Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (9 page)

“
It is
both of those things, all right, and it’s beautiful, too.
” I told both of the men in my life—and Spike, too, since he always sat next to the table, hoping for handouts—all about the magnificent gardens and gorgeous home belonging to Lurlene Winkworth.
“I understand there are more houses on the property, too, although I don’t know how many.”

“I swear to God,” said Billy, sounding savage, “those
picture
people make too much money for what they do.”

With a sigh, I nibbled a piece of toast. “It does seem rather unfair, doesn’t it? There are people doing truly useful things in the world, and who makes the money? People who star in the pictures. Not the ones who write the scripts or the ones who make the costumes
or create the cameras and stuff
, but the actors, and all they have to do is look good on the screen.
Heck, they don’t even have to learn lines, since the pictures are silent. For all we know, they’re reciting their grocery lists while the camera’s cranking
away
.
”

“I’m sure,” said Pa with judicious good will, “that there’s more to acting than merely looking good on screen.”
Pa always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt.

Recalling the prior evening, I said, “I’m not so sure about that, Pa
. For instance, Lola de la Monica might look like a seductive lady of Spain, but I swear to heaven
, once she
forgets her audience
is listening,
her accent is just like Sam’s.”

That turned out to be a good thing to say, because Billy laughed. “You’re kidding!”

I shook my head. “
Am not
.
When she first made her entrance—and believe me, she
did
make an
entrance—she put on a phony Spanish accent. But once she forgot to keep up her act, she
actually sounded
worse than Sam.” Sam Rotondo was a native of New York City, by the
by
. “In fact, she sounded
more like Mrs. Barrow.”
Mrs. Barrow, a native of
The Bronx
, New York, was the nosiest of our telephone’s party-line members.
She also had an accent you could cut with a knife, although I could think of other things I’d rather cut with said knife.
Like her throat, for instance. But I’m being mean. Please forgive me.

“Good heavens,” said Billy, marveling. “She sounds like a washer woman from
The Bronx
, and she’s making
hundreds of thousands
of dollars by pretending to be a
Spanish
femme fatale
on the silver screen.” He shook his head in awe and wonder
and no little disgust
.

“She’s a looker, all right,” said Pa. “Whoever would ha
ve thought her to be from back E
ast.
None of my kin look like she does.
” But his expression was troubled.

I said, “What’s the matter, Pa?” I didn’t want my father to be troubled. We all worried about his health, ever since he’d had a heart attack several years earlier, and I wanted to keep him around for as long as possible.

“Nothing’s the matter with me,” he said. “But I sense something’s the matter with you. What is it, Daisy?”

Perceptive, too, my father. That day I wished he
wasn’t
. I heaved a largish sigh. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. But honestly, Pa, that woman is
definitely
what they call temperamental.”

“Yeah?” Billy quirked an eyebrow at me. He was still grinning, so I decided to milk my first encounter with Miss de la Monica for all I was worth.

“She actually shrieked when we were introduced. It was all I could do not to wince, and you know how little emotion we spiritualists are supposed to display.”

Billy said, “Huh.”

Pa said, “She shrieked, eh?”

“Yes. She positivel
y shrieked. And then she said, ‘
Oh, my God, I
need
you! You simply
must
be my spirit guide as I endure this
next
wretched picture
.
’
”

“This wretched picture?” said Pa. “How much money are they paying her?”

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it’s not a wretched amount,” I answered drily.

“
She wants you to be her
spirit guide? I thought that Rolly guy of yours was the spirit guide.”
Billy.
Not as snidely as usual
.

“He’s supposed to be, but Lola de la Monica doesn’t see it that way.”

“Well,” said Pa with a shrug, “it’s money, and that’s the point, I guess.”

What I wanted to do was unburden my soul to both of them. To tell them that Monty Mountjoy had hired me, against my will and better judgment, to find out who’d been
writing him
threatening letters
, and
,
if the reason was the one he feared it was
, to do something about it. God alone knew what I was supposed to do to dry the ink in a poisoned pen
. I wanted to tell them that Lurlene Winkworth was a spoiled, rotten daughter of the south who disapproved of her own daughter, and who deplored her grandson’s line of work—kind of like Billy deplored mine, actually
—even though his line of work had garnered her a home that was as close
to
heaven as a person could get without dying first. I wanted to tell them that Monty Mountjoy was terrified of being discovered to be one of “those” creatures whom Billy despised. Then I wanted to tell them that I didn’t want to be on the set of a moving picture, especially since Sam Rotondo was expected to be there, too. I wanted to say that Sam and I had only recently begun being civil to each other and that I had no idea what daily proximity might do to our relationship, but I doubted it was anything good. I wanted to tell them that Harold and Monty Mountjoy and Del Farrington couldn’t help being what they were, and that I thought people who considered them sinners or crazy were bigots of the very worst sort.

What I said was, “Personally,
I don’t think
Miss de la Monica’s problem is
temperament. I think it’s hysteria.
With an extra dollop of extreme self-absorption thrown in for good measure.”

“Sounds like a great gal,” said Billy.

“Right,” said I.

Pa laughed.

Billy asked, “So what’s Mrs. Winkworth like? Does she appreciate her good fortune? I mean, if somebody bought me a fabulous mansion on San Pasqual, I’d appreciate it.”

After heaving a sigh, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell
a little bit of
the truth. “She deplores her
good
fortune, actually.”

“She
what
?” Billy lowered his paper, and his expression changed from one of disapproval—of me—to one of wonder.

I nodded. “She deplores everything about her life. Including her
grandson.” Then I remembered
something else
. “Oh, Billy!”cried I, brightening momentarily. “
She also deplores her daughter, and you’ll
never
in a million years
guess who her daughter is!”

After blinking at me once, Billy said, “You’re right. I won’t. Who is she?”

“Mrs. Hanratty!”

Since Billy’s profession didn’t deny him the comfort of goggling, he goggled at me. “You’re pulling my leg!”

“Am not. It’s God’s honest truth. Pansy Hanratty is Lurlene Winkworth’s daughter. What’s more,” I continued, “Monty Mountjoy is Pansy Hanratty’s son!”

“Good Lord,” said Billy. “Lola de la Monica is from
The Bronx
, Mrs. Hanratty is from Mrs. Winkworth, and
Monty Mountjoy is from Mrs. Hanratty. Sounds like one of those dog lines Mrs.
Bissel
and Mrs. Hanratty are so fond of telling
us
about.”

“It does, kind of.
Mrs. Hanratty lives on one of the other houses on the Winkworth property with her pack of dogs.
”

“What kinds of dogs does she have?” asked Pa.

It was a good question, but I didn’t have an answer. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her when I start working there.” The notion of my upcoming job made me grumpy again.

“Anybody know who the sires of all these people are?” Billy asked.

“What people?” asked Pa.

“Mrs. Hanratty and Monty Mountjoy,” Billy enlightened him.

I shook my head. “ ‘Fraid not.
I mean, I’m sure Mrs. Winkworth and Mrs. Hanratty know, but I don’t.
”

“And are they
properly
registered with the American Kennel Club?”

“Billy!” I said, only marginally shocked.

Billy grunted and lifted his paper again.

Pa laughed.

Fortunately for the state of my appetite
that morning
, Spike loved eggs and toast.

* * * * *

As luck would have it, filming for
The Fire
at
Sunset
was set to begin
two
Monday
s
following th
e
séance, which meant that Billy, Spike and I got to attend another dog-training class before the fateful day.
Pa decided to accompany us
the next
Saturday
, which I appreciated, because Billy always behaved when other members of my family were with us. Spike pretty much behaved all the time by then, bless his heart.

Mrs. Hanratty rushed up to greet us as soon as she saw me pushing Billy’s ch
air up to the group gathered at the field designated for Pasanita’s use.

“Daisy!” she cried. “I’m so glad to know you’re going to be at Mother’s house during the filming of Monty’s pict
ure. Monty is such a sweetheart and
he never says anything at all
unpleasant
to his grandmother, but Mother is a
very
trying person to live with.”

Since I didn’t have a single clue what to say to that—one can’t very well agree that one of one’s clients is a selfish old biddy, now can one?—I only smiled and said, “I enjoyed meeting your
mother
very much. I had no idea you were related.”

“Yes, well, one can’t choose one’s relatives, can one?”

I couldn’t think of an answer to that question, either, so
I introduced her to my father.

“So happy to meet you, Mr. Gumm,” said Mrs. Hanratty
, shaking his hand with
hearty
vigor
.
From what I’d seen of her so far, just about everything Pansy Hanratty did was either hearty or vigorous or both.
She was as unlike her mother as a daughter could be.
“Your daughter and
Mr. Majesty
are doing an absolutely wonderful job
training
Spike.”

“They practice all the time with him,” Pa said, preening
under
this glowing commendation from his daughter’s teacher. “But you could have knocked me down with a feather when Daisy told us you were Monty Mountjoy’s mother.”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Hanratty gave one of her hooting laughs. “You’d never know to look at the two of us that we were related. He takes after his father’s side of the family, fortunately for him.”

“I enjoyed meeting him last Saturday evening,” I said, not wanting to get into the looks issue. In truth, Mrs. Hanratty was a handsome woman—but she was right when she said nobody would ever connect
her and Monty Mountjoy
as belonging to the same family.

“Isn’t he a darling boy?” Mrs. Hanratty all but crooned.

For some reason, my mind’s eye pictured her holding out a treat to the infant Monty Mountjoy as an enticement to get him to sit up and beg. I shook my head to rid it of the silly image. “He’s a lovely young man. Um . . . did he choose the last name Mountjoy himself?” Was that a snoopy question? Well, too bad. I’d already asked it.

“Good Lord, no. The studio tacked that one on him. I don’t mind, though. Hanratty isn’t exactly a name you’d expect to see on a theater marquee, would you? Mountjoy is much more . . .
romantic.”

“I suppose so,” I muttered, recalling where Monty Mountjoy’s
romantic
interests lay.

“And isn’t that Lola de la Monica a
stitch
?” Mrs. Hanratty went on. “Now you
know
somebody at the studio tacked that moniker on her. Lola de la Monica, my hind
leg
.”

Pa,
Billy and I all laughed. “I told them about her phony Spanish accent and what she sounds like when she’s not putting it on.
”