Fallen Angels (10 page)

“I’ve already spoken to you!” Ernie roared.
“Talking to you is like talking to a pile of rocks. You don’t
listen!”

Rolling my eyes, something I don’t believe
I’d ever once done in Boston, I tutted.

Phil, the rat, said, “He’s right, Mercy. You
really don’t need to be involved any further in the case than you
already have been unless O’Reilly needs to question you again. We
have your statement, and if you remember anything else you might
have seen or heard there, just telephone me. All right? Don’t do
any running around on your own.”

“Running around on my
own
?” Indignation swelled my bosom.
Well, I didn’t see it actually swell my bosom, but you know what I
mean. I stood so quickly, my chair almost fell over backward. Phil
caught it and righted it. “I don’t plan to do any
running around on my own
, Detective
Bigelow. Thank you
so
much
for your tender concern for my welfare!”

Right before I slammed the office door, I
heard Phil mutter a quiet, “Whoops.”

Ernie’s office door opened even before I’d
managed to sit in my chair. I glared at it to see Phil standing
there, looking sheepish.

“I’m sorry, Mercy. I don’t know why I said
that.”

“I do,” I said grumpily. “Neither you nor
Ernie think I have a lick of sense.”

“That’s not true.” He seemed to hesitate for
a minute before pulling a folded paper from his inside coat pocket.
“Um, I brought the statement you gave Officer Bloom. I’d appreciate
it if you’d look it over and sign it.”

I heaved a big sigh. “Very well. Hand it
over.”

So he did. I waved at the chair next to my
desk, and Phil sat while I read every single word of Officer
Bloom’s report on the statement I’d given him the day before. I had
to correct his punctuation once or twice and his spelling a few
times, but other than that the statement seemed complete.

I eyed Phil narrowly. “So where do I sign
it?”

He pointed to the bottom of the page. “Right
there, please.”

So I signed my full name, Mercedes Louise
Allcutt, and thrust the paper at Phil.

“Don’t be angry with Ernie, Mercy. He’s only
concerned about your welfare.”

I said, “Huh,” and pretended to type
something.

Phil sighed, rose, and left the office.

Chapter Six

Thank the good Lord and distance, our mother
had already left for Pasadena by the time I got home from the
office. According to Chloe, she didn’t plan to grace us with
another appearance until Sunday evening, when she’d invited herself
to dinner.

“She expects to see motion picture stars when
she dines with us,” Chloe said upon a deep and mournful sigh.

Hugging Buttercup to my bosom, I said, “I
thought she deplored stars and everything else about the
motion-picture industry.”

“Of course she does,” said Chloe, still
mournful. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to meet some stars
anyway.”

“Hmm,” I said, thinking the matter over.
“That’s probably so that she can deplore them to their faces.”

“Probably.” Chloe plopped herself down on the
sofa. “May I borrow Buttercup for a moment? I need some
comfort.”

Although I, too, needed comfort, I handed
Buttercup over to my sister. All things considered, Chloe probably
needed more solace than I at that moment. After all, I’d only been
peeved by luncheon with my mother and conversations with two
idiotic men. Poor Chloe had endured our mother almost the entire
day. She not only deserved Buttercup; the woman deserved a medal of
valor or something.

“How about I get you and Harvey a toy poodle
for Christmas?” I asked, thinking the idea a particularly bright
one even as it occurred to me.

Chloe actually cheered up, so I guess I was
right. “Oh, Mercy, would you? I’d love that! Then our little tyke
can grow up with a dog. Every child needs a dog.”

I pondered her statement for a second or two.
“Neither of us ever had a dog. Neither did George.”

Chloe only looked upon me with something akin
to derision in her expression.

“You’re right, of course. But
real
children do need
dogs.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Chloe.
“And I would love to have a little Buttercup of my own. Or my
child’s own.”

“You know, it’s actually fortunate for the
dog that George never had one.”

“Too true. Can you imagine what the poor
creature would have endured if it had been entrusted to George’s
tender mercies?”

“Hideous thought.”

“Any dog worth its salt would have died of
boredom,” Chloe said.

“Precisely.”

“Can you imagine that a woman actually
went so far as to
marry
him?”

“Well,” I said after pondering the question
for a heartbeat, “yes. I knew her better than you did, so I do
understand. She’s every bit as ghastly as George.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“I know, but it’s true.”

With another sigh, Chloe said, “No wonder
Mother approves of her.”

She was right about that, so I went on to a
more pertinent subject. “So where are you going to get stars to
come and dine with us on Sunday?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll ask Harvey. He’s
probably got some of them hanging around the studio somewhere.”

“They aren’t all on location somewhere?” I
was beginning to get the hang of the picture industry lingo. “On
location” meant that the actors, cameramen, directors, and so forth
were filming at a remote spot some distance from the studio,
generally in the desert somewhere in San Bernardino County.

“Heavens, no. They’ve built an entire western
town in back of the studio. That’s where they film most of the
western pictures these days. It’s cheaper than transporting them
all to the Mojave Desert.”

“Interesting. But do you think Mother would
be happy with a western actor? I suspect she’s more the John
Barrymore type.”

“Not likely,” Chloe scoffed. “He’s always got
a drink in his hand.”

“Oh, dear. No. Mother wouldn’t like that one
little bit.”

“But I’ll find one or two of them somewhere.
Harvey’s crews are always building sets at the studio. They don’t
just film westerns there.”

It occurred to me that we were discussing
human beings as if they were some sort of exotic species of animal,
and I decided to change the subject. “Do you know what time Mother
will be arriving on Sunday?”

“No, but I doubt that she’ll arrive any
earlier than six or seven. I’ll set dinner for eight.”

“Oh, good. Because I want to do something
else in the morning, and I don’t want Mother to know about it.”

Chloe looked a question at me.

Smiling brightly, I said, “I plan to attend
services at the Angelica Gospel Hall!”

Chloe nearly fainted.

* * * * *

Nevertheless, two days after that
conversation, and after reading articles about the place and
studying pictures of people who attended the Angelica Gospel
Hall—it doesn’t do to attend a function somewhere unless you know
how the inhabitants thereof dress—I got into one of my Boston
Sunday suits, a blue number crafted of all-wool Poiret twill. It
had no decoration other than bands of striped Poiret twill. It had
been wildly expensive—all my Boston clothes were—but unless you
knew clothes, you wouldn’t know that. The dress was simple and
discreet, and it kind of matched my eyes. I wore a simple
bone-colored hat, gloves, and shoes, and snatched up my handbag in
the same color. I knew Chloe would tell me I appeared dull and
drab, but that’s exactly the image I was striving for:
dullness.

As soon as I descended the staircase,
preceded by a rapturously happy Buttercup, who didn’t know she was
going to be left alone that morning, I saw Chloe in the breakfast
room, nibbling on a soda cracker and with a steaming cup of tea
before her. She looked me up and down with a frown on her pretty
face.

“You really meant it, didn’t you? You
actually
are
going to that
dreadful woman’s church this morning. You haven’t looked that
gawd-awful boring since you arrived here from Boston.”

I let her comment slide. “You betcha,” said
I, going to the sideboard to see what goodies Mrs. Biddle had
prepared for our morning meal. No soda crackers for me, by gum,
especially since I had to fuel myself for a brand-new adventure.
“Didn’t I tell you about Mrs. Persephone Chalmers and her
association with the Angelica Gospel Hall?”

Chloe nodded. “Yes, but what does that have
to do with you?”

I turned upon my sister, astounded by
her question. “What does it have to do with
me
? I’m the one who found the woman’s dead body!
I’m the one whose boss is the prime suspect! If the real killer
isn’t found, and found fast, the coppers are going to pin the crime
on Ernie! The lead detective on the case already hates Ernie’s
guts.”
Guts
was a disgusting
word. I’m not sure why I used it on Chloe that morning except that
I was repeating what Ernie had told me.

“Well, yes. I know that—about Ernie being at
the scene. Not about the detective who hates him. But I bet Ernie
doesn’t want you prying into the case. He hates it when you do
that.”

“I know he does,” I grumbled. “But I’ll bet I
can get more information about the Chalmers woman from going to the
Angelica Gospel Hall than Detective O’Reilly and all his policemen
will get from the members of that congregation.”

“Who’s Detective O’Reilly?”

“The detective who’s going to lead the case
instead of Phil Bigelow. The one who hates Ernie’s guts.” Shoot.
There I went again.

Chloe didn’t seem to mind about the word.
“Lord. Mother will croak if she ever finds out you went to that
place.”

The thought held some appeal, actually, but I
said, “Then don’t tell her.”

Chloe heaved a large-sized sigh. “I’ll try
not to. But you know how she gets, and when she stares at me with
those eyes of hers . . .” My sister shuddered eloquently, and I
forgave her ahead of time for telling Mother about my morning’s
churchgoing activities.

Mind you, Mother would have been happy if her
children were to go to the right church. In other words, if Chloe
and I attended services at an Episcopal Church, she’d be
delighted—or as delighted as Mother ever got about anything. But
she’d have all sorts of vile things to say to me when Chloe told
her about my visit to the Angelica Gospel Hall. I decided to change
the subject.

“Whom did you get to come to dinner? What
stars do you have in mind for our mother’s delectation—or
deploration, I guess. Is that a word?” I took my plate, filled with
scrambled eggs, bacon, and a muffin to the table.

“I don’t know.” Chloe looked at my plate and
shuddered again, but I was hungry.

Tossing Buttercup a piece of bacon, I headed
back to the sideboard to get a dish of strawberries and some
coffee.

“Renee Adoree and John Gilbert.”

My eyes widened, and I darned near
stepped on Buttercup. “My goodness, Chloe! They’re
really
famous! I mean, they’re
really
stars
!”

I got the impression my sister’s ennui that
morning was unfeigned. She didn’t look well, and she eyed me
wearily.

“I know it. That’s why I invited them.
Fortunately, they’re both between pictures at the moment.”

“Are you going to serve wine?” Although I was
still goggling at Chloe, I managed to get some scrambled eggs and
muffin into my mouth. There wasn’t much that could keep me from my
food.

Chloe shrugged. “Have to. It’s what you do at
a dinner party these days.”

“Won’t Mother screech?”

“She’d better not if she ever expects
to be invited to another dinner party at
my
house.”

“I thought she’d invited herself this time.”
But I smiled broadly at my sister, whose last comment had been
spoken with the firmness of strict truth.

“Well, she did, but I’m fully capable of
thwarting future attempts if she misbehaves. Especially now, when I
feel so puny.”

“Good for you! I mean, good for you for
standing up to Mother. I’m awfully sorry you’re feeling puny.”

“It’s all right. I know what you meant.”

Since Buttercup was performing one of her
adorable tricks by sitting on her rump and waving her paws at me, I
tossed her a bite of muffin. Which reminded me. “What color poodle
do you want?”

“Color? Poodle?” Chloe blinked at me
slowly.

“What’s wrong, Chloe.” I was really beginning
to worry about her. “Are you sick?”

She shook her head. “No. Not really. I just
feel sick to my stomach in the mornings. The feeling usually goes
away by ten or so. But I’m tired all the time. I hope that
passes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

I’m sure that was the strict truth, too. I
also reminded myself once again how lucky I was to have a job to
which I could escape. Being around a sick Chloe for several hours
every morning would dampen anyone’s spirits, even those of a fond
sister.

“Well?” I prodded.

“I’m thinking. What colors do poodles come
in?”

“Well, I’ve seen a black one, and I think
there are white ones, and rusty-red ones. Besides the blondies like
Buttercup, of course.” I tossed my wonderful dog another tidbit,
telling myself even as I did so that I probably shouldn’t feed her
at the table. If Mother ever found out, she’d never stop scolding
me.

Mother. Ever the problem.

Harvey showed up just then. He hurried to
Chloe’s chair and rubbed her shoulders. “Still feeling sick,
honey?”