Fallen Angels (19 page)

Chloe waved her hand in an airy gesture.
“Well, that should be easy, given your wardrobe.”

“She doesn’t like my taste in clothes,” I
said in an aside to Lulu. “I keep telling her my wardrobe is
suitable to my profession, but she still doesn’t approve of
it.”

But Lulu wasn’t listening to me. Or to Chloe,
either, for that matter. She was gazing about her as if she were
looking upon some kind of royal castle in Europe. I guess Chloe’s
house was pretty fancy, but I was used to fancy. Lulu, clearly, was
not.

“Golly,” she whispered, as if she didn’t want
to speak too loudly for fear of disturbing any lingering angels.
“I’ve never seen such a great place before, much less been inside
one.”

Chloe took this comment in stride. She’d met
Lulu before when I’d introduced the two of them at the Figueroa
Building, and she knew all about how Lulu and her brother had come
to California from some dinky little town in Oklahoma. “Thank you.
I’m fond of our home here on Bunker Hill, but I’m afraid we’re
going to have to move before too long.”

“You’re going to leave all
this
?” Lulu was
dumbfounded.

I explained. “Mr. Nash’s company is going to
be moving to a place called Culver City, which is west of here, and
he wants to build another house closer to his business. In Beverly
Hills, I think.” I looked to Chloe for confirmation, and she
nodded.

Lulu’s mouth fell open for a second
before she breathed reverently, “
Beverly
Hills
? Where Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford
live?”

“Yes. And tons of other motion-picture folks,
too,” I said crisply, wishing to move the conversation ahead. My
opinion, not that it matters, was that Lulu was far too in awe of
moving-picture people, who were, after all, only human beings like
us, except they were luckier and looked better on the screen than
most of the rest of us do. “Let’s go upstairs to my room, Lulu, and
we’ll find you something to wear to church on Sunday.”

“Okay.”

Lulu’s voice was very tiny. I got the
impression she felt small in such grand surroundings. That was
silly of her, too, if she knew it. Chloe had related to me the
stories behind lots of motion-picture people, and I could have told
Lulu about many so-called stars who’d come from backgrounds similar
to her own. Or worse, even, although the picture companies’
publicity people generally lent them romantic backgrounds in order
to thrill their fans. Telling other people’s stories wasn’t my
business, however, so I restrained myself. Still, I didn’t think
Lulu needed to be quite so overcome with the glory that was Chloe’s
home, especially if the plan that had begun churning in my noggin
came to fruition.

We walked up the staircase, Buttercup
scampering ahead of us, and came to my room, where Lulu stopped in
the doorway and looked around. She remained stunned, if I were to
guess by her demeanor. “Gee, Mercy, this is . . . this is . . .”
Her words trailed off.

It was? I glanced around, too, and had to
agree that the room was quite pleasant. Very well, it was more than
pleasant. In truth, Chloe’s upstairs had suites of rooms, one on
the east wing, where Chloe and Harvey slept; one in the middle, the
so-called Green Room, where my mother and other guests were lodged
when they visited, and which was kept empty most of the time; and
one in the west wing, which was where I lived. There were two other
bedrooms upstairs, one flanking each side of the Green Room.

Anyhow, my suite included a sitting room,
where I had a sofa, chair, desk (upon which sat my trusty
typewriter), and a fireplace; a bedroom, which was smaller than the
sitting room; a walk-in closet where I kept my minimal wardrobe;
and a bathroom of my own. As I gazed about me, I realized the Nash
house truly must seem like a dream-fantasy home to Lulu.

And that only reinforced my own belief
that we Allcutts were not naturally good people, but had been
darned lucky. What if the first Allcutt’s bank had failed? What if
another Allcutt had been a flagrant drunkard or wastrel who’d
squandered the family’s fortune? No one, including my family, could
tell me that people,
any
people, were born to their stations in life because of some
decree from God, blast it! The King of England would just be Joe
Blow from the docks but for a quirk of fate, for Pete’s
sake.

And no matter what my mother might say, I’m
still not a Socialist. So there.

But that’s neither here nor there. I did
acknowledge Lulu’s flabbergastation (is that a word?), since I felt
obliged to do so.

“It really is a pretty swell place, isn’t
it?”

“Swell?” Lulu kept goggling. “It’s fantastic.
Fabulous. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”

“It’s nice to have money, I reckon.” My voice
was uncharacteristically dry.

“Well, you should know.” So was Lulu’s.

Her words humbled me. “Yes. You’re right. I
should, and I do. And it is nice to have money, Lulu, but I swear
to you, money isn’t everything.”

“Yeah. That’s what everybody who has money
says. You’ll never hear somebody who doesn’t have enough to eat
saying that money isn’t everything.”

I thought about that for a moment. “You’re
right. You’re absolutely right.”

With a deep sigh, Lulu said, “But it’s not
your fault I was born poor and you were born rich. Let’s see your
boring clothes, Mercy.”

“Good idea.” I took her to the closet, and
there we selected several outfits that would work nicely for Lulu’s
stint as a visitor to the Angelica Gospel Hall.

By the time she’d tried on about three
different things, we were both nearly hysterical with laughter. I’d
never realized how much fun it was to have a friend to do things
like this with. I’d always enjoyed Chloe’s company, but this was
different. In spite of the differences in our backgrounds, Lulu and
I had become real, honest-to-God friends, and I valued her.

“Oh, my sweet aunt Fanny!” Lulu gasped at one
point, holding up a gray worsted suit in front of her and staring
into the full-length mirror on the door of the closet. “I look like
a Salvation Army lady!”

Dabbing my eyes, I said unsteadily, “I don’t
think Salvation Army ladies wear bright red lipstick and nail
polish. But the suit is perfect.”

Lulu turned and stared at me.
“
Perfect
! I look like an
undertaker’s assistant!”

We both whooped at that one, but eventually
that was the outfit we selected for Lulu to wear on Sunday.

By that time, Chloe had come upstairs to see
what all the hilarity was about, and she, too, started laughing.
But Mrs. Biddle interrupted us to tell us that dinner was
ready.

Instantly, Lulu stiffened. “Oh. Hey, I don’t
want to butt in or anything. I didn’t mean to stay this long.”

God bless my sister. She said, “Nonsense. If
you’re going to be working with Mercy to solve this crime and are
actually going to wear that monstrosity to church on Sunday, the
very least we can do is feed you.”

So Lulu stayed for dinner. Only the three of
us partook of the meal, since Harvey had to attend a business
dinner at the Ambassador.

“Say, Chloe, how about you make reservations
for Lulu and me to have lunch at the Ambassador one of these days?
I told her all about our luncheon with Mother there, and she’d love
to see the place.”

Lulu’s eyes went big. I’d have bet anything
she’d thought I’d forget about my promise to feed her at the
Ambassador. But not Mercy Louise Allcutt. By gum, I stick by my
friends.

“Sure. I’ll call Houston tomorrow. When do
you want to go?”

So we set a day—the following Wednesday, to
be precise—and by the time dinner was over, Lulu and Chloe were as
thick as thieves, which made me happy. Chloe’s chauffeur drove Lulu
home after dinner—yet another first for her, and one she cherished
and couldn’t stop talking about at work for weeks—and Chloe,
Buttercup, and I were left to ourselves, staring at each other in
the living room.

“If Mother ever finds out . . .”

“I don’t care if she does find out,” I said
defiantly. “It’s far past time Mother stopped thinking of herself
as better than the rest of the world and believing she knows
precisely what everyone in it should think and do. The only thing
Mother has is more money than most of the rest of the world, and
that doesn’t make her any holier or better than anyone else. I like
Lulu, and she hasn’t had our advantages.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” said Chloe with a
grin. “I like her, too.”

That made me happy.

* * * * *

The first thing I did when I got to the
office the next morning was telephone Mrs. Pinkney’s house to
confirm our appointment for tea that afternoon. If anything, she
sounded even more eager to see me than she’d been the day before. I
wasn’t sure Ernie would approve of my plans, but by that time I
didn’t care what he wanted.

He strolled into the office a little past
nine, as usual, only looking a trifle more haggard than was normal
for him. I guess being suspected of a heinous crime will do that to
a fellow.

I followed him into his office. “What did the
doctor say yesterday?” I asked him before he’d had time to shed his
hat and coat and fling his feet onto his desk.

Before he answered, he followed his morning
routine, then sat in his chair and glowered at me. “I have
bruises.”

“Did the doctor write that down in a report
for the police to see?”

“A report? How the hell should I know?”

Sweet Lord, give me
patience
, I prayed, not awfully sanctimoniously. In an
even voice, I said, “How do you expect the police to understand
that you were bound and gagged and dragged upstairs in that
pernicious house if the doctor or someone else doesn’t tell them
about the injuries you incurred during the process?”

“I’ll tell Phil. He can talk to the doc.”

Well, that was a little better, although I
was far from satisfied. “Did the doctor say the bruises were
consistent with my conjecture?”

“I don’t know if he’s ever seen anyone
who’d been bound and gagged and hauled up some stairs, but yeah. He
said they probably were consistent with your
conjecture
.” He spoke the last word in a nasty
tone, which left me unimpressed.

“I’m the one who thought of it,” I reminded
him. “And I’m also the one who made the appointment for you to see
the doctor.” Then I remembered something I hadn’t done, and I burst
out with the worst words I’d ever uttered in my life: “Hell and
damnation!”

Ernie blinked at me.

I turned as hot as a roasted potato and
slapped my hands over my face. But what an idiot I’d been! “Darn
it, Ernie, we should have had the police take photographs of your
wrists. They were all red and chafed from that stupid rope. Oh, for
heaven’s sake, why didn’t I think of this then, when it might have
done some good? If they’d taken photographs of your wrists, anybody
with a lick of sense would understand that I couldn’t have tied you
up! You’d been tied up for hours, not the short time I was in the
house. And
that
can be proved
by telephoning the taxicab company.” I was pleased that I’d thought
of the cab company.

“Well, they didn’t take pictures, so that’s
that,” said Ernie.

I turned my fury on him. “Or why
didn’t
you
think of having
them take pictures?
You’re
the so-called detective in this outfit!

He blinked again. Very mildly, he said, “I
was still under the influence of whatever drug I’d been given.”

“If you’re going to blame—”

He interrupted me by raising his hand and
saying. “I’m not blaming you for anything, Mercy. You’re right.
Somebody should have thought to take pictures of my wrists. Or at
least look at them. I don’t know why Phil didn’t do that at the
time.”

“I don’t, either. He should do his job better
than he does, Ernie Templeton. I don’t care if he is your best
friend. Stupid policemen. No wonder you quit the force if they’re
all such idiots that they don’t do things like take pictures of
injured people when a suspicious death has occurred.”

“Now, wait—”

“Show me your wrists,” I demanded. “There
might still be rope burns on them.”

Without a word or a protest, something that
only later astounded me as obedience to my orders was
uncharacteristic for Ernie, he actually did as I’d asked without
quibbling. He held out both wrists, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and
we both bent over them, squinting like mad.

“It looks as if there’s still a little
redness here.” I touched the inside of his left wrist.

Ernie bent closer. “I think you’re imagining
that. Do you really think it’s still red? It doesn’t hurt any
longer.”

My head snapped up. “So it did hurt at the
time?”

“Of course, it hurt. I’d been twisting in
that damned rope, and my wrists hurt like hell for a few days.
There were even a few drops of blood.” He sounded as if he wanted
sympathy, but I was in no mood to be handing him any. I was peeved
as all get-out.

“You should have told the police that at the
time, for heaven’s sake. Ernest Templeton, I don’t know what’s
going to become of you.”

Ernie only let out a sigh.

So did I. “Well, I still think it looks as if
it’s chafed or chapped or something. That could have been caused by
the rope. Can’t those people—what do they call them? Pathologists
or something like that? Can’t they tell if the chafing is due to
rope burns?”

“I don’t know.”

We bent over his wrists again, staring. I was
trying to discern anything that looked even vaguely rope-like in
the faint redness remaining.