Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (24 page)

Silence reigned once more. When Lola’s hand began to vibrate in mine and I suspected she was about to burst with frustration, I allowed Rolly to speak again.

“Och,” he said. I don’t know where I’d
learned that
Scotti
sh people said “Och
”
probably from novels,
but it sounded good in Rolly’s deep voice. “She needs to behave herself, the
silly
wench.
”

Lola gulped. I guess she didn’t like being called a silly wench. Too blasted bad.

Rolly went on, “
The powers are gathering, and if she continues to misbehave, her career will
end in disgrace and indignity.
Such a fine talent must not be wasted.”

I
added the last part because I
figured it wouldn’t hurt to boost her ego a little, although her ego was probably what was getting her into trouble in the first place.

Lola said, “But . . .”

I squeezed her hand again, a little harder.

“This is important,” said Rolly. “The lassie must pay more attention to time. The folks whose money creates her pictures are becoming impatient
with her
. She has fine dramatic
skills
. It would be a shame to waste
them
on ruining her career rather than
upon building it.”

“And you really believe she’s hurting herself by delaying production?” I wanted to say
by her stupid antics
, but didn’t. My job held me back.

“Definitely, my love. This is her last chance. She won’t get another.”

Lola gasped more loudly than she had before.

“Is there anything specific she needs to do, Rolly?” I asked him.

“Aye. She needs to show up on time and behave herself.”

Lola made a noise, but Rolly pushed on in spite of her.

“She mayn’t delay production one more time. She has to do her job so that others can do theirs. When she
delays production
, she antagonizes the entire cast and crew. This picture is her
very
last chance.”

I heard Lola gurgle, and decided to say something to mitigate Rolly’s harsh words.
“
You know, Rolly, Miss de la Monica is
truly upset about
some
awful letters
she’s been receiving
.”

Lola’s gurgling subsided.

“Aye. The letters,” said Rolly, as if he were pondering
the
deep mysteries of the world. “The writer of the letters will be discovered soon. The lass need
s
pay no attention to them. The writer will not harm her.”

Lola said, “Huh.”

I made Rolly chuckle. “Och, the lass doubts me, but she needn’t. People who write letters do so because they are powerless to do
aught
else. Tell the lass that, my love. She need
s to
fear nothing from the
writer of those nasty letters
.”

“I will tell her, Rolly. Thank you for your wise
counsel
.”

“
Och, ‘tis nothing, my love. You know how much I delight in communicating with you. But
I must return to the Other Side now.”

“Thank you for visiting us this evening, Rolly.”

“Och, my love, you know I desire nothing more than to be of service to you.”

Very well, in spite of his ungenteel name, Rolly was a good guy. Personally, I’d like to know a man who desired nothing more than to be of service to me. Ah, well . . .

At that point in the proceedings, I had to sort of collapse into myself and sag in my chair. My hands went limp, and it took Lola a moment or two to realize the séance was over. I lolled my head and
moaned a little
to give her a larger clue.

Naturally, she didn’t know what to do.
Nobody ever does. It’s kind of fun to leave them in suspense like that for several seconds. Or in suspenders, as my father would say. He’s a real card, my pa.
Gradually, however, understanding the volatile nature of Lola’s personality, I stirred and lifted my head, doing my best to appear confused.

Lola had taken to staring at me in fascinated horror. “Are you all right?” she asked softly
, without even bothering with her Spanish accent
. I guess
my performance had gone so well,
she feared I’d managed to get myself lost in the otherworld, whatever that is.

I said, “Ah,” in a weak little voice, as if the séance had taken a good deal out of me. Well, it had, darn it. I wanted to be home with my family, not here with this vain, stupid
woman
.

“Mrs. Majesty?”

Good. She was worried.

I lifted a white han
d to my supposedly fevered brow
. “
Wh-where am I?”
there it was again: the old, tired where-am-I line. Nevertheless,
I figured correctly that Lola would respond well to it.

“You’re in my
sitting
room. You just consulted with your spirit control.” She sounded slightly stronger, curse her. It would have served her right if I
had
become lost in the otherworld.

With my hand still pressed to my
forehead
, I said faintly, “Did Rolly come?”

“Don’t you remember?” She sounded astonished, which was a reasonable reaction, even if it did come from her.

I gave a very slight shake of my head, trying to appear as if my head were only hanging on to my neck
in some kind of fragile manner,
if you can picture it. I know. It sounds strange. “I never remember
what has transpired
after the spirits have come to me.”
I figured people wouldn’t want me to know their innermost secrets, so I generally told them that to assuage their mangled feelings, especially if the message was a harsh one, as it had been
to
night.

“Oh.” She was definitely impressed.
And relieved;
I could tell.

“Did Rolly
visit us
?”

“Yes.” Lola swallowed. “He came.”

“Do you think his message will assist you?”

She looked mutinous for a moment, and I held my breath. I
really
wanted her to take Rolly’s message to heart—if she had a heart. At that point in time, I doubted it
. Then she sniffed and said, “I believe so. He told me the letters are nothing to fear.”

“Ah,” said I. “I believe he’s correct about that. From everything I’ve read about people who write poisoned-pen letters, they aren’t generally violent.”

“
Violent
!” Lola gaped at me, and I cursed my stupidity. Again.

“Well, yes,” I said. “They derive satisfaction from frightening people. If they had the power to hurt anyone, they wouldn’t resort to letters. That’s what I’ve read
,
anyway.”

“Oh. Well. I see.”

I wanted to get out of that darned room. I was fed up to the brim with Lola de la Monica and her silly ways, and I still had to have a heart-to-heart chat with Harold and Monty. However, I couldn’t rush this aspect of
the evening’s performance
. Every moment of a séance, from my entry into the séance room to my departure from it, needed to be carefully choreographed. In other words, I couldn’t just jump to my feet, blow out the candle, grab the lamp and scram out of there. I had to “recover” first.

“Do you have a glass of water, Miss de la Monica? I feel rather faint. These things take so much out of me, don’t you know.”

“Water?” she asked if she’d never heard the word.

“
Agua
,” I said. I might not have been the world’s best student, but I remembered a little of my Spanish. Probably
knew more than Lola did, in fac
t.

“Oh. Oh, of course. One moment, please.”
Her Spanish accent had returned.

And darned if Lola de la Monica, star of the moving pictures, didn’t go to her bathroom and fetch lowly little me, Daisy Gumm Majesty, a glass of water. I made sure my hand trembled when I took the glass, and that my voice sounded weak when I said, “Thank you.”

From then on, it was easy going. I recovered from my enervated state, smiled sweet
ly at Lola, blew out the candle
. A
fter waiting for the lamp to cool,
I
gathered it up, stuck it in my handbag, and stood. I held out my hand for Lola to shake.

“I do hope this evening’s séance has been of benefit to you, Miss de la Monica.”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully. “I hope so, too.”

Because I didn’t want her to miss
Rolly’s
message, I said, “The spirits are very wise, you know. They’ve lived and they’ve died, and they occasionally visit us mortals with sound counsel. I do trust you won’t waste this opportunity to learn from them.”

She said, “Yes,” again.

Well, I’d done what I could. If she failed to heed Rolly’s advice, the end of her career would be her own darned fault. Rolly and I had given our best
to the cause, h
owever silly that cause
seemed to
me
.

“I must be going now,” I told her, eager to visit Harold and Monty and go home.

“Thank you, Mrs. Majesty.”

Was it my imagination, or was Lola’s voice a shade on the humble side?

It was probably my imagination.

Chapter Thirteen

Thanking my lucky stars
that
was over, I made my way down the hall to Monty Mountjoy’s room and rapped lightly.

Harold opened the door,
a mighty frown on his face
. I sighed. “Don’t te
ll me. Monty got another letter
.
That makes two in one day.
”

“How’d you guess?” Harold
, eyebrows
now
steeply arched,
stepped aside and I entered the room.

“I’m psychic, remember?”

“Right.”

With a sigh, I said,
“
I know because
Lola got one, too.” I retrieved Lola’s missive from my handbag and
waved
it
in front of
Harold.

Monty joined us, holding a glass filled with some amber-colored liquid that I assumed wasn’t apple juice. Prohibition might as well have been a joke to some people.
I stuck Lola’s letter back into my handbag for the moment.

“Did your letter get
put
in your pocket at dinner? That
’s how Lola claims she got hers,
”
I asked him.

“More or less,” said Monty. “I found it in my dinner jacket
when
I retired to my room after dinner. But pleas
e, Mrs. Majesty, have a seat.
Would you like a drink?”

“Thank you.” I sat wearily in yet another of the medallion-backed chairs
with which
the mansion seemed so liberally littered. “I don’t care for anything to drink. I just had a glass of water in Lo
la’s room.
”

“Water?” Monty shuddered and downed some more of his drink. “These letters require more than water, if you ask me.”

“Yeah. Lola was mildly hysterical about hers.”

“
Only mildly?
Lola’s always at least mildly hysterical about
something
,” Harold said drily.
“I should think a nasty letter would have her in full rant.”

“True
, true. Only this evening she mainly seemed spooked and scared. Anyhow,
I guess we have to acquit her of making things up this time. I mean, these letters are real.

“Too bloody true,” muttered Monty.

“But I really don’t think either you or Lola should be too worried about the letter-writer
doing anything substantive
.”
I
proceeded to tell Harold and Monty
the same thing
I’d told Lola, and which I’d honestly and truly gathered from reading
books
that featured
poisoned-pen letters
. Mind you, the reading had been
primarily
in the form of detective fiction, but I had no reason to doubt my favorite authors. “You know,
Harold and Monty,
poisoned-pen writers are generally forced to write letters because they have no other power
to do harm
. I don’t think you have much to
fear
from that source, especially since Lola’s getting
the
letters
, too, and she . . . er, doesn’t share your . . . um . . .”