Fallen Angels (21 page)

However, that was a situation I intended to
change that very afternoon by deft inquisition of Mrs. Pinkney, and
even her husband if he was there at home with her.

The Pinkneys didn’t live in as grand a
neighborhood as the Chalmerses, but on a neat little street with a
bit of charm called Hoover. I decided not to have the cabbie wait
for me, since I didn’t anticipate any trouble from Mrs. Pinkney, a
woman I’d pegged as rather meek. Not that my judgment when it came
to people had proved correct one hundred percent of the time in the
past, but I still didn’t believe Mrs. Pinkney a deranged murderer.
Of course, her husband might be a different matter entirely, but he
was probably at work somewhere, so I still told the cabbie not to
wait.

Before I even got to the front door, Mrs.
Pinkney had opened it and stood there, a beaming smile on her face,
as if my visit was one of the most looked-forward-to events in her
life. She wore a pretty, pink flowered day dress and looked as if
she’d dressed especially well for my visit, which touched me. I
figured she probably didn’t get out much. My heart twanged again
when I realized her not getting out much probably had a good deal
to do with her best friend’s death.

“I’m so glad you could come over today, Miss
Allcutt,” she said, grasping my hand and all but tugging me into
her house. “Since Persephone’s death, I’ve been so lonely. And I
did so want to tell someone of my discovery.”

And darned if she didn’t start crying. I
swear. This woman cried or fainted at the drop of a hat—or the
drop-in of a guest.

“Please, Mrs. Pinkney,” I said in my most
sugary voice, “please don’t weep. Remember that Sister Chalmers is
in a better place now. And you’ll see her again one day. Don’t
forget that.” Until Ernie Templeton hired me as his secretary, I
hadn’t understood the true meaning of a detective’s job. So far,
for me, it had been mainly acting, yet one more form of employment
my parents would deplore.

She hauled out a hankie and mopped her eyes.
“Yes, yes. You’re right. I know that. But I still miss her so
much.”

“It’s those of us who are left behind who
hurt, I know. But you can take heart from knowing that Mrs.
Chalmers is singing in the heavenly choir now.”

I could hardly believe those words had come
out of my mouth. Still, I felt sorry for Mrs. Pinkney, and my
insipid comments seemed to be giving some comfort to my hostess, so
I didn’t worry too much about them.

“You’re right. And Persephone was such a
cheerful, optimistic person. She always looked on the bright side.
She’d hate it that I grieve so for her.”

Boy, doesn’t that just show you that
perception is everything in this world? The Persephone Chalmers I’d
met had been virtually insubstantial, with her wafting ways and
tiny, breathy voice. Yet one of her best friends had known her as a
cheerful and optimistic person. You just never know, do you?

“But please, Miss Allcutt, do come into the
living room. I’ve tea things all set up for us there. We can have a
comfortable coze.”

Whatever that was. I was glad her husband
wasn’t home, though, since I considered him a likely murder
suspect. “Sounds lovely,” I gushed, and allowed myself to be led to
her living room, which was a bit too full of overstuffed furniture
with doilies flung everywhere. I sat on a chair facing a sofa. A
table in between the chair and sofa had indeed been laid with tea
things, along with bread and butter sandwiches and some cookies my
grandmother used to call Scotch shortbread. I guess everyone does,
although that points out yet one more thing I’d learned since my
move to Los Angeles: different ends of the country call things by
different names. For example, where I come from, we have ponds.
Californians refer to those same-sized bodies of water as lakes.
See what I mean?

Tea and food aside, I learned a great deal
about Mrs. Chalmers’ association with the Angelica Gospel Hall.
Mrs. Pinkney confirmed that Mrs. Chalmers had sold her so-called
stolen jewelry and given the money to the church. Truth to tell,
that kind of shocked me.

“But didn’t she think it was . . . well, a
sin to lie like that? To her husband, I mean.”

A huge sigh preceded Mrs. Pinkney’s next
words. “Yes. And she confessed her sin to Sister Emmanuel. Sister
Emmanuel told her to confess to her husband, and I think she was
going to, although I don’t know if she’d got around to it by the
time . . .”

She stared out of her front window—which was
clean as a whistle, by gum—for a moment, and I said, “I don’t think
she did. He still seemed under the impression that the jewels had
been stolen.”

With a melancholy sigh, Mrs. Pinkney said,
“Frankly, I don’t know why she didn’t tell Franchot to begin with.
He’d probably have donated the money to the church himself, let her
keep her jewelry, and been happy to do it. He was ever so fond of
her and was forever giving her jewelry and furs and things like
that.”

She sounded more than a little bit wistful,
and that prompted my next words. “When I spoke to him, I got that
impression, too. That he loved her dearly, I mean.”

“Oh, my, yes.”

“It’s too bad we all can’t have marriages
like that, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Pinkney’s eyes, which were small
and blue, snapped to mine. “Oh, my dear, you have
no
idea. I love my Gaylord, but he
can be such a . . .”

I guess she couldn’t think of a polite word
for what her Gaylord could be. “He dislikes your association with
Sister Emmanuel’s church, I remember you telling me.”

“Yes. He certainly does. He’s violently
opposed to my going there.”

Aha! That word struck me hard. I tried not to
sound like it when I said, “Violently?”

She nodded sadly. “Yes. He’s even thrown
things and told me he’d forbid me going, but I told him you can’t
stop a person from worshiping God in his or her own fashion. That’s
the law of this country, after all.”

By golly, I think she was right about that. I
hadn’t memorized the Constitution, but it’s what my teachers always
said: that our country was founded because people needed freedom to
express their religious beliefs.

“Why is he so opposed to your going to the
Hall?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. Going to church seemed like such
an innocuous activity.

“Gaylord grew up in a Roman Catholic family.
I did, too, but I saw the light, thanks to Persephone. Still, I
can’t convince Gaylord that Sister Emmanuel’s message is the
correct one. He thinks I’m going to hell. Sister Emmanuel is more
forgiving than he.”

Because she didn’t consign Gaylord Pinkney to
hell? I thought stuff like punishment and forgiveness were God’s
jobs, but I didn’t say so. What I said was, “I’m so sorry you have
such opposition from such an important person in your life,” I told
her, meaning it sincerely. She was an average-sized woman, with
mouse-brown hair drawn up into a bun, a slim figure, and a face
that held a world of unhappiness. Or perhaps it was disappointment,
as if all of her dreams had crashed around her.

“Thank you. You’re very kind. Sister Emmanuel
and I pray about Gaylord all the time. So far, he hasn’t softened,
but at least he no longer—”

Her teeth snapped together like a metal trap
closing. So I said, “He no longer what?”

Another sigh, this one even bigger than her
last. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. I told
you Persephone had been getting threatening letters, didn’t I? They
absolutely terrified her.”

“Yes.” My heart started beating wildly.
“You don’t mean to tell me that . . .” I decided I
would
let her tell me. And she
did.

Tears began leaking from her eyes again, and
I felt sorry for her. She nodded. “Yes. Gaylord thought it was
Persephone who was ‘leading me astray’—that’s what he called it. I
believe it was he who sent her those foul letters. I found one in
his desk not long after Persephone was killed. Until then, I didn’t
know he was the one who was terrifying her so. If I’d known, I’d .
. . well, I don’t know what I’d have done. But I found that letter.
I guess he didn’t send it because . . . well, he didn’t need to
anymore. If you see what I mean.”

“Yes, I understand completely.” Speaking of
seeing what she meant . . . “I don’t suppose you could show me that
letter, could you? I’m not merely being snoopy, Mrs. Pinkney.
Unfortunately, my employer, whom Mrs. Chalmers hired to look into
the stolen jewelry situation, is under suspicion of the murder.
Now, I don’t believe your husband had anything to do with Mrs.
Chalmers’ death, but it might clear up some things if Mr.
Templeton, my employer, could see one of those letters.”

If she bought that lousy reasoning, she was a
whole lot more stupid than I thought she was. But she surprised
me.

With shoulders sagging, she said, “You might
as well take it with you. I don’t believe Gaylord had anything to
do with Persephone’s death, but if he did . . . Well, if he did,
then I hope he hangs for it! By the good Lord’s name, I do! And
then I hope he rots in hell!”

Oh, my. I guess that put marriage and
friendship where they belonged, at least in Mrs. Pinkney’s
estimation. I said humbly, “I’m sure he was only trying to frighten
her and hoping that by doing so, he’d influence her to withdraw
from the church. He probably figured that if she left, you’d leave,
too.” Yet another big, fat lie to add to my growing list of sins.
Still, I was going to get that letter, by gum!

“I hope you’re right. But we’d best hurry.
Mr. Pinkney will be coming home soon.”

“Thank you.”

She led me to what Mr. Pinkney probably
thought of as his sanctuary from the overstuffed life he lived with
his wife, a small room sparsely furnished with an easy chair, a
floor lamp by which he read to judge from the pile of newspapers
and books stacked on a side table, and a desk. She opened the top
desk drawer, withdrew a piece of paper, and handed it over. “Here.
Please do whatever you think is best with it.”

So I tucked the letter away in my handbag
without even reading it first, thanked Mrs. Pinkney heartily for
the delicious tea and shortbread, and decided to skedaddle out of
there before the possibly murderous Mr. Gaylord Pinkney returned to
his home.

“Would you like to call a cab?” Mrs. Pinkney
asked. “I’m sure you don’t want to be here when Gaylord returns.”
She sounded so sad, I felt bad about leaving her.

On the other hand, I wanted to get out of
there. Fast. Therefore, I thanked her politely and declined the use
of her telephone. Rather, I walked as fast as I could to Venice
Boulevard, where I was lucky enough to hail a cab.

As I sat in the backseat of the cab, I
withdrew the letter from my handbag. It was an ugly thing, in
regard to its appearance and its words. In big, bold, black
letters, Mr. Pinkney had written: STAY AWAY FROM THE ANGELICA
GOSPEL HALL, OR YOU’LL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH. Shuddering, I folded
the nasty thing up and shoved it back into my handbag.

By that time it was nearly five o’clock, and
I doubted Ernie would have returned to the office, but I had the
cabbie take me there anyway.

When I entered the lobby, Lulu had stopped
filing her nails for the day and was just picking up her handbag.
“Hey, Mercy. Ernie was looking for you.”

“He’s here?” My heart did one of those little
dancey things it occasionally did when things went right for
me.

“Yeah. Looked real bad, too. I guess they
grilled him down at the station. Darned coppers. They’re all on the
take, you know. Every last one of them.”

Although Lulu’s opinion of the L.A.P.D. was
rather extreme, it was also, unfortunately, pretty accurate. I knew
that dismal fact from the things Ernie had told me. “Oh, dear. I
hope they didn’t give him too hard a time.” He’d gone with Phil. If
Phil had manhandled Ernie, I’d have something to say to him the
next time I saw him.

Shrugging, Lulu said, “Dunno. All’s I know is
that Ernie looked beat.”

“They
beat
him?” I cried, shocked.

“No, no, no. I don’t mean that. I mean he
looked whipped. Tired. You know. Worn out. Beat.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Every now and then the
language differences between Lulu and me got in the way of clear
communication, although I was learning Los Angeles street cant
quite quickly, if I do say so myself.

“Well, I gotta go now. See ya tomorrow.”

“Have a good evening.”

“You, too.”

With our conversation over, I went up the
stairs to Ernie’s office, happy that I had something pertinent to
tell him but sorry he’d had a bad day.

I opened the outer office door. Every time I
saw the office, I felt a sense of accomplishment. When I’d first
been hired by Ernie, the office had been dull, dusty, and ugly. Now
it was quite perky, and I dusted it every day. It looked ever so
much better than it had when I’d first entered it. I’d mentioned to
Ernie that I’d like to spiff up his office, too, but he’d adopted a
horrified expression and told me to keep my hands off his stuff.
Men.

Anyhow, I called, “Ernie? Are you still
here?”

“What are you doing here?” came a disgruntled
voice from Ernie’s office.

“I found out something!”

He grunted.

I walked to his office and entered, only to
find Ernie with his arms folded on his desk and his head resting on
his arms. My heart did a flip-flop, and I darted over to him.

“Oh, Ernie! Did they hurt you?
They
did
, didn’t they? I’m
going to kill Phil Bigelow!”

Ernie lifted his head and scowled at me. “For
God’s sake, Mercy, take it easy, will you? Nobody hurt anybody. I’m
just tired. It was a rough day, and I don’t like being a murder
suspect.” He hesitated for a moment and added, “And O’Reilly is a
real ass. He’s just aching to pin the murder on me.”