Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (14 page)

“Sure does. And this is just for the costumes.”

“I saw more people outside, waiting for Mr.
Bohnert
. Miss de la Monica held up their daily duties, too
, from what I could gather from the frowns directed at her
.”

Sam eyed me with what appeared to be
real
sympathy. “I don’t like my job here, Daisy, but I’d rather have mine than yours.”

“Thanks, Sam. I think I would, too.”

Just then I
spotted
Lillian Marshall,
who appeared
harried, talking earnestly with Miss de la Monica, who
wore a
mulish
expression on her beautiful face
. Oh, dear. I had a feeling my services were going to be called up
on
again soon.

I was right.
Harold Kincaid popped out of the
cluster
of people surrounding Lola, glared wildly around the tent, spied me and hollered, “
Daisy
! Over here!”

Giving Sam one last, forlorn peek, I headed for Harold.

Sam said, “Good luck” as I walked off. I appreciated him in that instant
, which didn’t surprise me until later, when I related the incident at the supper table
.

Harold dashed over to hurry me along. “The damned woman is giving Lillian the fidgets. She doesn’t like her costumes.”

“What’s not to like? I think long skirts and petticoats and hoop skirts are really pretty.”

“They are. Lola de la Monica isn’t.”

“She actually is, Harold,” I said reprovingly. “She’s beautiful, in fact.”

“On the outside, maybe. On the inside, she’s filth and dirt.”

“Powerful words, Harold Kincaid. Methinks you’re annoyed
with
the lady.”

“Lady, my foot. If she didn’t have those dark looks, she’d be a nobody.” Meditatively, he added, “I wonder how many directors she had to sleep with in order to climb the ladder.”

“Harold!” It was probably silly of me, but I was shocked. I’d heard all the stories and read all the articles. I understood that some women were willing to do
pretty much
anything to get parts in the pictures, but . . . Well, I didn’t like to think about it.

“Don’t kid yourself, Daisy. Happens all the time. God knows her talent is mediocre. The only thing she’s got going for her is her looks, and they aren’t going to carry her much farther if she keeps slowing down production on picture sets.”

“Has she
done this sort of thing before?
”

Harold made a horrible grimace. “All the time. Her fame has gone to her head, and she’s become
practically
impossible to work with.”

Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. Leaning so that he could whisper in my ear, he said, “Monty got another letter this morning. He’s really worried, Daisy. I hope you can find out who’s sending the damned things.”

“I’m so sorry. Miss de la Monica got one, too. That’s what precipitated this latest bout of nerves.”

Harold snapped to attention and stared at me, astounded. “Good Lord, really?”

“Yes. She showed it to me. Hmm. It might be interesting to compare
her
letter to the one Monty
received
.”

“Yes, it would be.” He began walking again and I gamely tagged along. “They have to be from the same person, don’t you think?”

I shook my head. “I guess. I don’t have any prior experience with poisoned-pen letters, but I doubt there could be more than one writer of them on a picture set. Lola’s letter was propped against her mirror when she got to her dressing room this morning.”

“So was Monty’s.”

I didn’t like to see my friend appear so worried. “Can you get me Monty’s letter? Maybe, after today’s work is done, we can compare the one to the other. I saved Lola’s letter in my pocket.” I patted said pocket.

“Ye
s. We’ll do that. But right now
you’re going to have to get the damned woman into her costume.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yeah,” said Harold. “Lucky you.”

So, sucking in a deep breath and praying my temper wouldn’t snap, I knelt beside Lola. Smiling at Lillian, I said in my
silkiest
spiritualist voice, “What seems to be the problem here?”

Lillian spoke. I saw her jaw bulge and had a feeling she’d been grinding her teeth. “Miss de la Monica doesn’t like her costume.” Lillian waved at an absolutely gorgeous dress that looked as if it had been sewn for a debutante
attending
a ball held in an old Georgian plantation
ballroom
. Dark blue with pretty flounces and a full skirt that must have taken yards and yards of fabric, I thought it was swell. I glanced at Lillian, who shrugged as if she couldn’t comprehend Lola’s obstinacy any more than I could.

Swallowing my sigh, I turned to Lola. “Why don’t you like the gown, Lola? It’s beautiful, and it fits the period perfectly.”

She frowned at me. “It’s blue.”

Lillian and I exchanged a glance. I asked, genuinely puzzled, “What’s wrong with blue?”

Pressing a manicured hand to her
heart, if she had one
, Lola said, her Spanish accent considerably thicker than it had been a minute before, “Lola de la Monica wears white.”

I thought for a second or two, trying to make sense of her words. “You
only
wear white?”

“Yes.” If she lifted her chin any higher, she’d be able to see down the back of her dress.

“Um . . .” I cast my mind back to the last flicker I’d seen with Lola de la Monica in the cast. “Is this wearing-white thing something new? I distinctly recall you wearing a dark gown in
By the Light of the Moon
, with Douglas Fairbanks.”

She nodded regally. “
I had a vision. The Virgin Mary came to me in my vision and told me to wear nothing but white.”

Good Lord. Stalling for time, I said, “What an amazing vision.”

I could feel Lillian steaming like a tea kettle about to start whistling any second. I also heard her teeth grinding. For the sake of her dentition, I hit upon what seemed to me to be a brilliant idea. “Perhaps the Virgin Mary meant for you to wear white as a rule. While you’re working, I’m sure She wouldn’t mind if you wore colors.”

Lola’s head snapped around, and she gave me a good, hot glare. “Nonsense.
Es mi vida
.”

I knew that much Spanish from school. She’d just told me this was her life; meaning, I’m sure, that she’d darned well wear anything she wanted to, and to heck with anyone who told her otherwise. Therefore, feeling desperate, I decided to take another tack. First I opened my eyes wide.
Then, although I still knelt, I reeled slightly, grabbing for Lillian’s arm. Turning my face away from Lola, who seemed startled
by
these antics, I tipped Lillian a wink, hoping she’d catch on that I was performing.

She must have had lots of experience dealing with actors, because she understood instantly. “Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Majesty! Whatever is the matter?” She overdid it a trifle, but that was all right.

“I . . . I feel . . . I feel the spirits gathering. They . . .”

Then I flopped down to the tent floor, which, fortunately for me, was covered with some kind of canvas carpeting. Or maybe
all tents had canvas flooring
. I wasn’t a camper, so I didn’t know beans about tents.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

Sam. Heck and darnation! He was on his knees beside me in a flash and reaching for me, I presume
d
,
to pick me up. Opening my eyes a slit, I mouthed at him, “
No!
” I guess he understood, because he withdrew his hands, stood, glowered at Lola and Lillian and repeated his question. “What the hell is going on here?”

When Lillian next spoke, her voice quivered. Either she was trying not to laugh, or Sam had scared her. Knowing what Sam looked like when angered, I suspected the latter. “M-Mrs. Majesty was speaking with Miss de la Monica when . . . when she muttered something about spirits and fell over.”

Lola said, her voice awed, “The spirits, they came to her. For me.”

Jeez
Louise. I could imagine the conceited woman with her hands still pressed to her bosom, looking down upon me, certain she believed she’d just spoken the truth.

Sam knew better, of course. He also knew why I was there. Fortunately for me, Sam had a brain, even if he did use it against me more often than not. This time, he actually helped matters along. “Well, you’d better listen to her. I didn’t believe that spiritualist
bull
sh—nonsense when I first met her and her husband, but she’s made a believer out of me.”

Liar
, thought I to myself. Still, I also thought,
Thank you, Sam
, and began to moan softly.

“Oh, my goodness!” Lillian
cried
. “Whatever can be the matter with her?”

Don’t overact
, Lillian
, I
told her
silently.

But Lola, who always overacted, didn’t seem to notice. Rather, she reached out a hand to me as my eyes fluttered open. I was an expert at that eye-fluttering maneuver. Used it all the time during séances.

“Mrs. Majesty?” she said softly. “Daisy?”

I sat up and said unoriginally, “Wh-
where
am I
?”
Very well, it was hackneyed line; so what? It
was probably
invented for scenes like this.
I pressed a hand to my forehead, as if I felt woozy.

Sam said, “In the costume tent.” His voice was as dry as old bones. I wasn’t surprised.

“Wh-what happened?”

Sam said, “You fainted. The spirits attacked you.”

Darn him anyhow! Not daring to show anyone watching how peeved I was, I said a breathy, “Oh. Oh, yes. I remember now. It’s coming back to me.”

All right
. I know the dialogue wasn’t prime. It didn’t matter. I was an expert at my craft, and I knew what I was doing, as you’ll soon see.

“Need
any
help getting up?” Sam asked sardonically.

I didn’t dare give him the scowl he deserved. Instead, I said in a shaky voice, “Yes. Please.”

He reached down and yanked me to my feet. That time I did frown at him, because Lola couldn’t see my face. He grimaced back
at me
. He would.

“Here, Daisy.
Please
take this chair.”

Lillian thrust a folding chair under me, as if she feared I was going to fall over again, bless her. I gave her a wan, grateful smile and whispered, “Thank you.”

“What did the spirits say?” Lola asked, eager to get to her part of the story
, which was the only one that counted in her estimation
.

“May I please have a drink of water first?” I asked plaintively. “These spells take
so
much out of me.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam said, “I’ll get you some water. Tell the lady what she wants to know, and let’s get this show on the road. It’s already behind schedule.”

What a chivalrous gent.

Lola snarled, “
Men
.” Then she said, “While he’s getting your water, please tell me what the spirits said.”

Boy, there was sure nothing subtle about Lola de la Monica, or whatever her name was.
Because Sam was right
and the picture was already behind schedule, I decided to give in. At a séance, of course, there would have been no time pressure, but this was a picture set. I heaved a sigh, which felt good and seemed appropriate.

“The spirits told me that you may wear colors during pictures, Lola. They said your job is to grace the silver screen, and the contrast between your beautiful skin and the deep blue of the gown will look much better on
black-and-white
film than white on white will.”

There. If that didn’t move things along, I didn’t know what would. A glance at Lillian showed me she was grinning like
a
fiend and liked my act better than Lola’s.

“That’s very true, Lola,” she said.

“Yes, it is.”
It was
Harold. Where had he come from? Well, it didn’t matter.

“It is?” That was me, and I’d asked because I was honestly curious.

“White on you would completely wash you out of the picture, Lola,” said Harold brutally. “It would look like hell, and
you
would look like hell. Your vast number of fans wouldn’t like that, and neither would you. All you have is your looks, after all.”

He could have left off that last part, but evidently the first part of his speech had
struck Lola.
Hard.