Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (20 page)

She shook her head. “No. But I know where yesterday’s letter came from.”

“You do?” Boy, maybe this would solve all of our problems. I was ecstatic for about a second and a half, until Lola spoke again.

“Yes. From the
Beyond
.”

Nuts. Stupid woman. I said, “Nonsense. The spirits don’t need to write poisoned-pen letters. In fact, they couldn’t if they wanted to. They’re insubstantial beings. They may visit from time to time, if given sufficient cause, but they never write letters.”

Her lower lip stuck out so far, she looked like my niece in a pout, and she crossed her arms
over her chest
in a posture of defiance.

Figuring I’d best hurry this along, I ignored
both
her
posture and her pout and went on, “There’s no need for this carrying-on, Lola. You’re only annoying the people you need
to further your career
by delaying production
in
this way. I’ll be more than happy to conduct an individual séance with you this evening, after the rehearsal is over.” Oh,
boy
, Billy was going to love another late night out on my part. Still, this, as I kept reminding us both, was my job.

She brightened minimally and looked at me. Her eyes, for all the supposed crying she’d been doing,
were
remarkably dry and un-puffy. Hmm. Play-acting all along, by
golly
.
After the day’s work was done, I might just remind her that she was in danger of ruining her reputation and that people
who mattered in the
industry
were getting sick of her antics. Naturally, I’d couch my lecture in esoteric, spiritualistic terms. And I’d probably call Rolly in to impart it.
Even though Lola de la Monica seemed to possess a thickish head, I believed I could get Rolly to do his part
in straightening her out
.

Which brings up a salient point, but it’s one I’d run across before. People were ever so much
more
apt to take home truths from Rolly, a fictional gentleman I’d made up when I was ten years old, than they were from a rea
l, honest-to-goodness
human being. You figure it out. It’s beyond me.

Lola sat in mulish silence for a moment or two, then sniffled once to show me she was still in distress. I refrained from smacking her with some difficulty. “You neglected to put a charm on my dressing room yesterday,” she said sulkily.

“I’ll do that first thing. As soon as you go
on
out to the set and begin
rehearsing
.”

“No! I must be there with you when you do it.”

I was very firm in my reply.
“You may
not
be there when I do it. When I cast charms, I have to work alone.” Figuring it wouldn’t hurt and might just help, I went into one of my patented spiritualist routines. “You see, Lola, I have
a
special
ability to communicate
with those from the
Other Side
.”
Whatever that was
. I didn’t add that part. “It is very important that I
attain a special spiritual
state of mind
, and in o
rder to do that, I need to medit
ate and concentrate on the realm beyond our understanding. My spiritual conductor to that other realm will assist me. Any other human being present will only disrupt the psychical connection.
It’s exhausting work, and it takes a lot out of me.
I definitely need to work alone
with my control.
”

Was I good at this nonsense, or was I not?

“Well . . .”

Lola clearly wanted to pout some more, but I put the kibosh on her stubbornness. I wasn’t above doing some play-acting of my own, by gum. “If you won’t take my advice on spiritual matters,” I said,
icing up
my spiritualist’s voice a
notch
, “there’s no reason for me to be here. Perhaps you can find another—”

“
No!
” she squealed, again nearly rendering me deaf. “You can’t desert me!”

“I can and will, if you refuse to follow my instructions. I believe I’ve been referred to you as a competent spiritualist, Miss de la Monica. Is that correct?”

She sniffled again, sounding less pouty and more desperate. “You’re the best. Everyone says so.”

“Then,” said I, gentling my voice, “you need to allow me to do my job whilst you do yours. Your job in this instance is to go out to the set and begin rehearsing. My job is to place a special spell on your dressing room so that no otherworldly entities can harm you. The letter,” I reminded her, “was
not
placed against your mirror by a supernatural force. It was put there by a human being, so you don’t need to fear the Other Side when it comes to letter-writing.”

Bowing her head and folding her hands in her lap, she whispered soulfully, “Very well. But you must come out with me. When I am with the others, you may then come back to this house and place your spell.” She thought for a micro-second. “Perhaps you should place a charm on the entire house.”

Oh, brother. Was this woman a selfish cat, or was she not a selfish cat? I ask you! I said, “Placing charms
and spells
is an exhausting business, Lola. One room a day is my limit. If I drain my psychical abilities, I won’t be able to conduct a proper individual séance with you this evening.”

Billy was
absolutely
right about my line of work.
That is to say
, he was right in that it was
pure
hogwash. I still maintain it wasn’t evil.

Lola heaved herself up from the sofa and expelled a long, weary sigh. “Very well. I understand. I, too, must suffer for my art.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and giving her the raspberry with
effort
. Rather, gathering my self-control around me like a mantle
—or perhaps a mantilla would be more appropriate, given Lola’s Spanish mien—
I rose from the sofa and took her arm. “Good. I’ll see you out to the others, and then I’ll go to your dressing room.” Maybe I’d just take a little nap there, in fact. There wasn’t anything else I could do that would benefit anyone in Lola de la Monica’s stupid dressing room.

It’s a good thing I didn’t anticipate applause when I led Lola out to do her job, because we sure didn’t get any. Lola got black looks from
most
everyone. Harold mouthed, “Thank you, Daisy,” but had the good sense no
t to say it aloud. John Bohnert, who’d been pacing
and had his back to us
, received a tap on the shoulder from Lillian Marshall, whirled around, saw us walking toward the set, and looked as if he wanted to bellow at Lola. In order to prevent any more theatrical displays from her, I grimaced at him, and he
controlled
his urge
. He seemed mighty peeved when he stomped over to us, but at least he didn’t yell.

“So.” He glared at Lola. “Let’s get busy. We’re atleast an hour behind schedule already. Add this delay to yesterday’s, and we may never get this picture in the can.”

With no reluctance whatsoever, I handed Lola over to the not-so-gentle hands of John Bohnert. It might have done her good if he
had
hollered at her, but it would also have
probably
precipitated some more delays, so I only breathed a sigh of relief
.

Shoot, the day had barely begun, and I was a wreck.

“Do you think the woman’s nuts, or is she just an idiot?”

Sam.

My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, Sam. One of those things, I expect.
Maybe both.
”

“She’s definitely a pain in the neck. And other parts of the body.”

Harold.

I said, “You’ve got that right.”

“Thanks for getting her out here,” Harold said. “I’ve got to check with Lillian about the costumes. Then I need to talk to you. Will you be in the dressing room?”

“I guess so,” I told him. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“I can offer you a job as a seamstress. You sew better than anyone I have on staff
.
”

I think Harold was only joking, but I said, “How much do you pay?”

“Not as much as you make casting spells.” Harold trotted off toward the gathered mob at the rehearsal set.

“Are you really going to cast a spell on her dressing room?”
Sam again.

“I suppose so. Might as well.” I heaved yet another sigh. “Casting spells is a darned sight easier than dealing with Lola.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Sam. “I want to see how you do this.”

“You would.”

He chuckled. I didn’t really mind him coming along. It wasn’t as if he didn’t
already
know I was
as
phony as
the tooth fairy
.

“No. Really,” he said. “It will be interesting to watch you work.”

I frowned at him. “You’re as much of a fraud as I am, Sam Rotondo, you know that?”

He splayed a big hand across his chest. “Me?
Me
? A fraud?
Perish the thought.”

We stumped along back to the big marble house
where
the dressing rooms were located in silence for a minute or two. Then I said, “You know very well I’m not going to be casting any sort of charm on that idiot’s stupid dressing room.”

“I know it.” He chuckled again. “But I’ve only been her
e
for an hour or so, and already I’m bored to death. I
honestly
don’t think anyone is going to try to steal Professor Fellowes’s invention. It galls me that I have to
spend
all my time here for however many days or weeks this picture is being filmed. Talk about a waste of manpower
and the city’s money
.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Me, too.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So, what are you going to do? Just stand in the dressing room and say ‘boo?’ ”

After glancing around to make sure nobod
y who counted could overhear our
conversation, I said, “Actually, I was thinking of taking a nap.”

For the first time I could
ever
remember, Sam Rotondo burst out laughing. Gee, he was usually so grim. His good humor took me somewhat aback.

He got over it quickly. I wasn’t surprised about that. What had surprised me was his laughing in the first place.

“So how’s Billy doing?” he asked, back to being serious again.

“Not very well.” I glanced up at him. “
You
already know that, Sam. You’re with him darned near as much as I am.” Before he could say anything nasty, I hastened to assure him my comment wasn’t intended as a barb. “And he needs your friendship
,
especially now. He . . . he seems to be getting weaker.
Worse, he seems to have l
ost hope. He won’t even try to w
alk anymore.
” I swallowed the lump of tears that had formed in my throat, as it always did when I considered the state of my husband’s health. “
The only thing he seems to enjoy doing anymore is attending Spike’s dog-obedience lessons on Saturday mornings, and they aren’t going to last forever.
I don’t know what to do
to
help
him
.”

Sam had already shocked me
once
that morning. He did so again when he
laid
his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it, Daisy. You’re doing the best you can.”

Boy, a year and a half ago, if anyone had told me that Sam Rotondo would one day say something kind to me in regard to my husband, I’d have scoffed—after I stopped laughing. I darned
near cried again. But I didn’t
and was proud of myself. “Thanks, Sam. It’s . . . it’s really rough. I love him so much, you know.
I’ve loved him all my life.
”

“I know.”

“And it’s so difficult to watch someone you love decline
the way Billy’s doing
.”

“I know.”

“That’s right. You do know, don’t you?”

It was Sam’s turn to sigh.
“When Margaret was dying of tuberculosis, I kept thinking there
must
have been something I could do for her. For a long time I thought that if I’d
only
found a job out here on the west coast sooner, it might have made a difference
to her health
. It’s taken me years to believe the doctors were right when they told me I couldn’t have
done anything
to help
her, no matter
how much I tried
.
She had tuberculosis, and that was that.
”