Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (30 page)

Before he reached me, he started waving a sheet of paper at me. I recognized the paper. It looked precisely like the other poisoned-pen letters had looked, even though I couldn’t yet read the words pasted thereon. I knew what they said before Sam stamped to a stop in front of me
and shoved the letter in my face
: CHANGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE! Yup. There was that inked-in exclamation point.

“You knew Miss de la Monica was getting these letters, didn’t you?” Sam roared as he stood before me. I fancied I could see steam coming out of his ears.

For the merest moment, I considered lying, but then I gave it up. Sam wouldn’t believe me anyway.
He never believed me.
I took a largish breath, told myself I hadn’t done anything wrong, and said, “Yes.”

“Why the devil did
n’t
you tell me about them?”

“Please don’t shout, Sam. I can hear you quite well without you
yelling at me
.”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. I knew it at once when Sam seemed to grow right there until he loomed over me like a mountain. Gee, he was looking like all sorts of
natural and man-made phenomena
that morning, wasn’t he? Before he could burst out of his detectival suit—a detectival suit being one of modest cost, as opposed to
suits
worn by the Harold Kincaids of this world, who were rich—I said, “I didn’t tell you because the letters seemed
. . . well,
stupid.”

Still looming—and probably fulminating, too—Sam stood there, glaring at me for what seemed like about a year and a half before he said, in measured accents
which boded ill for
me
,
“
You
thought the letters seemed stupid. That’s why you didn’t tell the police that the star of this picture was being threatened.
You
decided that, did you?
”

I shrugged. Couldn’t do much else under the circumstances, what with a wrathful police detective towering over me
and all my friends having deserted me
. “That’s just it, Sam. They didn’t threaten anything. Let me guess what that letter says.” I shut my eyes and recited, “
‘
Change your wicked ways or
tragedy will strike.
’
Right?” I attempted to smile at him, but my effort didn’t produce much more than a
tight little
grimace.

“You know this how?” asked Sam furiously. “Psychic powers?”

“Of course, not. I’ve seen the other letters she’s received. They never vary by so much as a word. Or an exclamation point
, which is always inked in, presumably because newspapers don’t go
in for
exclamation points very often
. And they don’t threaten anything
specific
.”

Sam sucked in some air, just as I’d done. “They
don’t
threaten anything
specific
,” he repeated, his voice tight. “How many of these things do you know about?”

“Um . . . I guess that one’s the third.” I pointed at the paper flapping in the gentle breeze.

“Three of them. I see.” He took another deep breath.

I held on
to my
own
breath,
scared and
waiting for the explosion.
A police detective couldn’t arrest anyone for not saying anything about
anonymous
letters, could he? I sure hoped not.

He didn’t explode—yet. “And you say the letters don’t
threaten anything specific
.”

“Well . . . no. They all say exactly the same thing, and they
never
relate
precise consequences
. I mean, they don’t ask for money or anything.
For that matter, they don’t even tell the recipient what types of behavior
s
the writer deems wicked
or what kind of tragedy will befall her
.
They’re silly, is all
. At least from my perspective.”

“
From y
our perspective.
Exactly what do you consider ‘tragedy,’ Daisy? Does that word bring pictures of happiness to your mind?”

“Well, of course not. But don’t you see, Sam? Nothing’s happened.
Nothing at all, except more letters.
Lola thought the letters were being sent to her by ghosts, for Pete’s sake!”

“Ghosts.”

“Yes. Ghosts. So naturally, I disabused her of that
insane
notion.”

“I see. Ghosts aren’t responsible for
writing
threatening letters. Did it occur to you that a human being
might
be responsible for them?”

“Of course, it did! Jeez, Sam I’m not stupid.” Any more than I was psychic, but
he already knew that
.

“Sometimes I wonder about that,” said Sam, rather cruelly, I thought.

“Darn it, Sam. You’re dealing with a hysterical woman! For all I knew
Lola’s
writing
the letters
to herself so that she
can
get people to pay attention to her!”

Actually,
the notion
hadn’t once occurr
ed to me until that very minute
when it came
to me in a burst of desperation. What’s more, I knew the suggestion to be
wide of the mark. This was
mainly because Monty w
as also getting the same letters
and I knew for a fact that they worried him a whole lot, and for a very good reason.
If it weren’t for Monty, I might actually have believed Lola was writing the things to herself. But she wasn’t, and I knew it.
What’s more, I was being unconscionably
callous
toward
Lola for having uttered s
uch a thing
and was ashamed of myself. Lola might be a nitwit
and a pain in the neck
, but the letters were truly upsetting to her. Well, they would be to anyone.
Nevertheless, my words seemed to give Sam pause
, so I didn’t take them back
. I didn’t dare let down my guard, but I could tell he was thinking hard about what I’d just said.

Still glowering—Sam never wanted to give up a good
bout of anger
easily, especially when it was directed at me—he said, “Hmm. You might have a point there.”

I gave yet another shrug, feeling helpless to do anything more
useful
,
not to mention
guiltier by the second
. “I don’t know that for a fact, mind you. Stil
l, I wouldn’t put much past her
if she thought sh
e could get a good temperament
or two
out of it.”
Was I mean, or was I not mean? I hated myself, not for the first time by any means.

As if by magic, Sam seemed to shrink until he stood before me
in
his normal size. Which was still pretty darned big, but not mountainous, thunderous or trainly. “Do you know if anyone else has been getting these things?” Again he flapped the letter at me.

Oh, boy.
I really hated to lie outright, especially since I’d just slandered Lola de la Monica.
Still and all . . . I said, “No. Not to my knowledge, anyway.”

I was pretty sure in that moment that I was headed straight for hell.

Chapter Sixteen

Evidently, Harold and John Bohnert also judged the worst to be over
at that point
because they appeared, one on each side of me, as if by magic.
I still considered them abject cowards.

“Is it all right if I take Daisy to Lola, Detective Rotondo?” Harold asked, considerably
more courageous
than his colleague, by gum.

Sam huffed for a second or two, but then acquiesced. “I suppose so. Somebody’s got to calm that idiot woman down. And I guess she relies on Daisy for that.” He sneered.
I wasn’t surprised
.

After having braved Sam Rotondo all by myself, I wasn’t eager to confront a hysterical Lola. I regret to say I began to whine. “Do I have to?”

This
time it was John who stepped in and said,
“Yes, you damned well have to! You’re the only one she’ll listen to. Besides,” he
added
rather meanly, “she’s paying you
a small fortune
to deal with her.”

“You’re right,” I said, drooping in body and spirit. “You’re absolutely right. She’s paying me for this.
Although it’s not a small fortune.
”
I felt honor-bound to add the last sentence, since it was the truth.
I lowered my head. “Oh, God, please help me.” It was kind of a prayer, even though I knew I was unworthy to utter one, having just
told Sam Rotondo a bold-faced lie
and all but accusing Lola of writing those letters to herself
. Not to mention tricking people for a living. You can tell how low I
felt
. I don’t often agree with Billy about the way I make my living.

Fortunately for me, I had Harold Kincaid as a friend. “Buck up, Daisy,” he said. “I’ll reward you as soon as this thing is over by taking you out to lunch at Mijares.”

I turned a wan smile upon him. “Thanks, Harold. That’ll make this misery almost worth it.”

Sam grunted. He grunted a lot.
“You ought to take the whole damned family out to dinner,” he told Harold. “While Daisy’s here, her husband’s at home alone.”

Well, I liked that! “Darn you, Sam Rotondo! Billy is not alone! Pa is always th
ere with him, and so is Aunt Vi, at least now,
while Mrs. Pinkerton is on her trip. Besides, Billy has Spike for comfort. That’s more than I have!”

Sam, as might have been expected, rolled his eyes. “What he needs is his wife,” he told me.

And this was the man whom Billy had asked to look out for me if anything should happen to him. Bah!
If this was the way Sam Rotondo took care of people, I disapproved. A lot.

But I didn’t have any more time to fret and fume about Sam, because we were approaching the mob. There were at least two dozen people there, all gazing in rapt amazement at something going on in the center of the circle they made. I knew that something
must be
Lola. The only thing I didn’t know was what she was doing. I didn’t
want
to know what she was doing, either.

But
as Aunt Vi might have said, I’d made my b
ed
and now I had to lie in it.

Putting on my mantle of spiritualism rather like Dracula’s cape, I tapped on a shoulder. “Pardon me, please,” I said, using my best,
lowest-pitched,
most soothing voice. “I need to assist Miss de la Monica.”

The crowd parted much like the Red Sea must have parted for Moses lo, those many years ago. As soon as Lola, who
was
on her hands and knees and
seemed to be trying to pound
the grass into submission, lifted her head and saw me, she uttered a piercing shriek.
Her dark hair was wild and straggled over her face. Her white gown, a flowing number that must have been pretty once, was wrinkled and smeared with grass stains.
She got grass stains on her white clothing a lot. I’ll bet she never got them out, either.

“
Daisy
! Thank
God
you’re here!”

Ah. There was Dr. Homer Fellowes. He’d been hovering over Lola, clearly without a clue what to do. At Lola’s shriek, he leaped backwards, and his gaze searched furiously beyond me to—ta-da!—Gladys Pennywhistle! I knew that, because I turned to see Gladys receive his glance and return it with a speaking one of her own. Well, well.

But I didn’t have time to congratulate myself on what looked to be a budding, and infinitely suitable, romance on the parts of Gladys and Homer. I had to steel myself for the onslaught of Lola, who
lifted herself
up from the pounded grass and flung herself at me.
I was almost used to this behavior on her part by
that
time. I remained standing, thanks to strong muscles built up by years of assisting my husband to do various things, and
hardly staggered backward at all when she hit. I
gently patted her on the back.

“There, there,” I said softly. “There’s no need for this.”

“But I got another letter!” she cried—in full Spanish-accent mode. “And that beastly detective fellow is being
horrid
to me.”

“There, there,” I said again. “Think nothing of that. Sam is beastly to everyone.”