by Alice Duncan
“I sure don’t understand it,” said Harold.
“Me, neither,” said Monty. “But I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I.” I peered from the letter to Monty’s face, searching it closely. “Are you sure you can’t think of another reason for anyone to be sending these types of letters to you? You haven’t annoyed anyone in particular or made an enemy you don’t know about?”
“If he doesn’t know about an enemy, how could he tell you who it is?” asked Harold.
I confess he had reason on his side. Nevertheless, the question irked me. I was tired, confound it, and I wanted to go home. I maintained my composure, since the letters weren’t Harold or Monty’s fault any more than they were mine. “Good point, Harold. But . . . well, could someone be envious of your success?”
It was Harold who answered. I got the feeling he was quicker on his feet—with his tongue—than Monty. “I’m sure lots of people are jealous of Monty’s success. But why would a person who’s jealous of Monty also be jealous of Lola?”
He had me stumped with that one. After thinking over the question for a moment, I ventured, “Perhaps someone’s jealous of anyone who makes it big in the pictures because he or she hasn’t been able to do so?”
Monty and Harold exchanged a glance. Then both men shrugged. “It makes as much sense as anything else, I guess,” said Monty.
I think he was humoring me. I said, “But there have to be hundreds of people who envy your success, Monty. Are any of them working on the set of The Fire at Sunset?”
“Now how the devil could he know that?” Harold asked.
It was another valid question, and one to which I had no answer. “Beats me.”
The three of us sat in Monty Mountjoy’s room, thinking. I don’t know what the guys were thinking about, but I was considering the nature of fame, envy, and what I considered to be the very odd compulsion to write threatening letters to both Monty Mountjoy and Lola de la Monica. Monty’s letters made sense, knowing what I now knew about his personal life and sexual orientation, but Lola’s? I could imagine someone becoming so annoyed with her personally that he or she would like to do her an injury, but would that person write exactly the same type of poisoned-pen letters to her as s/he wrote to Monty?
And then I bethought myself of recent current events, and I perked up a bit.
Harold, who knew me well, said, “What? You have an idea, Daisy. What is it?”
“Well . . . I don’t know. But I suppose it’s possible that some Bolshevist might resent Monty and Lola both for making a lot of money in motion pictures when other people with valid skills and so forth, can’t seem to get jobs these days.”
Monty and Harold glanced at each other and then at me.
“Um . . .” Monty evidently couldn’t think of anything else to say, because the word just sat there in the room all by itself, naked and unadorned.
Harold, like me, never had that problem. We didn’t need scripts in order to talk; in fact, it took a good deal to make either of us shut up, as a rule. “That’s nuts, Daisy. Although it’s no more nuts than anything else about those lousy letters. What about that Fellowes guy? Don’t college professors tend to be political radicals? Maybe he’s a Communist and hates all rich people just because they’re rich. That would include both Monty and Lola.”
“Good God,” said Monty, clearly taken aback by Harold’s suggestion.
“That would be a fine idea,” I said, “except that everything I’ve read about the situation points out that only women write poisoned-pen letters.”
“I thought you were a blazing feminist,” said Harold, managing a grin. “Why should any form of employment be restricted to a single sex?”
He had me there, and I told him so. “I guess it doesn’t have to be.” That still didn’t negate the fact that everything I’d ever read pointed the finger at women when it came to writing nasty letters. But I didn’t feel up to arguing with Harold. Besides, I’d just as soon discover a man was responsible for sending the horrid things. It would sure help if we could figure out a reason for the person to be writing to both Monty and Lola, though. And it would also help, although it would be sort of icky, if the stupid writer would make a demand for money or something tangible like that. This “change your wicked ways or tragedy will strike” nonsense was too darned vague to be of any use in solving the mystery. I mean, what did it really mean. How were they supposed to change their wicked ways? Which wicked ways? Phooey.
“I’m not sure that’s funny, Harold,” said Monty.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Harold.
“I can’t figure any of it out,” said I. And we all subsided into silence, which was broken only once, when Monty got up to refill his glass with whatever it was that wasn’t apple juice.
After a few minutes of stillness, I heaved a deep sigh, rose from the pretty chair and said, “I’m beat. I’d better get going. This whole letter thing is only confusing the heck out of me and giving me a headache. I want to go home.” I fear the last sentence came out a trifle whiny.
The two men rose. Being gentlemen, they didn’t pounce upon my weakness. In fact, Monty thanked me for coming and shook my hand as if he meant it.
Harold saw me out to my automobile. “This whole thing is driving poor Monty crazy,” he said, his hands shoved into his pockets and looking worried. “I’m sorry I got you involved in the mess, Daisy.”
“It’s all right, Harold. I understand. Anyhow, I was going to be here anyway. Might as well try to solve the mystery of the letters. That’ll probably ultimately turn out to be easier than dealing with Lola. But the letter thing is driving me crazy, too. In fact, it’s confusing me so much, I can’t even think any longer. I need to go home, sleep for a long, long time, and come back here tomorrow morning.” Because I couldn’t help myself, I added, “I really don’t want to come back here tomorrow. I hate this job.”
“I understand the feeling, Daisy. Working with Lola would drive any sane person around the bend. Besides, you have more important things to think about than that stupid woman.”
Suddenly, every bad thing in my life tackled me at once, and I turned to Harold. “Oh, Harold! I can’t stand it any longer!” And I subsided, weeping, into his arms.
Poor Harold. He was such a good friend. He understood, even though I didn’t articulate to him what the it was that I couldn’t stand any longer. Putting his arms around me, he allowed me to cry on his shoulder for several minutes, crooning softly all the while.
“I know, Daisy. You have too much to bear. But you’re a trump, you know. Anyone who can put up with my mother for as many years as you have is definitely a trump. Add to that your personal situation, and I think you deserve a halo. Failing that, you deserve a whole lot of money and some peace of mind.”
His words made me chuckle. It was a weak and watery chuckle, but still . . .
I withdrew my pitiful self from his arms, yanked a hankie out of my pocket book, and wiped my eyes. “Thank you, Harold. Sorry I fell apart.”
“If anyone deserves to fall apart, Daisy Majesty, it’s you. Think nothing of it. I’m always available if you need someone to talk to. Or a shoulder to cry on,” he added with a grin.
“I know. You’re my best friend, Harold.”
“And you’re mine,” he said.
I didn’t believe him. Harold had tons of friends. But I did know he considered me one of his special favorites, and that made me feel good.
* * * * *
The rest of that week passed miserably, but not quite as miserably as it might have been. For one thing, Lola actually seemed to take Rolly’s words to heart and was only late four or five times for the entire duration of the week, most of which was devoted to filming the picture. She threw minor fits and tantrums every now and then, but they were easily subdued, primarily because I reminded her what Rolly’d told her she had to lose if she kept misbehaving.
Both Harold and I kept a weather eye on Dr. Homer Fellowes. He not only didn�
�t seem to notice that he was under observation, but he did nothing of a suspicious nature. I wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed about that or not.
“Do you think he might be a Communist?” I whispered as we watched the shooting one day. The scene being filmed was one in which Lola, wearing a beautiful black gown with big hoop skirts and a wide-brimmed black hat, tearfully bade Monty Mountjoy, clad in a pristine Confederate Army uniform, farewell as he went off to war. I was, of course, talking about Dr. Homer Fellowes, whose grand invention was being used at that very moment. I was only whispering, by the way, because I didn’t want Sam to overhear our conversation. There was no other reason to be quiet, since the picture being shot was a silent. Well, they all were in those days. As the camera cranked away, it made so much noise any dialogue would have been drowned out.
“I don’t know,” said Harold. “I’ve been watching him, and so far the only odd thing I’ve been able to detect about him is his fondness for Lola.”
“Oddly enough, I think that’s fading a trifle. He was actually looking at her askance during this morning’s tantrum.”
Harold rolled his eyes. “Askance? If he had the gigantic brain he’s supposed to have, he’d have strangled her and then walked out of the room and slammed the door.”
It had been a fairly awful scene. Lola had been peeved about the fit of her costume. Rather than discussing the matter with Harold and Lillian Marshall in a sane and civilized manner, she’d ripped out a side seam and pitched a fit. Poor Gladys Pennywhistle had been caught in the middle of her antics and received an arm across the face that knocked her glasses askew and sent her sprawling onto her bottom in the costume tent. I was more pleased than not when Dr. Fellowes assisted her to her feet and frowned at Lola. Maybe there was hope for those two yet.
Unless, of course, he turned out to be a rampant Bolshevist who was writing nasty letters to screen stars because they were rich. The more I thought about that scenario, the less I liked it. Dr. Fellowes must have made a ton of money with his invention. Besides, if he was so creative about motion-picture equipment, wouldn’t he have been able to think of something different to write in those letters than the identical silly message time and time again? The repetition of the same tired line seemed to point to a lesser intelligence than the one lodged in Dr. Fellowes’ head.
Of course, there was always Gladys. She was not only female, but, while she had great intelligence, she was possessed of no imagination at all. I’d been keeping my eye on her, too, but she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary except gaze moony-eyed at Monty once or twice. After that morning’s scene, when Monty hadn’t rushed to her rescue and Dr. Fellowes had, I got the impression her infatuation with Monty might just be slipping a trifle, as was Dr. Fellowes’s with Lola. As far as I was concerned, it was past time for the both of them to come to their senses.
Then again, Harold had once told me that smart people are no more sensible than stupid ones when it came to matters of the heart, and I suppose he was right. I’d noticed before that common sense has very little to do with romantic love.
“What about Gladys?” asked Harold, as if he’d read my mind. “She seems gooey about Monty. Do you suppose she might be writing the letters? She’s female, at least, and you claim all these letter-writers are female.”
“I’ve thought about her,” I admitted.
“Personally, I think she fits the frame better than Dr. Fellowes does.”
“But you just said she’s gooey about Monty. Why would she write to him as well as Lola?”
Harold huffed. “You know what the press has made of Monty’s so-called Casanova image. According to the press, he uses women like hankies and tosses them aside when he’s through with them. Maybe she’s trying to get him to lay off the other girls and stick to her.” He eyed Gladys, who stood under an elm tree across the set from where we were. “If she believes his press, she’s not as smart as Mrs. Winkworth claims she is.”
“Oh, she’s smart, all right,” I confirmed. “I went to school with her. She actually understood and enjoyed algebra.”
Harold turned to gaze at me with horror-filled eyes. “You’re not serious!”
“I am serious.”
“Good God.”
I couldn’t have agreed more, although I was unable to say so because suddenly Sam Rotondo appeared at my side. How typical.
I said, “Hey, Sam.”
“What are you two talking about?”
I eyed him with some disfavor and felt like asking “What’s it to you?” but didn’t. “We’re not conspiring to rob a bank, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” My tone was rather chilly.
“I didn’t mean that,” said Sam, sounding disgruntled. As well he should. “I’m only bored to death and thought maybe you were discussing something interesting.”
Hmmm. Did he mean that? I searched his face. By gum, he appeared honestly dejected. “You really hate your job here, don’t you, Sam?” The chill in my voice warmed up some.
“I detest it. It’s a rotten job. I should be out solving crimes, not here guarding a damned motion-picture invention that nobody cares about.”
“I thought you said the Germans wanted to steal it,” I reminded him.
“Huh. That’s what the chief told me. I think the German scenario was just a bunch of hooey invented by the studio. They only wanted people to think that infernal machine is important so people will come to see this picture when it comes out. It’s what they call ‘good press,’ I think.”
Harold, who didn’t talk to Sam much because he knew what Sam thought about men like him, actually grinned at Sam. “You’ve finally got a grasp on the motion-picture biz, Detective Rotondo. It’s all razzle-dazzle and has no substance to it at all. You hit the nail right, smack on the head.”
Sam grunted again. “I think it stinks. This is a waste of manpower and money. The only person on this set who might do anything criminal is that idiot actress. Lola what’s her name.”
“De la Monster,” I said softly.
“Beg pardon?” Sam eyed me oddly.
I sighed. “De la Monica.”
“Yeah. Stupid name for a stupid woman.”
It later seemed odd to me that Sam Rotondo, of all people, should have given me the only laugh I had all week.
Chapter Fourteen
But Saturday rolled around at last, and Billy and I got to take Spike to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Training School in Brookside Park.
Ma and Pa were taking a walk in our lovely neighborhood, which positively dripped with pepper trees during the springtime, and Aunt Vi had gone upstairs to her room where, she said, she aimed to write a letter to her sister in Kentucky. Kentucky sounded like a pretty exotic place to a westerner like me. I’d read about the Kentucky Derby and seen photographs of beautiful women in huge hats and mustachioed gentlemen in white suits. I’d also seen pictures of Kentucky in the National Geographic and had noted how green and lush everything was there. Aunt Vi had told me drily that people paid for all that green with suffocating heat and humidity, not to mention mosquitoes and other buggy beasts, so I’d decided I liked California just fine, thank you.
I was just about ready to fold up Billy’s collapsible bath chair and stick it in the carrier on the back of the Chevrolet when a knock came at the door. Spike, who was already excited—he loved these Saturday outings, too—set up a barking fit that might have awakened the dead.
“That must be Sam,” Billy said, stopping me in mid-stride as I aimed for the front door.
I turned. “Sam?”
“I asked him to come with us today,” said Billy. “Thought he might enjoy watching you teach Spike how to behave.” He grinned.
Oh, boy. It wasn’t bad enough that I had to endure Sam Rotondo five days a week; I now had to endure him on Saturdays, too? Life truly didn’t seem fair to me. I said, “Oh. How nice.” Then, with more vehemence than usual, I hollered, “Spike! Sit!”
Darned if he didn’t sit. I tell you, those Pasanit
a Dog Obedience people really knew their stuff.
“Good boy,” said I to my obedient dog, who was straining every nerve in his body to get to the door. His black tail whipped back and forth across the floor like mad. It occurred to me that if we attached a dust cloth to Spike’s tail, he could clean the wooden areas of the living room that weren’t covered with rugs. What’s more, now that I knew how to teach him stuff, I’d bet I could train him to do it!
I’d already forgiven Billy and Sam for planning this morning’s jaunt by the time I opened the door. “Hey, Sam. Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He eyed Spike, who was still, against his nature but obedient to his training, sitting. “Wow, did he learn how to do that at school?”
“Practice makes perfect,” I said, so proud of my dog, I could bust.
What a good boy! Beaming at Spike, I said, “Okay!” thereby giving him the signal that it was all right for him to relax and greet his friend. Have I mentioned that Spike once piddled on Sam’s shoe when he was a very young puppy? Well, he did, and that action forever cemented Spike’s place in my heart.
He didn’t piddle on Sam that day. In fact, you’d have thought Sam was his long-lost best friend whom he hadn’t seen in eons instead of the man who came over to play cards several evenings out of every week. Sam bent over and gave Spike a good petting. I watched, my head tilted to one side, trying to decide if I still disliked Sam as much as I thought I did.
But thinking proved as useless as it ever did, I not being cut of Homer Fellowes’s cloth, so I gave it up. Besides, Mrs. Hanratty didn’t tolerate lateness in her students. Therefore, I folded the bath chair and headed out to the Chevrolet, which was parked in our driveway.
Sam forestalled me. “Hey, let me do that.”
“Thanks, Sam, but it’s not heavy,” I told him. “I can carry it.”
“For crumb’s sake, Daisy, let the man act like a gentleman, will you?” said Billy.