Daisy Gumm Majesty 05-Genteel Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  Therefore, I gave him a good, hot frown. “My eyes, Billy Majesty, are firmly fixed in my head. I’m doing a job at that wretched mansion, and that’s it.” I didn’t think it was up to me to tell him that Monty wouldn’t have gone for me even if I were the most beautiful woman in the world, since he didn’t go for girls, period.

  I noticed everyone else’s gazes were fixed firmly on their plates. The rest of the family hated to hear us spat. I hated it, too, but golly! You’d think my husband would have known me well enough by that time not to be jealous.

  “Anyhow,” I said, lying through my teeth, “I think he’s having some torrid affair with Theda Bara.” I’d just slandered two people and felt kind of guilty about it, but neither Monty Mountjoy nor Theda Bara would ever know about it, and Monty would probably appreciate the publicity if he ever learned of it, so I figured it didn’t count.

  After Ma and I cleaned up the dinner dishes and Aunt Vi had gone upstairs to her rooms—the upstairs of our bungalow consisted of two rooms, which would have been a swell place for a young couple to live, except that Billy couldn’t negotiate stairs by the time the Kaiser got through with him—I decided to face the announcement of my evening’s assignment head-on. No use shilly-shallying. Billy was going to hate it; I knew that, and I also knew he wouldn’t like it even if I told him the truth, since he didn’t like “faggots.” Idiotic bias if you ask me.

  Therefore, feeling tired, abused and unwilling, I went into the living room where Pa was engaged in reading The Devil’s Paw, by E. Phillips Oppenheim. I’d got it for him from the library on my last jaunt there. The librarian knew me and managed to hold all the good detective novels for me if she thought I’d like them. I loved the library. Still do, actually.

  Billy sat in his chair, thumbing through the latest issue of The Saturday Evening Post. I noticed he had the latest National Geographic on his lap along with Helen Vardon’s Confession, by R. Austin Freeman. This was a brand-new book, and Miss Petrie said I was the first patron of the Pasadena Public Library to check it out. Since I was pretty sure she’d sneaked it to me as sort of a preview, I’d promised her I’d have it back within the week. Which meant Billy had to read it fast, because I wanted to read it, too. However, if he didn’t read fast, I suppose my being unable to read it before it had to be returned was just punishment for the disappointment I was about to inflict upon him.

  Ma was knitting, God knows why. Ma didn’t know how to knit very well, but she kept trying. She’d attempted to knit a sweater for my niece last Christmas, and it had turned out to have arms of different lengths. We’d tried it on Spike, but his legs are so short, he couldn’t move them when he had the sweater on. I’m not sure what Ma did with the thing after that.

  Anyhow, my family was snug and secure in our nice little home, and I was about to desert them all. Again. I heaved a deep and heartfelt sigh and headed for Billy, who’d rolled his chair into the inglenook, which was lined on both sides with padded bench seats. Billy liked to sit there during the wintertime when we had fires in the fireplace, but this was May. I guess he still liked it even without the fire. I sat on one of the benches.

  He glanced up at me from his Saturday Evening Post. I must have looked guilty because he said, “Let me guess: you have a job this evening.” His sneer was a work of art.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed another sigh. He clearly wasn’t going to make this easy. Therefore, to keep matters simple, I said, “Yes. I have to return to Mrs. Winkworth’s estate. Harold needs to talk to me about something.”

  “Harold?” Billy’s nose wrinkled. “What could he have to discuss with you?”

  “I’ll tell you when I get home,” I said. It had been a hard day, and I didn’t like Billy’s tone of voice. “All I know is that it involves me making more money, and, therefore, I’m going to visit with him at Mrs. Winkworth’s home. I’m sorry if you don’t approve.”

  “Doesn’t much matter if I approve or not, does it? I don’t have any say in these matters, since you’re the one who brings home the bacon. Right?”

  I laid a hand over his. “Please, Billy. I don’t know what Harold needs, but he’s my friend and he evidently requires my help with something.”

  He looked at me for a long time, and I nearly started crying. Then he gave my hand a short squeeze and said softly, “I’m sorry, Daisy. You work too hard. What you need is a whole man.”

  That nearly undid me completely. With vehemence—but keeping my voice low so my folks wouldn’t hear me—I said, “What I need is you, darn it, Billy Majesty. I love you. I married you because I loved you, and I still love you, and I don’t want anybody else. I wish you’d get that through your thick skull!”

  His expression softened and he squeezed my hand again. “I believe you, Daisy.” Shaking his head, he said, “But you deserve so much more.”

  “I want you, Billy,” I said, my voice thick. I hated my tendency to get emotional all the time, but I couldn’t help it. “I don’t want anybody else.”

  He’d have heaved a sigh of his own if he could have. “Well, you’ve got me, for whatever I’m worth.”

  “You’re worth the world to me,” I said stoutly. Then, figuring more words would only start me crying again, I rose, kissed him, and said, “I hope to heaven this isn’t going to take too long. I’m about to fall over in my tracks. I didn’t realize being Lola de la Monica’s so-called spiritual advisor would be such hard work.”

  “Good luck,” he said, smiling. And he went back to his Saturday Evening Post.

  Feeling like the Wreck of the Hesperus, I rose from the window seat, told my parents I’d be back in a little bit and why, and went out to the Chevrolet. When I got behind the wheel, I took a minute to stare into the dark night sky—it was about eight o’clock by that time—and wish things were different.

  But they weren’t, so I pushed the self-starter, let out the clutch, and chugged down the hill to Del Mar, where I hooked a left, drove to Allen Avenue, turned right, and then took a left on San Pasqual. The guard at the gate knew me by that time, so he opened the gates as soon as I gave my name. I drove to the same parking area I’d used on the night of the séance, walked to the back door, and knocked.

  For the longest time I stood there, wondering what was taking the door-answerer so long to get to the stupid door. Then the door was flung open in my face, and there stood Harold Kincaid, frowning at me. “Why the devil did you come to the back door? You’re not a servant, for God’s sake!”

  Oh, brother. I didn’t bother to explain, but just walked into the little room off the kitchen and said, “I’m really tired, Harold. I hope this won’t take long.”

  “I hope so, too. I still have work to do on costumes. That damned de la Monster creature has put us behind schedule already, and we haven’t even begun to shoot the picture yet.”

  “Good name for her,” I told him, meaning it sincerely.

  He took my hand. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I didn’t mean to take my bad mood out on you. I’m just so frustrated with that female. You’d think I’d have become accustomed to stupid women by this time.”

  “I hope you’re talking about your sister and Lola de la Monster and not me, Harold Kincaid.” I meant it as a joke. I think.

  “My sister and my mother,” said Harold, shocking me, although I don’t know why. I thought his mother was stupid, too, though I’d never tell him that.

  “I brought Lola’s letter,” I said in order to change the subject.

  “Good. Come upstairs to Monty’s room, and we’ll show you the latest one he got.”

  As we passed through the dining room into the front hallway, Gladys Pennywhistle entered the hallway from another room. She jumped when she saw me. “Daisy! What are you doing here at this hour?”

  Because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I told her, “Harold needed me to go over something with him.”

  She squinted at me as if she didn’t believe me. “Were you going upstairs?”

  I glanced at
Harold, hoping he’d take it from here. He did, bless him.

  “I need Daisy’s advice on a couple of things. We’re going to be visiting in Monty’s rooms because we need his input.”

  “I see.”

  I could feel Gladys’s eyes on us as we climbed the stairs, and the incredible thought that she might be jealous crossed my mind. I felt like screaming at her that Monty didn’t care any more about me as an object of desire than he did her. That snotty thought had only been prompted by my state of exhaustion, I’m sure. But I could feel my headache creeping back on stealthy feet, stopping right behind my eyeballs and taking up residence there. Stupid day.

  Anyhow, we got to Monty’s door and Harold knocked. Monty smiled his award-winning smile when he saw me and stepped back. “Please come in, Daisy. I’m very happy you could join us tonight. I know it’s a terrible imposition.”

  He was so nice, and I was feeling so nasty, it took some effort for me to say, “It’s nothing. Really.”

  “I hope it’s nothing, but I’m afraid it’s not. I mean I’m afraid it’s something.” Monty led the way to the sitting room, which housed a sofa, the chairs I mentioned earlier and a coffee table. Well, and a fireplace, but there was no fire. Did I mention that his “bedroom” consisted of a suite of rooms? Well, it did. I didn’t inspect it at any length, since I was there merely to do a job, but I deduced there to be a sitting room, a bedroom, a dressing room and a bathroom, mainly because that’s the way the suites in Mrs. Pinkerton’s house were set up. “Now that Lola’s getting letters, too, I don’t know what to do or where to turn.”

  “Daisy will help us get to the bottom of the matter,” Harold said bracingly.

  I’d have snorted, but knew better. I did, however, eye the two men with some interest. As far as I knew, Harold and his special gentleman friend, Delray Farrington were happy as a couple of clams. They shared quarters together in San Marino, which was just down the street from San Pasqual. Well, perhaps “quarters” is insufficient to describe Harold and Del’s home. It was, in short, another mansion.

  But that’s beside the point. At that moment, I tried to determine if I could spot anything warmer than friendship between Harold and Monty. I decided there wasn’t and felt better, although I did ask Monty if he had a headache powder.

  He looked at me with some concern. “Yes, I do. Do you have a headache? I’m so sorry. It’s probably Lola, isn’t it?”

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, grateful for his understanding. “Yes. She’s driving me crazy.”

  He shook his head with what seemed like sincere sympathy. “She drives everyone crazy. If she doesn’t shape up, she’s going to be black-listed pretty soon.”

  “Black-listed?”

  “Unless the pictures a person makes earn so much money that it’s worthwhile to put up with their quirks and idiosyncrasies,” Harold answered for Monty, “the person soon becomes useless as a property. Lola is quickly becoming more trouble than she’s worth.”

  My goodness. That sounded terrible. Although I guess it wasn’t. Heck, if any employee caused his employer too much grief, the employee would be fired, wouldn’t he? Or, in this instance, she? I guess it wasn’t any different in the pictures than it was in real life. For some reason, that made me feel better, don’t ask me why. Maybe it was because these people made so much money, as Billy had pointed out. It was kind of nice to know the folks behind the scenes didn’t tolerate too much nonsense from idiots like Lola de la Monica.

  Then Monty handed me a paper filled with salicylic powders, a glass of water and a spoon, so I stirred the powders into the water and downed them, hoping that, if nothing else, the vile taste would drive my headache away. When the ghastly mixture was all the way down, I shuddered, handed the glass back to Monty and said, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry this mess is so hard on you.”

  He sounded so genuinely concerned that I studied his face for any sign of fraudulent emotion. I didn’t see any. The man’s aspect exuded honest anxiety about my welfare. I appreciated him for that. “It’s not your fault. My life isn’t exactly rosy at the best of times.”

  As he turned and carried the glass and spoon back to the bathroom, where, I suspected, a maid would clean it up the next day, he said, “Yes. I’m awfully sorry about your husband, too. Harold has told me the horrors he went through in the war and how you’re both doing your best to cope now.”

  I shot a glance at Harold, who frowned. Harold did a lot of covering-up of honest emotions with humor, but I gathered he’d had a serious chat with Monty about Billy and me. Then he gave me a little shrug, and I smiled at him to show him I appreciated his friendship.

  And then I thought Enough of this maudlin stuff, and said, “May I see the letter you found this morning, Monty? I want to compare it to the one Lola got.”

  “I have it right here,” said Harold, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a slightly crumpled, folded piece of paper.

  So I dug in my handbag and found the note Lola had received.

  “The paper looks the same,” I said before we’d unfolded either document.

  “Well,” said Harold, “lots of paper looks alike. Paper’s paper, after all.”

  “Don’t let Sherlock Holmes hear you say that,” I warned him. “He’d point out the different grades of fiber and the watermarks and all sorts of other stuff.”

  “Good God. You’re not going to compare watermarks and grades of paper, are you?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t know a watermark from a milk stain.”

  Monty rejoined us. “What are you two laughing about?”

  He sounded a trifle peeved, so I tried to soothe him. This was no joke to him. The letters might not be a life-or-death matter, but they were possibly career-ending, and that was important.

  “We were just comparing watermarks,” said Harold.

  “Watermarks?” Monty split a glance between us and pulled up another of those medallion-backed chairs that were so pretty. “I didn’t notice a watermark on my letter.”

  “No,” said I, deciding to get down to business. The powders I’d drunk hadn’t affected the pain in my head yet, and I truly didn’t feel like joking around. “I didn’t see one on Lola’s either. Let’s spread them out on the coffee table and compare them.”

  Following this sensible suggestion, we did just that. I leaned over and squinted, trying to discern any differences between the two missives. Both letters said exactly the same thing, exactly the same way, even down to the penned-in exclamation points at the end of each:

  CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE!

  I pointed to the bottoms of the pieces of paper. “Do you suppose this started out as one sheet of paper and somebody folded it and then tore it across the fold? That’s what it looks like to me.”

  Reaching out, I turned Lola’s letter upside down so that its torn bottom matched up with the torn bottom of Monty’s letter. “Well . . .”

  “I can’t tell,” said Harold. “One piece of paper being very like another.” He shot me a tiny grin. “But you might be right.”

  “You might well be right,” said Monty, “although I don’t know where that gets us.”

  With a sigh, I said, “I don’t, either. However, it’s pretty clear to me that the same person is responsible for both letters.” I turned Lola’s letter around again and pointed between the two. “See? It looks as if the words were cut from the same newspaper.”

  Harold scratched his head. “We really could use Sherlock Holmes for this. He would undoubtedly be able tell us which newspaper the words were cut from.”

  “Wasn’t he always going on about short-bladed, curved scissors or something like that?” I asked, picking up Monty’s letter and doing some more squinting. Then I shook my head. “Heck, I can’t tell. The words are so small, I can’t tell what kind of instrument cut them out. I suspect scissors, but I suppose someone might have used a razor blade and a straight edge to do the deed. And I ha
ve no earthly idea what kind of glue was used.”

  “Flour-and-water paste would be my guess,” said Harold. “I think it’s an inside job.”

  “Inside?” Monty gaped at Harold. “What do you mean, Harold?”

  Harold waved a hand in the air in an isn’t-it-obvious gesture. “Hell, Monty, how else could someone get into both of your dressing rooms?”

  Monty appeared genuinely distressed. “Do you mean to tell me that someone I know is doing this?”

  With a shrug, Harold said, “I don’t know. There are a whole lot of people on a picture set. You began to get these things before you settled here for the duration of the picture, didn’t you?”

  After a brief hesitation, Monty said, “Yes. The first two were sent to my home in Los Angeles.”

  “They weren’t propped against your mirror?” I asked, thinking maybe Harold was getting somewhere.

  Monty shook his head. “No. They came through the mail and were addressed to me.”

  “How?”

  He stared at me. “What do you mean, how?”

  Fighting fatigue, a headache and tetchiness, I tried to keep my voice calm. “Were the envelopes typewritten? Handwritten? Was your name cut out of a newspaper? That’s what I mean.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” He rose and began pacing. I guess the poor guy was awfully nervous about this, for which I couldn’t fault him. These stupid letters might bring about an inglorious end to what had been a stellar career. “I don’t know.” He threw his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I have a secretary to open my mail. He brought me the letters as soon as they began to arrive, but I never thought to ask him to keep the envelopes.”

  Figures. Anything to make my life more difficult. Rather than saying that aloud, I said, “That’s too bad. If you should, by chance, get another letter mailed to you, be sure to keep the envelope, all right?”