Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (18 page)

      I turned toward said low company to find him still in a state of incoherent fury. Deciding it would behoove me to remove myself from Ernie’s office before he recovered enough to holler, I did so, closing the door smartly behind me.

      The ringing of the telephone saved me from contemplating my moment of triumph, which was probably a good thing since I might have become smug, and the truth was that I really hadn’t helped the investigation along a whole lot.

      Or perhaps I had. The more I looked at what I now knew, the more George Hartland surged to the forefront of possible suspects.

      On the other hand, what did I
really
know? Only what George Hartland had told me. I had no confirmation from anyone else that his story was true. Bother.

      However, confirmation or denial was as near as two offices away, and I decided I’d jolly well go seek out a definitive answer to my question regarding George Hartland. When there was a lull in the telephone’s ringing, I tapped softly at Ernie’s office door. Phil was still in there. God alone knew what they were talking about. According to accepted reasoning men don’t gossip, but according to my own personal observations they were worse than women when it came to slinging mud, only men didn’t call it
gossip
. But we needn’t get into that right now. Suffice it to say that I tapped softly on Ernie’s door.

      “Yeah?” came his inelegant response to my knock.

      I peeked in. “I need to go down the hall for a moment, Ernie. I’ll be right back.”

      “Okay.”

      He naturally assumed I was going to visit the powder room, and I figured what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me; therefore, I didn’t clarify my purpose in leaving my desk. I did, however, hurry down the hall.

      Miss Dunstable looked up as I entered her office, and smiled her pleasant, professional smile. “How do you do, Miss Allcutt?”

      “I’m fine, thanks. I actually came here to ask a question, if I may. Um . . . is Mr. Carstairs available?”

      “I’m not—”

      She didn’t get to finish her sentence, because Mr. Carstairs himself appeared in his office doorway. “Did I hear my name taken in vain?” His smile seemed slightly predatory to me, but perhaps I was allowing my reading of detective fiction to color my opinion.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Carstairs,” I said brightly. “I was hoping you could answer a question for me.”

      “Fire away,” said he.

      “Is it true that Mr. George Hartland owes you money?” As soon as the question left my lips, I felt my face flame. What kind of question was that to ask of a gentleman? My mother would be horrified. In truth,
I
was faintly horrified.

      So was Mr. Carstairs, whose smile vanished instantly.

      I hastened on, stumbling as I went. “You see, the police believed Mr. Hartland was ill the night of the séance during which his mother died, but according to Mr. Hartland himself, he saw you enter the house and didn’t want to go in after you because he owes you money. I . . . I know it sounds awful, but I’m checking on his alibi. I mean his lack of alibi. I mean . . .” Good heavens, what a pickle I’d managed to talk myself in to.

      “Ah,” said Mr. Carstairs, his frown easing, which made me feel better. “I see.” After a pause of several seconds, he added, “Yes. He told you the truth. He does owe me money, and he doesn’t seem inclined to pay. Services rendered, you understand.”

      I really wanted to know what sorts of legal services Mr. Carstairs had rendered to Mr. Hartland, but I didn’t feel right in asking. I think there are laws of confidentiality or something like that, and it was more than likely that Mr. Carstairs wouldn’t take kindly to more probing. I’d already asked enough awkward questions for one day.

      “I see. Thank you very much.”

      I’d probably have made a fool of myself by thanking him several more times, but the office door opened, and Ernie Templeton walked in, looking rather like I’d expect an angry bear to look if somebody snatched his blueberry bush from his paw. I jumped an inch or two.

      “So there you are,” Ernie said, glowering at me and ignoring the room’s other two occupants. “I thought you’d left the office for something important.”

      “I did!” I cried indignantly.

      “Well, I’d say your job is more important, Miss Allcutt. And the telephone’s ringing off the hook so you’d better get back to it.”

      My face felt as if it would burst into flame, and my temper soared into the stratosphere, but I didn’t make a scene in front of strangers—well, relative strangers. Instead, I said primly, “I was just finishing my business here, Mr. Templeton, and I shall return to the office at once.”

      “Good thing,” growled my infuriating employer. And he gave Mr. Carstairs an unpleasant sneer, bobbed his head at Miss Dunstable, and stood at the door, waiting for me.

      Longing to kick him in the shins as I passed, I suppressed my desire and returned to the office.

      There wasn’t much of the workday left after that, thank goodness, since I didn’t stop steaming until I’d ridden up Angel’s Flight and walked the two blocks to Chloe’s house. The thought that soon I would see my darling Buttercup cheered me until the realization that I’d also see my not-so-darling mother spoiled it for me. Nevertheless, I was more cheerful than not when I opened the door to Chloe’s house and was greeted by my adorable poodle, who leaped into my arms and wiggled all over. There’s nothing quite like the love of a dog to elate one’s sagging spirits.

      My sense of well-being lasted until I looked up, Buttercup in my arms, discovered Mother standing in Chloe’s beautiful tiled hallway, and heard her say, “Mr. Easthope telephoned, Mercedes Louise. There will be another séance at his house tomorrow evening, and I shall attend it with you.”

Chapter Eleven
 

Not only did my mother declare her intention of attending the next séance with me, but she positively
grilled
me on the Hartland case. I couldn’t understand her enthusiasm for something that, as far as I knew, she considered a profession crafted in hell and that only yesterday she’d been dead-set against.

      “But . . . I thought you didn’t approve of my job, Mother,” I said, still reeling from shock and forgetting for the moment that it was unwise to feed my mother weapons with which to smack me.

      She surprised me. “I do not at all approve of your decision to remain in the employ of a person so far beneath you socially, Mercedes. However, if you are determined to hold on to this so-called
job
of yours, I believe it is my duty to assure your safety.

      My
mother
aimed to ensure my
safety?

      “Um . . . by attending the séance at Mr. Easthope’s home?”

      “Certainly. You shouldn’t be running around the countryside without proper supervision.”

      “Proper supervision?” I repeated faintly.

      “Yes.”

      It was only then that I noticed a suspicious gleam in Mother’s generally steely eyes. I peered more closely until she frowned at me and accused me of staring. I guess I was, too, but darned if it didn’t look as if my mother—
my mother
—was interested in the case!

      To test out my theory, I asked tentatively, “Um . . . do you have any theories about who might have killed Mrs. Hartland, Mother?” Then I braced myself.

      “How can I possibly have any
theories
, as you call them, until I have acquainted myself with the venue in which the deed took place and the inhabitants of the place?”

      “Um . . . I guess you can’t.”

      From anyone else in the world, the sound she next made would have been a snort. From my mother . . . well, I guess it was still a snort. “The situation needs merely to be studied,” she said with dignity. “I’m sure that, as a disinterested party, I can shed some light on the case.”

      “But aren’t the police disinterested? I mean, they weren’t involved in the séance or anything.”

      She made that noise again. “The police are individuals of limited abilities, Mercedes, or they would be doing something else with their lives. This situation needs to be studied by someone with intelligence and standards.”

      “Oh. And you don’t believe the Los Angeles Police Department has standards?”

      “Not proper ones.” Her tone of voice left no room for argument.

      Oh, boy. Just what I wanted. My mother. At Mr. Easthope’s house. During a séance. Well, I supposed it was always possible that the murderer, if there was one and he or she was present at this next séance, might mistake my mother for his or her next victim.

      How remarkably mean of me. I beg your pardon.

      At any rate, the conversation appeared to be over. Meekly, I carried Buttercup into the living room where Chloe sat, looking as if she’d just as soon be somewhere else. I felt exactly the same way, although it was really our mother we both wished elsewhere. Casting a quick peek over my shoulder to determine Mother’s whereabouts, I whispered, “What’s going on?”

      Chloe looked up at me and shrugged her shoulders as if she didn’t understand this sudden enthusiasm our mutual mother was taking in my work, either. Then she whispered, too. “She’s been going on about the case all day long, Mercy. She’s read all the newspaper articles about it. She even made poor Mrs. Biddle buy a copy of the
Examiner
at the market this morning. I think she’s actually interested.”

      “Good Lord.” Buttercup and I sank onto the sofa next to Chloe, and Chloe and I exchanged puzzled glances. “Do you suppose she’s turning human?” I gave Buttercup a hug to let her know I didn’t consider being human any more or less good than being a poodle.

      Chloe thought about it for a second, then shrugged again. “Too soon to tell. It’s difficult to imagine something like that happening, though, isn’t it?”

      “Boy, ain’t
that
the truth?” Quickly I scanned the room, hoping Mother hadn’t heard my misuse of the English language. Fortunately, she wasn’t there yet. Before I could say anything else that might get me in trouble, I hustled Buttercup, my handbag, and myself up to my room, where I changed into a nice evening frock for dinner. My mother might not like me much, but she couldn’t fault my wardrobe.

      All through dinner and afterward, Mother declaimed on the impending events at Mr. Easthope’s house. By the time I escaped to my bedroom, not only had she dictated my costume for the following evening, her costume for the following evening, and what I should and should not say during the get-together, but she’d even picked out what she wanted me to wear to work the next day.

      I sat on my bed, hugging Buttercup and silently cursing my father for this whole mess.

* * * * *

      There was an uncomfortable consequence of placing an advertisement in the
Los Angeles Times
aside from Ernie’s anger. I didn’t fully realize it at first, because I was already uncomfortable thanks to my mother. She’d selected a woolen suit of dark brown tweed, infinitely more suitable to a Boston winter than a Los Angeles summer, but I was feeling so intimidated by the time morning rolled around that I didn’t have the gumption to select a more suitable costume.

      By the time I got to the office I was very nearly wilted, and I did something I’d never done before. I removed the jacket to my suit and draped it neatly over the back of my chair. Fortunately, I’d had sense enough to select a short-sleeved, sheer white shirtwaist to wear with the costume, so that helped revive me a bit. About nine o’clock, I decided I’d run out and purchase one of those little rotating fans from the local Kress Drug Store during my lunch hour. I also swore I wouldn’t allow my mother to interfere in my choice of clothing again.

      But the uncomfortable consequence to which I referred before was that we were now so busy at Ernest Templeton, P.I.’s office that Ernie was hardly ever there. I missed him. Even when he was grouchy, which he’d been a lot lately.

      I didn’t see him at all that morning for the first hour or so. Then, along about nine-thirty, the outer office door opened, and I looked up expectantly. I was disappointed when James Quincy Carstairs, Esquire, popped in. I greeted him warmly nevertheless.

      “Good morning, Mr. Carstairs.”

      “How do you do, Miss Allcutt?” He came over to my desk and hesitated a second before I gestured that he should take one of the chairs there.

      “I’m fine, thank you.” I smiled reassuringly, noting that he seemed to need encouragement. I’d never seen him less than entirely at ease before.

      He sat, slumping slightly. “I’m not sure I’m fine,” said he, sounding worried. “Miss Jacqueline Lloyd just telephoned to tell me that there’s going to be another séance tonight, and that she wants me to accompany her again.” He didn’t seem one bit pleased by anything he’d said.

      Since I had problems of my own, I only said, “Yes. I’ll be there, too.”

      At this intelligence he perked up a little bit. “Oh, I’m pleased to hear it.” His perkiness faded almost immediately. “However, I still don’t like it.”

      “Oh? Why is that?”

      He shook his head. “It just seems . . . I don’t know. Unwise, perhaps. Certainly it’s disrespectful of Miss Hedda Heartwood.” He looked at me almost beseechingly. “For heaven’s sake, she was murdered during a séance there only a few days ago. It seems to me that Easthope is not merely pressing his luck by holding another one so soon, but is . . . oh, I don’t know. Guilty of bad taste, I guess.”

      Especially since the spiritualists in question had been shown to be not quite what they’d portrayed themselves as being. I wondered if Mr. Carstairs knew that.

      I didn’t have to ask him.

      “Even those spiritualists are phony, for the love of God,” he went on. “I understand their name is really O’Doyle.”

      “Yes, I heard that, too.”

      “Miss Lloyd claims they only changed their name because d’Agostino sounded better than O’Doyle, but I have my doubts. I don’t really buy into this spiritualism craze.” He’d been glaring at his beautifully manicured hands, which rested lightly in his lap, but he looked up after he delivered that last line. “I don’t mean to disparage any of your personal beliefs, of course, Miss Allcutt.”