Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (7 page)

“Yes, indeedy. I did make it on my trusty
sewing machine
. Well, I did the beading with needle and thread,” I confessed. “The
White
can’t handle beads.”

He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know how you do it, Daisy. But you always look as if you just stepped out of
Vogue
.”

“That’s the nicest thing
anyone’s
ever said to me, Harold,” I said, only half-teasing.

“Yes, it probably is. But come on, Daisy. We need to talk to Monty before the magnolia lady finds you’re here.”

At that moment, Gladys stepped into the little room occupied by Harold and me. She said, “Oh, good, you’re here.” Not a blink did she give my dazzling evening costume
. Or me, for that matter, except to register my arrival
. That w
as Gladys Pennywhistle all over
.

I walked over to her and took her hand. “It’s so good to see you again, Gladys.” If she wasn’t polite, I sure was going to be.

She blinked, her brown eyes huge behind the lenses of her strong spectacles. “Oh,” said she. “Yes. It’s good to see you, too, Daisy. I mean Desdemona.”

“Just call me Daisy, please, Gladys.” I glanced at Harold. “But
Harold told me that
Mr. Mountjoy wanted to see me before the séance begins.”

Gladys wrung her hands. This gesture was one I hadn’t seen on her before. The ever-confident Gladys Pennywhistle
I’d known
had never evinced any sign
s
of distress unless her marks weren’t up to her exacting standards in school.
It surprised me to see her evincing them in spades that evening.
“Yes. Yes, please. Come this way.” She then blinked at Harold, whom I think she’d forgotten all about. “You, too, please, Mr. Kincaid.” She lowered her voice. “Mrs. Winkworth is in the front parlor.”

Ah, yes, the
front
parlor.
The room
we plebian Gumms and Majesty
s
called the living room, I presume. I’d learned a lot in my business. Mrs. Pinkerton called her living room the drawing room. The only drawing that ever went on there, as far as I knew, was the withdrawing of my tarot cards from the darling little bag I’d sewn to hold them.

“Mr. Mountjoy would prefer to keep this meeting from her.”

I shot a glance at Harold, who nodded vigorously. Oh, dear. This problem of Mr. Mountjoy’s was beginning to sound worse and worse—and I didn’t even know what it was yet.

Anyway, Harold and I followed Gladys. We’d been standing in a
small
room off the back door. That room led to the kitchen, and from there we walked through the butler’s pantry. Then we turned left, walked through an enormous
and elegant
dining room
into a broad hallway
, and eventually got to a high, spiraling staircase. From what I could see of the décor of the home as Gladys sped us along, the entire place was fabulous. I wanted to stop and poke around, but didn’t. I was the hired help. Perhaps later, if I found favor with Mrs. Winkworth, I could have better access to the house and its furnishings.

Gladys kept up a speedy clip.
Although
I wore pointy-toed black evening slippers with Louis heels, I was able to keep up with her, but that’s probably because I
practiced training
Spike a lot. A real lady would have been out of breath by the time we got to the top of that staircase. Harold and I then had to chase Gladys down another hallway, where I only caught glimpses of pictures on the wall and hoped I’d get to investigate them
all
more closely later.

At last, Gladys stopped at a closed door and tapped lightly upon it. A masculine
but slightly reedy voice
called, “Gladys?”

“Yes, Mr. Mountjoy, it is I.” Proper. That’s what Gladys was. “I’ve brought Mr. Kincaid and Mrs. Majesty.”

The door opened and there, in all his manly perfection, stood the star of the silver screen, Mr. Monty Mountjoy. I very nearly fainted on the spot.

However, spiritualists are supposed to be above such unseemly behaviors, so I swallowed my excitement and smiled my beguiling spiritualist’s smile at the absolutely
gorgeous
male who stood before me.

Harold didn’t have the same problem
I had
. He said curtly, “Thanks, Gladys. I’ll take it from here.”

Gladys, holding her hands
folded
at her waist and gazing worshipfully at Mr. Mountjoy, said, “Very well.”

“Thank you, Gladys. You’re a gem.”

Boy, oh boy, if Monty Mountjoy had smiled at me like
that
, spiritualist training or no
,
I do believe I’d have swooned. Even steady, practical Gladys gulped audibly.

With effortless efficiency, Mr. Mountjoy managed to get Harold and me inside the room and shut the door in Gladys’s face. And he didn’t even seem rude as he was doing it. Astonishing ho
w suavity can assist people thro
ugh ticklish situations, isn’t it?

As soon as the door closed, Harold said,
“I’m sure Daisy can find out who’s doing it, Monty,” leaving me as much in the dark as I was before.

Feeling a little sickish—I really, really hated to become embroiled in other people’s problems, even though I seemed to do it all the time—I said, “Find out who’s doing what?”

“That’s what we need you for,” said Harold. Big help.

“Please, Mrs. Majesty, take a seat. Harold, you’re being a brute to my guest. Behave civilly, sir, or I shall have to call you out.”

“Oh, please!” said Harold grumpily.

“No, really,” said Mr. Mountjoy. “Ple
ase, Mrs. Majesty, have a chair
.”

For Monty Mountjoy I’d do pretty much anything. I didn’t tell him that, of course. “Thank you.” I made sure my voice didn’t go shrill
and I didn’t
simper or anything like that. I upheld my image, even in a room filled with Monty Mountjoy. Well, and Harold Kincaid, but he didn’t count.
Anyhow, I sat in the lovely chair to which Mr. Mountjoy gestured me.

Harold
grabbed another elegant chair—I think those types of chairs were French and named after one of those Louis
es
they had over there a long time ago. Louis XIV? If I’d been born rich, I’m sure I’d know—
hauled it over to mine and sat
with an irritated huff
. “We don’t have much time, Monty. I really think you need to get to the point. Don’t worry about Daisy. She won’t be shocked.”

I turned my head and stared hard at Harold, not trusting this “she won’t be shocked” thing one tiny little bit.

Monty Mountjoy turned his back on us and walked slowly to a window—
which was
covered, I might add, with perfectly beautiful lace curtains. There he drew one of the curtains aside and gazed out onto his grandmother’s gardens. He sighed deeply.
I’m sure the view from that window was gorgeous, but his sigh didn’t sound like one of appreciation.
My apprehension edged ever so slightly upward.

Silence grew thick in the room after that, until Harold finally burst out with, “
Damn it, Monty, spill it!”

I smacked him on the knee, his knee being close by. “Don’t swear, Harold.”

Harold rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

So much for that.
Perhaps I should take Harold to Mrs. Hanratty’s obedience class.

After what seemed like eons, Monty Mountjoy turned from the window and joined Harold and me, pulling up yet another elegant chair. I can’t remember what t
hose types of chairs are called
either
,
although I’m
almost
sure they were French.
You know the kind I mean. T
hey had medallion backs
that were
worked in a shiny brocade fabric
as were the seats
,
no arms,
and I’m pretty sure even one of them would cost as much as our Chevrolet.

“My problem is very embarrassing and troubling, Mrs. Majesty,”
Mr. Mountjoy
said in a serious voice.

“Embarrassing, mainly,” said Harold. “And if you don’t nip it in the bud, it might well ruin your career, Monty. You know that as well as I do.”

“Um . . . what problem is that?” I asked politely, trying to move things along. We had less than an hour before I had to go downstairs and
conduct
a séance, for heaven’s sake.

Then Monty Mountjoy did something very unusual. He heaved a sobbing sigh, lifted his hands, and buried his face in them.

Harold huffed with annoyance
yet again. Such a show of impatience wasn’t like my good friend Harold, so I knew that, whatever the matter was, it was bad
. “For God’s sake, Monty,
I’ll
tell her then!”

“
Yes.
Please
. You tell her
,” came
his
muffled
voice
, from behind Mr. Mountjoy’s hands. “I don’t think I can say it.”

So Harold turned to me and said, “Monty’s getting threatening letters.”

I blinked. I probably gasped, too, but I don’t remember. “Threatening letters? That’s terrible!” I saw Mr. Mountjoy peeking between his fingers and said the first thing that popped into my mind. “Um . . . have you told the police about these letters?” I couldn’t imagine Sam and two uniformed officers being assigned to a job featuring threatening letters, but what did I know?

“He
can’t
tell the police, Da
isy. If he tells the police, everything will
come out, and then his career will be
over
.”

“And my family,” moaned Mr. Mountjoy pitifully. “It would ruin my family. I don’t care about my career, but my family . . .” His words trickled out.

“You’ll care about your career soon enough when the money stops flowing,” Harold said in what could only be called a ruthless tone.

I shook my head, bewildered.
“But what do you want me to do? I
f you can’t go to the police
, how on
earth
can I help
?” After considering the matter for a second, I asked, “
W
hy the heck can’t you go to the police?”

Mr. Mountjoy’s hands dropped to his lap. “Because then it will come
out
! And I’ll be ruined.”

Feeling quite frustrated by that time, I lifted my own hands and said rather loudly than I probably should have, “Then
what
will come out?
Why
would you be ruined?”

Harold and Mr. Mountjoy exchanged a speaking glance, and I began to catch on. I was shocked. Mind you, I don’t know why I should be shocked, but I was. I stammered, “Do . . . do you mean . . .
?”

“Yes,” Harold said firmly. “That’s exactly what we mean.”

Good Lord in heaven. Whoever would have thunk it, as one of my school chums use to say. But . . . Monty Mountjoy? The epitome of swashbuckling masculinity? A man whose reputation with women was absolutely infamous? Who was reputed to have had affairs with most of the crowned
female
heads of Europe, not to mention all the Hollywoodland stars of the day?
That
Monty Mountjoy was . . . was . . .

“He’s a faggot,” said Harold brutally. “Just like Del and me.”

I stared at both men in turn before I finally managed to whisper a feeble, “Oh, my.”

* * * * *

As you can well imagine, the séance
that followed
was
not nearly
as exciting as
the revelations that
preceded it
. I still
felt
a trifle shaky when Harold and Mr. Mountjoy—who’d asked me to call him Monty, so I’ll refer to him as Monty from
here
on—escorted me downstairs to meet the formidable Mrs. Winkworth. Have you ever heard of an iron fist in a velvet glove? Well, I got the impression that expression described Lurlene Winkworth to a T.

In fact, I was so impressed by her majesty that I actually curtsied when Monty introduced us. I’m not a curtsier by nature, but there was just something about that woman. She lifted a languid hand. Or perhaps she languidly lifted a hand. Whatever
the proper terminology
,
the gesture seemed
perfectly southern, I couldn’t seem to help myself,
and
so I curtsied.

“It’s so good of you to come to my home this evening, Mrs. Majesty,” she said in a voice as thick as honey.
Magnolia honey, I’m sure.

“It’s a pleasure to be here, Mrs. Winkworth,” I said, maintaining my cultivated spiritualist’s voice, in spite of the previous forty-five minutes, which had nearly knocked me flat.