Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (25 page)

“I understand,”
Monty
said. Then he sat with a thump on another chair. So did Harold.

It was Harold who spoke next,
and it was
to Monty. “You know, Monty, Daisy might have a point there. Why would the person who’s writing to you
because of your life preferences
write to
Lola
? It can’t be for the reason we feared
on your account
, since Lola definitely likes men.
Well, so do you, but that’s not what I mean.
”

“
I know what you mean.” Monty made a face at Harold. I held my tongue. “
But why would anyone want to write nasty letters to m
e for any other reason
?”
he
said in a voice that fully conveyed his
fear
and frustration. “
There’s no other reason I can think of for someone to want to blackmail me.
The only secret in my life is . . . that one.”

“That brings up another
important
point
,” I told him.
“You mentioned blackmail, and that’s what we first assumed the letters were leading
up
to, but h
ave you received any specific threat or demand for money
from the letter-writer
to keep your secret?”

“No. Nothing like that
so far
. The letters I’ve received have all said exactly the same thing about changing my wicked ways or tragedy striking.”

“Which means our letter-w
riter either has no imagination—well, we already knew that, or he’d vary his message—
or
he
hasn’t figured out how much money he or she wants to screw out of you,” grumbled Harold.

I wrinkled my nose, disliking the next point of interest I aimed to impart.
“From everything I’ve read, poisoned-pen letters are always sent by women
.
That eliminates a whole lot of people.”

“That makes
us
feel ever so much better,” said Harold, rolling his eyes.

“
Well, it eliminates all the men, I reckon.
And whoever it is has to be involved in this picture, or how could he or she slip the letters into people’s pockets?”
I said reasonably.

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better,” muttered Monty.

“I do understand your frustration, Monty,” I told him. “
But you know, this whole letter thing
is beginning to make absolutely no sense to me
. L
ook at this.” I took Lola’s letter
from
my handbag
once more
and spread it out on the same sort of piecrust table I’d used in Lola’s room. “See? It’s exa
ctly the same as the other ones.
Is yours
like this
, too?”

“Exactly,”
Monty
said. “Harold, where’s that damned letter?”

“I’ve got it.” Harold reached into a pocket
in
his trousers and hauled out a
crinkled
piece of paper. “It looks
precisely
the same
to me
.”

To prove his point, he spread Monty’s letter out on top of Lola’s. They might have been
twins of each other. Or maybe they were
quintuplets
by that time. I passed a hand over my eyes, feeling very weary indeed. “This
whole
letter
thing
makes no sense at all to me
.”

“I sure don’t understand it,” said Harold.

“Me, neither,” said Monty. “But I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I.” I peered from the letter to Monty’s face, searching it closely. “Are you sure you can’t think of another reason for anyone to be sending these types of letters to you? You haven’t annoyed anyone
in particular
or made an enemy
you don’t know about
?
”

“If he doesn’t know about an enemy, how could he tell you who it is?” asked Harold.

I confess
he had reason on his side
.
Nevertheless, the question irked me. I was tired, confound it, and I wanted to go home.
I maintained my composure, since the letters weren’t Harold or Monty’s fault any more than they were mine. “Good point, Harold. But . . . well, c
ould someone be
envious
of your success?”

It was Harold who answered.
I got the feeling he
was
quicker on his feet—with his tongue
—than Monty
.
“I’m sure lots of people are jealous of Monty’s success. But why would a person
who’s
jealous of Monty also be jealous of Lola?”

He had me stumped with that one. After thinking
over
the question for a moment, I ventured, “Perhaps someone’s jealous of anyone who makes it big in the pictures because he or she hasn’t been able to do so?”

Monty and Harold exchanged a glance. Then both men shrugged. “It makes as much sense as anything else, I guess,” said Monty.

I think he was humoring me. I said, “But there have to be hundreds of people who envy your success, Monty. Are any of them working on the set of
The Fire at Sunset
?”

“Now how the devil could he know that?” Harold asked.

It was a
nother
valid question, and one to which I had no answer. “Beats me.”

The three of us sat in Monty Mountjoy’s room, thinking. I don’t know what the guys were thinking about, but I was considering the nature of fame, envy, and what I considered to be the very odd compulsion to write threatening letters to both Monty Mountjoy and Lola de la Monica. Monty’s letters made sense, knowing what I now knew about his personal life and sexual orientation, but Lola
’s
? I could imagine someone becoming so annoyed with her personally that he or she would like to do her an injury, but would that person write exactly the same type of poisoned-pen letters to her as s/he wrote to Monty?

And then I bethought myself of recent current events, and I perked up a bit.

Harold
, who knew me well,
said, “What? You have an idea, Daisy. What is it?”

“Well . . . I don’t know. But I suppose it’s possible t
hat some Bolshevist
might resent Monty and Lola both for making a lot of money in motion pictures when other people with
valid
skills and so forth, can’t seem to get jobs these days.”

Monty and Harold glanced at each other and then at me.

“Um . . .” Monty evidently couldn’t think of anything else to say, because the word just sat there in the room
all by itself, naked and unadorned
.

Harold, like me, never had that problem. We didn’t need scripts in order to talk; in fact, it took a good deal to make either of us shut up, as a rule. “That’s nuts, Daisy. Although it’s no more nuts than anything else about those
lousy
letters. What about that Fellowes guy? Don’t college professors tend to be political radicals? Maybe he’s a Communist and hates all rich people just because they’re rich.
That would include both Monty and Lola.
”

“Good God,” said Monty
, clearly taken aback by Harold
’s
suggestion
.

“That would be a fine idea,” I said, “except that everything I’ve read about the situation points out that only women write poisoned-pen letters.”

“I thought you were a blazing feminist,” said Harold, managing a grin. “Why should any form of employment be restricted to a single sex?”

He had me there, and I told him so. “I guess it doesn’t
have to be
.” That still didn’t negate the fact that everything I’d ever read pointed the finger at women when it came to writing nasty letters. But I didn’t feel up to arguing with Harold. Besides, I’d just as soon discover a man was responsible for
sending
the horrid things. It would sure help if we could figure out a reason for the person to be writing
to
both Monty and Lola, though. And it would also help, although it would be sort of icky, if the stupid writer would make a demand for money or something tangible like that. This “change your wicked ways or tragedy will strike” nonsense was to
o darned vague to be of any use in solving the mystery.
I mean, what did it really mean. How were they
supposed
to
change
their wicked ways?
Which wicked ways? Phooey.

“I’m not sure that’s funny, Harold,” said Monty.

“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Harold.

“I can’t figure any of it out,” said I. And we all subsided into silence, which was broken only once, when Monty got up to refill his glass with whatever it was that wasn’t apple juice.

After a few minutes of
stillness
, I heaved a deep sigh, rose from the pretty chair and said, “I’m beat.
I’d better get going
. This whole letter thing is only confusing the heck out of me and giving me a headache. I want to go home.” I fear the last sentence came out a trifle whiny.

The two men rose. Being gentlemen, they didn’t pounce upon my weakness. In fact, Monty thanked me for coming
and shook my hand as if he meant it
.

Harold saw me out to my automobile. “This whole thing is driving poor Monty crazy,” he said, his hands shoved into his pockets and looking worried.
“I’m sorry I got you involved in the mess, Daisy.”

“
It’s all right, Harold. I understand. Anyhow, I was going to be here anyway. Might as well try to solve the mystery of the letters. That’ll probably ultimately turn out to be easier than dealing with Lola. But the letter thing is driving me crazy, too
. I
n fact, i
t’s confusing me so much, I can’t even think any longer. I need to go home, sleep for a long, long time, and come back here tomorrow morning.”
Because I couldn’t help myself, I added, “I
really
don’t want to come back here tomorrow. I hate this job.”

“I
understand the feeling
, Daisy. Work
ing with Lola would drive any sane person
around the bend. Besides, you have more important things to think about than that
stupid
woman.”

Suddenly, every bad thing in my life tackled me
at once
, and I turned to Harold. “Oh, Harold! I can’t stand
it
any longer!” And I subsided, weeping, into his arms.

Poor Harold. He was such a good friend. He understood, even though I didn’t articulate to him what the
it
was that I couldn’t stand any longer. Putting his arms around me, he allowed me to cry on his shoulder for several minutes
, crooning softly all the while
.

“I know, Daisy. You have too much to bear. But you’re a trump, you know. Anyone who can put up with my mothe
r for as many years as you have
is definitely a trump. Add to that your personal situation, and I think you deserve a halo
. Failing that, you deserve a whole lot of money and some peace of mind
.”

His words made me chuckle.
It
was a weak and watery chuckle, but still . . .

I withdrew
my pitiful self
from his arms, yanked a hankie out of my pocket book, and wiped my eyes. “Thank you, Harold. Sorry I fell apart.”

“If anyone deserve
s
to fall apart, Daisy
Majesty
, it’s you. Think nothing of it. I’m always available if you need someone to talk to.
Or a shoulder to cry on,
”
he added with a grin.

“I know. You’re my best friend, Harold.”

“And you’re mine,” he said.

I didn’t believe him. Harold had tons of friends. But I did know he considered me one of his special favorites, and that made me feel good.

* * * * *

The rest of that week passed miserably, but not quite as miserably as it might have
been
. For one thing, Lola
actually seemed to take
Rolly’s words to heart and was only late four or five times for the entire duration of the week
, most of which was devoted to filming the picture
. She threw minor fits and tantrums every now and then, but they were easily subdued, primarily because I reminded her what
Rolly’d
told her
she had to lose if she kept misbehaving.