happened that has you so upset? I’m sure that, with the help of the spirits, my constant guides and companions, I can assist you through whatever has transpired.” I wanted to add , to put you in this nonsensical state , but didn’t.
With a dramatic moan and a theatrical sigh, Lola de la Monica reached into one of her grass-stained white pockets and withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper. She whispered, “Read this.”
So I did. By golly, it was a threatening letter! The poison seemed to be spreading. The thing said, in big, black letters that looked to have been cut from a newspaper:
CHA NGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE !
Whoever had cut the words out of the newspaper couldn’t find a decent exclamation point, I guess, because he or she had added one at the end of the message in bold, black ink that wa s darker than the newsprint .
“My goodness,” I said, considerably taken aback. I’d figured she’d been throwing her fit to garner attention. That motivation probably had a good deal to do with it, but this particular fit had been precipitated by considerably more than mere dramatic instinct . This might well be serious. I wondered if Monty had received another letter. “When did this arrive?”
With a preliminary moan of weary tragedy, Miss de la Monica said, “It was waiting for me in my dressing room.”
That seemed odd. An inside job, in fact! “Where is your dressing room?”
She looked upward, as if she were a petitioner beseeching God for some type of miracle. “Upstairs,” she whispered. “At the end of the hall to the right.”
“I think I’d better go up there and look around. Do you—” My words ceased abruptly. I’d been going to ask her if she wanted me to telephone for the police, but then I remembered that the police were on the premises already in the person of Sam Rotondo, and that if I called this letter to his attention, the discovery of Monty Mountjoy’s letters probably wouldn’t be far behind. And behind the discovery of them, might well come the reasons for the letters having been written in the first place , if Harold and Monty were right about that . Sam might be annoying, but he definitely wasn’t stupid. However, any such discovery would put an end to a very nice man’s career as a picture idol. Then where would his stupid, ungrateful grandmother be?
Drat Sam Rotondo and the entire motion-picture industry! Except Harold Kincaid. None of this was his fault.
“No!” cried Lola, seizing my hand and holding onto it in an iron grip. “Don’t leave me!”
Oh, brother.
But I only said, “Very well. I believe now would be the proper time for some spiritual intervention. Shall I pray with you?”
By the way, I’d only begun praying with my clients after Johnny Buckingham had prayed with—and for—Billy and me when I’d found Billy’s secret stash of morphine syrup. Anyhow, Johnny’s prayer had comforted me, and my prayers seemed to comfort my clients. I felt a little cheesy about praying with them, since I had my own personal doubts about God . . . well, not about God , per se . But I had a hard time believing that everyone who didn’t believe exactly as we Methodist -Episcopal s did were going straight to hell. Judging others didn’t sound much like Jesus-thought to me. But who was I? Merely a young, married spiritualist who was trying to make a living. So I asked the woman if she wanted me to pray with her.
Lola whispered, “Oh, yes. Please.”
Since she still wore her fake Spanish accent, I considered her request all part of her act. Nevertheless, I acquitted her of being entirely at fault in this case , given the nasty letter and all. So I prayed with her, calling upon God to protect His precious daughter Lola de la Monica. I hoped to heck God would know who I was talking about, since I was certain that wasn’t her real name.
After a fervently whispered “Amen” that immediately followed my own, Lola said, “I must be a mess. Can you go
With a dramatic moan and a theatrical sigh, Lola de la Monica reached into one of her grass-stained white pockets and withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper. She whispered, “Read this.”
So I did. By golly, it was a threatening letter! The poison seemed to be spreading. The thing said, in big, black letters that looked to have been cut from a newspaper:
CHA NGE YOUR WICKED WAYS OR TRAGEDY WILL STRIKE !
Whoever had cut the words out of the newspaper couldn’t find a decent exclamation point, I guess, because he or she had added one at the end of the message in bold, black ink that wa s darker than the newsprint .
“My goodness,” I said, considerably taken aback. I’d figured she’d been throwing her fit to garner attention. That motivation probably had a good deal to do with it, but this particular fit had been precipitated by considerably more than mere dramatic instinct . This might well be serious. I wondered if Monty had received another letter. “When did this arrive?”
With a preliminary moan of weary tragedy, Miss de la Monica said, “It was waiting for me in my dressing room.”
That seemed odd. An inside job, in fact! “Where is your dressing room?”
She looked upward, as if she were a petitioner beseeching God for some type of miracle. “Upstairs,” she whispered. “At the end of the hall to the right.”
“I think I’d better go up there and look around. Do you—” My words ceased abruptly. I’d been going to ask her if she wanted me to telephone for the police, but then I remembered that the police were on the premises already in the person of Sam Rotondo, and that if I called this letter to his attention, the discovery of Monty Mountjoy’s letters probably wouldn’t be far behind. And behind the discovery of them, might well come the reasons for the letters having been written in the first place , if Harold and Monty were right about that . Sam might be annoying, but he definitely wasn’t stupid. However, any such discovery would put an end to a very nice man’s career as a picture idol. Then where would his stupid, ungrateful grandmother be?
Drat Sam Rotondo and the entire motion-picture industry! Except Harold Kincaid. None of this was his fault.
“No!” cried Lola, seizing my hand and holding onto it in an iron grip. “Don’t leave me!”
Oh, brother.
But I only said, “Very well. I believe now would be the proper time for some spiritual intervention. Shall I pray with you?”
By the way, I’d only begun praying with my clients after Johnny Buckingham had prayed with—and for—Billy and me when I’d found Billy’s secret stash of morphine syrup. Anyhow, Johnny’s prayer had comforted me, and my prayers seemed to comfort my clients. I felt a little cheesy about praying with them, since I had my own personal doubts about God . . . well, not about God , per se . But I had a hard time believing that everyone who didn’t believe exactly as we Methodist -Episcopal s did were going straight to hell. Judging others didn’t sound much like Jesus-thought to me. But who was I? Merely a young, married spiritualist who was trying to make a living. So I asked the woman if she wanted me to pray with her.
Lola whispered, “Oh, yes. Please.”
Since she still wore her fake Spanish accent, I considered her request all part of her act. Nevertheless, I acquitted her of being entirely at fault in this case , given the nasty letter and all. So I prayed with her, calling upon God to protect His precious daughter Lola de la Monica. I hoped to heck God would know who I was talking about, since I was certain that wasn’t her real name.
After a fervently whispered “Amen” that immediately followed my own, Lola said, “I must be a mess. Can you go
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