Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (6 page)

      “Not to say
know 
him,” Mr. Easthope said. “But I do know that he caused no end of trouble in ’twenty-two, during the Taylor investigation.”

      “My goodness!”

      In 1922, only months after Fatty Arbuckle had got himself into trouble at a party in San Francisco, William Desmond Taylor, one of the finest directors in the pictures, had been murdered, thereby validating the beliefs of many that the motion-picture industry was evil and filled with repellant, vicious, and fallen individuals. Even I had found the incident and its resulting investigation bizarre and rather scandalous. I’d read reports of a bungled crime scene, in which dozens of people had tramped through Mr. Taylor’s house even before the police arrived on the scene, and shoddy police work after they showed up. But I’d had no idea that
my
Mr. Templeton had been involved. This was very exciting news!

      “What do you mean, he caused trouble?” Believe me, I was all ears at that point. I didn’t even care that Mr. Easthope resembled Douglas Fairbanks.

      Mr. Easthope sipped his wine and thought. Harvey always had wine with dinner if there were guests. He claimed that it was wine left over from before Prohibition, but I had my doubts. He’d have had to have another house or a warehouse entirely given over to his wine collection if that were true, since he and Chloe entertained all the time.

      “Well, perhaps
trouble
isn’t precisely the right word. But he wanted things done right. That didn’t go over well with his superiors in the police department or the folks at the studio.”

      “Really? In what way do you mean?”

      “Mr. Templeton was aghast when he realized the investigators had allowed people access to Mr. Taylor’s residence, for one thing, and he demanded that all documents that had been removed from it be returned. Of course, that didn’t happen. He was all for cordoning off the house and allowing the police to investigate before anyone else was allowed entry. And he scolded the poor butler badly for washing up instead of leaving the crime scene as he’d found it.”

      “Ha!” said Harvey. “In other words, Mercy’s Mr. Templeton hadn’t been paid off yet, and he was mad about it.”

      I bristled immediately, although I stopped myself before I could rush to Mr. Templeton’s defense. For all I knew, Harvey was right. I hated to think so.

      “Well, I don’t know about that,” Mr. Easthope temporized. “I honestly don’t believe he was causing trouble in order to be paid off. He was young and eager and wanted to do things right.” He giggled. It was an astonishing sound to hear issue from a full-grown man, especially one whose physical attributes fairly shrieked of masculinity. “The studios had paid off the rest of the department, however, and Mr. Templeton was as a voice crying in the wilderness.” He giggled again.

      I think I must have stared or something, because Chloe kicked me under the table, and I turned back to my squab, murmuring as I did so, “Perhaps that’s why he quit the force. Perhaps he couldn’t tolerate the rampant corruption.”

      “Possibly.” Mr. Easthope shrugged, reminding me of Barbara-Ann Houser. “I should think any man with two morals to rub together would be uncomfortable in the Los Angeles Police Department.”

      “I’ll drink to that.” Harvey suited the action to his words and sipped some wine. Under the circumstances, I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to express my shock at having seen Mr. Templeton’s flask or to ask Mr. Easthope if he’d noticed that flask four years earlier, when Mr. Templeton had investigated the Taylor murder.

      “But tell me, Miss Allcutt,” went on Mr. Easthope, “I should think a private investigator’s job must be very interesting.”

      “Oh, it is so far,” I assured him eagerly. “Why, only today, a little girl came in to the office, hoping we could help her find her mother.”

      “Her mother!” Chloe looked at me, shocked, a bite of squab dangling from her fork. “You mean her mother has disappeared?”

      I nodded. “Yes. Since last Saturday, when she went to her job at the Kit Kat Klub.”

      Harvey and Mr. Easthope exchanged a speaking glance. Harvey said, “The Kit Kat Klub? She works there?”

      “According to Barbara-Ann, she does,” I affirmed, my gaze slipping between the two men. “Do you know the place?”

      “Oh, yes,” muttered Harvey. “We know it, all right.”

      “Dreadful dive,” said Mr. Easthope.

      Oh, dear. More than ever, my insides felt sick, and I carefully returned to my plate the spear of asparagus I’d been about to stick in my mouth. “I promised Barbara-Ann that I’d go there tonight and ask about her mother.”

      Although I’d spoken softly, all three of my fellow diners turned to stare at me. It was rather as if I’d dropped a bomb.

      “You
what?
” Chloe asked, astounded.

      “Never!” That was Harvey, and he’d spoken very loudly. His adamancy surprised me, since Harvey was generally an easygoing sort of fellow.

      “My dear, you can’t!” said Mr. Easthope, his handsome cheeks pink and a look of real distress in his magnificent brown eyes. “It’s a terrible place!”

      It was the wrong reaction, and Chloe, at least, ought to have known it. Opposition was what had goaded me into taking typewriting and shorthand classes at the YWCA. Opposition was what had impelled me to move to the West Coast. And now opposition was making the sick feeling in my middle recede and a sensation of rage and purpose subsume it.

      Because he was a kind man and truly believed in what he’d said, I addressed my first comment to Mr. Easthope. “I know it’s an awful place, but that’s where the poor woman works. I have to start somewhere, and that seems like the best place.”

      “But what about Mr. Templeton?” Mr. Easthope asked. Reasonably, curse it. “I thought he was the investigator and you were his secretary. Isn’t it his job to do the investigating?”

      I felt my cheeks get hot. “Well, yes, but he was unable to attend to this matter.” I couldn’t make myself tell these people that Mr. Templeton had flatly refused to assist a poor little twelve-year-old girl in her hour of distress and had chosen instead to sneak about, trying to find that fat man’s fiancée, who had probably run away because who’d want to be married to that overweight, sweaty man, who was a toad? “So I volunteered.” That last was the absolute truth.

      My dinner companions looked at each other and then at me. “It … um … might be an unwise thing to do, Mercy,” said Chloe, choosing her words carefully. She had begun to remember how opposition affected me, I guess.

      “I forbid it,” stated Harvey. Instantly Chloe reached out her hand and covered his. She shook her head slightly.

      I smiled at Harvey, knowing he’d only spoken from a feeling of brotherly responsibility. “I’m sorry, Harvey, but you can’t really forbid me, you know. As Chloe reminded me this morning, I’m free, white, and twenty-one.”

      Again, a fairly anguished exchange of glances took place. I felt kind of bad about that. I mean, I didn’t want to upset anyone. But I had told Barbara-Ann I’d help her and, by golly, I was going to help her.

      Mr. Easthope cleared his throat. Folding his napkin and placing it precisely beside his plate, he smiled at me kindly, rather as if he were a zookeeper attempting to placate a fretful chimpanzee. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Allcutt. Since you seem determined to assist this child in distress—”

      I nodded and said, “Yes, I am.”

      “Right. Well, then, why don’t I accompany you to the Kit Kat Klub? I’m sure it would look much more natural for a young woman to attend a nightclub accompanied by a man, even such a one as I.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I thought he was a peach.

      “Oh, Francis! Would you do that for Mercy?” Chloe gushed appreciation.

      “Happy to,” said Mr. Easthope nobly.

      I was feeling pretty gushy myself. Mr. Easthope’s offer of assistance made all my sick feelings vanish in an instant. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to inconvenience him. “Are you sure, Mr. Easthope? If you have something else to do …”

      “Oh, no!” he assured me. “Not at all. I was looking forward to a dreary evening at home after this delightful meal.”

      “Truly?” I was skeptical and made sure he knew it. I couldn’t imagine so magnificent a specimen of manhood as Francis Easthope spending an evening alone.

      He patted my hand. “Absolutely. Why, it will be an adventure.”

      An adventure. Hmm. By golly, I suppose it would be. “Then … thank you. Thank you very much.”

      The gust of air released as they all sighed in relief made the candle flames flicker.

      
Four
 

Chloe insisted I wear one of her evening ensembles to the Kit Kat Klub. “Even if it
is
a dive, I’m sure there will be people there who know Harvey and me, and I won’t allow my sister to go out on the town looking like a librarian from Bean Town.”

      I squinted into the mirror. “Do I really look like a librarian?”

      “Yes.” No equivocation. No mitigating adjectives.

      Hmmm. The notion didn’t appeal, probably because the only two librarians I’d ever known had been old, gray, stuffy and mean. Since then, I’ve learned that not all librarians are like Miss Hatchett and Mrs. Trevelian, but I knew to whom Chloe referred and, therefore, I submitted meekly. “Thanks, Chloe.”

      “Don’t mention it, kid. Besides, you want to look your best when you go out with Francis, don’t you?”

      There was a valid point if ever I’d heard one. “Yes.”

      “Good. Let me see now.” She patted her lip with her finger and looked me up and down. I stood before her in my virginal white combinations, feeling a little silly. “First of all, we have to do something with your bosom.”

      My hands flew to the protuberances on my chest, and I felt even sillier. “What?”

      “We’ll have to bind them. Don’t worry. I have everything we need.” She went to her bureau and fished in it, coming away with a band that she wrapped around me, squashing me almost flat. I wasn’t overly endowed there, but I didn’t like the feeling, and said, “Ick.”

      “Don’t ick at me. You’ll wear a corset, too.”

      “Ew.”

      “Listen, kid, you’re going to be a credit to Harvey and me, or you’re not going. I’m not going to have my sister’s extraneous parts bouncing up and down when she does the Charleston with the most gorgeous man in town.”

      “Yes, Chloe,” I said humbly, thinking that the sacrifice would be worth it if I could help Barbara-Ann Houser find her mother. Even a rotten mother, which I feared Mrs. Houser might be, must be better than no mother at all, if you’re twelve years old.

      After Chloe had succeeded in all but mummifying my entire torso, she strode to her closet and flung the door wide. I gaped, amazed, never having seen such a large closet or so many clothes. Why, you could walk right in and move the racks! “Aha!” she cried after a few moments of reflection. “This is it. It’ll go perfectly with your coloring.”

      I’d never thought much about my coloring before that evening. I had brown hair with a few red highlights, dark blue eyes, and a fair skin. I’d never thought of myself in terms of coloring, except that I’d rather have been a natural blonde, like Chloe. Her skin was a little fairer than mine, too, but she had the same deep blue eyes. I thought she was beautiful—and that I fell far short of that designation.

      I liked our eyes better than any other of our features. They were large and rimmed with dark lashes. Occasionally, when Chloe and Harvey had been going out for an evening’s entertainment, her eyes had stood out starkly against her white face. She’d told me she was trying to achieve the “pale and interesting” look. As far as I’m concerned, she did. I hoped she wouldn’t want to make me look like that, but I didn’t say so, fearing such a comment would provoke a cutting reaction.

      Chloe marched back to me bearing a scrap of a dress, sleeveless, with a low, scooped neck that would reveal more of me than had ever been revealed in my life. “Good Lord, Chloe, I can’t wear that!”

      “You can, and you will,” she insisted. “It’s perfect for a nightclub.”

      It crossed my mind to wonder why women who bound their breasts wore such low-cut tops. I mean, you’d suppose that by wearing such tops, they were enticing men to look at their bosoms, but if their bosoms were squashed flat, what was the point? Again, I didn’t ask Chloe, since she’d only have given me one of those looks that I so dislike.

      Aside from the skimpiness of the dress, it was awfully pretty, with a patterned silk-and-velvet bodice. The colors were kind of wild, being yellow, orange, and brown, but they didn’t scream at one, if you know what I mean. An orange velvet sash was threaded through lappets at the low waist, and the dress had a gold-colored, satin under-bodice and skirt with a scalloped hemline. It was lovely, but not exactly me, at least not the me I knew. I looked at the garment askance.

      Chloe didn’t give me an opportunity to object. She said, “You wear this, or you don’t go. I can pick up that telephone and call Boston, you know.”

      “Chloe! You wouldn’t! Anyhow, you can’t. It takes hours to make a long-distance trunk call.”

      She stuck her face in mine, until we were nose to nose. “You’re going to wear this, and you’re going to be a credit to Harvey. Do you understand me, Mercedes Louise Allcutt? My husband is an important man in the motion-picture industry, and I’ll not have people laughing at him behind his back because his sister-in-law is a dowdy prude!”

      “I’m not a dowdy prude,” I cried, stung.

      “You are, too. And come Saturday, we’re going to fix that. I don’t mind all that much that you insist on working, but I’ll be darned if I’ll let you look like a frump. And we’re going to get your hair bobbed, too. God alone knows how I’ll fix it for tonight.”

      Humbled—or perhaps humiliated was a better word for it—I decided to bow to my fate. After all, Chloe was really being splendid, letting me come out here and live with her and get a job and all. “Yes, Chloe. Thank you, Chloe. You’re very kind to me, Chloe.”