Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (19 page)

      I shook my head. “They aren’t mine, believe me. I don’t buy it, either. I was only there to begin with because Mr. Easthope was attempting to talk some sense into his mother, who is enthralled with the d’Agostinos. O’Doyles. Whoever they are. Neither my presence nor the exposure of their fake name seems to have worked.”

      “Do you know why there’s going to be another séance, by the way?”

      I did, actually, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to spread the news. There seemed to be no reason not to, but still I said, “Haven’t a clue.”

      Mr. Carstairs sighed soulfully.

      I went on, “But I’m sure Mr. Easthope would never be guilty of doing anything in bad taste. There’s got to be a good reason he agreed to hold this séance tonight. I know Mr. Easthope quite well, and I can assure you he’d never do anything like this unless it was necessary.”

      “You really think so?”

      “I’m sure of it.”

      He didn’t appear to be convinced and opened his mouth to speak again, perhaps to voice his doubt, but our conversation was interrupted abruptly when Ernie shoved open the outer office door, took a step inside, saw Mr. Carstairs, stopped where he stood, and glowered at the both of us. “Don’t you have an office of your own, Carstairs?”

      With another sigh, Mr. Carstairs rose from his chair. “Indeed I do, and I’m headed there now.” And with that, and with a polite nod for me, he departed.

      I frowned at Ernie. “There’s no need to be rude, Ernest Templeton. The man was only chatting.”

      “Why the hell is he chatting with
you
?”

      “He’s concerned about another séance that’s being held tonight at Mr. Easthope’s house. Miss Lloyd wants him to attend it with her. I’ll be there, too.”

      Without removing his hat, Ernie plunked himself down beside my desk. “Another séance? At that faggot Easthope’s place? And you’re
going
to it? Are you nuts?”

      Through clenched teeth, I said, “Yes, yes, yes, and no. And don’t you dare call Francis Easthope names!”

      “He’s a faggot whether you like it or not, and you’re a damned fool to go to another séance at his house. Don’t you understand that a
murder
took place there, for God’s sake?”

      “Of course I understand that. And I don’t know what you’re so worried about. I’m sure nothing else will happen. And anyhow, the murder wasn’t Mr. Easthope’s fault.” Drawing upon intelligence gleaned from my mother the night before and that I hadn’t divulged to Mr. Carstairs, I said, “It’s his mother. She’s hoping anther séance will draw forth the name of Mrs. Hartland’s murderer from the Other Side. Whatever that is,” I added a trifle snidely.

      “Oh, brother. Does she know her precious spiritualists are phonies?”

      I sighed heavily. “Yes, she knows they changed their name. But she thinks they only did it because d’Agostino sounds better for a pair of spiritualists than O’Doyle. They claim d’Agostino is a family name on their mother’s side, although how that can be, I have no idea, since they’re married and not brother and sister.” I frowned. “Maybe it’s her mother’s name or something. It’s vaguely possible that d’Agostino is her maiden name, I suppose.”

      Ernie’s head tilted slightly and he gave me another one of his “oh, brother” expressions.

      I reacted negatively. “The whole thing is nothing to do with me! I only told Mr. Easthope I’d help him debunk the d’Agostinos. O’Doyles. Whoever they are. I told him I’d help him, and I don’t break my word.”

      “Listen, kiddo, if his mother isn’t convinced yet that those two are fakers, no amount of hanging around the house on your part will convince her.”

      “I suppose it won’t, but I owe it to Mr. Easthope to try.”

      “You’re stupid.”

      That
really
burned me up. “I am not! It’s not as if Mr. Easthope is secretly housing a vile murderer who aims to kill off everybody who attends séances there one by one! What would be the point of killing off the clientele?”

      Standing as precipitately as he’d sat and whipping off his hat, Ernie strode to his office. “You never know. I still say you’re an idiot to go.”

      “If you had condescended to help the man, I wouldn’t have to!” I flung at his back.

      “Nuts.”

      “Anyhow, this time his mother might listen, because
my
mother insists upon attending the stupid thing with me.”

      Ernie, his hand on his doorknob, turned and stared at me for a second or two, then vanished into his office.

      The door slammed behind him. I think I heard him laughing, the rat.

      The rest of my workday was every bit as awful as the beginning had been. In fact, if you can believe it, it got worse.

      At approximately nine forty-five, Miss Ethel Ginther, the lady whose uncle had disappeared and who’d called Ernie’s office when she saw my ad in the
Times
, presented herself in the outer office. We’d met before and I have to admit that, while I was delighted she’d seen my newspaper ad and decided to hire Ernie to find her missing uncle, I wasn’t terribly impressed with Miss Ginther herself, who tended to flutter.

      She was fluttering like a hummingbird when she entered the outer office. I sighed, although I doubt that she noticed. She didn’t notice anything that wasn’t directly connected to herself, as nearly as I can possibly understand a woman like that.

      “Oh, Miss Allcutt, I simply
must
see Mr. Templeton!” It wasn’t merely she who fluttered, but her clothing did, too. That day, she’d clad herself in a morning dress of pink taffeta (did I mention that the woman was in her forties and was relatively sallow? Well, she was, and pink was
not
an appropriate choice for her), covered with a darker pink cape-like thing that flipped and flapped around her so violently that I had to rescue the inkpot on my desk from flying off onto the carpet. Fortunately, being a neat person by nature, not to mention having very little work to do, I’d already made sure the inkpot was securely capped.

      In spite of her irritating mannerisms I smiled at Miss Ginther, whom I considered a success of sorts. “I don’t recall your calling to make an appointment, Miss Ginther.”

      “No, no, no, I didn’t. I didn’t because there was no time, you see, and I just truly need—
desperately
need—to see Mr. Templeton. It’s vitally important.
Vitally
important. It’s about my uncle.”

      See what I mean? Even her words fluttered around in the air like confetti. Or grapeshot, perhaps.

      Still smiling, I gestured at a chair in front of my desk. “Please have a seat, Miss Ginther. I’ll see if Mr. Templeton is available to see you.”

      I knew darned well Ernie was available, since he’d been turning down work right and left lately, claiming there was only one of him and he couldn’t possibly take on all the jobs my ad had generated. When I’d pointed out that he had a capable assistant in the person of my very own self who could certainly conduct interviews and minor investigations, he’d only sneered, snapped open his
Times
and said, “I don’t think so.”

      Annoying man. That morning I confounded him by not giving him a chance to think of an excuse to ignore Miss Ginther. I rapped smartly on his door, stepped into his office, and said, “Miss Ginther is here to see you, Mr. Templeton.” Then, almost before he could lower his feet from his desk to the floor, I swung his door wide and smiled at our visitor.

      “Come right in, Miss Ginther.”

      Ernie was still glowering and folding up his newspaper when the woman, with much waving of hands and flapping of capes and juggling of handbags and other accessories, tripped into the office with a trilled, “Oh, Mr. Templeton!” I shut the door and smiled to myself. Petty, I know, but satisfying.

      Miss Ginther was still babbling at Ernie, I suppose, when, at ten-fifteen, Lulu LaBelle burst, sobbing, into my office. Startled, I took one look at her, jumped to my feet, and hurried to her side. “Lulu! Whatever is the matter?” Gently, I guided her to the chair beside my desk. “Do you need a glass of water?”

      “They arrested Rupert!” she wailed, sounding to my untrained ears as a banshee on an Irish moor might sound.

      Her news shocked me so much that I didn’t even quail at the intensity of its delivery. “Th-they arrested him?” I forgot all about the water I’d offered and sank numbly into my desk chair.

      She nodded. “They arrested him! Oh, Mercy, he’s going to hang for a murder he didn’t commit! I just know it! They’re railroading him!”

      It wasn’t the time to point out that California used the electric chair to execute murderers. This was bad news. It was bad all around, actually, since I was almost, if not entirely, positive that Rupert Mullins had nothing to do with Mrs. Hartland’s demise.

      “But why?” I asked, feeling out of my depth. “Why did they arrest him?”

      “They learned that Mrs. Hartland used to live near us in Enid, and the coppers think that Rupert killed her to keep her from spilling the beans about his record!”

      Mind you, Lulu wasn’t quite that coherent in her exposition, but that’s what she meant. I stared at her. “His record of turning over an
outhouse
?” I don’t know about you, but it seemed to me that Rupert’s so-called “record” was so minor as to make his committing murder to prevent its becoming known akin to somebody shooting an elephant because he didn’t like peanuts. “That doesn’t make sense.”

      “You tell them that,” Lulu wailed. “They did it!”

      “Good heavens.”

      Lulu had a good cry in my office chair, then pulled herself together enough to go back to her job in the lobby. My head was spinning when Phil waltzed in about the time Ernie finally got rid of Miss Ginther. I was grateful for that since it saved me from receiving a lecture from Ernie about allowing crazed clients into his office when he didn’t want to be disturbed.

      Anyhow, just in case Ernie planned to scold me in Phil’s presence, I turned my own queries upon Phil before he had a chance. “Why in the name of heaven did the police arrest Rupert Mullins?” My voice was a trifle louder than propriety called for.

      Phil and Ernie both eyed me with something that looked rather like trepidation. Did they think I was going to have hysterics? Idiots, both of them.

      “Um . . . because they think he did it,” said Phil.

      I squinted at him. “I notice you say
they
think he did it. Does this mean that you don’t?”

      “Haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Phil, looking less nervous and more policeman-like. “We have to sift through all the evidence.”

      “What about Mr. Hartland?” I demanded. “He lied about not being there, and he had a lot to gain from his mother’s demise.”

      “We know that. We’re looking into all aspects of the case and all possible suspects.”

      “Then why did you arrest Rupert?”

      “He was considered a flight risk.”

      “A
flight
risk?” I stared at the man, incredulous.

      “He fled from Oklahoma to avoid a lesser charge than murder.”

      I didn’t really have an answer to that one, so I merely said, “Hmph,” and pointedly turned away from Phil to busy myself with some paperwork. At least when an unwelcome client came to call, I got to document his or her appointment in the appropriate file, which would take a minute or two. I trusted the men would vanish before I ran out of work again.

      They did. Phil and Ernie retired into Ernie’s office and closed the door. I breathed a sigh of frustration. Rupert Mullins? He didn’t kill Mrs. Hartland. It was insane to think he did.

      I had to admit, if only to myself, that given his past reluctance to deal with the police in his home state, he might actually
be
a flight risk. It was difficult to believe that Rupert Mullins was much of a danger to society, however. Especially here in Los Angeles, where outhouses were a rarity in this modern day and age.

      And
then
, right as I prepared to lock up the office and head to the Kress drugstore for a fountain luncheon, who should appear in the office but a gentleman I’d never seen before. He looked quite angry, too.

      Glad I hadn’t moved from behind my desk since I felt safer with a broad expanse of wood between angry clients and me, I smiled my efficient secretary’s smile and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”

      “I need Templeton,” said the man, whom I’d guess was in his late fifties or early sixties. He was quite distinguished looking, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, a well-made suit of summer seersucker, an ebony walking stick with an ivory handle and a fine derby hat.

      So many people did seem to need Mr. Templeton that day. However, I’d never met this particular one before and didn’t think he should be able to barge into the office and consult with Ernie without my intervention. “I will be happy to make an appointment for you,” I said, fibbing only a little. At least this particular person looked as if he were well off and could afford Ernie’s services.

      “Damn the appointment.” That shocked me. We didn’t even
know
each other, and he was swearing at me. “I need to see him
now
.” He glanced at Ernie’s closed door. “Is that his office?”

      “Yes, but . . .”

      He didn’t wait for me to finish, but marched over to Ernie’s office, lifted his walking stick and thumped on the door.

      “Now wait a minute here!” I cried, leaping up and racing to my employer’s office in an attempt to fend off this offensive, if well-groomed, individual.

      Ernie hollered, “Yeah?” He would.

      Before the interloper could shove the door open and barge right on in, I, in a deft move of which I’m proud to this day, maneuvered myself in front of him, put on my haughtiest Boston persona, and said, “Stop that this instant!”

      Believe it or not, the man stepped back a pace.