Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (14 page)

      Technically, I know, murder is sordid, too. In fact, it’s a heinous crime against man and God. But at least it’s interesting sometimes. Mrs. Hartland’s murder had definite points of interest. But trailing a straying wife only seemed repugnant to me. Nevertheless, I set up an appointment for the gentleman, Mr. Richards, to see Ernie at two o’clock that afternoon.

      The telephone rang all morning. Some of the callers only wanted to ask about Ernie’s fees, but some of them had what might prove to be actual cases for us. By lunchtime, the entire day was crammed with appointments and my hand was tired from writing. I still hadn’t told Ernie about the advertisement I’d placed in the newspaper.

      At noon his office door opened and he exited, shrugging into his coat and slapping his hat on his head. “Come on, kiddo, we’re going to Chinatown for lunch.”

      I blinked at him. “We are?”

      “Yeah. I’m sick of talking to clients and listing to the blasted telephone ring. Besides, I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night.”

      I sniffed even as I reached into my desk drawer to retrieve my hat and handbag. “I thought you weren’t going to assist Mr. Easthope.”

      Francis Easthope had showed up at approximately five minutes until eleven that morning, proving how eager he was for Ernie’s help in solving Mrs. Hartland’s murder. I don’t know what Ernie said to him during their appointment, but poor Mr. Easthope didn’t appear any too happy when he left. I’d have questioned him, but I was busy on the telephone, which truly was becoming a nuisance by that point in time. Still, my initiative proved that advertising one’s services aided in attracting customers.

      Ernie muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t hear—I probably wasn’t meant to hear it—and stood at the open office door. “Come on. We don’t have all day.”

      As if to prove his point, the telephone rang once more.

      “Leave it,” he barked. “Hell, it’s lunchtime. Nobody does business at lunchtime.”

      From what I’d gathered during dinner-table conversation at Chloe and Harvey’s house, that wasn’t necessarily the case, but I did understand what Ernie meant. Most businesses allowed their employees an hour for luncheon, and people expected offices to be closed during that time.

      Ernie drove us to Chinatown in his old, battered Studebaker automobile, and we ate at the noodle shop where part of our last adventure had taken place. I gazed with nostalgia at the plaza as Ernie guided me lunchward. That had been an exciting time, fraught with criminals, drug-runners and even a short-lived gunfight. It had been frightening, but it was something I’d always recall with pleasure. My life had been so dull up to that point.

      The noodle shop was a small place with a counter and stools. I struggled up onto mine, still lost in memories, and Ernie plunked himself down without any great effort.

      “All right,” he said, butting in to my nostalgic mood without apology. “Tell me what happened last night. And don’t leave out anything.”

      So, interrupted only once when Charlie, the proprietor of the shop, took our orders for pork and noodles, I did, trying to recollect every tiny detail. When I was through speaking, our noodles had been set in front of us, and we dug in.

      After taking several bites, Ernie returned to the subject of the murder. “You say Mrs. Hartland’s son was supposed to be there but wasn’t?”

      “Yes.”

      “Hmm. Wonder what his story is.”

      “Mrs. Hartland said he was sick.”

      “Huh.”

      By George—which, by a strange coincidence, was the son’s name—I hadn’t considered the possibility that George Hartland might have faked his illness and done his mother in under cover of darkness as the séance progressed, probably because of some fabulous inheritance. Hedda Heartwood must have been a wealthy woman at the time of her death. Such an act would be most heartless and appalling. Imagine a child killing a parent . . .

      I decided I’d best not think about children killing parents in general, but to concentrate on George Hartland’s alibi for the prior evening. As I munched my pork and noodles (enlivened by a whole host of vegetables, lest you get the idea the meal wasn’t healthy) I pondered what I could do to investigate this aspect of the crime.

      I could call Rupert! He’d know if anything unusual had happened outside the séance room. Perhaps. He was a new employee; it was possible he wouldn’t have recognized anything out of the ordinary. But he did have access to the rest of Mr. Easthope’s staff so he could ask, couldn’t he?

      “Well?” Ernie sounded miffed, and I realized he’d been speaking to me.

      “I’m sorry, Ernie. What did you say?”

      He heaved an aggrieved sigh. “For the love of God, pay attention, will you?”

      “I already apologized,” I snapped, miffed in my own right. After all, Ernie had been acting like a bear with a thorn in its paw all morning long. All I’d been doing was thinking.

      “I said do you know for a fact that Mrs. Hartland’s son was sick?”

      “Of course I don’t. I don’t know George Hartland from Adam.”

      “Hmm.” Ernie spooned some savory broth into his mouth.

      “Anyhow, I thought you didn’t want to handle Mr. Easthope’s case.” Poor Mr. Easthope. I felt just awful for him.

      “I don’t want to handle it,” growled Ernie. “But I’m afraid my secretary aims to involve herself in it whether I want her to or not, so I figure I’d better know what’s going on.”

      “Nonsense.” I felt my cheeks get hot. I don’t know why. After all, I should be proud of myself for my willingness to help a friend in need. But Ernie made it sound as if I were a blithering idiot for caring at all. In spite of my embarrassment, I knew myself to be in the right. I ate some more noodles.

      “Phil is going to check on Hartland’s whereabouts at the time of the killing, so don’t you go getting involved in it.”

      Well, really! “Listen to me, Ernie Templeton, and listen well. You have no right to dictate my movements outside of office hours!”

      He rolled his eyes, lifted his bowl, and downed the last of his broth. Before you take him to task for bad manners, this was a common practice among the residents of Chinatown and, no matter what my mother would surely say, I honor cultural traditions. In fact, when I’d finished the last of my pork and noodles, I did likewise.

      When I set my bowl back on the counter, I muttered, “Well, you don’t.”

      “I know, I know.” Ernie tossed some money onto the counter and slid off his stool.

      Being considerably shorter than he, I made a leap for it, landed on my feet, and followed my annoying employer to the front door of the noodle shop. Charlie called something after us. I presume it was a pleasant farewell, although he’d spoken in Cantonese, so who really knows? Not I, certainly.

      Ernie held the door open for me to pass through. “But if you have a brain in your head, you’ll let the police handle the matter and won’t get involved. That’s their job, and you don’t know what you’re doing.”

      That cut me to the quick. “Darn you, Ernie Templeton. I may not be a trained private investigator, but I’m intelligent and resourceful, and I know how to telephone people and ask questions!”

      “That’s exactly what I mean,” growled Ernie, stomping back to Hill Street and his Studebaker. “You’re liable to put yourself in danger doing stuff like that. Remember what happened last month? If you hadn’t stuck your nose into the investigation, you wouldn’t have got yourself in trouble.”

      “That’s not fair! It’s not my fault that Ned turned out to be crazy!”

      His back was to me, but I know darned well that he rolled his eyes again. Phooey.

* * * * *

      Ernie’s appointment book was jammed for the rest of the day. He didn’t seem awfully happy about it, although there was no time to ask him why. I should have thought he’d be pleased with all the new work my advertisement had generated, but all he did was scowl at me between appointments.

      Finally at about ten minutes past five o’clock, after closing time, the last client left the office and I heaved a gratified sigh. Ernie might not think much of my investigative capabilities, but he couldn’t fault my ingenuity in drumming up business. I had just put my hat on and slipped my handbag under my arm and was about to bid Ernie a good-night when he turned to face me—he’d just seen the client out of the office—and gave me a hideous frown.

      “All right, Mercy Allcutt, what’s this about an ad in the
Times
? Three people told me they heard about me through my ad in the
Times
.”

      I lifted my chin. “Good for you. Advertising pays.”

      “Maybe. What I want to know is who paid for the advertising.”

      Curse the man. He was still frowning. “I did. And I should think you’d be thanking me instead of frowning at me!”

      He walked slowly toward my desk, looking fierce. It was an effort, but I didn’t flinch. “If I ever decide to advertise my services, it will be my decision, and it will be my money that pays for it. I want that clearly understood.”

      “Don’t be absurd.”

      “It’s not absurd. It’s the honorable way to do business. All right. How much did the ad cost?” He started fishing in his trousers pocket.

      “Oh, for heaven’s—”

      “Damn it, how much did it cost?”

      I gave up. “A dollar and a half for the week.”

      He slapped a dollar bill and a half-dollar onto my desk. I didn’t pick up the money, but only stared at it dumbly. “Don’t you ever do something like that behind my back again.” And with that, he turned and exited the office before me.

      Well.

      I felt approximately like two cents. Perhaps less. With tears in my eyes, I scooped up the money and shoved it into my desk drawer.

      Darn him, how could he make even the most helpful of gestures seem like a wicked betrayal? I only wanted the best for his business. After all, I depended on his success for my own employment. It wasn’t my fault I had money of my own, was it? What was he so angry about? I didn’t understand.

      Then it occurred to me that perhaps my initiative (not to mention my money) had hurt his pride. I guess I could understand that, but understanding didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I plunked myself down in my chair and hauled out my hankie to blot the tears that spilled over and ran down my face.

      Curse it, why couldn’t I ever do anything right? I couldn’t please anyone. Not my mother, not Ernie, not anybody.

      I had just settled into a state of pitiful self-contempt when a light knock came at the office door. Surprised—after all, most of the offices in the Figueroa Building were already closed—I sniffled and said, “Come in.”

      The door opened slowly, and Sylvia Dunstable peeked her head in. “Are you busy, Miss Allcutt?”

      Was I busy? Not unless you counted feeling sorry for myself as being busy. “Not at all. Please come in, Miss Dunstable.” I made a quick last swipe at my tears and hoped the ravages of self-pity weren’t visible on my features.

      “I just wondered if you’d seen the afternoon edition of the
Times
.” She held out a newspaper. “I picked one up when I went to the newspaper’s office to deliver Mr. Carstairs’s letter.”

      “Oh, he wrote that letter?” I felt slightly better. It had been I who’d suggested he write letters to the
Times
and the
Examiner
. Perhaps I wasn’t a total failure after all.

      “Yes. One to the
Times
and one to the
Herald Examiner.
That was a brilliant idea of yours.”

      My mood lifted another tenth of an inch.

      “Thank you.”

      “Thank
you.”
She held out the paper and I took it.

      The headlines slashed across my vision like a knife: HEDDA HEARTWOOD SLAIN! POLICE SUSPECT POISON!

      Oh, dear. My mother was going to have fifty fits. Not only was her daughter working for a living, but she was directly involved in the largest scandal to hit the motion-picture industry since the Taylor murder.

      “Good heavens,” I whispered.

      “Read the article,” Sylvia suggested. “It gets worse.”

      I looked up at her, praying she hadn’t really said that. “It does?”

      She nodded. So I read the article and discovered she was right. There, on the front page of the
Los Angeles Times
, was my name, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, listed as an attendee at the séance during which Mrs. Hartland had been foully done to death. They’d even spelled it right. My name, I mean. Lots of times people get my last name confused with Louisa May Alcott’s. Miss Alcott was supposed to be a distant relation but who really cares, besides my mother?

      I wondered if I could take a room in a hotel for the night. That pleasant notion had barely skimmed my brain before I thrust it aside as cowardly and unfair to Chloe and Harvey. Not to mention Buttercup. If I didn’t show up to bear the brunt of our mother’s wrath, said wrath would descend upon Chloe, and she didn’t deserve it. I didn’t, either, but at least I wasn’t pregnant.

      My heart throbbing with dread, I went home.

Chapter Nine
 

The following morning when I walked to Angel’s Flight, I was still smarting from last evening’s crushing diatribe that had been delivered with vigor and scathing contempt by my mother. Every time I passed a newspaper stand or a kid hawking papers on the street, I cringed.

      “Read all about it!” cried the urchin standing outside the Angel’s Flight depot. “Hedda Heartwood murdered! Read all about it!”

      Since I didn’t believe I could feel any worse, I bought a newspaper and perused it after I took my seat. The article didn’t add much to my knowledge of the events surrounding the crime. Hedda Heartwood was really Vivian Hartland. There were only eight people in attendance at the séance, nine if you counted Fernandez. The séance had been conducted by Angelique and Anthony d’Agostino and had been held in the home of Mr. Francis Easthope, a costumier for the Nash Studio in Los Angeles. Oh, Lord, there was Harvey’s studio’s name, right there in print.