Cuckoo! Screamed the Bird in the Tree.

Maisie / Part Nine / Ready to put on the Hat of Darkness and taste the Apples of the Hesperides? Hey, this one’s a shortie. What cha got to lose?

Read Part Eight — Ready to Rhumba — here

“To write a mystery, full of twists, some pieces plug into your puzzle, others seem to, then don’t, that’s one battle. To translate the business into a screenplay, lighting, camera angles, all that, is another. All in all, it’s a big job.” Bea had heard her brother discuss his passion for filmmaking at many a holiday table. “Let’s write a novel,” she advised, “and worry about the photoplay when we’ve hammered out a plot.”

This had been Maisie’s plan all along, but she was pleased to let Bea take credit for it. “Damn, lady,” she squealed, “you are on-the-ball.”

“You were up–down–up–down last night,” said Bea. “You and your notes!”

“Me and my notes, yes, ma’am. A thought pops into my head, I get it down on the spot.”

“Okay, okay, I’m just ragging on ya. I think it’s a riot. Give. Wha’ja got for me?”

The mouse cocked her head. “For starters . . . just for starters . . . just to get the ball rolling . . . a gossip-ghoul is lured to a meet. Bella Bradshaw was a contract player living in the Hills of Beverly until she was cut loose by her studio. She’s down to a basement apartment in Glendale, keeps it secret best she can. An appearance of prosperity is essential to her ability to rebound.

“She tells people, I’ve taken a sweet little place in Malibu, you must come out some time, but she never issues a solid invite. I’m on the run, never home. She rents a cubbyhole downtown, space sufficient for two desks and a secretary. She still lunches in the right spots with the right people. She still dresses to kill. She’s hanging on by her fingernails. We can have a lot of fun with that.”

“Dear God!” Bea was horrified. “You mean to do a job on The Mad Hatter! You’re out of your ever-loving mind!”

“Plenty dirt-bags in this town tell tales for fun and profit. We swipe from all of them. Our victim won’t be clear-cut this or that one.”

“My name on it, no one but a moron will mistake our inspiration no matter how we muck with her. This isn’t about me and my career, you can drop that joke. This is pay-back.”

“Sweetie!” cried Maisie. “Mad-Hat’s perfect for us in every way. You said it yourself, base your people on your friends. We’ll screw with her, don’t worry. Listen to this. Bella’s roughed up a starlet in her column. The cutie has plowed head-first into that morals clause in every contract. The two had a nasty blow up in Chasen’s. Too many martinis for lunch, Lila Atwood made rash remarks. Bella turns up with a hole in her head.

“Police pinpoint Atwood as the prime suspect. Her co-star in Off The Rails–that would be Billzy, of course–sure she’s innocent, is going to smoke out the killer. Listen, hon, we know this town in and out. We gotta make the most of what we have on our plate right smack-dab in front of us. A touch of blackmail, a half-dozen oddball walk-ons to keep ’em guessing, and we’re off to the races.”

“We’re on that whacko’s shit list now. We don’t need more headaches.”

“So top me. Top me, and I’ll thank you. Show me up. You know your way around a plot. You wrote a novel, you said.”

“I did,” said Bea. “But I wrote romance, another world entirely. I’m a demon for romance, have been since I was a kid.”

“Your novel, what happened to it?”

“I dropped it.”

“Ya, you got discouraged, you mentioned that.”

Bea grimaced. “I showed five chapters in a writer group. They let me have it. When is something going to happen? I explained, tried to explain–they weren’t buying it–I establish a flavor. I build a foundation. Okay, maybe five chapters of foundation overdoes it. I peek at it time to time. I don’t have a problem with it. In fact, I’m quite attached to it.”

Here was Maisie’s opportunity to be generous, to make up for her moodiness of late. “I love romance! (She loathed it. Junk, most of it.) I’m a romantic at heart. (Also a crock.) Read to me. Let me lay back, close my eyes, and transport to . . . where, exactly?”

Bea sighed. “Switzerland, m’darlin’.” She stood, marched to a desk, pulled a manuscript from a drawer and inspected it, brushing away a layer of dust. “As You Desire Me,” she announced. “By Beatrice Ardis Wanger. Chapter one. A Fool There Was.”

She sighed again, and began to read.

“Cuckoo! screamed the bird in the tree, taking to the purple-bruised sky with a joyful flapping of last-light-licked wings.”

Maisie sat up. “Whoa!” she squealed. “F. Scott, eat your heart out, baby.”

Encouraged, Bea continued: “A young man stood on a terrace overlooking a long slope of lawn, watching the sun go down. Beyond filigreed French doors, a fire burnt bright in the grate. Paul van der Vere, tall and straight and strong, as fine a figure as ever sauntered through historic halls, lounged on the puce-shadowed patio, smoking a cigar.

“In front of the hearth, stretched her full, sinuous length, reclined Theadosia de Coppet, wrapped in a clinging garment of plum crepe, its plunging neckline embroidered with gold, one white arm resting on a pile of velvet cushions.

“Sweeping aside the heavy mauve-silk curtain, Paul stepped into the elaborately appointed room. Theadosia raised on her elbows and supported her chin in her hands, her twisted train flowing like a serpent’s tail. Her eyes, telegraphing a longing that was impossible to mistake, were set in a face otherwise of perfect innocence. “We must read fairy-tales, she cooed, “I am in a capricious mood. We’ll read about Cupid and Psyche from the wonderful ‘Golden Ass’ of Apuleius . . . a sweet tale for . . . you and me!”

“I knew the story,” Paul replied. “But I hardly recall it. She wakened by . . . was it a kiss?”

“The dainty female leapt to her feet and flew to his side. “Paul!” she whispered, “I am wicked to-day. The very devil is in me. Sweet Paul, you are young. You make me feel old, centuries old! But that may not be a bad thing. I can teach you . . . I will teach you . . . how to live! We put on the hat of darkness and descend into Hades. We taste the apples of the Hesperides — we rob Mercure of his sandals, and Gyges of his ring. Then, Paul — when we have fathomed the meaning of it all — what will happen then, enfant?”

“She paused, giving herself a silent scolding. “I shall hurt you, she said, very probably, I fear. Go . . . away from here, away from me.” Her lips melted into his, fastening thereupon until, forcing herself to disengage, she grabbed up the hem of her rich robe and swept grandly from the room. How dull the space seemed with her departure — unspeakably uninteresting.”

“Fun!” Maisie shrieked. “The cuckoo’s call. The serpent’s tail. The hat of darkness! I want to read it all, every word. But not today. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I’m beat.”

“Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll read it to you in full.”

“Can’t wait, babe. Can-not-wait. But, first we get a grip on our mystery. Bea! Hat of darkness! May I borrow that?”

“Not mine, kiddo. I can’t take credit for it. I lifted it from Madame Glyn.”

“Well! Gotta read me some Glyn! I’ve sure meant to.”

“The Letter,” said Bea, “you were outstanding in it. Better than outstanding. You were brilliant! I thought it. Did I say it? If I didn’t, I’m sorry.”

Looks like they’re best buddies again, or trying to be.

“Love ooo, babycakes.”

“Love o-o-o, moon pie.” (Moon pies were Bea’s favorite treat.)

“Pinky promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

The pinky swear has been a way to make an unbreakable vow since at least the 1860s when it was mentioned in Bartlett’s Dictionary of Americanisms. (I was afraid it dated from too recent for me to use, so I googled it.)

How does a mouse, with a minuscule pinky, do a pinky promise?

She grabs your pinky with her whole hand. For a mouse, or any wee critter, that suffices.

Coming next: Maisie / Part Ten / Angst and Amaretto Read it here

EXCITING NEWS! For my final illustration, I wondered if I could manage to get Maisie into a pair of bell-bottoms (and have it look believable).

Honestly, I thought it was impossible. I’ve done it! See Sixties Maisie in Part Eleven: Maisie Spits In The Eye Of Impossibility (to no avail) Coming in a week or so.