Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (31 page)

“Hey,” said Sam, nettled.

But I’d spoken onl
y what I perceived as the truth
and my hot glare over Lola’s heaving shoulders told him so. He rolled his eyes again. Darn him, anyhow!

“I’m sure you’re upset about getting another letter,” I began.

“Yes! Oh, yes!” she wailed in my ear.

I swear, I was going to be completely deaf before this job was finished. “However, there’s no need to carry on so. I believe these letters to be written by someone who has no real power. I don’t believe the threat is to be taken seriously.”

Her shudders subsided slightly. “You don’t?” She lifted her head from my shoulder and peered at me throu
gh wet eyes. At least this time
she’d been crying genuine tears. Unless she
’d
just got grass in her eyes from the thumping she’d given the lawn. “Why not?”

“Because if any real threat were intended, something bad would have happened by this time, don’t you think?”

“Well . . . how can you tell? How do you know?”

“For one thing, the letters all say the same thing. There’s not one mention of what might happen if you don’t change your ways.
And the writer certainly hasn’t
explained what he or she considers ‘wicked,’ which he or she should if he expects your behavior to change.”

“But . . .”

I went on doggedly, reminding myself of Spike.
“From everything I’ve read about poisoned-pen letter
writer
s,” I told her, imparting the same information I’d given to Harold and Monty recently, “they’re written by people who feel they have no power. The only way they can express their disapproval or vent their spleens is to write nasty letters.”

Lola blinked at me. “What’s a spleen?”

Oh, boy. “I mean, writing letters is the only way they
believe
they have to . . .
to
get back at someone
they don’t like
. If you know what I mean.”

“But why would anyone want to get back at me?
Why would anyone not like
me
?
” asked Lola.

I heard a murmur
spread
through the crowd gathered and felt like doing a little eye-rolling of my own.

“I have no idea.” Figuring the time to comfort was over—I saw John Bohnert frowning at his wristwatch—
I spoke more bracingly when I continued, “But you have a job to do. You shouldn’t allow these letters to upset you so much. That’s precisely what the letter-writer wants. Whoever is doing this is hoping that you—or perhaps the entire picture—will be so badly affected by the letters that the studio will suffer.”

Boy, I’d just that second thought about someone maybe having it in for the studio, but it seemed like a really solid idea! I glanced at Sam and saw that he was frowning, only not at me this time, but in thought. I was proud of myself for about a second and a half before Lola captured my attention once more, this time by wailing again. I winced before I could stop myself.

“No! No!
No
! This evil person is out to get
me
! I know it! I can feel evil coming toward me! Oh, Daisy, you
have
to help me!”

How
, I wanted to ask her. Did she want me to go out stalking the letter-writer? But Lola, never one for common sense, clearly had no more idea than I about how I could help her to get the letter-writer to cease and desist.
“I’m doing my best to help you,” I said, trying to keep the sharpness out of my voice. “And the best way to do that is to ignore the letters and do your job. Remember what Rolly told you.”

“But he didn’t know about the letters!” she cried.

My poor ears couldn’t take any more of being screeched in to, so I pulled slightly away from Lola. “
Yes, he
did
,” I reminded her. “We talked to him about them, remember? Anyhow, t
he spirits know everything,
so even if we hadn’t told Rolly about the letters, he’d know.
” I
spoke
firmly.

“We told him?” she asked uncertainly.

Brother. Why bother to give the woman her own personal, private séance if she wasn’t going to remember anything about it? For the first time, I began to wonder if Lola tippled on the side. I’d never smelled alcohol on her breath, but the Hollywoodland people were notorious for taking all sorts of drugs, as well as drinking to excess.
Maybe she took drugs and they had made her stupid.

“Yes, indeed. If you’ll recall, he told you not to worry about the letters, but to do your job. Right now your job is to get dressed for today’s
filming
.” I shot a glance at John Bohnert, hoping I’d said the right thing. He nodded vigorously, so I guessed I had.

“Well . . .” Lola seemed to be wavering. I already knew she loved being the center of attention. Too bad for everyone
working with her
that she seemed to take delight in
garnering
negative
,
instead of positive
,
attention.

“Come with me, Lola. I’ll help you get cleaned up. You’re all over grass stains.”

She glanced down at her formerly white gown.

“I’ll go fetch her costume,” Lillian Marshall said brightly. “And bring it to her dressing room.”

“Make it snappy,” said John, not at all amused by his female star’s antics.

“I’ll help you, Daisy,” said Harold. He stepped up to Lola’s side and took an arm.

Bless Harold for a saint, the woman finally released me. Not, mind you, before she’d dampened the shoulder of my black cotton frock. However, I’d dressed appropriately both for the day and for Lola, so it didn’t matter. I’d dry out quickly once we were all outdoors in the warm May
sunshine
with the camera rolling.
“Thanks, Harold.”

“I’m not through investigating this matter,” Sam said with a tone of authority that fit him.

“Well, can you investigate
it
while we get Lola ready for work?” I asked him, glancing at John and beginn
ing to feel a little desperate, although I’m not altogether sure why. I suppose it was because I felt responsible every time Lola acted up, which was silly of me, but there you go.

“I guess so.” Sam spoke grudgingly. Too bad for him.

“Thank you, Daisy. Please don’t leave me,” pleaded Lola as if she expected Sam to haul out the manacles and leg irons—which might not be a bad idea, actually.
If we chained her up, at least we could haul her where she needed to be
and keep to the schedule
.

But there I go again, being absurd. Life was never as simple as that.

“I won’t leave you,” I assured Lola.

“Oh, thank you!” Lola said upon a sob.

With Harold on one side and me on the other, we managed to get Lola upstairs and into her dressing room. Sam followed us. I could practically feel him
seething
behind us
.

“Here we
are.” I spoke with considerably
more brightness than I felt. I could already tell that I wasn’t going to be able to leave work early in order to visit Flossie and Johnny. Not with Lola in this fragile state.
Darn and blast.

Harold let go of Lola long enough to open the dressing-room door, and Lola and I more or less staggered in, Lola feigning great weakness. Or maybe she wasn’t feigning.

Naw. She was feigning. That’s what she did for a living, was act, after all.

Sam stomped into the room behind us, and I saw Lillian, looking nervous and holding a pretty green dress in one hand and a bunch of petticoats and a hoop skirt in the other.
Costume time. I wanted to talk to Harold alone to find out if Monty, too, had received another letter, but so far we’d been surrounded by people and I hadn’t dared ask.
Now that Sam was there, I didn’t think it prudent to ask Harold any silent questions, either. Sam in
variably
noticed
stuff like that and quizzed me ruthlessly about it.

“I think you need to wash up before you change your clothes,” I said gently. “Would you like me to help you?”

“Help her wash up?” Sam. Grumpily. What a surprise (I’m joking).

Lola eyed him with loathing. “My spirits have been crushed, Detective Rotondo.” She rolled the R in Rotondo beautifully. “I need Mrs. Majesty’s
assistance
.”

“All right,” said Sam as if he didn’t
understand Lola now, never had
and
, what’s more,
didn’t want to.

After sending him a peeved glance—he wasn’t helping in the least to get Lola calmed down and ready for work—I went
in
to the
small
bathroom
leading from the dressing room
with Lola, who decided only a full, hot bubble bath would do for her. In a way I didn’t blame her, since she’d been grubbing around on the lawn for God alone knew how long before I came onto the scene. On the other hand, that grubbing had been her idea
, and she was already late for the day’s filming
.

“Please,” she said, “draw my bath for me.”

Golly, now maid duties had been added to my list of responsibilities! However, I didn’t feel it prudent to cavil at that point, so I turned the water on in the bath. “Are these the salts you prefer?” I asked, holding up a bottle of purple crystal-like stuff.

“Yes. That’s my own fragrance, you know. It’s even called Lola.”

I could hear the pride in her voice. Personally, I’d rather have a rose or something named after me, scent not appealing to me much—besides, who’d want to hire a spiritualist who reeked of some god-awful perfume? Unless maybe it was sandalwood. I think sandalwood is approved of in spiritualistic circles. Not that this has anything to do with
Lola.

Suffice it to say I dumped a quantity of the bath crystals into the tub, and they foamed and emitted an enticing scent. “This smells nice,” I said, hoping to sooth Lola’s ruffled spirits. Besides, it was the truth. The salts smelled like Lola always smelled. I guess maybe some perfume maker somewhere really had created a scent just for her.

“Of course. Guerlain created it for me.”

Now she sounded smug, and any trace of sympathy I’d been harboring for her vanished like the steam from the tub. “That’s very nice. Now, why don’t you get out of that stained dress and clean yourself up.”

And then I got a
most unpleasant
shock. Lola, no shrinking violet, had already shed her stained dress. She wafted past me, stark naked, and sank into the tub. Thank God for bubbles. She might have been beautiful, and she might have
had
a great figure, but I sure as the dickens didn’t want to see it. I whirled around, and she laughed
softly
.

“Ah, Daisy, don’t be such a prude.”

“Thank you. I prefer being a prude to being
an
—” Fortunately, I stopped myself before uttering the word
exhibitionist
. As little as I liked Lola, still less did I want to
be fired from
this
detestable
job. “Um . . . I’ll just wait with the others in the sitting room. Please don’t take long, Lola. Mr. Bohnert is quite distressed about the continued delays in the filming of this picture.”

“Bah. Mr. Bohnert is a Philistine!”

“He’s also the boss,” I reminded her with something of a snap to my voice. “Try, please, to remember what Rolly told you. He meant it, Lola. The spirits don’t lie.”

A short space of silence preceded Lola’s whispered, “Very well.”

So I left her to her bubbles, prayed she’d hurry, and went back to the
sitting
room, where everyone was, as seemed appropriate, sitting. I heaved a huge sigh as I shut the bathroom door behind me.

“What’s she doing in there?” Harold asked.

“Bathing. I told her to hurry it up.”

“
Bathing
?”

I jumped, turned, and saw that John Bohnert had joined us. It was he who’d bellowed the word. “I told her to hurry. During our private séance, my spirit control—”

“Rolly,” Harold interrupted, grinning.

“Yes. Rolly told her to behave herself or this would be her last picture because she was getting
a
reputation as a troublemaker, and nobody would be willing to work with her again if she didn’t shape up.”

“That was
darned
severe of him,” said Harold. “I’m proud of you, Daisy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you
,” said John. “I only hope she starts taking his advice.” He frowned. “Although I almost understand why she was upset this morning. Why didn’t anyone tell me she was getting these letters, anyhow?”