Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (11 page)

I chewed on that notion for a while. “Heck, the only reason I go to the pictures is to escape from reality. I don’t
particularly
want them to look more realistic.”

Sam grunted, which was no more than I’d come to expect of him.

“So why was this supposed to be such a big secret that you couldn’t tell my family about it?” I asked. I thought the question a reasonable one.

Sam glanced at me, his lips compressed into a tight line for a minute. Then he let out a chuff of breath. “I just mainly didn’t want to talk about it. It’s such a stupid assignment. A detective and two uniforms on a picture set. God!”

I could tell he considered his assignment a particularly asinine one—and I agreed
with him. Granted, Pasadena wasn’t a
crime-ridden city; still, I could understand why he considered his talents were being wasted on this particular job.

But by that time I could see a big huddle of people gathered ahead of us, so
I didn’t tell him that, but
pulled the Chevrolet over to the side of the road and parked behind a snazzy red
, low-slung
Stutz Bearcat that looked like Harold Kincaid’s. My heart rose slightly. If Harold had come to the set, perhaps the day might not be as awful as I feared
.

Sam and I both got out of the car and stood
glancing
around
at the other automobiles
for a moment. Sam grunted again. “These people make too much money. Look over there. It’s a Pierce Arrow Special. And that’s a Bugatti racing
car
, or I’ll eat my hat.”

“A what?” I glanced
from the machine he’d pointed out to
Sam’s hat. It didn’t look awfully tasty.

“A Bugatti.
Bugatti’s
an Italian company that makes race cars. Huh. Damned picture people
.”

Clearly Sam’s mood was as bad as, if not worse than, my own. I stared at the machine he’d called a Bugatti racing machine. “It looks like a couple of Franco American Spaghetti cans welded together and painted blue,” I said. “It’s ugly.”

“It
might
be ugly, but it’s fast.
And expensive.
And look at that Daimler touring car. I swear, your Chevrolet is the cheapest automobile on this piece of land.”

“It might be cheap,” I said, feeling a good deal of loyalty to my precious automobile—which had bee
n run into a ditch not long ago
and tenderly repaired
by the Hull Motor Works people, “but it’s a good car.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t. All I’m saying is that these people make too much money.”

“Are you a Communist, Sam Rotondo?”

“No, I’m not a damned Communist! But I still think people ought to be paid what they’re worth. Not less, and definitely not more, and I’d say these picture people make way more than they should be making.”

“Maybe so,” I said somewhat wistfully. “Still, I’m glad some people make lots of money. Otherwise I’d be out of a job.”

“Huh.”

“But why is this
fellow’s
invention so important,
anyhow
? Do they
honestly
need three policemen, one of them a detective, to guard it? Do you
really
have to be here on the set every day
because of a stupid invention
?”

“The picture people think it’s that important.” Sam didn’t sound as if he agreed. “They say the German picture
makers
are out to steal American ideas.”

After a judicious pause, during which I reviewed my many grudges against Germans in general and the Kaiser in particular, I grunted, too. “They’re probably right. I wouldn’t put anything past the Germans.”

Sam gave me an ironic grin. “Is that why you begged the police department to let those two Germans into the country a couple of months ago?”

He would have to remind me of that, wouldn’t he? “They were different. They weren’t the Kaiser, and they were only trying to get by in the world, like the rest of us. And they weren’t thieves
. Or picture people
.”

Sam said, “Huh” again.

“But why does the Pasadena Police Department care what the motion-picture thieves do? Aren’t you guys generally called in after the crime is committed? Why all the support from the PPD? I still don’t understand.”

“It all comes down to money,” Sam told me, still grumpy. “The picture folks pay the City of Pasadena boocoo bucks to film within Pasadena city limits.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Yeah. Well, now you know.”

“I’m surprised Mrs. Winkworth allowed them to film on her property. She’s so prissy about how her grandson makes his money.”

“I don’t suppose she had much of a choic
e in the matter unless she wanted
him to send her back to Arkansas.”

“
South Carolina
,” I said.

“
Some damned southern state
.”

And Sam Rotondo stomped off toward the huddled masses.

I followed him more slowly, scanning the crowd for someone I knew, preferably Harold Kincaid. But I didn’t see him.
People in overalls were hammering away at something or other, men in knickerbockers and sporty tam-o’shanters conversed in groups, several women had
clumped
together and stood under a spreading oak tree, one of them fanning herself with her hand.

Then I heard, from the direction I wasn’t looking, “Daisy! Daisy! Over here!”

Harold Kincaid. Thank God. I turned and squinted, and sure enough, there was Harold, standing wi
th another man and a woman. The trio
stood
beneath
yet another
spreading
oak tree. I don’t know when this place had been built,
but either somebody had built the houses
around the trees, or
the trees
had
been transplanted fully grown onto the grounds
after the houses were built
. Not that it matters, but
I was glad the trees were there
because they were beautiful.

With a grateful heart, I made my way to Harold. That day, although I was technically there to work, I’d dressed for the weather, which had been warm for several days. It was almost June, after all. Mind you, sometimes June and July in my fair city could be kind of cool and foggy, but
the weather was prime
that day
. Anyhow, I wore a white-and-
cream
spotted voile dress with a wide boat-shaped neck trimmed with some embroidered ribbon I’d got cheap at Maxime’s.
The dress was comfortable
,
with a hip-length, unfitted bodice, which means I didn’t have to wear any particular corseting. Heck, for all I knew, I was going to spend the entire day out of doors, and I didn’t aim on being any more uncomfortable than I had to be. In addition to low-heeled shoes, I also had on a wide-brimmed straw hat that I’d decorated with more of the cheap embroidered ribbon. Believe me, nothing I wore that day looked cheap. I’d gone to great lengths to make sure of
it
. I looked as fashionable as any darned picture star, if I do say so myself.

Actually, Harold said so
too, as soon as I got close enough for us to chat without hollering. Good old Harold. He always made me feel good about myself, which is a marvelous quality in a friend.

“You are absolutely ravishing today, Daisy. Love the ensemble. It goes perfectly with your hair.”

I’d thought the same thing when I’d bought the fabric, but I didn’t say so. My hair is kind of a darkish red
-brown
color. Maybe auburn describes it. Anyhow, the tan embroidery accentuated the color of my hair. My eyes are blue, and my outfit didn’t do a darned thing for them, but you can’t have everything.

“Thanks, Harold. You’re looking pretty spiffy yourself.”

He, too, wore knickerbockers and
appeared
as if he were about to step out onto the golf course. I presume the men were dressed sportily in deference to the weather, just as I was.

“Standard set wear,” he said. “Let me introduce you to my assistant, Lillian Marshall. Lillian, this is my dear friend and my mother’s particular spiritualist, Desdemona Majesty. If you’re a friend, she might let you call her Daisy.”

I held out my hand and laughed lightly. “How do you do, Miss Marshall? Please do call me Daisy. Desdemona is my professional name.”

“Oh. Kind of like Lola de la Monica?” Lillian shook my hand and grinned. “Pleased to meet you, Daisy. Harold’s told
me
ever so much about you. Please call me Lillian.”

After shooting Harold a suspicious glance, I said, “I hope he hasn’t told you too much.”

Harold laughed. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Some secrets I keep locked tight in my heart.”

“Didn’t know you had one, old man,” said the
fellow
who stood with Harold and Lillian.

“Oh, yes,” Harold said, turning a
lifted-eyebrow gaze upon his male companion. “I guess I forgot you,
John
. Daisy, please allow me to introduce you to
John
Bohnert
.
John
’s
the head
director for this picture. Don’t believe a word the man says to you.”

“Harold!” But Mr.
Bohnert
chuckled. “He’s being terribly unkind to me, Miss Majesty.”

“She’s
Missus
Majesty,
John
, and she means it, so none of your shenanigans,” Harold said sternly.

Lillian giggled again.
John
heaved what I’m sure was meant to be a heart-wrenching sigh. “Be still my heart. Such a sad tragedy.”

He was trying to be funny. If he only knew.

And then a high-pitched shriek came to us from what looked like a marble building standing some yards off.

The four of us said as one, in a rather melodious chorus, “Lola de la Monica.”

“God, the woman drives me insane,” said Harold.

“Oh, goody. And I’m supposed to be her mainstay and support whilst this picture is being made.” I grimaced at Harold.

“You’re the one?”
John
said, sounding surprised. “Why, I expected some old Gypsy crone in a black dress and flowing scarves.”

“No,” said I. “The only flowing scarves you’ll see around her
e
, if the one time I met her is any indication, will be those on Miss de la Monica.”

“What’s she yelling about now?” wondered Lillian.

“God knows,” said Harold.

John
heaved a sigh that sounded genuine this time. “I’d better go find out. Lord, I love my job.”

And he strode off in the direction from which Miss de la Monica’s scream had come.

“Brave fellow,” I said.

“You betcha,” said Lillian.
“Wait until you have to sit through a fitting.”

I gazed with horror at her. “Will I have to
do that
?”

Harold answered that question. “Probably. When Lola hires someone, she expects that person to be at her beck and call.

Sagging slightly, I said, “Wonderful.”

“Buck up, kiddo,” Harold said, patting me on the back. “This shoot won’t last forever. Today they’re finishing building the stable.”

“The stable? Oh, yeah. I guess I forgot to ask what the picture’s about.”

“Can’t you guess?” Harold made a sweeping gesture. “It’s the Old South, risen again, with ladies in hoop skirts and gents in buckskin riding trousers. And horses. Lots of horses.” Harold wrinkled his nose.

“Your stepfather has horses,” I reminded him.

“And he can keep ‘em,” said Harold firmly. “What’s more, he can keep them away from me.”

“Gee, I think they’re pretty,” said Lillian in a wistful tone.

“Do you ride, Lillian?” I asked her.

“Good heavens, no. But I do think horses are pretty. And I think the ladies in their full skirts and the gentlemen in their riding habits look ever so elegant and graceful.”

I surreptitiously gave Lillian the once-over, and could understand her romantic notions.
There she stood
, lost in admiration of her mental images, her hands clutched to her meager bosom—and I don’t believe the meagerness of her bosom had anything to do with a bust-flattener.
Her hair was what they call a mouse-brown color, and it had been carved into a severe, practical bob.
Lillian Marshall was definitely no beauty. Mind you, she wasn’t ugly, but she was about as plain as a woman could be and she evidently took no pains with her wardrobe or hair,
which seemed kind of odd to me
as she was Harold’s assistant. She wore a plain brown skirt and a plain white shirt, thick cotton stockings and extremely sensible shoes.