Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (12 page)

      Well, it wasn’t working. “Mr. Templeton had been searching for weeks for a secretary before he hired me. If somebody else wanted the job, she could have had it before I even moved to California.”

      “Mr. Templeton.” Yet another couple of words that sounded dirty in her mouth. “Your precious
Mr.
Templeton is no better than a thug.”

      I gaped at her. “A
thug
! How do you figure that?”

      She eyed me as if I’d turned into the crawly bug swimming in her soup. “You know very well what I mean, Mercedes Louise.”

      “No, I do not!”

      “A private investigator,” she said with a sniff. “What kind of occupation is that for a young man to pursue?”

      “A perfectly respectable one. A useful one. A
necessary
one,” I said fervently. In truth, it sounded to me as if Mother was grasping at straws, and I felt minimally more secure in my position as part of the worker proletariat. I mean, a thug? Ernie? Good heavens, what next?

      “Fiddlesticks. You’re being irresponsible and impulsive, and you have no business trying to persuade me that you’re anything but a frivolous young woman who is behaving abominably.”

      “I’m sorry if you believe I’m behaving abominably, Mother, but I still see no harm in my holding a job. In fact, I believe I’m contributing more to the world by working in it than by presiding over social teas in Boston.
That
is the sort of thing
I
consider frivolous.”

      “Nonsense. And the people with whom you now associate are completely inappropriate.”

      “Inappropriate? How do you figure that?” I was both angry and curious at this point.

      “Your precious employer actually carries a gun,” said my mother, adding emphasis to her condemnatory statement with an eloquent shudder.

      “He doesn’t carry a gun all the time. Most of the time it’s locked in his desk drawer.”

      “That doesn’t make his use of a deadly weapon any more appropriate. He has a gun, and he uses it in his work.” She spoke as if Ernie’s owning a gun put a capper on the conversation.

      I wasn’t buying it. “Good heavens, Mother, Father owns a gun, if it comes to that. What’s more, he and his friends go out hunting at least once a year, searching for animals they aim to kill that they don’t even need for food!”

      “Hunting is a sport, Mercedes Louise,” said my mother coldly.

      “I think hunting is disgusting,” I said bravely. No matter that it was the truth and that I felt sorry for the poor deer and quail and whatever else my father and his cronies slaughtered. They had no need to slaughter anything because we had plenty of money to buy food.

      “You, young woman, are being absurd. There’s a vast difference between hunting for sport and carrying a gun intended to be used against human beings.”

      I didn’t like the way she’d put that, but I went on anyhow. “Ernie needs his gun because the bad guys carry guns. Ernie has never used his gun since I’ve known him. That’s more than you can say for the criminal element. Why, every day you read about Tommy-gun toting bootleggers shooting innocent people on the streets.”

      “It’s the job of the police to deal with the criminal element,” Mother pointed out.

      “They aren’t always successful.” I saw no need to mention that the last three cases Ernie had worked on—all of his cases, in fact, since the Ned affair—had been spying on unfaithful spouses and attempting to gather information in divorce cases. That sort of thing sounded sordid even to me, although it was a necessary function, I guess, in some circles. Of course, the mere mention of the word
divorce
would give my mother a spasm. Divorce was unheard of in her circle. Divorced people were ostracized and—

      But wait.

      According to Chloe, divorce might well be the reason Mother was here right this minute, making my life miserable.

      When that thought occurred to me, I blurted out, “Perhaps
you
should hire a private investigator, Mother. You could probably take Father to the cleaners if you had proof of his liaison with his secretary.”

      It was as if the world stopped spinning. The entire household—it only consisted of Mother, Chloe, Harvey, Buttercup (who was snuggled in my arms and giving me a necessary degree of comfort) and me—froze. A gasp went up from the human occupants of the room, and Buttercup uttered a tiny “yip,” probably because I squeezed her rather tightly the next second, when I realized what I’d said. Curse my tongue!

      Straight as an ancient oak, Mother sat, staring at me with eyes like frozen flames. Chloe and I had inherited our blue eyes from her, although neither Chloe nor I could make our eyes look like that. With a voice so strained it quavered slightly, Mother said, “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, I had known before I came here to visit you and your sister that you had gone wild. I never expected to discover that you had become so utterly degraded as now seems to be the case. I will thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, young lady.”

      I could have said the same to her—well, except for the “young lady” part—but I’d already said entirely too much. I did not, however, lower my chin. Darn it, there was nothing wrong with my holding a job. And it certainly wasn’t my fault somebody had died during the séance that night. Or that Father was having a fling with his secretary.

      It was Chloe who spoke next, nearly surprising me to death. “Mother, I think you’re taking this much too seriously. Mercy loves her job. Lots of women work nowadays. There’s nothing wrong with it.” God bless my sister as a saint.

      To my absolute shock, Harvey backed her up. “We employ many young women at the studio, Mrs. Allcutt. We couldn’t run the place without them. Women have added immeasurably to the effectiveness of our workforce.”

      From everything I’d read, women also came cheaper than men so the studio was probably saving money, but I didn’t point that out to anybody. I was too grateful to my wonderful sister and her equally wonderful husband for coming to my defense.

      Eyeing the three of us with motherly scorn, Mother said, “The women in our family, Mr. Nash, do not work. They maintain their places in society by fulfilling the duties thereof.”

      I’d had enough. Rising, with Buttercup in my arms for the aforementioned comfort’s sake, I said, “I don’t care for the duties thereof, Mother. In fact, I think they’re stupid. I like my job. I’m keeping it. And Ernie is a fine, upstanding man, earning his living in a profession closely allied with the one he held in the police department.”

      Mother’s eyes went huge. “He was a
policeman
? Good God, child, how much lower can a man sink?”

      Very well, so Mother was thinking of all the Irish cops in Boston—who weren’t low, darn it, but you could never get Mother to admit it. It’s just that back east, there’s a prevailing attitude among the so-called upper crust that Irish immigrants and their offspring are somehow less proper than the rest of us. Silly prejudice if you ask me, but nobody did. Sometimes it seemed as if nobody
ever
asked my opinion about anything, but only attempted to dictate to me.

      “According to you, I’ve already hit bottom,” I said, feeling spiteful. “So you might as well write me off as a lost cause.”

      And with that I left the living room, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, entered it, and collapsed on my bed, hugging Buttercup the whole time. She knew I was troubled, and she kissed me to show me that she loved me. I was ever so glad I’d bought her, even though she’d cost more than I earned in a week working for Ernie.

* * * * *

      The next day I left for my job before anybody else, except Mrs. Biddle the housekeeper and Buttercup, was out of bed. I thanked my lucky stars for it as I paid the engineer at Angel’s Flight my nickel and the little railroad car made the steep descent from the heights of luxury to the middle of Los Angeles.

      My chest ached, and I knew it was because the altercation with my mother had left me hurt and angry. I also knew my mother would never understand the choices I’d made for myself in life, so I might as well just forget about trying to please her. But it’s difficult to write off one’s mother as a lost cause, as I suggested she do with me.

      I mean, we
all
want the approval of our parents, don’t we? Even when we don’t really approve of them.

      Nuts. By the time I walked from Angel’s Flight to the Figueroa Building, said good morning to Mr. Buck, and entered the lobby, I felt like crying. When I saw Lulu, who truly
was
crying, I reminded myself that I wasn’t the only person in the world with problems. What’s more, although I might well have family problems, at least I had money, which was more than Lulu and her brother had.

      I hurried to the receptionist’s desk. “Oh, Lulu, did Rupert tell you what happened last night?”

      She sniffled into her handkerchief. Lulu always wore interesting clothes. Today, she was clad in a bright pink, drop-waist dress with red flowers on it and a big red bow on the side. She nodded, and I noticed that not only had her mascara become smudged, but she hadn’t repainted her fingernails. She generally spent her days filing and polishing them, but this morning she’d evidently been crying instead of fiddling with her nails.

      “Oh, Mercy, Rupert’s so worried! I just know the coppers are going to blame him for that woman’s death.”

      Puzzled, I said, “But why would they do that? Last night they kept saying it was a heart attack.”

      She shook her bottle-blond head. “Oh, they’ll find some way to pin it on him. They always do.”

      They did? I didn’t understand. That being the case, I said, “I don’t understand, Lulu.”

      She shook her head some more. “You don’t know.”

      “Why don’t you tell me, then?”

      She eyed me for a second, then apparently decided I could be trusted. “Don’t tell nobody, okay?”

      Not only would I not tell nobody, I wouldn’t tell anybody, which was more to the point. “I promise,” said I, figuring I was safe in doing so, since whom would I tell?

      Lowering her voice, she said in a harsh whisper, “Will has a record.”

      A record. I had several records myself. And a Victrola upon which to play them. Then the meaning of her words struck me. “You mean he has a
police
record?”

      She nodded. “Yeah. In Oklahoma.”

      And neither one of the Mullins siblings had bothered to tell me. I’d placed a crook in Mr. Francis Easthope’s residence, all unawares. Boy, maybe my mother was right about me. Maybe I was irresponsible and impulsive and not to be trusted on my own in the big city. How discouraging.

      “Do you mean to tell me that your brother is a criminal and you didn’t tell me?” I regret to say my words were shrill.

      Lulu flinched. “He’s not a criminal! He played a prank and got arrested. The problem is, he left the state before his trial, so he’s . . . well, I guess, technically, he’s a fugitive.”

      A fugitive from justice. Things just kept getting better. I wanted to thump Lulu and her precious brother both. “What kind of prank?”

      “He and a friend knocked over an outhouse on Halloween. The bad thing is that somebody was in it at the time, and when the outhouse fell over, it landed on him and he broke his arm.”

      An outhouse. Good Lord. I’d heard of outhouses, but I don’t believe I’d ever actually seen one. We Bostonians had indoor plumbing. “Um . . . that doesn’t sound so awful to me.”

      “It wasn’t. It was Halloween, for cripes’ sake, and kids always do stuff like that on Halloween.”

      Kids in my life didn’t, but my life and Lulu’s bore scant resemblance to each other.

      “But the cops locked him up overnight. Our parents had a fit. Will was only seventeen at the time, and he figured his life was over after he was arrested, and since I was living in California, he decided to run away and join me here.”

      “I see.” I still resented the fact that neither Rupert nor Lulu had told me about Rupert’s previous brush with the law, but I felt better about foisting him on Mr. Easthope. I mean it’s not as if Rupert Mullins had killed somebody or anything like that, and I was absolutely positive that Mr. Easthope didn’t have an outhouse. “Well, I can’t see that there’s much chance of the Los Angeles police connecting him with a broken arm in Oklahoma, if that’s any comfort. Besides, the woman at the séance probably died of a heart attack. Everybody thinks so.”

      Except me, who thought she’d been murdered. However, I didn’t for one second think Rupert Mullins had done it. Why should he? I’m sure he never once dreamed of such a thing. He’d seemed totally awestruck the night before. I couldn’t imagine him killing Hollywood’s leading gossip columnist. Such a scenario made no sense.

      I patted Lulu’s shoulder. “Please don’t worry, Lulu. I’m sure everything will turn out all right. Rupert seemed very happy in his job last night. It was just pure dumb luck that Mrs. Hartland died during the séance.”

      “Oh, Mercy,” she said, worries for her brother temporarily forgotten, “is it true she was really Hedda Heartwood? And that you actually got to meet Jacqueline Lloyd?” Her smudged eyes widened, and she stared at me with hungry intensity. I reminded myself that Lulu wanted to be the next Jacqueline Lloyd herself and took pity upon her.

      “Yes, indeed. Mrs. Hartland wrote her column as Hedda Heartwood. And Jacqueline Lloyd is as lovely in person as she is on the silver screen.”

      “Oh, my.” Lulu pressed folded hands to her bosom, squashing her handkerchief and looking enraptured. “Oh, my. You’re so lucky, Mercy.”

      Yeah, I guess I was, if you can call being at a séance where a woman died lucky. But I understood what Lulu meant. She’d give her eyeteeth to meet some of the people I’ve met through Chloe and Harvey.

      “Well,” I said upon a deep and heartfelt sigh, “I’d better get to the office. Ernie’s not going to be happy about last night’s affair, either.”