Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (24 page)

      “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.”

      “Yes, Mother. I mean no, Mother. I mean the police aren’t sure yet who killed Mrs. Hartland. And now somebody’s murdered her son. George Hartland was smothered with a pillow last night in his hospital bed.”

      A general gasp arose, and yet once more I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. However, Mother surprised me. Although she still scowled, she had a certain gleam in her eyes that I’d only seen there once before, on the night she’d told me about the second séance.

      Was it possible that my mother—
my mother—
was becoming interested in crime? Unlikely.

      “I must say that since you’ve moved west, you’ve managed to become embroiled in some excessively unsavory events, Mercedes Louise.”

      Fudge. However, I said meekly, “Yes, Mother.”

      “I have to admit that the events do possess a modicum of intrigue to the casual observer, however.”

      Chloe and I exchanged a quick, shocked glance. “Um . . . yes, I guess they do.” Maybe my earlier thought wasn’t so unlikely after all.

      “I suspect those nonsensical people who call themselves
spiritualists
of having perpetrated the evil deeds. They’re clearly individuals of no moral worth or they wouldn’t be trying to bilk people of their money in the first place.”

      “The police are looking very hard at the d’Agostinos. O’Doyles, I mean.” I determined that it would be better for me not to propound the notion that killing the clientele would be bad for the spiritualists’ business. Mother didn’t take kindly to having her opinions doubted.

      “O’Doyle?” Chloe asked, a note of incredulity in her voice. “Did you say their name is really
O’Doyle
?” She burst into tinkling laughter, and it occurred to me that it was the first time in a couple of days I’d heard anyone laugh. National and local events seemed to have stripped people of their senses of humor.

      “You mean d’Agostino is an . . . whatever do they call it? An . . . alibi?”

      “I think you mean an alias, Mother.”

      She sniffed. “I suppose you
would
know that, wouldn’t you?”

      “Yes, indeedy.”

      And
then
it occurred to me that there were a whole bunch of people included in this investigation who were going by names other than their own. I wondered if Jacqueline Lloyd was Jacqueline Lloyd’s real name. I knew for a fact, since I lived with a man involved in the flickers, that often both men and women will select names other than those given to them at birth as screen names. I hardly blamed some of them, especially if their last name was Mullins, as poor Lulu’s was. Not that there’s anything wrong with the name Mullins, but you must admit it would look queer on a marquee.

      Good heavens, what if Jacqueline Lloyd had been born a Mullins? In Enid, Oklahoma? Or an O’Doyle in St. Louis, Missouri? Or even a Hartland? If she were Vivian Hartland’s daughter, for instance, would she be in line for a big inheritance? That would account for her having bumped off George as well as Mrs. Hartland, wouldn’t it?

      Whom could I ask about this interesting new possibility? Mr. Carstairs would probably know, but since Miss Lloyd was his client her real name might be considered privileged information. I wouldn’t want for him to break any laws or anything. More to the point, I’d feel really stupid if I asked him and he gave me a long lecture on attorney–client confidentiality rules.

      Sylvia Dunstable. I could ask her. Mind you, she was an excellent private secretary and she might believe herself to be bound by the same rules of confidentiality her employer had to obey, but at least I wouldn’t feel like an idiot asking her.

      My mother, who had no access to my secret thoughts and wouldn’t care anyway, said, “I do believe the police are being deplorably dilatory in the case. It’s clear to me that the medium and her brother are responsible for the evil doings.”

      “Do you really think so?” Mr. Easthope posed his question politely.

      “Who else would possibly do such a thing?” Mother demanded.

      Silly me, I forgot my earlier resolution and stuck my oar in. “I should think they’d want to keep their customers alive and well. It doesn’t do to kill off your clients if you want to earn a living, does it?”

      “Really, Mercedes Louise! You have learned to speak very crudely since you left Boston. Your grandmother must be spinning in her grave.”

      I shut my eyes for a second and offered a quick prayer for patience. Mother was right, however. If Grandmother Powell, Mother’s mother, had heard me say that my ear would be smarting for days from the wallop she’d have delivered. I was glad I wasn’t sitting next to Mother, since she’d been known to deliver the same punishment when annoyed beyond enduring. I fear I’d been annoying my mother a whole lot since she’d arrived at Chloe and Harvey’s front door.

      That being the case and because it was always possible, if not probable, that if I irked her enough she’d go back home, I said, “Well, both of my grandmothers are buried in Boston, so I don’t suppose they heard me. Besides, they’re dead.”

      Chloe pressed a hand over her mouth, either in horror or to smother a laugh. I couldn’t be sure. Francis Easthope cleared his throat. Harvey didn’t even try to hide his grin.

      Mother said, “Well, really!”

      Buttercup and I retired shortly after that. I couldn’t bear listening to any more of my faults being revealed to the assembled company. And it had been
she
who, all my life, had told us never to air our dirty linen in public.