Fallen Angels (24 page)

“I haven’t been hurt!” I cried, stung.

“No? What about when that maniac tried to
kill you? And what about the time when that other maniac tried to
kill you? You might not have been killed, but I remember those
scrapes and bruises pretty darned well.”

So did I. Nevertheless, I lifted my
chin. He would have to bring up those incidents, wouldn’t he? “I
haven’t been badly hurt,” I said primly. “And I
did
help catch the criminals. You can’t deny
that, Ernest Templeton.”

He downed the last of his sherry. “I won’t
deny it.” With a sigh, he stood. “But I have to get going now. It’s
late, and I’ve had a bad day.”

“Oh?” Chloe’s eyes brightened. “What
happened?”

“Chloe, the poor man’s exhausted,” said
Harvey in as close to a chiding tone as he ever used, at least with
Chloe.

“I’m sure Mercy can tell you all about it.”
Ernie gave me what I could only consider an evil grin. “She’ll
probably even embellish the tale to make it more dramatic.”

“I will not!”

He laughed and took his exit while I
continued to fume.

However, fuming didn’t accomplish anything,
and I thought that perhaps if I talked the matter over with Chloe
and Harvey, I might come up with an idea I hadn’t thought of yet as
to whom I should next interrogate.

Even after I’d carefully explained what I’d
done that day, and how the wicked policemen had treated Ernie,
neither one of them had much to offer.

“Well,” said Harvey at one point, “it sounds
as if you’ve covered all the suspects, and so have the police.
Doesn’t anyone look good to you? That Pinkney guy, maybe?”

I puzzled over that question for a
moment before I realized that
good
in this instance meant
appropriate
, as in an appropriate
suspect.

“I’ve pinned my hopes on Mr. Pinkney,” I told
him. “After all, he’s the one who wrote those terrible threatening
letters. Unless he turns out to have a rock-solid alibi, he’s the
man I think probably did it.”

“In the pictures, the ones with the solid
alibis are always the ones who turn out to be the real killers,”
said Chloe.

“I know,” I said, wishing for once that real
life was more like the flickers.

* * * * *

The rest of that week passed uneventfully.
Phil came to the office daily to chat with Ernie, but he didn’t
take him down to the station to grill him again, and fortunately,
O’Reilly stayed away. Phil attempted to be friendly with me, as
he’d been in the good old days, before the L.A.P.D. began trying to
pin a murder on my boss, but I remained chilly toward him.

After his visit on the day after our dinner
at Chinatown, I went into Ernie’s office to find him slumped in his
chair, looking discouraged.

“What’s the matter, Ernie? Did that man
O’Reilly—”

“O’Reilly didn’t do anything to me. But
Pinkney didn’t commit the murder.”

“But he must have!” I cried. “He’s such a
logical suspect!”

“I thought so, too. But he didn’t do it.”

I plopped myself in one of the chairs in
front of Ernie’s desk, determined to have the whole story. If what
Ernie said was true . . . My heart creaked painfully. This was
awful. “How do you know that?”

“He has an alibi.”

Huh. As Chloe had mentioned about the
pictures, in all the books I read, people with alibis are always
the ones who did the deed. I sensed I’d be better off not telling
Ernie that. “What’s his alibi?”

“He was in San Bernardino on the day Mrs.
Chalmers was killed.”

“How do the police know he’s telling the
truth?”

“The L.A.P.D. got in touch with his employer,
and his employer told them he was in San Bernardino, dealing with
an account.”

“Do they know this for certain? How do they
know he’s telling the truth? What does he do, anyhow?”

“He works for a shipping company. On Thursday
last, he was visiting an orange-processing plant in San Bernardino.
He’s got the paperwork to prove it.”

“There’s no way he could have forged the
paperwork? He seems to be pretty handy with pen and ink,” I said
dryly.

“Phil’s convinced Pinkney’s telling the
truth. Pinkney’s boss corroborates his actions that day, and when
the L.A.P.D. put a trunk call through to the San Bernardino
orange-processing plant, they confirmed his visit.”

I heaved a big sigh. “What a shame. He’d be a
perfect suspect, and his wife would dearly love to be rid of
him.”

Although I could scarcely believe I’d
actually said that out loud, Ernie laughed, so I guess it was
okay.

Still and all, I was sorely
disappointed. I was so hoping Mr. Pinkney would turn out to be the
killer. I was almost positive that Phil didn’t consider Ernie a
truly viable suspect, but he didn’t seem to be relenting on his
persistent questioning of him. The way I saw it, when I tried to do
so from the perspective of the L.A.P.D.—which wasn’t easy for me,
as you can well imagine—was that if they ruled out Ernie, nobody
else was left to fit the frame. That’s another piece of L.A. argot
I picked up from Ernie.
Frame
, I mean.

“That stinks, Ernie,” I said.

“I agree,” he said, running his hands through
his hair.

* * * * *

At lunch that day, which we took at a diner
across the street from the Figueroa Building, Lulu and I made
arrangements to meet at the Angelica Gospel Hall for services on
Sunday. I aimed to take a cab. I didn’t ask how Lulu planned to get
there. I have to admit to having some slight trepidation about how
Lulu would present herself, but when, on the following Sunday, the
cabbie dropped me off in front of the church, darned if Lulu wasn’t
there waiting for me, sans red lipstick and nail polish, and with
her bottle-blond hair covered demurely under a black hat. I almost
didn’t recognize her. In fact, I was about to walk right past her
and on into the Hall when she spoke.

“Well?”

I whirled around and gasped when I recognized
her. “Lulu! You’re perfect!”

She looked quite pleased with herself. “Told
you I was a good actress.”

Actually, she hadn’t told me that. She’d told
me many times that she wanted to get into the pictures and be a
star, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about acting. Not that it
matters. “You certainly are.”

Lulu looked up at the huge cross on top of
the Hall. “I’ve heard a lot about this place, but I never seen it
before.”

“Whereabouts do you live, Lulu?”

“In a boardinghouse on Clay. It’s not fancy,
and there are a lot of Chinese around, but I don’t mind that.”

“Oh, my. Angels Flight goes right over Clay
Street. Do you live near the railroad? It must be quite noisy.”

“It’s noisy everywhere around there,” she
said. “But it’s cheap. I can’t afford anything better.”

She gave me kind of a slanty-eyed look, as
though she were warning me about her financial circumstances for my
future reference. I got the point. “Well, Ernie said that if I do
decide to buy Chloe and Harvey’s house, he’ll help me establish
fair rentals for tenants.”

“Yeah? Ernie’s a good guy. I just hope ‘fair’
will include me. I’d sure love to live in a joint like that. It’s
like a . . . a palace or something.”

“I suppose it must seem like that,” I said,
thinking that Lulu hadn’t seen very many palaces in her life if she
thought the Nash home anything close to resembling a palace. On the
other hand, my own personal education had included a trip to Europe
during my sixteenth summer, so I’d actually been inside a palace or
two. Yet another indication, if one were needed, that the United
States of America did indeed have a class system, even if it wasn’t
as overt as those of some other countries. Shoot, Chloe and I had
even dined with the daughter of some duke or other in Great Britain
during that trip. I decided not to tell Lulu that. She’d think
dining with a duke’s daughter was something special, and it had
only been lunch, really, and the duke’s daughter was a pallid,
insipid creature with no conversation. In other words, she was the
sort of girl our mother wanted Chloe and me to be, which really
didn’t bear thinking of, so I stopped thinking of it.

We climbed the stairs leading into the Hall,
and I saw Brother Everett handing out bulletins at the door. We
smiled at each other, and I said, “Good morning, Brother
Everett.”

“Good morning, sister.”

He’d forgotten my name, I have no doubt.

“I brought my friend Miss LaBelle with me
today.”

“Good for you, sister!” He spoke with the
enthusiasm of a true believer. “We’re so happy to have you join us,
Sister LaBelle.”

After a moment of hesitation while she
absorbed Brother Everett’s zest for his church, Lulu said, “Um . .
. likewise, I’m sure.”

I hustled Lulu into the sanctuary before she
could say anything else. Not that I didn’t trust her, but I didn’t
want Brother Everett to know we were, in effect, there as spies. I
don’t suppose it would have mattered if he knew the truth, but I
felt better having him think I was there out of ardor for Sister
Emmanuel’s message rather than in an investigatory capacity.

We sat in the pew I’d sat in the Sunday
before. My choice was made on purpose, because I hoped this was
Mrs. Pinkney’s regular pew.

“What’s this ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ stuff?”
Lulu whispered in my ear when we were seated.

“Well, according to Sister Emmanuel,” I
whispered back, “they believe that titles like ‘mister’ and
‘missus’ are designations of this earth and, as such, are not
intended by God. Therefore, they eschew those types of social
titles . . . and ‘doctor,’ too, I suppose.”

Lulu said, “Huh?”

I could understand her confusion, since the
“brother” and “sister” stuff puzzled me a bit, too. Therefore, I
shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, Lulu. I think they prefer to
think of themselves as siblings in this new religious endeavor, so
they use the words ‘brother’ and ‘sister.’ Like they’re all
brothers and sisters in God’s eyes or something.”

Because Lulu still looked at me blankly, I
don’t think I’d explained the matter any better. She said, “I
guess.” Then she said, “Do I have to call you Sister Allcutt?”

“Good Lord, no. Just call me Mercy. Please.
And I’ll call you Lulu. We’ll let the others call us Sister LaBelle
and Sister Allcutt.”

“If you say so.”

“Sister Allcutt!”

Aha! I’d been correct about this being Mrs.
Pinkney’s usual pew, because when I glanced up to see who’d spoken,
there she was, beaming as if I were the one person on earth whom
she wanted to see this bright, hot Sunday morning. I thought that
was sweet, so I smiled back at her and introduced her to Lulu
LaBelle, leaving out the sister part.

“I’m so very happy to see you here
today, Sister Allcutt, and so very,
very
happy to meet your friend.” Her smile for
Lulu expressed so much rapture, I felt guilty. I’d been doing that
a lot lately. “The more people who get the message, the more
sinners will come to God.”

From the furrow in Lulu’s brow, I got
the impression she didn’t much like being called a sinner, but I
grimaced at her to beg her not to react, and her forehead smoothed
out. “Mercy’s told me so much about this place, and I’m
so
happy to be here” said Lulu,
trying on a simper that didn’t quite fit the Lulu I knew, but that
went well with her boring gray outfit.
My
boring gray outfit.

Hmm. Perhaps my sister was right about my
wardrobe. But this wasn’t the time or place to worry about
that.

“That’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Pinkney. “I do
so miss Persephone.” She hauled a hankie out of her handbag and
dabbed at a corner of her eye. “It’s nice to have new people to
speak to now that she’s gone.”

Oh, dear. I hoped the poor woman wouldn’t be
too disappointed when Lulu and I vanished as soon as we discovered
who’d murdered her best friend.

“Do you think the police are any closer to
finding who the murderer of poor Mrs. Chalmers was?” Mrs. Pinkney
asked in a whisper, looking around the sanctuary as if she didn’t
want to be overheard.

“I’m not sure.” I decided not to tell her the
police had cleared her husband, for fear the disappointment would
make her faint. “But they’re working hard on the case, and so is my
employer.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but I hope they
find the fiend who killed her soon.” She shook her head and
frowned. “You wouldn’t think it would be so difficult to find a
murderer, would you? I mean, just look at . . .”

I think she was going to say, “Just look at
my husband,” but wasn’t sure. Anyhow, I got the impression she was
also hoping the fiend would turn out to be Mr. Gaylord Pinkney.
What an odd thought.

“How do you do, Sister Allcutt?” a female
voice said. I turned to discover Sister Everett smiling at me.
Although it sounds odd, she had a severe, somewhat strained smile.
I’d noticed that quirk of hers that before. It was still difficult
for me to picture her as the wife of the insubstantial Mr.
Everett.

“Very well, thank you, Sister Everett.”

“I must say I’m rather surprised to see you
here today,” she said.

I lifted my eyebrows. “Oh? Why is that?” I
didn’t know whether or not to be offended, but I leaned toward the
pro side.

Now her smile seemed a trifle too sugary to
me, as if she had to force it. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I didn’t
sense great spiritual awakening in you when you attended services
here last week.”

“I’m sure it’s up to God to decide a person’s
worth, Sister Everett.” My tone was frigid, and I guess it made her
back off from making any more judgmental statements about me.