Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (17 page)

“You might well be right,” said Monty, “although I don’t know where that gets us.”

With a sigh, I said, “I don’t, either. However, it’s pretty clear to me that the
same person is responsible for both letters.” I turned Lola’s letter around again and pointed between the two. “See? It looks as if the words were cut from the same newspaper.”

Harold scratched his head. “We really could use Sherlock Holmes for this. He
would
undoubtedly
be able
tell us which newspaper the words were cut from.”

“Wasn’t he always going on about short-bladed, curved scissors or something like that?” I asked, picking up Monty’s letter and doing some more squinting. Then I shook my head. “Heck, I can’t tell. The words are so small, I can’t tell what kind of instrument cut them out. I suspect scissors, but I
suppose
someone might have used a razor blade and a straight edge to do the deed. And I have no earthly idea what kind of glue was used.”

“Flour-and-
water paste would be my guess,” said Harold. “I think it’s an inside job.”

“Inside?” Monty gaped at Harold. “What do you mean, Harold?”

Harold waved a hand in the air in an isn’t-it-obvious gesture. “Hell, Monty, how else could someone get
in
to both of your dressing rooms?”

Monty appeared genuinely distressed. “Do you mean to tell me that someone I
know
is doing this?”

With a sh
rug, Harold said, “I don’t know
. There are a whole lot of people on a picture set. You began to get these things before you
settled
here
for the
duration of the
picture
, didn’t you?”

After a brief hesitation, Monty said, “Yes. The first two were sent to my home in Los Angeles.”

“They weren’t propped against your mirror?” I asked, thinking maybe Harold was getting somewhere.

Monty shook his head. “No. They
came through the mail and
were addressed to me.”

“How?”

He stared at me. “What do you mean, how?”

Fighting fatigue, a headache and tetchiness, I tried to keep my voice calm. “Were the envelopes typewritten? Handwritten?
Was your name cut
out of a newspaper? That’s what I mean.”

“Oh. Well . . .” He rose and began pacing. I guess the poor guy was
awfully
nervous about this, for which I couldn’t fault him. These stupid letters might bring about an inglorious end to what had been a stellar career. “I don’t know.” He threw his hands out in a helpless gesture. “I have a secretary to open my mail. He brought me the letters as soon as they began to arrive, but I never thought to ask him to keep the envelopes.”

Figures.
Anything to make my life more difficult. Rather than saying that
aloud
, I said, “That’s too bad. If you should, by chance, get another letter mailed to you, be sure to keep the envelope, all right?”

He shrugged, still looking helpless, which irked me. Darn it, it was
his
life being ruined. Helplessness didn’t seem appropriate to yours truly. Then again, he was a man and accustomed to having everything done for him
, unlike most of us women, who had to
wait on
everybody else
.

Can you t
ell I was in a really bad mood?

Monty finally said, “Sure.”

For several seconds, we all stared at each other, Harold and I from our chairs, and Monty from the middle of the room. Then I decided I’d had enough. Scooping up both letters, I folded them and put them into my handbag.

As I rose, I said, “I think the best thin
g we can do is
study the people around us for the rest of the week. Maybe one of them will give some kind of clue.”

“What
kind
of clue
?
” asked Monty.

The question was sensible, but I didn’t like it. It annoyed me. Then again, everything seemed to be annoying me that evening. “
I
don’t know! If anyone acts or
looks suspicious, keep an eye on him. Or her.” It occurred to me that Gladys Pennywhistle might have a reason for sending threatening letters to Lola de la Monica, if she really thought Lola and Monty wer
e carrying on a steamy affair
. She might have sent similar letters to
Monty
for the same reason
, although that seemed a far stretch of the imagination, given what appeared to be her fondness for him. Still, you never knew a
bout these things
.

And then I bethought myself of Homer Fellowes.

My eyes must have registered something, because Harold said, “What is it, Daisy?”

I shook my head, making the pains behind my eyes clank together and hurt. “Nothing, probably. I was just thinking of Homer Fellowes. He’s got a definite
thing
for Lola. He’s one of those absent-minded professor types
, and from everything I’ve ever read, they tend to be a little crazy
. Maybe he thinks he can win her if he drives you off or scares her away from
you
.”

It sounded feeble to my own ears, but Harold and Monty exchanged a speaking glance.

“By God,” said Harold. “You might have something there, Daisy.” Turning to Monty, he said, “Let’s keep a
n eye on him, Monty. It can’t
hurt
, and it just might help.”

The demon of logic overtook me at that moment, and I asked, sounding pathetic to my own ears, “Are you
sure
you don’t want to tell Sam Rotondo about these letters? He’s a detective, after all
, and he’s stationed her
e
through the end of the shoot. It would give him something to do besides bother me, too
.”

A resounding duet of “No’s” struck my ears, so I sighed and took my leave.

I fell into bed about nine-thirty that night, thinking longingly of the morphine syrup in Billy’s dresser drawer. But I figured sleep would cure my headache eventually.

Chapter Nine

Shakespeare was right about sleep being good medicine. While it didn’t exactly knit up the raveled sleeve of all my cares, it did cure my headache.
Even sans headache, I was still
loath
to face another day with Lola de la Monica
.

“It’s your own fault,” said Billy unsympathetically as I hunched over my coffee cup the morning after my first day on the set. “You get yourself into the darnedest messes sometimes, Daisy.”

“I know it,” I said. Actually,
it was more of a whimper
.

To my surprise,
Billy
reached across the table and took one of my hands, which had been gripping my coffee cup. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re doing your best to make a good living for us. And you’re doing a swell job. I just hate that you have to be the one to do it.”

Good Lord. Was this my Billy Majesty speaking?
I blinked at him and said, “Thanks, Billy. That means a lot to me
, especially now that I have to deal with that stupid actress
. I do try, you know.”

“I know you do.”

Spike stuck his cold, wet nose on my bare calf a
t
that moment—I being clad in my nightie and bathrobe—and I squeaked, breaking the mood. “Darn it, Spike, don’t
do
that!” I dropped a piece of bacon for him, which was his point in nosing me in the first place.
He didn’t have to go to obedience school to get his humans to obey him. And they say dogs aren’t as smart as people. Huh.

“Do you think we’re spoiling Spike?” I asked Billy.

He chuckled. “Of course, we’re spoiling Spike. He’s our child.”

Good Lord. I stared at my husband again. It was probably just as well that he’d lifted the morning paper and couldn’t see me, because his words had touched something deep within me.

When we g
ot married all those years ago—well, five years ago, but it seemed longer—
Billy and I had planned our life together. We’d aimed to have three children, and it didn’t matter to either of us
if
they were boys or girls. We were going to live with his folks for a couple of years before Bill
y, working at the Hull Motor Works, had saved
enough money to purchase a little home of our own.
He’d already begun saving, in fact, since he
’d
always had a job or two
even during
his
high school
days. We married right after I graduated from high school, and we were on top of the world
.

N
ow look at us.
Thanks to the Kaiser,
Billy couldn’t father children, thereby assuring that I’d never have any; Billy’s parents had perished in the influenza pandemic
, weakened, no doubt, by grief over their
mutilated
son
; and we lived with my mother and father and my aunt, who’s only son had been killed in the war
and whose husband had also succumbed to the Spanish flu
. Oh, boy. You just never knew what life was going to throw at you, did you?

Feeling like crying
but restraining myself, I said, “I guess you’re right. I just never expected a child of mine to have such short legs.”

Fortunately for my state of mind, Billy chuckled again. “Heck, you’re short. I guess he took after you.”

Ah, yes.
Billy had been tall. And strong. And so very handsome, especially in his army uniform. I suppressed my sigh. “I guess so.”

Then, because I had to, I rose from the table and began gathering dishes. Pa had gone out already. He aimed to walk to the little corner grocery store
on the corner a couple of blocks south of
us and buy some navy beans. His Massachusetts boyhood had given him a fondness for baked beans and brown bread. His family had eaten baked beans and brown bread every Saturday evening during his entire childhood. I guess every section of the country has its own traditions. Personally, I liked baked beans, but I was kind of glad Pa didn’t insist we eat them every Saturday.

“Good luck at the set today,” Billy said, his nose still buried in the newspaper.

“Thanks. I’ll need it. Yesterday, Miss de la Monster was so fussy, I never even got lunch. Well, I guess you knew that. I made up for it at dinner, but I never did get rid of my headache until I slept it off. Shoot. I hope she behaves better today.”

“I don’t suppose you can turn her over your knee and spank her, could you? Spanking did wonders for my behavior when I was a kid.”

I stared dreamily out the kitchen window as I rinsed the breakfast
dishes
, thinking about how much Billy’s suggestion appealed to me
. From
the kitchen window
I had a lovely view of our next-door neighbors’ driveway, which
didn’t look nearly as ugly as it sounds because it
was lined with pretty flowers. “Boy, I wish I could. The thought holds a
whole bunch
of
charm
.”

“But,” Billy said, understanding lacing his voice, which surprised me, “
if you did that,
you’d lose your job.”

“I sure would. And word would probably get around, and then my business would suffer.”

“Not if they knew anything about Miss de la—what did you call her?”

“De la Monster. That’s Harold’s affection
ate
name for her.”

“Huh. Harold comes up with some good ones. I have to give him that.”

“He’s a nice man, Billy,” I said, always a little defensive about Harold around Billy.

“I know. You’re
forever
telling me so. You’re probably right.”

I turned from the kitchen sink to
stare
at my husband
’s head
.
It wasn’t like Billy to be so kindhearted when it came to Harold and
men like him. Wondering about
his change of
attitude
and not a little worried about it
, I said,
“Are you feeling all right, Billy? Do you need me to call
Dr. Benjamin
or anything?”

The paper lowered and Billy turned his head to
stare
back at me. “What?
Why?
Do I sound sick? Well, sicker? I’m not. I’m still the same. Crippled, unable to breathe
, in pain
. The usual. You don’t need to call the doctor.”

“It’s just that you usually aren’t so easy-going when it comes to Harold.”