by Alice Duncan
“Sure, John. I’ll be there as soon as I can be.”
And, with a sinking feeling in my middle, I walked with Harold, John and the others to the marble dressing-room building, where Harold told me Lola was in the process of pitching her fit.
I’d barely rounded the corner of the building and had only just taken in the mob scene, when one man broke away from it and stomped toward Harold, John, Lillian, Gladys and me. Sam. Naturally. I gave him a little finger wave.
He didn’t wave back. In truth, he looked kind of like a thunderhead that was about to burst and rain all over us. Not that we in sunny Southern California had much to do with thunderheads as a rule, but Billy had shown me a picture in the National Geographic, so I knew what one looked like. The thunderhead in that National Geographic photograph had looked a lot like Sam Rotondo did at that very moment. Dark and dangerous and unpredictable.
As he approached, more or less like a speeding freight train, Harold, John and their outriders seemed to melt away from me. Cowards. I frowned at all of them to let them know my opinion of people who deserted other people in times of crisis. On the other hand, it probably wouldn’t have made much difference. Sam was a force of nature when he was riled.
Before he reached me, he started waving a sheet of paper at me. I recognized the paper. It looked precisely like the other poisoned-pen letters had looked, even though I couldn’t yet read the words pasted thereon. I knew what they said before Sam stamped to a stop in front of me and shoved the letter in my face: CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE! Yup. There was that inked-in exclamation point.
“You knew Miss de la Monica was getting these letters, didn’t you?” Sam roared as he stood before me. I fancied I could see steam coming out of his ears.
For the merest moment, I considered lying, but then I gave it up. Sam wouldn’t believe me anyway. He never believed me. I took a largish breath, told myself I hadn’t done anything wrong, and said, “Yes.”
“Why the devil didn’t you tell me about them?”
“Please don’t shout, Sam. I can hear you quite well without you yelling at me.”
That was definitely the wrong thing to say. I knew it at once when Sam seemed to grow right there until he loomed over me like a mountain. Gee, he was looking like all sorts of natural and man-made phenomena that morning, wasn’t he? Before he could burst out of his detectival suit—a detectival suit being one of modest cost, as opposed to suits worn by the Harold Kincaids of this world, who were rich—I said, “I didn’t tell you because the letters seemed . . . well, stupid.”
Still looming—and probably fulminating, too—Sam stood there, glaring at me for what seemed like about a year and a half before he said, in measured accents which boded ill for me, “You thought the letters seemed stupid. That’s why you didn’t tell the police that the star of this picture was being threatened. You decided that, did you?”
I shrugged. Couldn’t do much else under the circumstances, what with a wrathful police detective towering over me and all my friends having deserted me. “That’s just it, Sam. They didn’t threaten anything. Let me guess what that letter says.” I shut my eyes and recited, “ ‘Change your wicked ways or tragedy will strike.’ Right?” I attempted to smile at him, but my effort didn’t produce much more than a tight little grimace.
“You know this how?” asked Sam furiously. “Psychic powers?”
“Of course, not. I’ve seen the other letters she’s received. They never vary by so much as a word. Or an exclamation point, which is always inked in, presumably because newspapers don’t go in for exclamation points very often. And they don’t threaten anything specific.”
Sam sucked in some air, just as I’d done. “They don’t threaten anything specific,” he repeated, his voice tight. “How many of these things do you know about?”
“Um . . . I guess that one’s the third.” I pointed at the paper flapping in the gentle breeze.
“Three of them. I see.” He took another deep breath.
I held on to my own breath, scared and waiting for the explosion. A police detective couldn’t arrest anyone for not saying anything about anonymous letters, could he? I sure hoped not.
He didn’t explode—yet. “And you say the letters don’t threaten anything specific.”
“Well . . . no. They all say exactly the same thing, and they never relate precise consequences. I mean, they don’t ask for money or anything. For that matter, they don’t even tell the recipient what types of behaviors the writer deems wicked or what kind of tragedy will befall her. They’re silly, is all. At least from my perspective.”
“From your perspective. Exactly what do you consider ‘tragedy,’ Daisy? Does that word bring pictures of happiness to your mind?”
“Well, of course not. But don’t you see, Sam? Nothing’s happened. Nothing at all, except more letters. Lola thought the letters were being sent to her by ghosts, for Pete’s sake!”
“Ghosts.”
“Yes. Ghosts. So naturally, I disabused her of that insane notion.”
“I see. Ghosts aren’t responsible for writing threatening letters. Did it occur to you that a human being might be responsible for them?”
“Of course, it did! Jeez, Sam I’m not stupid.” Any more than I was psychic, but he already knew that.
“Sometimes I wonder about that,” said Sam, rather cruelly, I thought.
“Darn it, Sam. You’re dealing with a hysterical woman! For all I knew Lola’s writing the letters to herself so that she can get people to pay attention to her!”
Actually, the notion hadn’t once occurred to me until that very minute when it came to me in a burst of desperation. What’s more, I knew the suggestion to be wide of the mark. This was mainly because Monty was also getting the same letters and I knew for a fact that they worried him a whole lot, and for a very good reason. If it weren’t for Monty, I might actually have believed Lola was writing the things to herself. But she wasn’t, and I knew it. What’s more, I was being unconscionably callous toward Lola for having uttered such a thing and was ashamed of myself. Lola might be a nitwit and a pain in the neck, but the letters were truly upsetting to her. Well, they would be to anyone. Nevertheless, my words seemed to give Sam pause, so I didn’t take them back. I didn’t dare let down my guard, but I could tell he was thinking hard about what I’d just said.
Still glowering—Sam never wanted to give up a good bout of anger easily, especially when it was directed at me—he said, “Hmm. You might have a point there.”
I gave yet another shrug, feeling helpless to do anything more useful, not to mention guiltier by the second. “I don’t know that for a fact, mind you. Still, I wouldn’t put much past her if she thought she could get a good temperament or two out of it.” Was I mean, or was I not mean? I hated myself, not for the first time by any means.
As if by magic, Sam seemed to shrink until he stood before me in his normal size. Which was still pretty darned big, but not mountainous, thunderous or trainly. “Do you know if anyone else has been getting these things?” Again he flapped the letter at me.
Oh, boy. I really hated to lie outright, especially since I’d just slandered Lola de la Monica. Still and all . . . I said, “No. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”
I was pretty sure in that moment that I was headed straight for hell.
Chapter Sixteen
Evidently, Harold and John Bohnert also judged the worst to be over at that point because they appeared, one on each side of me, as if by magic. I still considered them abject cowards.
“Is it all right if I take Daisy to Lola, Detective Rotondo?” Harold asked, considerably more courageous than his colleague, by gum.
Sam huffed for a second or two, but then acquiesced. “I suppose so. Somebody’s got to calm that idiot woman down. And I guess she relies on Daisy for that.” He sneered. I wasn’t surprised.
After having braved Sam Rotondo all by myself, I wasn’t eager to confront a hysterical Lola. I regret to say I b
egan to whine. “Do I have to?”
This time it was John who stepped in and said, “Yes, you damned well have to! You’re the only one she’ll listen to. Besides,” he added rather meanly, “she’s paying you a small fortune to deal with her.”
“You’re right,” I said, drooping in body and spirit. “You’re absolutely right. She’s paying me for this. Although it’s not a small fortune.” I felt honor-bound to add the last sentence, since it was the truth. I lowered my head. “Oh, God, please help me.” It was kind of a prayer, even though I knew I was unworthy to utter one, having just told Sam Rotondo a bold-faced lie and all but accusing Lola of writing those letters to herself. Not to mention tricking people for a living. You can tell how low I felt. I don’t often agree with Billy about the way I make my living.
Fortunately for me, I had Harold Kincaid as a friend. “Buck up, Daisy,” he said. “I’ll reward you as soon as this thing is over by taking you out to lunch at Mijares.”
I turned a wan smile upon him. “Thanks, Harold. That’ll make this misery almost worth it.”
Sam grunted. He grunted a lot. “You ought to take the whole damned family out to dinner,” he told Harold. “While Daisy’s here, her husband’s at home alone.”
Well, I liked that! “Darn you, Sam Rotondo! Billy is not alone! Pa is always there with him, and so is Aunt Vi, at least now, while Mrs. Pinkerton is on her trip. Besides, Billy has Spike for comfort. That’s more than I have!”
Sam, as might have been expected, rolled his eyes. “What he needs is his wife,” he told me.
And this was the man whom Billy had asked to look out for me if anything should happen to him. Bah! If this was the way Sam Rotondo took care of people, I disapproved. A lot.
But I didn’t have any more time to fret and fume about Sam, because we were approaching the mob. There were at least two dozen people there, all gazing in rapt amazement at something going on in the center of the circle they made. I knew that something must be Lola. The only thing I didn’t know was what she was doing. I didn’t want to know what she was doing, either.
But as Aunt Vi might have said, I’d made my bed and now I had to lie in it.
Putting on my mantle of spiritualism rather like Dracula’s cape, I tapped on a shoulder. “Pardon me, please,” I said, using my best, lowest-pitched, most soothing voice. “I need to assist Miss de la Monica.”
The crowd parted much like the Red Sea must have parted for Moses lo, those many years ago. As soon as Lola, who was on her hands and knees and seemed to be trying to pound the grass into submission, lifted her head and saw me, she uttered a piercing shriek. Her dark hair was wild and straggled over her face. Her white gown, a flowing number that must have been pretty once, was wrinkled and smeared with grass stains. She got grass stains on her white clothing a lot. I’ll bet she never got them out, either.
“Daisy! Thank God you’re here!”
Ah. There was Dr. Homer Fellowes. He’d been hovering over Lola, clearly without a clue what to do. At Lola’s shriek, he leaped backwards, and his gaze searched furiously beyond me to—ta-da!—Gladys Pennywhistle! I knew that, because I turned to see Gladys receive his glance and return it with a speaking one of her own. Well, well.
But I didn’t have time to congratulate myself on what looked to be a budding, and infinitely suitable, romance on the parts of Gladys and Homer. I had to steel myself for the onslaught of Lola, who lifted herself up from the pounded grass and flung herself at me. I was almost used to this behavior on her part by that time. I remained standing, thanks to strong muscles built up by years of assisting my husband to do various things, and hardly staggered backward at all when she hit. I gently patted her on the back.
“There, there,” I said softly. “There’s no need for this.”
“But I got another letter!” she cried—in full Spanish-accent mode. “And that beastly detective fellow is being horrid to me.”
“There, there,” I said again. “Think nothing of that. Sam is beastly to everyone.”
“Hey,” said Sam, nettled.
But I’d spoken only what I perceived as the truth and my hot glare over Lola’s heaving shoulders told him so. He rolled his eyes again. Darn him, anyhow!
“I’m sure you’re upset about getting another letter,” I began.
“Yes! Oh, yes!” she wailed in my ear.
I swear, I was going to be completely deaf before this job was finished. “However, there’s no need to carry on so. I believe these letters to be written by someone who has no real power. I don’t believe the threat is to be taken seriously.”
Her shudders subsided slightly. “You don’t?” She lifted her head from my shoulder and peered at me through wet eyes. At least this time she’d been crying genuine tears. Unless she’d just got grass in her eyes from the thumping she’d given the lawn. “Why not?”
“Because if any real threat were intended, something bad would have happened by this time, don’t you think?”
“Well . . . how can you tell? How do you know?”
“For one thing, the letters all say the same thing. There’s not one mention of what might happen if you don’t change your ways. And the writer certainly hasn’t explained what he or she considers ‘wicked,’ which he or she should if he expects your behavior to change.”
“But . . .”
I went on doggedly, reminding myself of Spike. “From everything I’ve read about poisoned-pen letter writers,” I told her, imparting the same information I’d given to Harold and Monty recently, “they’re written by people who feel they have no power. The only way they can express their disapproval or vent their spleens is to write nasty letters.”
Lola blinked at me. “What’s a spleen?”
Oh, boy. “I mean, writing letters is the only way they believe they have to . . . to get back at someone they don’t like. If you know what I mean.”
“But why would anyone want to get back at me? Why would anyone not like me?” asked Lola.
I heard a murmur spread through the crowd gathered and felt like doing a little eye-rolling of my own.
“I have no idea.” Figuring the time to comfort was over—I saw John Bohnert frowning at his wristwatch—I spoke more bracingly when I continued, “But you have a job to do. You shouldn’t allow these letters to upset you so much. That’s precisely what the letter-writer wants. Whoever is doing this is hoping that you—or perhaps the entire picture—will be so badly affected by the letters that the studio will suffer.”
Boy, I’d just that second thought about someone maybe having it in for the studio, but it seemed like a really solid idea! I glanced at Sam and saw that he was frowning, only not at me this time, but in thought. I was proud of myself for about a second and a half before Lola captured my attention once more, this time by wailing again. I winced before I could stop myself.
“No! No! No! This evil person is out to get me! I know it! I can feel evil coming toward me! Oh, Daisy, you have to help me!”
How, I wanted to ask her. Did she want me to go out stalking the letter-writer? But Lola, never one for common sense, clearly had no more idea than I about how I could help her to get the letter-writer to cease and desist. “I’m doing my best to help you,” I said, trying to keep the sharpness out of my voice. “And the best way to do that is to ignore the letters and do your job. Remember what Rolly told you.”
“But he didn’t know about the letters!” she cried.
My poor ears couldn’t take any more of being screeched in to, so I pulled slightly away from Lola. “Yes, he did,” I reminded her. “We talked to him about them, remember? Anyhow, the spirits know everything, so even if we hadn’t told Rolly about the letters, he’d know.” I spoke firmly.
“We told him?” she asked uncertainly.
Brother. Why bother to give the woman her own personal, private séance if she wasn’t going to remember anything about it? For the first time, I began to wonder if Lola tippled on the side. I’d never smelled alcohol on her breath,
but the Hollywoodland people were notorious for taking all sorts of drugs, as well as drinking to excess. Maybe she took drugs and they had made her stupid.
“Yes, indeed. If you’ll recall, he told you not to worry about the letters, but to do your job. Right now your job is to get dressed for today’s filming.” I shot a glance at John Bohnert, hoping I’d said the right thing. He nodded vigorously, so I guessed I had.
“Well . . .” Lola seemed to be wavering. I already knew she loved being the center of attention. Too bad for everyone working with her that she seemed to take delight in garnering negative, instead of positive, attention.
“Come with me, Lola. I’ll help you get cleaned up. You’re all over grass stains.”
She glanced down at her formerly white gown.
“I’ll go fetch her costume,” Lillian Marshall said brightly. “And bring it to her dressing room.”
“Make it snappy,” said John, not at all amused by his female star’s antics.
“I’ll help you, Daisy,” said Harold. He stepped up to Lola’s side and took an arm.
Bless Harold for a saint, the woman finally released me. Not, mind you, before she’d dampened the shoulder of my black cotton frock. However, I’d dressed appropriately both for the day and for Lola, so it didn’t matter. I’d dry out quickly once we were all outdoors in the warm May sunshine with the camera rolling. “Thanks, Harold.”
“I’m not through investigating this matter,” Sam said with a tone of authority that fit him.
“Well, can you investigate it while we get Lola ready for work?” I asked him, glancing at John and beginning to feel a little desperate, although I’m not altogether sure why. I suppose it was because I felt responsible every time Lola acted up, which was silly of me, but there you go.
“I guess so.” Sam spoke grudgingly. Too bad for him.
“Thank you, Daisy. Please don’t leave me,” pleaded Lola as if she expected Sam to haul out the manacles and leg irons—which might not be a bad idea, actually. If we chained her up, at least we could haul her where she needed to be and keep to the schedule.