Daisy Gumm Majesty 05-Genteel Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “You’re not alone there,” said Sam grimly. “This whole picture nonsense is a load of boloney.”

  Standing, I said, “I know you don’t think you belong here.”

  He joined me, and we walked back toward the set together. I didn’t want to leave the gazebo. “I don’t belong here. Neither do the two uniforms. This has been a total waste of taxpayer money.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Well, I suppose the picture is bringing business and revenues and stuff like that to the city. I mean, think of all the businesses that are getting trade from the folks working on the picture. Restaurants, and so forth. Department stores. Those sorts of businesses. That’s important, I reckon.”

  “I reckon.”

  I could tell he didn’t believe it.

  The rest of that day on the set went well. Lola didn’t throw a single temper tantrum. Not one. Mind you, I did have to encourage her a time or two, reminding her of Rolly’s messages and so forth. Still it was, all in all, a red-letter day on the set of The Fire at Sunset. I could scarcely believe it when I drove home at an appropriately early hour and pulled into our driveway.

  My family had a pleasant evening at home, too. After another one of Aunt Vi’s excellent dinners—fricasseed chicken with dumplings, peas and carrots and spice cake for dessert—I played the piano and we all sang, and then we all read for a while, and then we all went to bed. It would have been a normal evening for a normal family, except that our evenings since the beginning of the picture shoot hadn’t been at all normal. I was grateful for that one evening, though; very grateful.

  * * * * *

  Friday rolled around, as it inevitably does after Thursday. Again, Lola caused no problems on the set, perhaps because she’d been told about the anticipated séance that evening and she didn’t want to be scolded by Rolly again. Little did she know she wasn’t going to be the center of attention at this particular séance, or she’d probably have made it a point to disrupt the filming.

  Lucky for me, it was so crowded inside the dressing-room house that I didn’t have to lie in wait to be of assistance to Lola. Rather, I hied myself to the gazebo, where I took out The Case of the Deserted Wife, a Sexton Black novel I’d thoughtfully stuck in my handbag in hopeful anticipation of a quiet day on the set. To tell the truth, I hadn’t expected to be able to read the thing, but everything seemed to be working in my favor that day, much as it had the day before. I didn’t quite trust my luck, although I told myself not to be absurd.

  When I was about halfway through the second chapter of the book, enjoying the comfort of the padded gazebo bench and wishing I lived someplace on the Winkworth estate, Harold Kincaid joined me. I was glad to see him and laid my book aside for the nonce.

  “Detective Rotondo told me where you were,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Yeah. I had to tell Sam and John Bohnert where to find me in case Lola starts cutting up.”

  Sitting next to me, Harold said, “So far, she’s being quite amenable to direction. Not a single cross word has passed her lips, and she’s actually doing what she’s being told to do.”

  “How odd.”

  With a shrug, Harold said, “Not really. I think she’s scared about the séance.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking,” I told him with a grin. “Say, did you discuss with Monty what sort of threat would still his granny’s venomous pen? I thought maybe I could dredge up her uncle—or was it her grandfather?—who was a general in the Civil War and have him tell her to stop writing the letters.”

  “Colonel,” said Harold.

  I blinked at him. “Beg pardon?”

  “Her grandfather was a colonel, and that’s exactly what Monty said. Get gramps to tell her he’s ashamed of her actions. Monty thinks that will cure her pronto. She’d do anything to keep her family’s name and the great Confederate cause unsullied.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  “My sentiments, too, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

  “I guess not.

  I spent the rest of the day plotting how to present the facts of life to Mrs. Lurlene Winkworth, doyenne of the Southern Cause in Pasadena, California—which seemed like a stupid thing to be to me, but I was a nobody. I thought I had a pretty good plan in hand by the time I went home that evening.

  In order to keep Billy entertained while I was conducting the séance, Sam again came to dinner that night. He and Pa and Billy would spend the rest of Friday night playing gin rummy in the living room whilst I plied my trade. All in all, it felt good to be doing something of which Sam Rotondo, the bitterest of my enemies—he was my only enemy, come to think of it—approved.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In order to impress upon my audience the solemnity of the occasion, I wore my most spectacularly subdued spiritualist garb that evening. I’d worn the ensemble before, but only Harold had ever seen it, and he wouldn’t mind. Heck, he knew that, while I did wonders with the White side-pedal sewing machine I’d bought for Ma—but mainly used myself—I wasn’t rich. I did a whole lot of sewing with the money I made, but I was frugal when it came to fabric and accessories.

  Anyhow, the dress was a long black silk number that tied at the side hip with glossy black-satin ribbons. It was supposed to be straight, but I’ve already mentioned my assorted curves that marred its sleek lines. The gown sported (if sported is the right word for such a somber occasion) a big, scalloped appliqué of shiny black beads and silk embroidery that glimmered in the lights of various lamps, and that would be truly stunning by the glow of the one cranberry lamp I permitted in the middle of the séance table.

  Naturally, I wore black shoes, carried a small beaded handbag—I’d done the beading, of course—and was ready to set out. I was honestly optimistic about the outcome of this evening’s work, and I smiled at those assembled in the living room of our comfy little bungalow on Marengo Avenue. Vi had already gone up to bed, but Sam, Pa and Billy were, as anticipated, gathered around the card table. Ma sat in her favorite chair, embroidering something for one of my brother’s or sister’s children.

  Billy glanced up and saw me. “Gee, Daisy, you look great.”

  My heart plummeted. Not that I didn’t appreciate his words, because I did, but Billy never used to hand out compliments, and I got the feeling he didn’t like me looking good for other people. Nevertheless, I smiled some more and said, “Thanks, Billy. I want to impress Granny Winkworth.”

  “Granny Winkworth,” Billy repeated as if he doubted my words.

  Sam said, “It’s the truth, Billy. Daisy’s got to get the old lady to stop writing nasty anonymous letters to Lola de la Monica, and I think she’ll be able to do it with this séance of hers.” He pronounced the word séance as if it smelled like rotten eggs, but I was grateful to him for setting Billy’s mind at rest.

  Ma’s head jerked up from her embroidery hoop. “Nasty anonymous letters?” she asked, astonished. “What nasty letters?”

  The rest of the group appeared equally interested. Pa said, “Letters to Lola de la Monica? Jeepers.”

  “Sam can tell you all about them,” I told them all. “I’d better get going. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. I guess,” said Billy, clearly puzzled.

  “It’s like this . . .” were the last words I heard before I closed the door behind myself, and they were spoken by Sam.

  Fortunately for my black silk stockings, Spike resided on Billy’s lap, so I didn’t have to fight him off at the door. I drove to the Winkworth mansion with a heart full of hope and a mind troubled with thoughts of Billy and his altered attitude toward my work and me. It seemed a little late in the game for him to have suddenly arrived at an appreciation of my spiritualistic efforts to keep the family’s finances afloat, but I supposed stranger things had happened. Heck, people actually believing in the tripe I fed them was stranger than a change in Billy’s attitude. Maybe.

  I hadn’t come to grips with anything by the time I gave the guard at the Winkwo
rth estate my name, and the huge iron gate silently opened on its hinges through some magical automatic device unseen by yours truly. I parked the Chevrolet in front of the massive marble front steps, sucked in a deep breath of soft June air, scented that evening with gardenias and jasmine, and climbed the steps to the porch. There I rang the doorbell and waited for the butler to admit me. A butler. Paid for by Monty Mountjoy, whose grandmother appreciated absolutely none of the material comforts Monty had showered upon her. Ungrateful, demented woman.

  When the butler led me into the front parlor, I was pleased to see Harold among the assembled guests. By the by, I allowed no more than eight attendees at a séance as a rule not because it made any difference to me personally, but because strict rules impressed my clients. You figure it out. It’s beyond me. Along with Harold were Mrs. Winkworth and Lola de la Monica, both of whom appeared slightly apprehensive, Monty Mountjoy, who smiled at me happily; Mrs. Hanratty; Gladys Pennywhistle, who surprised me with a smile; and Dr. Homer Fellowes, who gladdened me by sticking close to Gladys. If you added me to the group, that made eight, which was fine, although I wasn’t sure I trusted Dr. Fellowes not to make a hash of things once the séance got started. After all, he was even brainier than Gladys, and he might balk at the nonsense I intended to perpetrate.

  To my surprise, Mrs. Winkworth came up to me with her hands outstretched. “Good evening, Mrs. Majesty. It’s so good of you to come this evening.”

  “Thank you,” I said in my deep, soothing, spiritualist voice.

  “Er . . . Monty said it was most important that this séance be held,” continued Mrs. Winkworth, who had a voice of her own to project: that of a dignified southern lady whose ancestry was impeccable, although I aimed to peck at it some that night.

  “Yes,” I said softly. “The spirits are anxious that some extremely important matters be taken care of.” I aimed to sound as mysterious as I could, and I guess I succeeded because I saw Mrs. Winkworth gulp and wondered if she knew she’d been a naughty girl. If she didn’t know it yet, she sure would by the time the colonel got through with her; I could almost guarantee it.

  “I . . . see.”

  She didn’t seem awfully happy when we all traipsed down the hall to the dining room, which was once more being used for the séance that evening. I set out my cranberry lamp, lit the candle, sat at the head of the table, bowed my head and sat in silence for a moment as if bracing myself for torture to come. After a little bit of that, I told those assembled to take hands and signaled the butler, who evidently had gone to the same butlering school as Mrs. Pinkerton’s Featherstone, to turn off the electric lights. He did so, and the room took on a wonderfully creepy aura. Exactly what I wanted. So I began to do my stuff.

  Dr. Fellowes must have been warned by someone not to interrupt the séance, because I didn’t hear a peep from him or from Gladys during my entire performance. In fact, the only noises audible as I perpetrated my fraud on Mrs. Winkworth and Lola de la Monica were a couple of gasps from one or the other of them when the colonel showed up and scolded Mrs. Winkworth—not by name, of course.

  In a southern drawl copied precisely from that of Mrs. Winkworth herself, and in a tone an octave or two lower than my normal speaking voice, I had the colonel say, “I know who has been writing the letters that are causing so much distress for someone present at this table. Such behavior is disgraceful and must cease at once.” I swear, the colonel had more authority in his voice than even I knew I possessed. Probably Mrs. Hanratty’s dog-obedience classes had helped me there. “Writing letters like that is beneath contempt and all human dignity and won’t be tolerated by those of us who are on the Other Side. We spirits believe perpetrating such actions show an abysmal lack of gratitude and respect, are inappropriate, and are, to be blunt, shameful. If the letters don’t stop, untoward misery will ensue for their writer and those close to the writer. I can guarantee it.” I didn’t want Lola to go guess who I was talking about, and I certainly didn’t let on that the letter-writer was present at the séance. All I wanted to do was to let Lola know that the letters would stop coming, and to scare Mrs. Winkworth so much that she’d stop sending them.

  I went on in that vein for another few minutes until I heard soft, gulping sobs coming from the other end of the table—from Lurlene Winkworth, in actual fact—so I had Rolly return. He added his strong disapprobation of anonymous letter-writers to that of the colonel. Then, in order to give Mrs. Winkworth time to get her emotions under control, I had him say a few words of endearment to me. What the heck, why not? When I deemed the old lady was in possession of her dignity, I slumped in my chair as a signal that my spirit control had left me and that I was limp from the exhaustion of having had my body possessed by various ghosts. It worked.

  The lights went on a moment or two later, and I saw through my slitted eyes that Monty was supporting his grandmother as she rose from the table on what I presumed to be wobbly legs. As well they should wobble, darn it!

  It was Harold who joined me at the head of the table, ostensibly to give me support as I rose to my own supposedly wobbly legs. He whispered in my ear as he did so, “Well done, Daisy! I swear you scared the pants off the old woman!”

  “Lordy, I hope not,” said I, also whispering.

  Harold didn’t dare laugh, but I heard a suppressed chuckle. “You scared her, anyway. I have a feeling Lola doesn’t have to worry about getting any more letters, and neither does Monty. That bit you had the colonel spout about ingratitude and beneath-the-dignity-of and so forth was perfect.

  “Thank you, Harold,” I said modestly. “I did my best.”

  Monty came rushing up to us then. I presume he’d deposited his grandmother in the front parlor or somewhere else appropriate.

  “Daisy!” he said.

  Harold shushed him, so he repeated in a whisper, “Daisy! You were magnificent! Have you ever considered taking up acting as a profession.”

  “Hell, Monty, she already acts as a profession. You saw and heard her yourself.”

  Trying to suppress his own laughter, Monty agreed with him. “But you succeeded. I know you did. You frightened the socks off Gran. I’m sure there will be no more letters.”

  “Better her socks than her pants,” I muttered.

  “Beg pardon?” queried Monty.

  Harold said, “Never mind.”

  Supposedly supported by the two men—séances being theoretically very hard on the séance-giver—I, too, slowly made my way into the front parlor, only to see Mrs. Winkworth downing what looked to me like a glass of whiskey. My, my. And she was a genteel southern lady. I didn’t know genteel southern ladies imbibed distilled spirits, especially in those days of what was supposed to be Prohibition, not that you’d know it to judge by the Hollywoodland folks and their bootleggers.

  Harold and Monty sat me down gently into a chair across the room from Mrs. Winkworth. I was seemingly recovering my wits after having performed a difficult and valuable service but, naturally, Lola de la Monica never thought of anybody but herself. She came barreling over to me even before I’d made myself comfortable, much less had a chance to recover my purportedly scattered sensibilities. Because I resented her selfishness, I put the back of a white, beautifully manicured hand to my forehead and groaned softly.

  Lola didn’t care about anyone’s sensibilities but her own, and she fell at my feet and grabbed my hand from my forehead. “Oh, Daisy! Oh, how can I ever thank you? You did it all for me, didn’t you? I know you did it for me!” And she began to weep all over my beautiful black silk evening gown.

  Monty, bless him, came over and carried her off. I noticed that Dr. Fellowes was looking upon Lola’s performance with disdain, and I was glad he’d finally come to his senses. I just hoped Gladys wouldn’t find Monty’s gallantry enough to wrest her affections away from Dr. Fellowes and back to the actor. When I glanced in their direction, she appeared as disdainful as Dr. Fellowes, perhaps because she disapproved of séances or Lola or both, but at least it didn
’t look as though she aimed to leave Dr. Fellowes’s side to assist Monty with Lola.

  By the time I wended my way home from the Winkworth estate that night, I felt almost good for a change. I was almost positive Granny Winkworth would produce no more poisoned-pen letters, and I was guardedly optimistic that Lola would continue to behave herself for the duration of the shoot, which was scheduled to end early the next week. What’s more, Billy and I could take Spike to dog-obedience training school tomorrow! That was definitely something to look forward to.

  Even better, the house was dark when I got home, so I didn’t have to confront Sam Rotondo.

  * * * * *

  The Pasanita Dog Obedience Training School proved to be as much fun on Saturday morning as it ever was. Hamlet, the great Dane, had not merely the small Tommy to guide and hold him, but Tommy’s father also participated in the Dane’s training. Too bad Shakespeare’s Hamlet didn’t have Mrs. Hanratty to guide his actions, or the stage might have been littered with several fewer corpses at the end of the last act.

  Fluffy the poodle continued to train her owner, Mrs. Hinkledorn, much to Mrs. Hanratty’s displeasure, but it didn’t look to me as if anything was going to change in that department any time soon.

  Spike performed magnificently. Billy, Pa and I had spent a good deal of Friday evening before dinner practicing with him, and he would obey any one of us instantly. That morning at breakfast, I think Pa had even taught him to sneeze when he said, “geshundheit,” although I still had to test that theory for accuracy. But it so happened that Spike had sneezed, and Pa had said, “geshundheit” and thrown him a piece of toast. Spike had sneezed again, again Pa had said “geshundheit” and again thrown him a piece of toast.

  Which just goes to show that if one seizes an opportunity, great things can happen. It was pure chance that had caused Spike to have a sneezing fit that morning, and also pure chance that Pa had said “geshundheit” and given him toast. We didn’t have long enough to find out if that particular bit of training would stick in Spike’s head because we had to get to Brookside Park, but my money was on Spike. He’d do pretty much anything for food, even sneeze. I aimed to teach him to add, subtract, multiply and divide next.