Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) (5 page)

Another gem culled from the pages of the
National Geographic
, I have no doubt. I said, “Ugh.
Isn’t that the legend that inspired Bram Stoker’s book? I understand some German guy—” I tried not to shudder at the word
German
.
“
—
is turning
Dracula
into a movie. What’s the title? I can’t remember.”

“
Nosferatu
,” said Billy promptly. He had all sorts of facts at his disposal, since he spent most of his days reading everything from
National Geographic
to newspapers to just about anything else he could get his hands on.

“Interesting,” said I, not voicing what I was thinking, which was,
It would be a German, wouldn’t it?

Sam then changed the subject with a bang that had us all goggling at him. “Some studio’s making a picture in Pasadena, beginning next month, and it’s going to be filmed at Mrs. Winkworth’s mansion.”

I think it was Ma who spoke first. “Really?”

Sam nodded. “Yes. It’s some sort of epic, from what I hear. Along the lines of that Griffith picture. What was the name of that thing?” From this question, I got the impression that Sam, unlike Billy, didn’t have the luxury—
i
f you could call it that—of sitting
around all day reading things.

“
Birth of a Nation
,” I said. “Good
picture
.”

“I like
d
it,” confessed Billy. “Although they portrayed those night-rider guys in sheets in a good light. If you’re against slavery, you probably should be against them, too.”

“You’re r
ight,” I said, meaning it. “But
Sam, how come you know about this picture project? You don’t generally keep up with stuff like that, do you?”

“No, I don’t. I have a jo
b to do,” he said gruffly. “
U
nfor
tunately, I know about this one
because I have to be on the blasted set. And the set is Mrs. Winkworth’s
estate
.”

I think the response to this was general, to judge by all the
gaping
mouths and staring eyes. I was the first to react. I’m always the one who talks the most; don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. “
Oh, wow, Sam, that’s the cat’s meow!”

He gave me another frown. “You think so, do you?”

“Well . . . sure. I think it would be
a lot of fun to see a picture being made. Harold’s told me it can be a
dead
bore, but I’d still like to see for myself.”

“Huh.” Sam swiped a biscuit in his stew bowl and didn’t say anything else.

“So why are you being made to do this arduous task, Sam?” Billy asked, as curious as I, if not more so.

Sam chewed and swallowed and then heaved a deep and melancholy sigh. “It’s part of the case I can’t talk about.”

I’d have rolled my eyes, but I didn’t want Ma to get mad at me. “Nerts. I wish you wouldn’t talk about your cases unless you
could
talk about them,” I said, nettled.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” grumbled Sam. “But I’m not looking forward to
having to hang around that dratted plac
e for days at a time. That’s not
what my job is supposed to be about
.”

“Then why’d they assign it to you?” asked Billy.

“I’m the senior man. I’ll have two other uniforms under me. We’re supposed to keep an eye on things.”

“Whatever’s going on, it must be quite important for the Pasadena Police Department t
o assign three men to a picture
set,” said Pa, surreptitiously handing Spike a bit of biscuit. None of us were supposed to feed the dog at the table, but we all did it, and we all pretended not to notice when the others did. It was kind of like a game, although Spike was beginning to show the results thereof.

“It must be,” said Sam in a mildly s
avage voice. “Waste of manpower
if you ask me.”

“Well, maybe Pasadena doesn’t have enough crime to go around these days,” I suggested, knowing as I did so that the comment would annoy Sam. I couldn’t seem to help myself.

He only glared at me some more.

“Daisy,” said Aunt Vi, who had her own ways of keeping me under control, “why don’t you pick up the plates while I go in and fetch dessert?”

Na
turally, I did as my aunt asked, fuming as I did so. I continued to fume as Ma and I washed up the dinner dishes and Sam, Billy and Pa played gin rummy in the living room. Naturally, fuming did no good at all, and I was still mad at Sam for not divulging his precious mystery by the time I went to bed that night.

* * * * *

Fortunately for the state of my nerves and my mood, the following day was Saturday, and Saturdays were the days Billy and I took Spike to the Pasanita Dog Obedience Club at Brookside Park, where Pansy Hanratty tried to
teach
us dog-owners to train our dogs. I loved those classes. Saturday mornings were the only times during the week when I knew for a certainty that Billy and I would be getting along.

That morning, I bundled Billy and Spike into our
lovely new self-starting Chevrolet—bought with money given to me by a happy customer of my spiritualist business. Well, more or less. The money that bought the Chevrolet had been given to me by the mother of the ghost I’d exorcised from Mrs.
Bissel
’s basement. But that sounds too absurd, and it’s a whole ‘nother story, so never mind.

Anyhow, after Billy and Spike were in the machine, I
folded up the special bath chair I’d bought for Billy
for just this purpose
and stuffed it into the
wooden
rack Pa had
built
for it
and installed
on the back of our
auto
. Pa was clever about things like that. Billy used to be, too, but . . . well, never mind
about that, too
.

Anyhow, it was a perky threesome that drove down the twisty path to Brookside Park and pulled
next
to a field where several other people and their dogs already awaited
that day’s
lesson, which began at ten o’clock sharp, Mrs. Hanratty being cut of a general’s cloth. Although she was kind if she noticed one of us owners doing something wrong, she tolerated no tardiness or sloppiness
, and she insisted that we
practice
what she taught us
. We were there to train dogs, and she expected us to behave. I got the feeling Mrs. Hanratty liked her dogs considerably more than she liked most people. I
understood her point of view, and even agreed with it to a degree
.

I hauled Billy’s bath chair out of its rack, unfolded it, helped a wobbly Billy into the chair, and the three of us joined the others at the training park. Billy wasn’t the only observer of the action. Not only were there parents gathered to watch their children learn to train favorite pets
, and husbands and wives of other participants
, but there were
also
two other war-injured men who liked to come and watch the fun. One of them had lost both legs at the knee during the recent war, and the other poor fellow had lost an eye and an arm. In some ways, Billy was lucky.

No he wasn’t. Everyone who’d fought in that terrible conflict had suffered.
S
o had their loved ones. There wasn’t a single lucky thing about the whole damned
war
.

Sorry about my language
. I don’t usually swear.

Anyhow, I settled Billy near his chums—they were chums by that time, although they hadn’t met each other until we’d begun taking Spike to the park for obedience training—and Spike and I set out to join the circle of eager dog-lovers.

“Today, we are going to practice sitting, staying, and heeling,” Mrs. Hanratty said in her characteristic voice, which was kind of loud and hollow, if that makes any sense. “Remember what we learned last week, and I trust—” She gave us all a stern look. “—that you’ve been practicing with your animals
every day
, as I instructed you to do.”

Most of us nodded meekly. It was the truth, at least in my case. Billy and I enjoyed taking Spike out to the back yard, where our spring-bearing orange tree was in full fruit, and there Billy would instruct me in Spike’s training practice. Not that I needed his instruction, but I didn’t mind. Telling me what to do made him feel good, and he had very little to feel good about in those days.

“So,” Mrs. Hanratty continued. “Let us all get our dogs to heel. Then
we’ll walk for a few minutes.
I’ll tell you when to stop walking, and see how well you have done in getting
your dogs
to sit
and stay
.”

By that time—I think we’d been coming to these classes for three weeks—Spike was an absolutely master at heeling, sitting and staying, so I was feeling pretty
confident
that we’d pass muster
. Sure enough, as soon as Mrs. Hanratty gave the signal, we all began slowly speaking to our dogs.

“Spike, h
eel!” I said to Spike, and then I started walking in the prescribed circle. Spike heeled. What a good boy he was!

“All right now. Let’s come to a halt,” said Mrs. Hanratty after we’d been walking in a circle for a few minutes
whilst she
inspected our performance
.

I halted. I looked down at Spike. Spike looked up at me. I said, “S
pike, s
it.” Spike appeared confused for a moment, so I bent and did as Mrs. Hanratty had instructed us to do: I squeezed the spot right in front of where his legs joined his hips. Spike sat. It’s a fool-proof way to get your dog to sit. Trust me on this.

Oh, and you’re not supposed to repeat your commands, either. Mrs. Hanratty was very specific on this issue. You tell your dog what you want him to do, and then make sure he does it. I clearly remember
what she’d told us
the week before when we were taught the command “Sit.” She said, “None of this ‘sit, sit, sit’ nonsense.
You’re
the boss. You
either train your dog, or your dog will train you.”

She was right about that, too. Spike had already taught me to do many things for him. I figured it was past time to turn the table on him. So to speak. I didn’t mean to bring my employment into this discussion.

At any rate, Spike sat.

Mrs. Hanratty said. “I trust you remember how to get your dog to stay.” It wasn’t a question. She
meant what she said.
“I will take note of those of you whose dogs follow you when you walk away from them.” She meant
that, too
. She watched our progress like a hawk.

Therefore, I leaned over a little, put the flat of my palm in front of Spike’s muzzle,
shoved it toward him a bit,
and said
in a strong, authoritative voice, “Stay.”
Then, my heart in my throat, I
dropped
the
leash,
turned my back on my dog and walked away from him.

Darned if the little darling didn’t stay! He was smart as a whip, Spike was.

He was so smart, in fact, that Mrs. Hanratty
pointed out our
excellent
progress to several others in the class, whose pups
had become
confused and tried to follow them as they walked away.

“Let me congratulate Mrs. Majesty and Spike,” said she. I saw Billy grinning from the sidelines and was proud. “If you’ll notice, she is very firm with her dog.
You all need to be firm, yet kind. Never, eve
r,
hit your dog.
Don’t forget
, too,
that some breeds are more amenable to correction than others, and believe me, dachshunds can be very stubborn. I trust you are using some sort of bait to help with his training at home, Mrs. Majesty?”

“Bait” in the doggy world meant “treat.” I nodded and said, “Oh, yes. He loves his treats . . . er, bait. He’ll do anything for food.”

Mrs. Hanratty’s smile beamed at Spike and me, and felt as if we’d been blessed by a holy angel or something. “It’s not
merely
the bait, either,” she said in her honking-kind of voice. “You
practice
with him, don’t you?”

“Oh, my, yes. Mr. Majesty and I practice
with Spike
every day in our yard.”

“Soon you’ll be able to take him for walks in the neighborhood, I have no doubt
, without a leash because he behaves so well
. You’re doing an excellent job
with him
, Mrs. Majesty.”

I felt my cheeks heat, and I said, “Thank you.” I meant my thanks
sincerely
, but I wasn’t sure about the neighborhood walks. The only time
s
we walked
anymore
were
when Billy allowed me to push him in his wheelchair, and those times were becoming fewer and farther between.