Vi. Thank you!”
Fortunately for me, it was Flossie herself who answered the telephone. She worked in the office a lot, doing secretarial stuff for Johnny. I don’t think the Salvation Army could afford to hire a professional secretary, but Flossie just loved doing good works now that she’d changed her wicked ways, as Mrs. Winkworth might have said. Genteelly of course.
“How nice!” she cried, true joy in her voice. “I’ve been wanting to see you for the longest time, Daisy. We’ve been so busy here lately.”
“Likewise. Aunt Vi is going to fix a roast pork, which is one of her most delicious things to eat.” Then I remembered that Flossie was pregnant—or with child, as the prudes put it—and asked cautiously, “That won’t make you sick or anything, will it?”
She laughed, a happy sound that was so unlike the Flossie I’d met a little over a year ago that my heart gave a little leap. I’d done my part in that relationship and was proud of it. Flossie and Johnny had practically been made for each other.
“Oh, no. I’m past the morning-sickness time. In fact, I’ve been eating like a pig for weeks now.”
“Good, then tonight you can eat a real one. See you at six? Will that be all right? I’ve got to go back to work again at eight-thirty or so, but we should have a good chat before then.”
“Oh, my, Daisy, you work too hard.”
“Nuts,” I said, even though I agreed with her. “I don’t mind at all.” And there was yet another lie to add to my growing list. Ah, well. According to the Methodist principles that had been drummed into my ears since I could walk, God would forgive me if I asked him to. Good thing, too, because it looked as though I was going to be requiring a whole lot of forgiveness.
I called Vi back, told her to expect Johnny, Flossie and Sam for dinner, and then joined Harold and Lillian as they walked back to the set.
Naturally, Sam was suspicious when I asked him to come to our house for dinner that night. He squinted at me. “Why? What are you going to be doing that you require someone to divert Billy’s attention from it?”
“Nuts to you, Sam. I have to come back here after dinner, and I don’t like leaving Billy alone. Flossie and Johnny Buckingham are going to come to dinner, too, so you’ll have lots of company, and so will Billy.” I hesitated, and then admitted, “I’ve been really worried about Billy lately, Sam. His attitude has changed somehow. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it worries me.”
Sam honored me with a frown. How typical. “I haven’t noticed any difference. I think it’s your guilty conscience playing tricks on you.”
Drat the man! “It is not! You’re so unfair, Sam Rotondo. I don’t know why Billy and the rest of my family like you so much.”
He chuckled. “I’m a nice guy, Daisy.”
“You are not,” I said bitterly. “You’re always suspecting me of things.”
“That’s because you’re usually up to something.”
“I am not! Anyhow, I’ve helped your stupid police department more than once, if you’ll recall.”
“It’s not my police department. It’s the police department belonging to the fair city of Pasadena, and you only helped us because you had to.”
“Oh, you drive me crazy!” I said, and stamped away from him toward more congenial company. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any to be had. Harold and Lillian were in a huddle over costumes, and the camera people and the rest of the crew were busily cranking away, filming a love scene between Monty and Lola. Poor Monty. The things he had to do for his art. On the other hand, he got paid plenty to do it.
Which reminded me that it was his very grandmother who’d had him in a tizzy for however long she’d been sending him those awful letters. I could almost understand why she sent them to Lola, because she undoubtedly had read all the newspaper accounts of Lola and Monty being thick with each other. I wonder if it would shock her more to learn Monty’s true predilection and suspected it would. I still didn’t think she’d be willing to give up her grand home on San Pasqual for the sake of moral indignation. Stupid woman. And completely illogical, too. Talk about biting the hand that fed her! Monty ought to take her to his mother’s obedience training classes and teach her some manners.
My attempt to rid myself of Sam’s company came to naught. As I stood watching John Bohnert direct Monty and Lola in their love scene and contemplating the nature of manners, I nearly jumped out of my skin when Sam’s voice came from right smack next to me. I whipped my head around so fast, I nearly got whiplash.
“So have you given any more thought to the letters Lola’s been getting?” he asked as if I hadn’t just walked away from him in a huff. Imperturbable. That was Sam all over. What’s more, he’d taken to looming over me again.
I took a step away from him and snapped, “Yes.”
“Oh? Come to any conclusions?”
Hmm. This presented a problem. There were so darned many things to consider. Bother. I decided I’d just have to hash it all out with Monty and Harold that evening after dinner.
Therefore, I said, “No.”
Sam said, “Huh.”
I thinned my eyes and peered up at him. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Not for a second.”
“For crumb’s sake, Sam, do you think I’ve been writing the stupid letters?”
“Of course not. But I know damned well you know more about them than you’ve told me.”
“Nuts. I don’t know any more about them than you do.” Another lie. Shoot. I was really piling them up, wasn’t I? The words divine retribution flitted through my mind, but I drove them out. None of this was my fault, curse it!
“Right,” said Sam.
What nominally passed for our conversation was interrupted by a sharp cry from Lola. I looked at the set again and saw that she was in a flaming temper and stamping her foot. Poor Monty, clearly unhappy about it, stepped away from her. I felt sorry for him. If what Harold had told me about him was correct, all he wanted in this life was peace and quiet. And what was he getting? Poisoned-pen letters and Lola de la Monica, not a combination geared toward either peace or quiet.
“I won’t do it again!” Lola shrieked. “You can’t make me!”
“Dammit, Lola, I’m the director, I say we need another take, and I’ll make you, if you don’t cooperate on your own. I want to get the angle right.”
“I,” declared Lola, “am beautiful from all angles.”
“Good God, the woman is a real shrew, isn’t she?” said Sam.
“She is that,” I agreed. It was kind of nice to agree with Sam about something every now and then.
“I thought you’d got her to behave herself. Wasn’t that the point of your so-called private séance?”
“Yes,” I said upon a heartfelt sigh. “That was precisely the point of the private séance. Lola, however, is a tough nut to crack.” Knowing where my duty lay, I murmured, “Well, I guess I’d better intervene. It’s my job, after all.”
“Huh,” said Sam. “Crappy job you have.”
I agreed with him about that, too.
Chapter Nineteen
“She objected to having to kiss Monty Mountjoy?” Flossie said, clearly astounded, her fork halfway t
o her mouth.
“She objected to having to kiss him again,” I corrected her. Then I looked toward Johnny, who seemed perfectly serene in the face of his wife’s obvious appreciation of Monty’s manly beauties. Well, he should be. Flossie was as devoted to him as a woman could be to a man. Just like I was devoted to Billy, as a matter of fact.
“She’s a general pain in the a—neck,” said Sam, who was devouring Aunt Vi’s delicious pork roast and mashed potatoes as if he hadn’t eaten for a week and a half. “If she hadn’t objected to that, she’d have objected to something else.”
“Sounds like a very unpleasant female,” Johnny commented, and forked another carrot into his mouth. “Not that I should say so, being a man of the cloth and all.” He grinned as he chewed. Johnny had a great sense of humor, man of the cloth or not.
“She’s about the most unpleasant female I’ve ever met,” I told the assembled diners. “I’m sorry I ever took this job. Not only is Lola a pain to work with, but she’s always causing me to leave home at night.” I figured it was time to tell my family my plans for the evening. “In fact, I’ve got to go back there again tonight, and I don’t want to.”
“Shoot, Daisy, not again?” Billy eyed me with something less than disfavor and more like disappointment.
My heart lurched, and I reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Billy. I swear, I’ll never take another job like this again in my life. I promise.”
He’d have signed if he could, I’m sure. “That’s all right. I understand. The job sounded pretty good at first.”
I stared at him, still holding his hand. Why was Billy all of a sudden being understanding about my job? His behavior had undergone an enormous change in recent weeks, and I didn’t trust it. Was he finally coming to grips with his disabilities and my work? I didn’t think so. But what the heck was going on here?
I said, “Thanks, Billy. I’d much rather stay home, believe me.” I let go of his hand so we could both get back to Vi’s delicious meal.
“Why do you have to go back tonight?” asked Sam.
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.
