Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (36 page)

I said, “Thanks, Billy. I’d much rather stay home, believe me.” I let go of his hand so we could both get back to Vi’s delicious meal.

“Why do you have to go back tonight?” asked Sam.

I should have expected the question from him. Everyone else at the table just took it for granted that someone at the Winkworth estate needed my services. Not Sam. He suspected I was up to something. The fact that he was right didn’t endear him to me one little bit.

“When I was trying to calm Lola down today, she asked me to come over and comfort her with the Ouija board and the tarot cards after dinner tonight.”

“She’s staying at the Winkworth place?” asked Ma.

“Yes. She and Monty Mountjoy both are staying there for the duration of the shoot. Of course, it’s natural for Mr. Mountjoy to stay there, since both his mother and his grandmother live on the property.”

“You’re sure it’s Lola you’re going to see?” asked Billy.

I gaped at him. “Who else would I be going to see? I work for her.” Oh, Lord, he wasn’t going to have a fit of jealousy again, was he? Last year he’d practically accused me of having an affair with Johnny Buckingham,
of all people
.

Billy shrugged.
“He’s a good-looking man. You’re a good-looking woman.”

“Thank you. I’m also a
married
woman, Billy Majesty.” My feelings were honestly hurt by his words. I would never, ever
,
cheat on my husband, and if h
e didn’t know that by this time
he’d never learn.

“Daisy’s a good girl,” said my staunch father. “We brought her up right.”

Billy smiled at him. “I know. I guess I just can’t help worrying sometimes. Heck, look at me.” He gestured at the wheelchair, which Sam had pushed up to the table. “I’d hardly blame her for being interested in a whole man.”

“Billy,” I said, shaking my head. “You honestly don’t understand by this time that I love you? I’ve loved you all my life. Well, since I was five, anyhow.”

He gave a comical grimace. “I guess I can’t forget that. Heck, you chased me all over creation when we were kids.”

“Darned right I did,” I said, striving for a light tone that didn’t feel right at all. Inside, I felt as heavy as if my heart were made of lead. “And I finally wore you down, too.”

“You did,” agreed Billy. “I tried to escape, but you caught me in the end.” He grinned, looking genuinely happy. I didn’t know what to think, personally.

“I think that’s so romantic,” breathed Flossie, who had a romantic disposition in spite of her early life of hardship on the mean streets of New York City. She’d been working on trying to rid herself of her eastern accent, and was doing a darned good job of
it. I really liked Flossie
.
She’d been through a lot
and had lifted herself up by her bootstraps, as it were. Sort of like Johnny, actually. The two were good for each other.

After we’d eaten entirely too much of Vi’s delicious pork roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots, and a lovely gelled salad into which she’d inserted celery, pineapple and a bunch of other goodies, Ma and I cleared the plates from the table and brought out the dessert dishes.

“Apple crumble for dessert,” said Vi, fetching it. “With cream.”

Be still, my heart. “I love your apple crumble, Vi,” I said in a rapturous voice.

“You love everything,” she said, but she appreciated my words; I could tell.

Dessert, as ever, was a wonderful end to a wonderful meal. I felt very sorry for Vi, who had lost her only child in the war and then her husband to the Spanish flu, but the Gumm-Majesty household was much the richer for her
tragic
losses.

Flossie, Ma and I washed the dishes while the men settled in the living room, chatting. I was sure they’d break out the card table pretty soon and begin playing gin rummy, since that’s what
always
happened when Sam came to dinner. I hoped Flossie wouldn’t mind if Johnny joined them, and told her so.

She laughed. “Oh, my, no. My poor Johnny works too hard. He needs some time to have fun with friends every once in a while. Anyhow, I brought my knitting.”

“You knit?” I asked her, impressed. “I’ve always wanted to learn to knit.”

“I can teach you.”

Ma heaved a sig
h
. “I try to knit every now and then, but I’m terrible at it. I’m much better at crocheting.”

“I can teach you, too.”

“I’d love that.
Thank you
, Flossie. What are you knitting at the moment? Baby things, I expect.”

“I’m knitting a little matinee sweater. Actually, this is the third one.
People have told me that you can never have too many of them.

“That’s the truth,
”
said Ma, nodding wisely.

I’d never even thought about matinee sweaters for babies, since I’d never have any, but the notion
brought up an interesting question. At least I thought it was. “What colors are you using? I mean, you won’t know if the baby’s a boy or a girl until it’s born, so I guess you’re steering clear of blue and pink.”

“Yellow, green and white so far,” she said.

“You look so happy, Flossie,” I blurted out. “I’m so glad.”

“I am happy, Daisy. And it’s all because of you.”

“Nuts. You and Johnny were destined to find each other.
”

She shook her head. “I don’t know about that. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I’d probably be dead by now.”

“Now that’s a dismal thought,” said Ma, interested in our conversation in spite of herself.

“But it’s the truth. Surely you know the story, Mrs. Gumm,” said Flossie.

Ma colored slightly. She knew the story, all right, every sordid inch of it. “Um . . . yes. You were most unfortunate, dear. But that’s in the past now.”

“It is. And it’s all because of Daisy,”
Flossie
repeated.

I said, “Nuts,” again,
and
dropped the subject, because it embarrassed me. Flossie and I had met in a speakeasy. She
had at the time been
what’s commonly known as a “gangster’s moll,” and I was there to do a séance. Honest to God. What’s more, I didn’t want to be there at all
. I’d been
all but forced into doing the séance for the sake of Mrs. Pinkerton, then Mrs. Kincaid
. Anyhow, life
had been
pretty darned perilous for a while, but it all turned out all right in the end, which I guess is the important part.

At any rate, I was glad Flossie didn’t anticipated being bored when I took my leave, which I did shortly thereafter. I didn’t want to go to the Winkworth estate again that night almost as much as I hadn’t wanted to go to that accursed speakeasy. But duty called.

After the last dish had been put away, I decided to do something I’d been dreading. Heading into the living room, I smiled at the company and said, bold as brass, “Say, Sam, if you figure out who’s been writing Lola those letters, will you arrest the writer?”

I guess I’d interrupted some kind of interesting conversation, because Billy, Sam, Johnny and Pa all swiveled to gape at me. Billy said, “What letters?”

Bother. Sometimes I wish I weren’t so precipitate.
Often, in fact.
I blame my straight-arrow nature on my being born under the sign of Sagittarius, although I’m sure that’s unchristian thinking on my part. “Lola de la Monica has been getting threatening letters,” I told my husband. And the rest of the guys, but he’d asked the question.

“Why are you asking about arresting the letter-writer,” Sam asked in full suspicious-of-Daisy mode.

“Just wondering,” I said with a smile that felt as counterfeit as it probably looked.

Sam rose from the sofa, where he’d been sitting next to Pa. “Daisy, if you know who’s—”

“Darn it, Sam, all I want to know is if you can arrest someone for writing the stupid letters. Or does somebody have to . . . what do you call it?” I couldn’t think of the right word, not being particularly acute about police matters, even though I read detective novels all the time.

“Press charges?” Billy asked, trying to be helpful.

I shot him a grateful smile. “That’s the word! Does someone have to press charges, or can you arrest a person for writing anonymous letters without anyone, um, pressing charges?”

The way Sam was glowering at me, you’d think he suspected me of writing the idiotic letters. “Why do you want to know that?” he asked again.

I huffed. “Oh, never mind,” I
said
. “I was just curious, was all.” Not to mention the fact that I really needed to know. It would make all the difference in the world if Monty would have to press charges against his grandmother, because he wouldn’t. However, if Sam could arrest the old lady without having charges pressed against her—gee, that sounds odd—then it wouldn’t matter, and I’d be more than happy to tell Sam all about her misguided attempts to get her grandson to quit the picture business.

Much to my disappointment, Sam didn’t blurt out an answer. Rather, he scowled at me every minute as I kissed my husband and my father, gave Johnny a sunny smile, and even allowed Sam a pleasant look as I headed toward the front door.

By the time I’d said my good-byes, persuaded Spike that he couldn
’t go with me
and got into the Chevrolet,
night had fallen
, so I didn’t even have the consolation of pretty scenery as I drove south on Marengo. What’s more, I was bone-tired. Lola de la Monica could really take the stuffing out of the people who had to work with her.

Harold and Monty were happy to see me, though, even if Gladys didn’t appear overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t think she really cared much, though, since I noticed she was again paired with Dr. Homer Fellowes at a bridge match being waged in the living room. Mrs. Winkworth was partnered with John Bohnert, poor fellow, who had probably been finagled into staying for dinner and bridge. The only problem with bridge, as I saw it, was that the proponents of the game always seemed compelled to rehash the last evening’s game again the following day. Everyone I knew who played bridge did that.
I wasn’t enamored of card games
or I might have learned bridge and done the same thing myself, thereby boring all my acquaintances who didn’t play the game. Odd how life works sometimes, isn’t it?

However, I was there to conduct a pow-wow with Monty and Harold, so I forgot all about bridge as soon as Monty opened the door to his suite of rooms. He seemed
happy
to see me, and even gave me a little hug.
The sitting room was as pleasant as ever, and it held a scent of some masculine cologne and some probably very expensive pipe tobacco.

“So you found the culprit, and it’s Granny!” He broke into laughter.

I think I was glad about that; I mean his sense of humor about what had been a harrowing ordeal seemed considerably better to me than him wanting to seek revenge on
his
nasty old
grandmother
. I told
him so
.

“Oh, Gran’s all right, really. It’s only that she disapproves so strenuously of the dissipated lives of so many picture people.”

“Your life isn’t dissipated,” I pointed out with some bitterness. “And I think she was a beast to send you those letters.”

“I think so, too,” Harold piped in from the sidelines.

Monty gave a most elegant shrug. I swear, every single gesture the man made might have been choreographed. He dressed well, too. That evening he wore
tan
flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a rather raffish scarlet neckerchief. His smoking jacket was
dark brown
and had those leather patches on the elbows. I’m not altogether sure what
use those
patches
served
, but they looked good. Of course, just about anything would have looked good on Monty Mountjoy.

“Gran’s only old and set in her ways,” said Monty.

“I think you’re being very generous,” I said.

“But we still have to figure out how to get her to stop writing the letters,” Harold said, bringing our attention back to the matter at hand. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter, Daisy?”

“Actually,” said I, rather proud of myself, “I have, and I think I can do it.”

“You do?” Monty’s eyes opened wide, and he appeared
both
surprised
and pleased
.

“I figured you’d know what to do.” Harold’s voice held a note of satisfaction that I appreciated.

“Let’s all sit down and get comfortable, and you can explain your idea to us, Daisy,” suggested Monty, gesturing to a sofa and two chairs neatly arranged before a fireplace, unlit this warm evening.

So we all sat, Monty offered us all drinks, I refused, Harold took a cream sherry, and our session began.

“What I recommend is that I perform another séance. During that séance, I can have Rolly make a general announcement to those present that the writer of the letters is known to the spirits on the Other Side, and they disapprove. Heartily disapprove, in fact. Then he can say something
along the lines that
if the writer doesn’t stop
sending
the letters, something
truly
awful will happen. None of your grandmother’s innocuous threats for Rolly, Monty. I fear Rolly might have to put the fear of God—”