Free Genteel Spirits (Daisy Gumm Majesty Books) by Alice Duncan Page A

drive and stopped the Chevrolet before the grand iron gateway separating Mrs. Winkworth’s estate from the vulgar world , I understood why at least one of the Pasadena coppers had been sent to this so-called set. In all his uniformed glory, he stood guard at the gate. I guess the regular gatekeeper wasn’t tough enough for the job. Or perhaps the picture-makers expected violence to erupt on the set and needed men with guns to quell it. Ghastly thought .
    The policeman, whose badge said his name was Thomas J. Doan, approached the driver’s side of the machine. “Name please?” he snapped. It didn’t sound to me as if he much wanted to be there. I understood completely , as I shared his sentiment .
    “Mrs. Majesty,” said I, similarly snappish.
    He lifted a clipboard I hadn’t noticed before and scanned what seemed to be a list of typewritten names. Then he squinted at me again. “Mrs. Desdemona Majesty?”
    Swallowing a sigh—my advice to anyone who might be reading this journal is never to make a life-altering decision when you’re ten years old—I said, “Yes.”
    “Identification?”
    “Identification? What do you mean?”
    “Do you have some form of identification on you? I’ll need to see confirmation that you are who you say you are.”
    My jaw dropped. “You need to see identification to allow me on to a picture set?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Good heavens, why?”
    Officer Doan’s complexion had begun to deepen to a slightly mauve hue , and I decided to ask somebody else why armed guards were needed at Mrs. Winkworth’s gates. This man clearly didn’t care to be questioned about his duties by little old me .
    “Just a minute.” I fumbled in my handbag and eventually found my California State driving license, which said I was Mrs. William “Daisy” Majesty. No mention of anyone named Desdemona, but how many Majestys were there in this particular policeman’s world? I shoved the license at him and said, “Here.”
    He squinted at my license for what seemed like eons. Mind you, the sun that day was glorious , but I think he only squinted because he thought it made him look rugged. Maybe he wanted to get a part in the next western picture the studio made . Stupid man. Then he looked at me again. “Daisy is a nickname? Short for Desdemona?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well . . .”
    All right , here’s the thing. I didn’t want to be there. I was already in a bad mood. If this wretched policeman kept me waiting much longer, I’d jolly well snatch my license from his brutish grip and drive back home. I could always telephone Monty and tell him I’d been turned away at the gate.
    No such luck.
    Officer Doan handed back my license and said, “Go on in.” Not a smile did the man crack. He might have been made of stone, except that he could move his limbs.
    I guess the regular gate guard pressed the button from inside the gatehouse at a signal from Doan , because the big gates swung open, and there was no escape. I drove through them.
    The day only got better when the first person I saw after I’d driven onto the Winkworth grounds was Sam Rotondo. I’m being sarcastic, in case you didn’t notice. Anyhow, Sam was just walking down the wide marble steps of the front entrance, which led to the drive over which the portico arched. Therefore, he saw me coming.
    Naturally, Sam being who he was, scowled at me. I pulled the Chevrolet to a stop beside him. “This isn’t my idea, Sam Rotondo, so don’t you start in on me. I practically had to be fingerprinted by one of your policeman pals in order to gain access to this stupid picture set.”
    “I wasn’t going to start in on you. Officer Doan was only doing his job.”
    We frowned at each other for another second or two.
    Then Sam said, “You’re in a good mood today, aren’t you?”
    “I’m not the one who frowned first,” I told him.
    He rolled his eyes and muttered something I didn’t catch. It was probably just as well .
    So, Officer Doan