Fallen Angels (30 page)

When a policeman escorted him to Phil’s desk
in the crowded room, he looked pleadingly at me. “I’m so very
sorry, Sister Allcutt. These fellows tell me my wife confessed to
murdering Sister Chalmers. I . . . I can’t quite take it all
in.”

I nodded, feeling sorry for him.

“I knew she wasn’t happy,” continued Brother
Everett. “But she was never happy.” He shook his head sadly, as if
he blamed himself for his wife’s unhappiness.

“I understand,” I said. “It’s not your
fault.”

“She tried to kill Miss Allcutt, too,” said
Ernie, who evidently didn’t share my forgiving nature. His voice
was hard as granite. “Didn’t you know your wife was a lunatic,
man?”

“Ernie,” I mumbled, too tired to take him to
task.

Richard Everett hung his head. “No,” he said
simply. “I knew she was unhappy, but I had no idea . . .” His words
trailed off, and tears filled his eyes.

Ignoring the policemen all around us, Sister
Emmanuel rose from her metal folding chair and went to her minion.
“Brother Everett, take heart. The Lord is still with us, and He is
still good. He and I will help you through this terrible time. No
one could have known that Sister Everett had let Satan into her
heart. The poor woman must have gone mad.”

“Christ,” muttered Ernie. I kicked him, but
not awfully hard, my limbs being miserably stiff by that time.

I don’t think Ernie’s blasphemy mattered,
since neither Sister Emmanuel nor Brother Everett seemed to hear
him. The gaze Richard Everett cast upon Sister Emmanuel was all but
worshipful. “God bless you, sister,” he said, hiccupping slightly,
but I think that was from his tearful state.

“With God’s help, the terrible burden on your
soul will be lifted, brother,” Sister Emmanuel promised.

“God bless you. God bless you. I thank God
for you every day, sister.”

Ernie said, “Huh.”

I didn’t bother to kick him again. I was
getting a little tired of the maudlin sentimentality flowing
between the church folk myself by that time.

Phil, looking tired and distracted, said,
“Please, everyone, take a seat. Mr. Everett, I know this is
difficult for you, but you’ll have to save the prayers until later.
We need to get this police business finished first.”

“Of course, Detective. Matters of this world
need to be accomplished. Then we can remove ourselves to a higher
plane.” Sister Emmanuel answered for the poor, beleaguered Brother
Everett. I guess she sensed he didn’t possess her strength of
character, at least not at that moment in time.

And she was right. Brother Everett pretty
much collapsed into another uncomfortable chair, crying quietly,
while she, looking out of place but regal in her white robe,
reclaimed her own seat. I was impressed yet again by the way she’d
totally given herself to her role. Or to God. At that point, I
neither knew nor cared if she was a fraud or a genuine minister of
the Gospel who believed the message she spouted.

And so the questioning recommenced, only this
time to the accompaniment of little gasps and moans from Brother
Everett, who’d been completely oblivious to his wife’s nuttiness.
And that shocked me. I mean, it became apparent that the couple had
been married for more than thirty years. He’d noticed nothing odd
about her in all that time? But as often as Phil asked the
question, and in as many varied ways, Brother Everett’s answer was
always the same: he hadn’t noticed a single, solitary odd thing
about his wife except that she was unhappy, but she’d always been
unhappy so he hadn’t thought much about it.

Good Lord, was this what marriage was?
Completely losing track of one’s spouse’s behavior? I wondered if
the Everetts had ceased all forms of communication with each other,
or if they’d just stopped listening to each other. Chloe and Harvey
didn’t ignore each other’s changes of mood or behavior. In fact,
Harvey was very solicitous of every nuance of Chloe’s comfort or
discomfort. Would they end up like the Everetts in time? What an
abysmal thought.

Finally, at long last, Phil said we were free
to leave. Although I didn’t much want to, I asked to use the
ladies’ facilities at the station to assess the damage to my person
before going home. I had some thought that I might somehow cover up
most of the worst of it before having to face my mother.

Ernie said, “Um . . . are you sure, Mercy?
You don’t look so great.”

I glared at him through eyes that were
beginning to swell. Oh, boy. Shiners? Is that what he’d called
them? I wanted to see them for myself. “My mother is waiting for me
at Chloe’s, Ernie, and I’d better assess how not great I look
before I have to enter into her presence.”

“Oh, boy,” said Ernie. “I’m sorry, kid. But
you’re probably right. Got any powder in that handbag of
yours?”

Rising painfully to my feet, I sighed
heavily. “Yes. Whatever good powder will do.”

“You never know.”

I think he was trying to be encouraging.

Unfortunately, once I got to the ladies’
room, the direction of which I knew from a previous visit to the
police station, I realized that no encouraging words were going to
help me. Neither was powder. I was a total mess. Big red spots on
my cheeks, chin, forehead, and arms would surely turn black and
blue before morning, and my swollen eyelids, which now looked
merely red, would be purple in the morning, too.

Mother would have a fit. And she was
waiting for me at Chloe’s, like a lioness ready to pounce on her
prey. Only lionesses pounced in defense of their children, didn’t
they? They didn’t pounce
on
their children. Did they?

Well, it didn’t matter what lionesses did. I
knew very well what my mother would do. I washed my face with soap
and water, dried it on the rather unsanitary towel resting on a
rack for the purpose, and did my best with my powder puff. My best
wasn’t too good.

As I climbed painfully into Ernie’s
Studebaker, Ernie asked, “Are you sure you want to go to your
sister’s house tonight?”

I turned and stared at him. Staring was
gradually becoming more difficult as my eyelids continued to swell.
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Well, what about Lulu? Can you stay at her
place?”

“She doesn’t have room enough for me.” I knew
that, because I’d seen her apartment when my cab dropped her there
on our way home from lunch after visiting the Angelica Gospel Hall
the prior Sunday.

Thinking of Lulu made me think of our
promised luncheon at the Ambassador, which was but one day hence.
Two, if you counted this one, but you might as well not since it
was nearly over. Oh, Lord.

“Too bad,” said Ernie. He sounded genuinely
concerned.

“I agree. Too bad I don’t know more people in
L.A. I guess maybe Mr. Easthope would take me in, but I hate to ask
him out of the blue and all.”

“You’d stay with Easthope?”

As I’ve mentioned before, for some reason
Ernie didn’t like Francis Easthope. I still didn’t know why that
was, but I sure didn’t want to discuss the matter that evening.

“I would if I’d already made arrangements,” I
said mildly. “But I’m not going to pop in on him tonight, looking
like this. I’d probably frighten the poor man.”

“You probably would.” Ernie’s voice was
snide.

Again, I felt no desire to pursue his
attitude, so I just sighed and remained silent.

“I suppose your mother would die of some kind
of attack if you came to my place,” Ernie said, sounding
ruminative, as if he were thinking hard about alternatives to my
going to Chloe’s.

My head swiveled, and I squinted at him.
Squinting was easier than staring, but still no fun. “I couldn’t
stay at your place,” I said. “You know as well as I do that it
wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper. Huh.” I could tell he was rolling
his eyes, even though it was too dark by then for me to see his
face clearly. “Yeah, I know. It would be terribly improper.”

I only sighed once more.

“But I hate the thought of you walking into
that lion’s den. It would be all right if it were just your sister
and brother-in-law. They’re swell folks. But that mother of yours .
. .”

I tried to grin at the realization that Ernie
and I were thinking of my mother in the same terms. It was then I
remembered that I had a split lip, so I stopped grinning. “She’s a
dragon,” I said, mixing my metaphors, although Ernie couldn’t know
that.

“How about a hotel? You’ve got money. You
could stay at the Ambassador, where they’d pamper you until you
healed up, and then you’d be okay.”

“It’s kind of you to be concerned, Ernie, but
I’ve braved my mother before now. I can do it again.”

“I guess. I just hate to think of her beating
up on you. You’re already beat up.”

“Too true. I never would have believed Sister
Everett could be so strong.”

“She was nuts. I think when people go crazy,
it gives them strength.”

“I’ve heard that theory, too. Maybe it’s
true. She darned near threw me over that railing. I know she wanted
to.”

I shuddered, and was surprised when Ernie
laid a hand on my arm. “You’ll be all right, kiddo. It’ll take a
few days, but you’ll heal up and be right as rain. And eventually
the memories of that final fatal push will fade, too. Remember that
it was her or you. I’m glad you chose yourself. I just wish you
didn’t have to.”

How very kind of him. Before I could succumb
to emotion, I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Thank you, Ernie.
I wish I didn’t have to, too.”

“Well, I’ll stick with you through the worst
of it, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Ernie.” I meant it sincerely.
Somehow, the thought of facing my mother with Ernie and Chloe at my
side didn’t sound half as difficult as the notion of dealing with
her all by my battered self.

We got to Bunker Hill at last which,
unfortunately, wasn’t very far away from the police station, and
Ernie pulled his disreputable-looking Studebaker to a stop in front
of the iron gates of the Nash residence. I gazed out my side of the
machine at the house, my heart residing somewhere around my
kneecaps, knowing the peril awaiting me within those elaborately
decorated walls.

But Ernie played the gentleman that night. He
got out of the automobile on his side and came around to open the
door for me. It was a good thing he did so, because I wasn’t sure I
had strength enough to shove the door open on my own.

“Chin up, kid. I mean Mercy.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ernie.” I was too
dispirited to fuss with him about calling me kid. In truth, the
notion of being this man’s kid sister didn’t seem at all
distasteful to me at the moment. I’d rather have a big brother like
Ernie than the one I had, who was a big poop.

He helped me out of the car and up the
walkway to the big front door of the Nash home. I was so tired, I
didn’t even look around to see how nice it would be to own the
place myself.

“You have a key?”

“Yes, but please ring the bell. I don’t feel
like getting the key out of my bag.”

“Sure.”

So Ernie rang the doorbell, and Mrs. Biddle
opened the door after a very few minutes. She gasped when she saw
me.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I assured her,
although I was lying. I’d been lying a whole lot lately.

“I certainly hope not,” said Mrs. Biddle,
staggering back slightly. She hadn’t known what to make of me ever
since I invaded her territory—the kitchen, I mean—seeking cleaning
stuffs in order to spiff up my office when Ernie first hired me.
She stepped aside, and Ernie tenderly guided me into the foyer.

Out of the corner of his mouth, he said,
“Where to? Want to go to your room before you face the monster, or
would you rather get it over with?”

I considered for only a couple of seconds.
The notion of hiding away in my room and locking my mother out held
a certain charm, but it would have been cowardly. “Let’s get it
over with,” I muttered. Besides, I wanted to see Buttercup, and I
was pretty sure she was in the living room with Chloe.

So, holding my arm in a way that didn’t touch
any of the bruises, Ernie led me through the archway and to the
living room, where we both stopped to look around.

They were all there: my mother, Chloe,
Harvey, Buttercup, Francis Easthope, and—oh, my God—John Gilbert.
Of all the nights in the world for Chloe to be holding a casual
get-together at her house . . .

Buttercup scampered over to me, and Ernie,
bless his heart, bent and picked her up so she could lick my wounds
without my having to bend my battered body.

“Mercedes Louise Allcutt, what
have
you been doing this
time?”

My mother’s autocratic tones cut through the
air like a sword through a churl’s throat.

Chloe leapt to her feet. “Mother, poor Mercy
has been through—”

Mother turned on Chloe. “Don’t you ‘poor
Mercy’ me!”

Chloe swallowed and subsided.

“Your daughter performed an heroic feat
today, Mrs. Allcutt. You should be proud of her.”

I’d have blinked if my eyelids were capable
of it. But I did turn to gape at Ernie.

“And
you
—” Mother began.

But Ernie cut her off.

“Yes, sirree, she foiled a crook in her lair.
Almost got herself done in for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the
police don’t pin a medal on her for this day’s work.”

Oh, dear. He was laying it on really
thickly.

“My dear Miss Allcutt!” Francis Easthope, who
had been appalled by my appearance—I could tell by the look of
horror and distaste on his face—rushed over to me. “Whatever in the
world happened to you?”

“It’s that so-called
job
of hers,” my mother said. “If
she—”