Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (39 page)

“When do you aim to throw this séance of yours?”

“It’s
conduct
a séance, Sam, not
throw
one.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Friday night.
Tomorrow.
” I heaved a sigh. “It’ll be good to have the matter settled. I’m so sick of Lola’s tantrums, I don’t think I can stand many more of them.”

“You’re not alone there,” said Sam grimly. “This whole picture nonsense is a load of boloney.”

Standing, I said, “I know you don’t think you belong here.”

He joined me, and we walked back toward the set together. I didn’t want to leave the gazebo. “I
don’t
belong here. Neither do the two uniforms. This has been a total waste of taxpayer money.”

I thought about that for a moment. “Well, I
suppose
the picture is bringing business
and revenues and stuff like that
to the city.
I mean, think of all the businesses that are getting trade from the folks working on the picture.
Restaurants
,
and so forth. Department stores.
Those sorts of businesses
.
That’s important, I reckon.”

“I reckon.”

I could tell he didn’t believe it.

The rest of that day
on the set
went well. Lola didn’t throw a single temper tantrum. Not one.
Mind you, I did have to encourage her a time or two, reminding her
of
Rolly
’s messages and so forth. Still
i
t was, all in all, a red-letter day on the set of
The Fire at Sunset
. I could scarcely believe it when I drove home at an appropriately early hour and pulled into our driveway.

My family had a pleasant evening at home, too.
After another one of Aunt Vi’s excellent dinners—fricasseed chicken with dumplings, peas and carrots and spice cake for dessert—
I played the piano and we all sang, and then we all read for a while, and then we all went to bed. It would have been a normal evening for a normal family, except that our evenings since the beginning of the picture shoot hadn’t been at all normal. I was grateful for that one evening, though; very grateful.

* * * * *

Friday rolled around, as it inevitably does after Thursday. Again, Lola caused no problems on the set, perhaps because she’d been told about the anticipated séance that evening and she didn’t want to be scolded by Rolly
again
. Little did she know she wasn’t going to be the center of attention
at
this particular
séance
, or she’d probably have made it a point to disrupt the filming.

Lucky for me, it was so crowded inside the dressing-room house that I didn’t have to lie in wait to be of assistance to Lola. Rather, I
hied
myself to the gazebo, where I took out
The Case of the Deserted Wife
, a Sexton Black novel I’d thoughtfully stuck in my handbag in hopeful anticipation of a quiet day on the set. To tell the truth, I hadn’t expected to be able to read the thing, but everything seemed to be working in my favor that day, much as it had the day before. I didn’t quite trust my luck, although I told myself not to be
absurd
.

When I was about halfway through the second chapter of the book, enjoying the comfort of the padded gazebo bench and wishing I lived
someplace
on the Winkworth estate, Harold Kincaid joined me. I was glad to see him
and laid my book aside for the nonce
.

“Detective Rotondo told me where you were,” he said by way of greeting.

“Yeah. I had to tell Sam and John Bohnert where to find me
in case Lola starts
cutting up.”

Sitting next to me, Harold said, “So far, she’s being quite amenable to direction. Not a single cross word has passed her lips, and she’s actually doing what she’s being told to do.”

“How odd.”

With a shrug, Harold said, “Not really. I think she’s scared about the séance.”

“
That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking
,” I told him with a grin. “Say, did you discuss with Monty what sort of threat would
still
his granny’s
venomous pen? I thought maybe I could dredge up her uncle—or was it her grandfather
?
—who was a general in the Civil War and have him tell her to stop writing the letters.”

“Colonel,” said Harold.

I blinked at him. “Beg pardon?”

“Her grandfather was a colonel, and that’s exactly what Monty said. Get gramps to tell her he’s ashamed of her actions. Monty thinks that will cure her pronto. She’d do anything to keep her family’s name and the great Confederate cause unsullied.”

“Oh, brother.”

“My sentiments, too, but there’s no accounting for taste.”

“I guess not.

I spent the rest of the day plotting how to present the facts of life to Mrs. Lurlene Winkworth, doyenne of the Southern Cause in Pasadena, California—which seemed like a stupid thing to be to me, but I was a nobody. I thought I had a pretty good plan in hand by the time I went home that evening.

In order to keep Billy entertained while I was conducting the séance, Sam again came to dinner that night. He and Pa and Billy would spend the rest of Friday night playing gin rummy in the living room whilst I plied my trade. All in all, it felt good to be doing something of which Sam Rotondo, the bitterest of my enemies—he was my only enemy, come to think of it—approved.

Chapter Twenty-One

In order to impress upon my audience the solemnity of the occasion, I wore my most spectacularly subdued spiritualist garb that evening.
I’d worn the ensemble before, but only Harold had ever seen it, and he wouldn’t mind. Heck, he knew that, while I did wonders with the White side-pedal sewing machine I’d bought for Ma—but mainly used myself—I wasn’t rich. I did a whole lot
of sewing
with the money I made, but I was frugal when it came to fabric and accessories.

Anyhow, the dress was a long black silk number that tied at the side hip with glossy black-satin ribbons. It was supposed to be straight, but I’ve already mentioned my assorted curves that marred its sleek lines. The gown sported (if sported is the right word
for such a somber occasion
) a big, scalloped appliqué of shiny black beads and silk embroidery that glimmered in the lights of
various
lamps, and that would be truly stunning by the
glow
of the one cranberry lamp I permitted in the middle of the séance table.

Naturally, I wore black shoes, carried a small beaded handbag—I
’d done
the beading, of course—and was ready to set out. I was honestly optimistic about the outcome of this evening’s work, and I smiled at those assembled in the living room
of our comfy little bungalow on Marengo Avenue
. Vi had already gone up to bed, but Sam, Pa and Billy were, as anticipated, gathered around the card table. Ma
sat in her favorite chair, embroidering something for one of
my brother’s or sister
’
s
children.

Billy glanced up and saw me. “Gee, Daisy, you look great.”

My heart plummeted. Not that I didn’t appreciate his words, because I did, but Billy never us
ed to hand out compliments
, and I got the feeling he didn’t like me looking good for other people. Nevertheless, I smiled some more and said, “Thanks, Billy. I want to impress Granny Winkworth.”

“Granny Winkworth,” Billy repeated as if he doubted my words.

Sam said, “It’s the truth, Billy. Daisy’s got to get the old lady to stop writing nasty
anonymous
letters to Lola de la Monica, and I think she’ll be able to do it with this séance of hers.” He pronounced the word
séance
as if it smelled like rotten eggs, but I was grateful to him for setting Billy’s mind at rest.

Ma’s head jerked up from her embroidery hoop. “Nasty
anonymous
letters?” she asked, astonished. “What nasty letters?”

The rest of the group appeared equally interested. Pa said, “Letters to Lola de la Monica? Jeepers.”

“Sam can tell you all about them,” I told
them all
. “I’d better get going. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck. I guess,” said Billy, clearly puzzled.

“It’s like this . . .” were the last words I heard before I closed the door behind myself, and they were spoken by Sam.

Fortunately for my black silk stockings, Spike resided on Billy’s lap, so I didn’t have to fight him off at the door. I drove to the Winkworth mansion with a heart full of hope and a mind troubled with thoughts of Billy and his altered attitude toward my work and me. It seemed a little late in the game for him to have suddenly
arrived
at
an appreciation of my spiritualistic efforts to keep the family’s finances afloat, but I supposed stranger things had happened. Heck, people actually believing in the tripe I fed them was stranger than a change in Billy’s attitude
. Maybe
.

I hadn’t come to grips with anything by the time I gave the guard at the Winkworth estate my name, and the huge iron gate silently opened on its hinges through some magical automatic device unseen by yours truly. I parked the Chevrolet in front of the massive marble
front
steps, sucked in a deep breath of soft June air,
scented that evening with gardenias
and jasmine
,
and climbed the steps to the porch. There I rang the doorbell and waited for the butler to admit me. A butler. Paid for by Monty Mountjoy, whose grandmother appreciated absolutely none of the material
comforts
Monty had
showered upon
her.
Ungrateful, demented
woman.

When the butler led me into the front parlor, I was pleased to see Harold among the assembled guests.
By the by,
I allowed no more than eight
attendees at a séance as a rule
not because it made any difference to me personally, but because strict rules impressed my clients. You figure it out. It’s beyond me.
Along with Harold were Mrs. Winkworth and Lola de la Monica, both of whom appeared slightly apprehensive, Monty Mountjoy
, who smiled at me happily
; Mrs. Hanratty; Gladys Pennywhistle, who surprised me with a smile; and Dr. Homer Fellowes, who gladdened me by sticking close to Gladys. If you added me
to the group
, that made eight, which was fine, although I wasn’t sure I trusted Dr. Fellowes not to make a hash of things once the séance got started. After all, he was even brainier than Gladys, and he might balk at the nonsense I intended to perpetrate.

To my surprise,
Mrs. Winkworth came up to me with her hands outstretched. “Good evening, Mrs. Majesty. It’s so good of you to come this evening.”

“Thank you,” I said in my deep, soothing, spiritualist voice.

“Er . . . Monty said it was most important that this séance be held,” continued Mrs. Winkworth, who had a voice of her own to project: that of a dignified southern lady whose ancestry was impeccable, although I aimed to peck at it some that night.

“Yes,” I said softly. “The spirits are anxious that some
extremely
important matters be taken care of.” I aimed to sound as mysterious as I could, and I guess I succeeded because I saw Mrs. Winkworth gulp and wondered if she knew she’d been a naughty girl. If she didn’t know it yet,
she
sure would
by the time the colonel got through with her; I could almost guarantee it.

“I . . . see.”

She didn’t
seem
awfully happy when we all traipsed down the hall to the dining room, which was
once more
being used
for
the séance that evening. I set out my cranberry lamp, lit the candle, sat at the head of the table
,
bowed my head and sat in silence for a moment as if bracing myself for torture to come. After a little bit of that, I
told those assembled to take hands
and signaled the butler, who evidently had gone to the same butlering school as
Mrs. Pinkerton’s
Featherstone, to turn off the electric lights. He did so, and the room took on a wonderfully creepy aura. Exactly what I wanted. So I began to do my stuff.

Dr. Fellowes must have been warned by someone not to interrupt the séance, because I didn’t hear a peep from him or
from
Gladys during
my
entire performance. In fact, the only noises audible as I perpetrated my fraud on Mrs. Winkworth
and Lola de la Monica
were a couple of gasps from
one or the other of them
when the colonel showed up and scolded
Mrs. Winkworth
—not by name, of course.