by Alice Duncan
But there I go again, being absurd. Life was never as simple as that.
“I won’t leave you,” I assured Lola.
“Oh, thank you!” Lola said upon a sob.
With Harold on one side and me on the other, we managed to get Lola upstairs and into her dressing room. Sam followed us. I could practically feel him seething behind us.
“Here we are.” I spoke with considerably more brightness than I felt. I could already tell that I wasn’t going to be able to leave work early in order to visit Flossie and Johnny. Not with Lola in this fragile state. Darn and blast.
Harold let go of Lola long enough to open the dressing-room door, and Lola and I more or less staggered in, Lola feigning great weakness. Or maybe she wasn’t feigning.
Naw. She was feigning. That’s what she did for a living, was act, after all.
Sam stomped into the room behind us, and I saw Lillian, looking nervous and holding a pretty green dress in one hand and a bunch of petticoats and a hoop skirt in the other. Costume time. I wanted to talk to Harold alone to find out if Monty, too, had received another letter, but so far we’d been surrounded by people and I hadn’t dared ask. Now that Sam was there, I didn’t think it prudent to ask Harold any silent questions, either. Sam invariably noticed stuff like that and quizzed me ruthlessly about it.
“I think you need to wash up before you change your clothes,” I said gently. “Would you like me to help you?”
“Help her wash up?” Sam. Grumpily. What a surprise (I’m joking).
Lola eyed him with loathing. “My spirits have been crushed, Detective Rotondo.” She rolled the R in Rotondo beautifully. “I need Mrs. Majesty’s assistance.”
“All right,” said Sam as if he didn’t understand Lola now, never had and, what’s more, didn’t want to.
After sending him a peeved glance—he wasn’t helping in the least to get Lola calmed down and ready for work—I went into the small bathroom leading from the dressing room with Lola, who decided only a full, hot bubble bath would do for her. In a way I didn’t blame her, since she’d been grubbing around on the lawn for God alone knew how long before I came onto the scene. On the other hand, that grubbing had been her idea, and she was already late for the day’s filming.
“Please,” she said, “draw my bath for me.”
Golly, now maid duties had been added to my list of responsibilities! However, I didn’t feel it prudent to cavil at that point, so I turned the water on in the bath. “Are these the salts you prefer?” I asked, holding up a bottle of purple crystal-like stuff.
“Yes. That’s my own fragrance, you know. It’s even called Lola.”
I could hear the pride in her voice. Personally, I’d rather have a rose or something named after me, scent not appealing to me much—besides, who’d want to hire a spiritualist who reeked of some god-awful perfume? Unless maybe it was sandalwood. I think sandalwood is approved of in spiritualistic circles. Not that this has anything to do with Lola.
Suffice it to say I dumped a quantity of the bath crystals into the tub, and they foamed and emitted an enticing scent. “This smells nice,” I said, hoping to sooth Lola’s ruffled spirits. Besides, it was the truth. The salts smelled like Lola always smelled. I guess maybe some perfume maker somewhere really had created a scent just for her.
“Of course. Guerlain created it for me.”
Now she sounded smug, and any trace of sympathy I’d been harboring for her vanished like the steam from the tub. “That’s very nice. Now, why don’t you get out of that stained dress and clean yourself up.”
And then I got a most unpleasant shock. Lola, no shrinking violet, had already shed her stained dress. She wafted past me, stark naked, and sank into the tub. Thank God for bubbles. She might have been beautiful, and she might have had a great figure, but I sure as the dickens didn’t want to see it. I whirled around, and she laughed softly.
“Ah, Daisy, don’t be such a prude.”
“Thank you. I prefer being a prude to being an—” Fortunately, I stopped myself before uttering the word exhibitionist. As little as I liked Lola, still less did I want to be fired from this detestable job. “Um . . . I’ll just wait with the others in the sitting room. Please don’t take long, Lola. Mr. Bohnert is quite distressed about the continued delays in the filming of this picture.”
“Bah. Mr. Bohnert is a Philistine!”
“He’s also the boss,” I reminded her with something of a snap to my voice. “Try, please, to remember what Rolly told you. He meant it, Lola. The spirits don’t lie.”
A short space of silence preceded Lola’s whispered, “Very well.”
So I left her to her bubbles, prayed she’d hurry, and went back to the sitting room, where everyone was, as seemed appropriate, sitting. I heaved a huge sigh as I shut the bathroom door behind me.
“What’s she doing in there?” Harold asked.
“Bathing. I told her to hurry it up.”
“Bathing?”
I jumped, turned, and saw that John Bohnert had joined us. It was he who’d bellowed the word. “I told her to hurry. During our private séance, my spirit control—”
“Rolly,” Harold interrupted, grinning.
“Yes. Rolly told her to behave herself or this would be her last picture because she was getting a reputation as a troublemaker, and nobody would be willing to work with her again if she didn’t shape up.”
“That was darned severe of him,” said Harold. “I’m proud of you, Daisy.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you,” said John. “I only hope she starts taking his advice.” He frowned. “Although I almost understand why she was upset this morning. Why didn’t anyone tell me she was getting these letters, anyhow?”
“We didn’t see the point,” said Harold before I could.
“You didn’t see the point? Damn it, Harold, Lola’s a bitch to work with even without threatening letters showing up.”
Harold shrugged. “Sorry, John.”
“So tell me what you know about the letters Miss de la Monica has been receiving, Daisy.” Sam. Always business, Sam.
“There’s not much to tell. She told me she’d found a letter propped up against her dressing-room mirror last Monday—”
“Which accounts for the lock and the guard,” Sam said drily.
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “And then she got another one stuffed into her pocket at dinner on another occasion.”
“At dinner? Dammit Daisy—”
This time it was I who interrupted him. Turn-about being fair play and all that. Before he could continue to scold me, I asked, “Where was this one?”
Sam gave a horrible frown. “I have no idea. She was hysterical when I got here, and I wasn’t able to get a word out of her. She was too busy tearing up the lawn.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That was an interesting reaction.”
“Most entertaining,” said John acidly.
“That white dress will probably never come clean of all those grass stains,” Lillian murmured, and she heaved a little sigh. I got the impression Lillian took clothes seriously and didn’t care to see them ruined on the whim of a demented actress.
“So,” said Sam loudly, obviously attempting to get the topic back to the appropriate subject, “she’s received three of these letters, and neither you nor she felt it appropriate to tell the police about them. Why is that, I wonder.”
I shook my head. “Honestly, Sam, I really didn’t think there was any validity to the so-called threat in the letters.”
“You know all about anonymous letters, do you?”
“Well . . . I do read a lot, you know.” I lifted my chin, feeling guilty as heck but hoping Sam would take my mien as defiant.
“You read a lot. I see. And you say you don’t know if anyone else is getting these letters?”
I really wanted to look at Harold, but I didn’t dare, Sam being the snoopy and, I must admit, insightful person that he was. If he caught a glance pass between th
e two of us, he’d pounce on it like Spike on his ball.
“I haven’t heard about anyone else getting letters,” said John. He lifted an eyebrow at Harold, who shook his head.
“I think she’s writing them herself,” said Harold, giving credence to my own slanderous utterance to Sam only minutes earlier. “She’d do anything to get herself in the spotlight.”
“Hmm.” Sam didn’t appear to want to give any validity to this idea, which, while quite likely, given Lola’s personality, was dead wrong. But he didn’t have to know that, curse the man.
“You know,” said John in a thoughtful voice, “I hadn’t thought about that, but you might be right, Kincaid. It’s exactly the sort of thing Lola would do to get attention.”
“I think so, too,” said Lillian, who’d clearly been through the wringer as she’d dealt with the woman.
Sam shook his head, not in denial, but in disgust. “Well, you might all be right, but I’m still going to have to investigate the matter.”
“If it turns out she’s been writing them herself, can she get into trouble for it?” Lillian’s voice held a note of optimism.
“Oh, boy, wouldn’t the studio love that?” said John. His voice, unlike Lillian’s, held nothing but dread. “And wouldn’t the papers like to get their hands on a story like that?”
I ventured cautiously, “Well, people would probably flock to see the picture.”
“Not bloody likely,” said John bitterly. “You surely remember what happened to Fatty Arbuckle.”
“Oh,” I said. “You’re right. People aren’t eager to forgive fallen idols, are they?”
“To hell with the picture and the studio,” Sam burst out suddenly. “What I need to know about are these damned letters. Can’t anyone tell me anything about them? Anything at all?”
Raised eyebrows and puzzled expressions passed among those of us gathered there. I know my own expression of bafflement was totally fake, and so was Harold’s. Lillian and John can be acquitted of any sort of flummery.
Lifting my hands in what I hoped was a helpless gesture, I said, “Sorry, Sam. I don’t know anything except that Lola’s been getting the letters. I don’t know who’s sending them. Or placing them, I guess is a better word for it.”
“Whoever it is has access to the estate,” said Sam. “You say she got one at dinner?”
“That’s what she told me,” I said. “She said someone put it in her pocket, and she found it there after she went up to her room.”
“What do you mean, ‘up to her room?’ Is the woman living on the estate?”
“Well . . .” This time I did glance at Harold.
It was he who answered, “Lola is so much trouble, the studio thought it would be better to house her here for the duration of the picture shoot.”
John took up the explanation. “God, yes. We—that is, the studio—figured she’d be less apt to disrupt the shooting if she were confined to the grounds of the Winkworth estate, and since Monty’s grandmother owns the place, it made sense. Besides,” he said sourly, “Lola likes fancy surroundings, and these are about as fancy as you can get without going to a five-star hotel somewhere.”
“Hmm.” Sam thought about what Harold and John had said. “That does make some sense.”
“It sure does. The last time I worked with Lola, we put her up at a hotel in the desert, and she caused no end of trouble. The place was not up to her exacting standards.” John’s nose wrinkled. “I swear to God, if they ever assign me to another of her pictures, I’m going to shoot myself.”
Harold chuckled. “Don’t do that. She’s not worth it.”
At that moment, the bathroom door was flung open, and Lola stood there, steam wafting around her, clad in a white satin robe. “My costume,” she said imperiously. “Bring me my costume.”
After exchanging a speaking glance with Harold, Lillian rose from the chair she’d been sitting in, gathered the green dress, petticoats, hoop skirt, etc., and walked to the bathroom. With a dramatic sigh, Lola backed up. I didn’t envy Lillian trying to dress a damp Lola in a room full of hot air, especially since the gown was supposed to be a Civil War-era one that probably weighed a ton and a half.
Glancing at his wristwatch, John said, “Do you suppose it’s safe for me to go down and get the technical people set up?”
“I think so,” said Harold, a note of caution in his voice. “Daisy’s here. If Lola cuts up, Daisy can deal with her.”
“Thanks, Harold.” I grimaced at my best friend.
He winked back. “Hey, it’s your job, Daisy, remember?”
“How could I ever forget?”
As soon as Harold and John left the room, Sam turned to me. “All right, Daisy, tell me the truth about those damned letters.”
Aw, crumb.
Chapter Seventeen
“Darn you, Sam Rotondo, I’ve told you everything I know about those letters!” My protest was hot, although my heart thumped like a demented drummer in a speakeasy.
“I don’t believe you.”
The statement was so bold and bare of ornamentation that I actually gasped. Then I got indignant. I know, I know. I was lying through my teeth. What right did I have to be indignant? Nevertheless, I managed it quite nicely. “You never believe me about anything! Curse you, Sam, I don’t know what Billy sees in you!”
“I might say the same thing about you,” he said, getting indignant himself.
I gasped again. Sam’s comment had been, possibly, the cruelest one he could have made to me at that particular moment in time when I was so terribly worried about Billy. I began to shake, I was so mad. “How dare you?” I whispered intensely. “I love my husband more than you’ll ever know, Sam Rotondo, and I’ve been especially worried about him recently. He’s . . . he’s . . .” And then, like a complete fool, I began to cry.
“Aw, cripes,” Sam grumbled. “I know it, Daisy. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“Yes, you did,” I said, getting myself under control in record time. “You think I’m a terrible wife. You think I’m a terrible person! Don’t deny it, Sam. You do. If you didn’t think those things, you wouldn’t always be rebuking me. For your information, I do everything I can for my Billy. I love him! I’ve loved him my whole life. I’d never do anything to hurt Billy.” Scenes from the past several months smote my mind’s eye, and I muttered, “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Ah, sh—shoot, Daisy. Don’t you think I know that? But you have to admit, you haven’t been honest with me about a whole lot of things in the past.”
“I have, too. I’ve never kept anything from you, darn it! I’ve actually helped you.” A recent grievance against Sam and the Pasadena Police Department leapt into my mind, and I straightened on the sofa. “In fact, it was you who kept things from me when I was teaching that wretched cooking class! If you’d told me what you suspected, I wouldn’t have been put in danger, and you know it! What’s more,” I added with a sniff, “our lovely new motorcar wouldn’t have been wrecked.”
“It wasn’t wrecked,” Sam grumbled. “You only drove it into a ditch.”
“I was forced into that ditch, blast you!”
“Right. Anyway, I couldn’t tell you what I suspected. I was under orders.”
“Huh.”
It was probably a good thing that Lola and a wilted-looking Lillian came out from the bathroom at that moment. Sam and I had to quit quarrelling and get Lola downstairs and onto the set before John Bohnert suffered an apoplexy.
I smiled as brightly as I could and said, “Ready to go? I’ll walk with you to the set.”
“Me, too,” said Harold, and we assumed our former positions, one on either side of Lola so she couldn’t escape. Lillian, bedraggled and panting, followed us, and Sam took up the rear. I thought I heard him grumbling under his breath. Served him right, the brute.
The tension in the air around the set practically crackled. One of the assistant directors—I think his name was Paul Something-or-other—ran towa
rd us as soon as he saw us heading camera-wards. As soon as he got near enough for us to hear him, I realized he was repeating, “Thank God. Thank God. Thank God,” over and over.
Lola, as serene as a Spanish Madonna, and with her chin lifted, gently detached herself from Harold and me and walked toward the worried man.
“Brother,” I said, watching her performance with something akin to awe. “If I didn’t know she’d been throwing a screaming tantrum not a half-hour ago, I’d never know she’d thrown a screaming tantrum not a half-hour ago. If you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Harold.
“It galls me that she makes so damned much money,” said Sam, surprising me. “She sure isn’t worth it.”
“Don’t tell her fans that,” said Harold. “The studio might not like it.”
Sam chuffed out an angry noise. “The studio.” He made the word studio sound as if it tasted bad. Which it probably did, given his enforced state of entrapment on this wretched picture set.
“I’m just glad I can sit down for a bit,” Lillian Marshall said upon a heavy sigh. “I’m completely worn out, and it’s only . . . What time is it, anyhow?”
Harold glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s only a quarter past nine.”
“Lord. It feels like months since she got that stupid letter.”
“Where was this one, by the way?” I asked.
“Under her plate at the breakfast table,” said Harold.
“Good God,” said Sam, thundering again. “That means it’s someone in the house who’s responsible for them.”
“Must be,” said Harold.
I almost reiterated the idea that Lola herself might be responsible for the letters, but I already felt guilty enough about propounding that theory the first time. I didn’t want to pile sin upon sin, as it were.
“Hmm.” Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I think you might be right about those letters, Daisy. Miss de la Monica is such a dramatic piece of work, I wouldn’t put it past her to write the damned things to herself, just for the spectacle of it all.”
There you go. I didn’t even have to suggest the idea again. Sam had already picked it up and was chewing on it. Naughty Daisy. If Ma or Aunt Vi ever found out about this bit of meddling on my part, they’d never let me live it down. In that moment, I almost felt it a shame that Methodists didn’t go in for confession as Roman Catholics did. I could use some cleansing-of-the-soul right about then.