Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery)

by Alice Duncan

  I tapped lightly at Ernie’s door.

  “Yeah?”

  I heaved another sigh as I opened the door a crack.

  “Mrs. Persephone Chalmers is here to see you, Mr. Templeton.”

  “Ah. Right. Send her in.”

  So I drew his door wider, smiled at Mrs. Chalmers even though it was a struggle to do so, and said, “Please come this way, Mrs. Chalmers.”

  “Oh,” she said. It was more of a whisper, actually. “Thank you.” And she drifted across the floor and into Ernie’s office, leaving an only-faintly-discernible trace of a captivating fragrance in her wake. I didn’t slam the door that time, either.

  As Ernie spoke with Mrs. Chalmers, I made appointments for a woman who wanted Ernie to spy on her husband, a husband who wanted Ernie to spy on his wife, and an insurance firm that wanted Ernie to determine if a man really had been badly injured in a mishap at the Broadway Department Store or if he was merely faking. Evidently, he’d tripped getting out of an elevator on the third floor, and he claimed the elevator operator hadn’t leveled the elevator cage properly. The insurance company clearly believed the man was lying. Personally, I didn’t care, although I thought he should have been more careful.

  I felt particularly grumpy during that period and I knew why. I didn’t want my boss, Mr. Ernest Templeton, to succumb to any more beautiful clients, darn it. Last month’s flirtation with a black-clad siren who was being blackmailed had been bad enough. This month’s cream-clad seraph with her air of delicate innocence seemed to me to be even more dangerous.

  Not, naturally, that I cared on a personal level. I was only concerned about Ernie’s welfare and the state of the business.

  Oh, whom am I trying to kid?

  But I don’t want to think about that now.

  I didn’t want to think about it then, either, and the task was made easier for me when Lulu burst into the office while Ernie was sequestered with the lovely Mrs. Chalmers.

  “Oh, Mercy!” cried she, her face awash with tears.

  “Oh, Lulu!” I cried in return, and I rushed out from behind my desk to embrace the poor thing.

  “They think I did it!”

  “I’m sure they don’t, really,” I said, sure of no such thing. I was beginning to think Phil was, if not as corrupt, then at least as stupid as his fellow cohorts in the police department. Not a single thinking human being could believe that Lulu LaBelle or her brother could kill the two Heartwoods. Hartlands. Whoever they were.

  Guiding Lulu to the chair beside my desk, I sat her down, then reached into my desk drawer (not the one I kept my handbag and hat in, but the other one, which was deeper) and withdrew a water glass. “Stay right there, Lulu. I’ll get you a drink of water.”

  “Th-thank you, Mercy.”

  I dashed down the hallway to the ladies’ powder room and filled the glass. By the time I got back to the office, Lulu had stopped sobbing hysterically and was mopping her cheeks with an already-soggy handkerchief. She took the water with a shaking hand. “Thank you.” She sipped the water between hiccups.

  “Lulu,” I said gently. “Try not to worry too much about this. I’m on the job, and I know neither you nor Rupert could commit cold-blooded murder.”

  I expected her to thank me again. Instead, she lifted her head abruptly—she’d had it bowed as she wiped tears and mascara from her cheeks—and said, “You?”

  She sounded incredulous and I resented her tone, but she was already upset so I didn’t take her to task for it. “I.” Since she still gaped, I said tartly, “I’m the only one who’s tried to help you and Rupert so far, am I not?”

  Lulu bit her lower lip for a second, then nodded.

  “I’m the one who got him the job with Mr. Easthope, am I not?”

  Her head sagged again. “But that’s when all the trouble started!” she wailed pitifully.

  Shocked by the note of accusation in Lulu’s voice, I did a little sagging of my own. “But . . . I was trying to help you. I didn’t know some fiend was going to murder Mrs. Heartwood. Hartland. Whatever her name was.”

  Lulu put her hand on mine and appeared chastened. “I know it, Mercy. I’m sorry. I’m just so upset.”

  Hmm. “Of course.” I still felt as if she’d slapped me.

  Ernie’s door opened at that point, however, and I didn’t have time to brood. Lulu jumped up from the chair, muttered, “I’d better get downstairs,” and raced from the office, leaving Ernie, Mrs. Chalmers and me all to gape after her. I guess Lulu didn’t want to be seen with her makeup smeared. And she hadn’t even taken a good gander at Mrs. Chalmers first, either. I hate to admit it, but Mrs. Chalmers in all her cream-colored loveliness made me want to hide somewhere, too.

  However, I am an Allcutt, and we Allcutts are made of stern stuff, whether we want to be or not, so I turned and smiled at the duo exiting Ernie’s office.

  Ernie hooked a thumb at the door. “What’s the matter with her?”

  I wanted to shriek at him that having been falsely accused of a vicious crime was the matter with her, but since Mrs. Chalmers was present I didn’t. “She’s upset.”

  “I guess.”

  And that was it for me as far as Ernie’s attention went. As if he were guiding a fragile spun-glass angel, he walked Mrs. Chalmers to the door. Chalmers herself didn’t bother to say good-bye to me—or even say, “Oh,” once more. She just gazed up at Ernie through that stupid veil with wide blue eyes and smiled tremulously. I wanted to heave a brick at her.

  Ernie was straightening his tie when he turned from the door after her exit. He had a sappy grin on his face, making me want to heave a brick at him.

  “What’s her problem?” My voice sounded faintly caustic.

  “Jewel theft,” said Ernie. And he swaggered to his office and shut the door.

  Curse all men.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Buttercup had been banished to Chloe and Harvey’s beautifully landscaped backyard—Mother, who didn’t like dogs in the first place, detested it when they begged at the table, not that Buttercup ever did anything so unrefined—and we were all sitting around the dinner table wondering what to talk about. Since Mother’s advent into our lives, the general flow of cheerful, inconsequential dinner-table chatter had dried up completely.

  I already felt fairly glum. Valentino’s death had cast a pall of melancholy over the entire nation, it would seem. Ernie Templeton, my boss, whom I . . . respected, had evidently fallen under the spell of another femme fatale. Lulu LaBelle and her brother Rupert Mullins had been falsely accused of murder. As for me, I didn’t have a solitary idea in my muddled brain what to do about any of those things. This was particularly true since my prime suspect, George Hartland, and my second-prime suspect, Jacqueline Lloyd, were out of the murder stakes.

  “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, stop toying with your food.”

  I dropped my spoon, startled by Mother’s booming accusation. As I hadn’t been toying with my food, I dared to frown at her. “I wasn’t toying with my food, Mother. I was trying to fish out a cucumber bit.” Mrs. Biddle had served us a cold soup called gazpacho, which she claimed was a Spanish concoction, for dinner. It was quite tasty and refreshing on such a hot August evening.

  “Nonsense,” said Mother, completely uncowed by my defiance. “Fishing out cucumber bits is toying with your food, and it is impolite.”

  I heaved a sigh as big as I was, and internally acknowledged defeat. Nobody, and especially nobody as inconsequential as a daughter, would ever get my mother to admit to being wrong about anything at all, ever. Therefore, I gave up the fight and turned to Chloe and Harvey, determined to clear up at least one puzzle.

  “What’s a blue picture?” I asked in all innocence.

  Chloe gasped. “I beg your pardon?” She stared at me, plainly horrified.

  Harvey apparently swallowed the wrong way, because he started to cough and Chloe had to slap him on the back. Mother, naturally, glowered at all of us.

  Realizing I’d said
something wrong, although I didn’t know what—well, I guess I knew what, but I sure didn’t know why—I stammered, “I-I mean . . . um . . .”

  Quickly, in an attempt to rescue the moment and me both, Chloe said, “We’ll talk about it later, all right?”

  “Certainly,” said I, relieved. “That’s fine.”

  “And why would you talk about it later, young woman?” Mother scowled at me as she asked the question. Of course. I, being the least obedient of her children, always got the brunt of her wrath. “If you have introduced another topic unfit for dinner-table conversation, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, you should be ashamed of yourself. Your father and I didn’t rear you to be such a hoyden.”

  Oh, brother. “I just asked a question, Mother,” I said in my own defense, knowing it was useless. “I didn’t mean to bring up an unfit topic.”

  “I’m beginning to think you’re a lost cause, young woman.”

  “Fiddlesticks,” I said, losing what was left of my ragged temper. “At least I didn’t leave my husband!”

  Mother’s hard, marble-blue eyes widened amid a duet of gasps from Harvey and Chloe.

  Uh-oh. I’d really done it this time. I saw Mother’s jaw bunch as she clenched her teeth and knew I was in for it. Why hadn’t I just kept my fat mouth shut?

  Thank the good Lord, a knock came at the front door just then, and Mrs. Biddle, muttering under her breath—she didn’t care to have her dinner-serving duties interrupted—hurried to answer it. I silently blessed whoever was at the front door for saving me, at least temporarily, from my mother’s wrath.

  After sending me a last fulminating glance—evidently she was going to save the worst of her fury for later, probably to deliver in private—Mother said, “You need to hire another servant, Clovilla. Your poor housekeeper is being run off her feet.” She sniffed regally.

  “Good idea, Mother,” said Chloe in a bright voice. “What do you think, Harvey?”

  Harvey also attempted lightness of demeanor. “I think that’s a brilliant suggestion, Mrs. Allcutt. Perhaps you can call the agency tomorrow, Chloe, dear.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  Now I knew that Harvey and Chloe were very fond of each other. In fact, Chloe had told me more than once that Harvey was the man of her dreams. But I’d never heard them utter such banal endearments before. Their relationship generally tended to express itself with teasing amusement. Mother brings out the worst in all of us.

  And then Francis Easthope staggered into the dining room and we all lost our train of thought. Even Mother did, I think.

  “Francis!” Chloe cried, leaping from her seat and rushing to him.

  “Francis, what in the world is the matter?” asked Harvey, also rising and going to him.

  “Mr. Easthope!” I rose, too, and did likewise.

  With the exception of Mother, who clusters for no one, we all clustered around Mr. Easthope, who looked less than perfectly put together for the first time since I’d met him.

  “I’m terribly sorry to barge in on you like this,” he said in a shaky voice. “But the police are at my house, executing a search warrant. They’re going through everything. I think they believe I killed the Hartland woman and her son!”

  “Oh, they couldn’t!” Chloe.

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Harvey.

  “No, they don’t.” Me.

  They all looked at me, and I elaborated.

  “They’ve already got Rupert Mullins locked up, and they interviewed his sister Lulu today at the Figueroa Building. I imagine they’re only going through your home because Rupert works there. Worked there.” Oh, Lord, what a dreadful mess!

  “Do you really think so?”

  Mr. Easthope seemed faintly relieved, which I think was awfully generous of him. After all, it had been I who’d introduced the accused murderer to his household. Not that Rupert had killed the woman or that it was my fault she’d been murdered in the first place, but . . . Oh, never mind.

  “I’m sure of it.” I was fairly sure of it, anyhow.

  Wiping his brow, Mr. Easthope whispered, “I do so hope you’re right, Miss Allcutt. Thank God Mother is out of the house tonight.”

  Even as I wished I could say the same thing of my own mother, she cleared her throat meaningfully and we all jumped a little bit.

  Mr. Easthope started guiltily. “I’m so sorry, Chloe and Harvey. I shouldn’t have come and interrupted your evening meal.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear boy,” said Harvey stoutly. He was such a good fellow. “In fact, pull up a chair, and I’ll have Mrs. Biddle set another place.”

  “Oh, no, I shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t be silly, Francis,” said Chloe. She took his arm. “You need to be with friends at a time like this.”

  I agreed wholeheartedly. So did I need to be with friends. However, recalling Mother’s comment on the state of Chloe and Harvey’s service staff, I whispered, “I’ll go fetch another place setting. No sense in aggravating—” I jerked my head toward the table.

  Chloe pressed my arm. “Thanks, Mercy.” She rolled her eyes ceilingward. “How long is this going to go on?”

  It was a cry for help, but I didn’t have an answer for her. I gave her arm a little squeeze before I took off for the kitchen. “Not much longer, I hope.”

  We all hoped so. But we didn’t dare hope too hard.

  Fortunately for me, Mr. Easthope’s arrival thwarted Mother from scolding me about all her grievances against me. Thank the good Lord, conversation turned to neutral topics. Naturally, Rudolph Valentino’s death and the elaborate arrangements being made for his funeral shared top billing, along with how sad Theda Bara and the rest of Valentino’s former lovers were sure to be. Not that we used the word “lover” in Mother’s presence.

  After dinner, it was Francis Easthope who finally satisfied my curiosity about blue pictures. He seemed a trifle embarrassed when I asked him the question. Since he was the third person I’d asked who’d appeared embarrassed by the subject, I’d already begun formulating my own theory.

  “Blue movies?” He reached up and fiddled with his collar as if he suddenly found it too tight—which it probably was, since the weather that night must have been eighty degrees. Chloe and Harvey had big fans running, but we were all still quite warm.

  “Let me guess,” I told him dryly. “They’re improper sorts of pictures, right?”

  He nodded. “Most improper.”

  “With naked ladies?”

  You don’t often see grown men blushing—at least I don’t—but Mr. Francis Easthope blushed then. I shot a quick glance Motherward, but she was frowning at somebody else for a change, so I figured it was safe to continue our conversation. She’d kill me if she knew I’d made a man blush.

  “Er . . . yes. And, sometimes, gentlemen.”

  Naked ladies and naked gentlemen? Good heavens. Not, I suppose, that one could properly call them ladies and gentlemen if they allowed themselves to be photographed without their clothes on. “My word,” I said, at a loss to come up with anything more cogent to say.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Easthope. His color had begun to fade, thank the good Lord. If Mother saw that I’d made a man blush, I’d never hear the end of it. Not that it would matter much, I guess, since I already had so many sins against me, according to Mother, that I’d never hear the end of them anyway.

  “Hmm.” I’d begun to think about this blue-picture thing. Ernie would probably say something sarcastic about how dangerous it was for me to think at all, but he’d have been wrong. “Is it common for young actresses coming to Los Angeles to end up in such pictures?” I asked Mr. Easthope, praying he wouldn’t blush again.

  He didn’t, bless his heart. “Well, I don’t know if one could call it common, but I do know that some young women have been led astray by the unscrupulous producers of illicit pictures who promise them stardom and then lead them into posing for scurrilous stills and even more scurrilous moving pictures.”

  “Hmm.” I
thought harder. “I suppose that if someone were to start making a name for herself in legitimate pictures and it was discovered that she’d acted in blue movies, such a thing would be bad for her career, wouldn’t it?”

  “Disastrous. As good as a death knell. You remember what happened to Fatty Arbuckle, and he was acquitted of any wrongdoing. The mere fact that a woman died in his hotel room and he’d participated in a wild party was enough to ruin his career.”

  “Yes. I do remember.” Who didn’t?

  But how, I asked myself, could Jacqueline Lloyd have smothered George Hartland if, as the nurses swore, she was out cold all night long? Clearly, since she was the one sitting next to Vivian Hartland the night of the first séance, she could have poisoned her with whatever alkaloid poison she favored. But how could she have smothered her son? Hmm . . .

  An accomplice.

  Phil and Ernie had said something about an accomplice. But who could be Jacqueline Lloyd’s accomplice? Mr. Carstairs? Unlikely, I should think. He was a successful Hollywood attorney. Why would he want to get mixed up in murder?

  Well, for that matter, why would anyone want to get mixed up in murder?

  I suppose it was vaguely possible that Mr. Carstairs had assisted Miss Lloyd because he didn’t want her career ruined. That same reasoning might apply to any one of a number of other people who depended on Miss Lloyd as a source of income. Perhaps I should ask Harvey about who else might be harmed if Miss Lloyd’s career took a nosedive.

  Or perhaps an enraged fan of Jacqueline Lloyd had done in the Hartlands for some reason as yet unknown to anyone. To keep Miss Lloyd from meeting eligible men? To ruin her career so that another star could take her place in the Hollywood firmament?

  Oh, bother. I wasn’t coming to any conclusions, but I was definitely confusing myself.

  “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, have you heard a single word I’ve spoken to you?”

  I think I broke the record for the sitting high jump when Mother’s voice finally penetrated my musings. Slamming a hand over my heart, I stammered, “I-I beg your pardon?”

  Mother gave me one of her patented, daughter-killing scowls. “I asked if the police have discovered who killed that poor, misguided woman. Pay attention, Mercedes.”