Fallen Angels (13 page)

“But . . . well, I went over to see if she
was all right, and I saw that she . . . she’d been struck a vicious
blow to the back of the head. There was . . . a good deal of blood.
On the carpet. Under her head.”

That was it for Mrs. Pinkney. Fortunately,
when she fainted this time, she did so on a soft surface. Sister
Emmanuel rushed over to her and administered soothing words and
tea. And smelling salts, too, which I presume she’d got from one of
her desk drawers. Wherever she’d retrieved them from, they did the
trick. Mrs. Pinkney sat bolt upright and sneezed. Then her hands
flew to the back of her head again. Poor thing. She’d had a hard
day, and it was barely after one o’clock in the afternoon. Again, I
felt guilty, even though I’d only been doing my job. A job my boss
had strictly forbidden me to do.

Oh, dear . . .

At any rate, after she’d administered first
aid, Sister Emmanuel returned to her desk and sat once more. “I’m
so very sorry about all of this,” she said softly. “Will you please
pray with me? We must pray for the soul of our dear departed loved
one and for the quick apprehension of the person who committed the
dreadful deed. I don’t believe anyone, however wicked his acts on
this earth, is beyond redemption. We can pray that the perpetrator
will come to see the light.”

Sounded about right to me. And if whoever the
perpetrator was didn’t see the light, I’d be happy if he was caught
quickly, then locked up and fried. Boy, that sounds terrible,
doesn’t it? Perhaps my stint as a private I’s secretary was
beginning to have a deleterious effect on my character, even as my
mother believed.

Yet again, Sister Emmanuel demonstrated her
strength of character. Rather than making the shaky Mrs. Pinkney
come to her, Sister Emmanuel went to her. “You just sit there,
dear. Sister Allcutt and I will join you.”

So there I was, on my knees again, only this
time we knelt on a carpeted surface, and the prayer didn’t last
very long.

My goodness. When I finally managed to
extricate myself from Sister Emmanuel and the Angelica Gospel Hall,
my head was positively spinning, and I could scarcely wait to go to
work the next morning so I could tell Ernie what I’d learned.
Which, I thought, frowning, wasn’t a whole lot. Still, maybe he
didn’t already know about the threatening letters Sister—I mean
Mrs. Chalmers had been receiving.

I took a taxicab home, thereby having spent
my entire week’s pay on transportation by Sunday afternoon. And I’d
only been paid on Friday. I decided I really needed to economize if
I truly wanted to become an honest member of the working
classes.

I’d begin doing that very thing after we
caught Mrs. Chalmers’ killer. Providing, of course, I survived
dinner with my mother that evening.

Chapter Eight

As I’d guessed she would, my mother was fit
to be tied that I’d sullied the Allcutt name and not merely
ventured in to the Angelica Gospel Hall but had actually spoken to
Sister Adelaide Burkhard Emmanuel herself.

“Why, the woman is nothing but a vulgar
shill for that so-called religion of hers,” Mother said, her nose
in the air. If she ever did that in the rain, she’d probably drown.
Too bad it didn’t rain much in Los Angeles, not that it would have
mattered then since we were indoors. “If anyone finds out that one
of
my
daughters was lending
her support to that trashy institution, the entire family will be
disgraced.”

“I wasn’t lending my support to any
institution,” I said. “I was trying to figure out why some people
are so enthralled with the Angelica Gospel Hall and Sister
Emmanuel. One of our clients was a member of the church, so you can
call it firsthand investigation, if you will.” That’s what I hoped
Ernie would call it.

“Sister
Emmanuel.” My mother made the name sound like a curse.
“Horrid woman!”

“She was actually very nice to me,” I said in
a quiet voice, hoping to teach by example. Silly me. “She was
awfully concerned when she learned about Mrs. Chalmers’ death. And
she was kindness itself to poor Mrs. Pinkney, who was Mrs.
Chalmers’ good friend.”

“And that’s another thing, young woman,”
Mother ranted on. Well, what I mean is that she continued talking.
My mother would no more rant than she’d attend the Angelica Gospel
Hall. “Why you keep getting mixed up with dead people is absolutely
beyond my understanding. Nothing like that ever happened in the
family before you disobeyed your parents and began behaving in so
outrageous a manner. Why, the way you stumble over dead people is
an absolute disgrace. I want you to quit that so-called job of
yours immediately!”

“You know I’m not going to do that, Mother.”
I held on to my sigh, since to sigh in front of people was another
Boston sin. Never mind that Boston was two thousand miles away and
on another coast. “I love my job.”

“You consort with the lowest sorts of
people.” Mother sniffed to let me know she was ashamed of me. Since
I’d known that for years, her sniff didn’t bother me a whole lot,
although what did bother me was why it was a sin to sigh and not a
sin to sniff.

“Mother, why don’t you dress for dinner?”
Poor Chloe must have been desperate, since she seldom interrupted
our mother in full scolding mode. “Our guests will be arriving
soon.

“Oh. Oh, certainly.”

Chloe and I exchanged a relieved glance
as Mother marched toward the staircase. She’d been given the Green
Room, the room allotted to visiting royalty or our mother. Why
anyone needed to change for meals was beyond
my
understanding, but I’d not dare fate and tell
Mother so.

Mother turned on the staircase. “Whom did you
say were going to grace your table this evening, dear?”

Chloe was a dear. I was a monster. Oh, well .
. .

“John Gilbert and Renee Adoree,” said
Chloe.

“Oh, my goodness. I did so enjoy Mr.
Gilbert’s performance in
The Big
Parade
. And Miss Adoree’s, too, although I must say I
don’t understand that name. It sounds odd to me, and rather
vulgar.”

To the astonishment of her two daughters, our
mother giggled. She didn’t stick around to confound us further, but
left to accept Chloe’s suggestion that she dress for dinner.

Another speaking glance passed between Chloe
and me. After peering up the steps to make sure enough distance
existed between our mother and us to preclude Mother overhearing, I
whispered, “How many times has John Gilbert been divorced?”

“Lord, I can’t even remember. He and Leatrice
Joy were divorced last year. I do know that.”

“So how come Mother gets wobbly knees and
giggles about a divorced man, and gets mad at me for attending
church?”

“Everyone gets wobbly knees about John
Gilbert,” Chloe said with some justification—except that we were
talking about our mother. Chloe frowned, realizing what a silly
thing she’d just said. Then she admitted it aloud. “I don’t know,
Mercy. I think she’s mainly upset that you refuse to toe the line
and continue to live the way you want to and not the way she wants
you to.”

This time I allowed my sigh out into the
open, since I knew Chloe didn’t give a hoot if sighs were
considered unrefined in Boston. “You’re right, of course.”

Chloe made as if to bustle out of the living
room. “I’m going to see if Mrs. Biddle needs any help. I’ve hired a
couple of girls to help out with the serving. Lord, I hope Miss
Adoree speaks English.”

“Mother will never forgive her if she
doesn’t,” I said.

Chloe laughed, but we both knew I was right.
Mother didn’t approve of languages other than English.

With another sigh, I said, “Well, I suppose
I’d better change for dinner, too. Stupid custom.”

“It is, but with Mother here, we’d best
conform.”

“Amen.” I guess my church experience hadn’t
entirely left me by that time.

Chloe continued her interrupted bustle, and I
climbed the stairs to my own suite of rooms.

Fortunately, I had a perfectly splendid dress
to wear for the evening and it was exactly suitable to the
occasion, so Mother at least wouldn’t be able to complain about my
appearance at table. Unless, of course, she wanted to, and then my
suitable appearance wouldn’t deter her.

The dress, a tubular-shaped one (that was the
current mode—I couldn’t do much about it), was beaded and had wide
shoulder straps, a knee-length skirt with a scalloped hem, and was
in the very first stare of fashion. The straps were lined with silk
and bound with velvet, so the dress was amazingly comfortable,
except that I had to wear an elastic, waist-length bust-flattener.
If I didn’t have any of the lumps and bumps considered unseemly at
the time, I wouldn’t have had to wear it, but I did. Have lumps and
bumps, I mean. Since I enjoyed my meals, I expected to have to
continue using the bust-flattener until the fashions changed.
Anyhow, the beading on the dress was green and gold, so I wore my
gold, pointy-toed shoes and gold hoop earrings. I even had a gold
evening bag to go with everything, but since I was at home, I
didn’t bother with that particular accoutrement. After I’d donned
my evening clothes and checked myself in the mirror, I decided the
ensemble was charming, and Mother couldn’t complain about it unless
she cared to stretch the point a good deal.

She didn’t, thank God. When I entered the
room, I saw Mother in the far corner of the room, giving orders to
Mrs. Biddle, who didn’t look as if she appreciated them. Then to my
great joy, I discerned Chloe, also dressed to the nines, in the
living room chatting with one of my favorite people, Mr. Francis
Easthope. As far as I was concerned, Mr. Easthope was even more
handsome than John Gilbert, but he had none of Mr. Gilbert’s
buccaneering ways with women, being a polite and courteous bachelor
who paid no undue attention to either Chloe or me. I tried not to
take his disinterest personally. Ernie didn’t like him for some
reason I didn’t understand, but Ernie wasn’t there that evening, so
it didn’t matter what he thought.

“Mr. Easthope,” I cried enthusiastically,
thinking at least I had one friend on my side. Chloe was on my
side, too, as was Harvey, but they were hostess and host, so they’d
be too busy contending with their guests to deflect Mother’s
attentions from landing on me.

Mr. Easthope smiled attractively and held out
his hand. “How lovely to see you this evening, Miss Allcutt. You
look perfectly charming, too.”

He ought to know, since he was the chief
costumier at Harvey’s studio. So there, Mother.

Speaking of whom, she suddenly loomed behind
me. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there because . . .
well, just because I was used to her looming over me, I
suppose.

I gave Mr. Easthope a hasty, “Thank you,” and
turned to face Mother. I even forced a smile. “Good evening,
Mother.”

“Good evening, Mercedes Louise.” She looked
me up and down, searching for imperfections, I have no doubt. “You
do appear quite presentable this evening.”

Boy, I bet it hurt her to say that. I only
smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you. You look grand yourself.”

And she did. For Boston. For a hot Los
Angeles summer evening, she was overdressed. But it was Mother who
would suffer for her refusal to adapt to change and not I, so what
did I care?

“I do love your dress, Miss Allcutt,” said
Mr. Easthope. I presume he and Mother had greeted each other
earlier, because otherwise he’d never have intruded into our
conversation—not that we were having one. “Who designed it, do you
know?”

“I’m not sure. Chloe’s seamstress, Mrs.
Martinez, made it. I like it, too. It’s awfully comfortable.” I
left out the part about the waist-length breast-flattener. “And the
colors are my favorites. I love green.”

“As do I,” said Mr. Easthope. “Green is a
marvelous color for you.”

“Thank you.” I think I blushed, which was
stupid of me.

Very well, so it wasn’t exactly an inspired
conversation; at least Mr. Easthope had diverted my mother’s
attention from her survey of my person, and for that I appreciated
him. I believe I’ve already mentioned that he was a swell person.
He also had mother problems of his own, so he understood Chloe’s
and my problems with our own mother.

At that moment, a woman squealed. I can’t
imagine who it was, since most of Chloe’s guests were inured to the
presence of moving-picture stars, or pretended to be. Maybe it was
one of the maids Chloe had hired for the evening. Anyhow, that
little screech announced the entry of Mr. John Gilbert into our
midst.

Oh, my goodness. Even
my
heart fluttered a bit when I
beheld him, and I’d seen actors and actresses aplenty since I’d
moved to Los Angeles.

But Mr. Gilbert was what one would call
a major star in Hollywood’s firmament, and he was absolutely
gorgeous. In actual fact, I believe Mr. Easthope outshone him in
the looks department, but Mr. Easthope was a costumier. Mr. Gilbert
was a
star
. He also has a
certain sparkle about him that one just doesn’t see on the rest of
us merely normal mortal souls. I’d noticed this phenomenon before.
There are lots of good-looking people in the world, but people like
Mr. Gilbert were folks other people
noticed
.

The perfect hostess, Chloe hurried over to
him, bade the maid—she was probably the squealer—to take his hat,
coat, and stick, and led him into the fray. I mean the living
room.

Clutching his arm—they knew each other from
before—Chloe guided him in the direction of our mother, which meant
that she led him in my direction, too. My thumping heart sped up a
good deal.