Fallen Angels (29 page)

But she was sure strong. Probably from all
that cleaning up of sanctuaries and galleries and so forth. We
wrestled for what seemed like forever, always getting closer and
closer to the railing separating us from a fall onto the empty pews
below. I finally managed to get a hold on her with my two arms
around her waist while she hammered at me with her fists,
connecting with my face and head and ears time and again. Then we
hit the rail. For a second, I thought the entire railing would
break away from its moorings, it shook so hard. Then Sister Everett
seemed to recover, put her hands over my arms, and slowly but
surely managed to loosen my grip.

“Stop it!” I cried desperately. “You don’t
have to kill me, too! I’m sure the police will go easy on you when
they realize you’re insane!”

That didn’t seem to be the right thing to say
to her. She bellowed, “Insane, am I? I killed that Chalmers bitch
because she was evil! That’s not insane! That’s doing the Lord’s
work! And now I’m going to get rid of you, too, because you’re a
cheating, lying cow! You came here under false pretences, and
you’re as guilty as she was!”

Try as I might, I couldn’t maintain my hold
on her. Anyhow, I was getting lightheaded from all the blows she
was connecting with my face and head. I was going to be black and
blue all over come morning. Providing I survived until morning.

But my efforts proved to be of no use. She
was too strong and I was too tired, and my arms eventually slipped
from her waist.

I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so
as my arms came free from around her, I gave a mighty shove. My
heart shot to my stomach as she flailed helplessly for a second and
then, with a terrible scream, fell over the railing. Her scream was
cut brutally short by a tremendous crash.

By that time, I was on my hands and knees,
panting from exertion and horror. Had I really pushed a woman to
her death over the balcony of a church gallery? Being such a large
woman, she’d hit hard—I’d heard her land—and I doubted she’d
survived. My heart scrunched up and ached almost as much as the
rest of me.

Knowing I’d have to find out for myself
sooner or later, I crawled to the railing, grabbed it, and somehow
managed to stagger, breathless, to my feet. Wishing I could cover
my eyes and knowing I couldn’t, I took a quick peek over the
gallery railing.

And darned if I didn’t see Ernie Templeton,
Phil Bigelow, Detective O’Reilly, Sister Emmanuel, and Brother
Everett all standing there, gaping up at me, mouths open, as if I
were some sort of act on a vaudeville stage!

* * * * *

“It’s okay, kiddo. We heard everything. You
didn’t do anything wrong.”

I was still shaking like a leaf in a high
wind, although somehow or other Ernie had managed to get me to the
refuge of Sister Emmanuel’s office. I sat huddled in a chair. Ernie
had pulled up another chair and sat facing me, holding my hands in
both of his. Someone had thrown an afghan over my shoulders, but I
still shook from head to toe like the proverbial aspen in autumn.
Sister Emmanuel herself, Phil Bigelow, Detective O’Reilly, and
Brother Everett were in the sanctuary, presumably investigating
and/or cleaning up the damage I’d wrought.

“I-I-I d-d-didn’t mean to k-k-kill her,” I
stuttered, sounding pathetic to my own ears.

“I know that. We all know it. You only did
what you had to do in your own defense. Self-defense is not a
crime. It’s a sensible act. She’s the one who was in the wrong. You
were right about that, too. The murder did involve the church.”

“Not the church. Just a crazy member of it.
You can’t blame any of this on Sister Emmanuel or the Angelica
Gospel Hall.”

“Hey, you’re not becoming a convert, are
you?”

I heard the grin in his voice, and it
irritated me. Lifting my head and regaining perhaps a half-ounce of
my former vigor, I frowned at him. “No, I am not. But you can’t
blame that insane woman’s deeds on Sister Emmanuel, Ernest
Templeton.”

He squeezed my hands. “Just funnin’ you,
kiddo. I know you’re right. Sister Emmanuel didn’t have anything to
do with the murder. I know. So do Phil and that rat O’Reilly
now.”

I forgave him, although I didn’t tell him
that. However, sparring with him, even gently, was reviving me a
trifle. “I wonder, though, if religious zealotry isn’t perhaps a
sign of an unstable personality. I guess Sister Everett was here
virtually night and day. She was terribly jealous of Mrs. Chalmers.
I think she thought Mrs. Chalmers was taking Sister Emmanuel’s
attention away from her or something.” I stopped talking and gazed
earnestly at Ernie. “Does that make any sense?”

“Well . . . no, but I understand what you
mean. If it made sense, none of this would have happened.”

“How come you and Phil and that horrid
O’Reilly person happened to be here when . . . you know.” I
shivered again, and again Ernie squeezed my hands.

“After you stormed out of the office, we
started talking about the possibility that somebody from the church
might be involved in the crime. Hell, we’d eliminated everyone
else. We tossed around all sorts of scenarios and didn’t come up
with anything, but I was getting a nervous feeling about you coming
out here alone. Then O’Reilly showed up and started throwing his
weight around. Phil told him to shut up and sit down, and I told
them I aimed to go after you, and they came with me.”

“Why didn’t somebody try to rescue me?” I
thought it a reasonable question. I also really wanted to know. Why
had they all just been standing there? Why hadn’t one of them raced
to the stairs to help me out? Yet when I’d taken that one tentative
look over the balcony railing—before ignominiously falling
senselessly to the floor, something of which I’d never have
believed myself capable—they’d just been standing there in the
sanctuary, frozen, like a bunch of statues, staring up at me.

“We would have, but there wasn’t time.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. We heard hollering when we arrived at
the church, and we all ran to get in. First there was a logjam at
the door. The Emmanuel woman and that other guy arrived just when
Phil, O’Reilly, and I did. When we got inside, we heard a lot more
yelling and screaming, but couldn’t hear what it was about. When we
began to discern words in all the hollering, we all started to run
toward the stairs to the gallery. We heard the lunatic say she’d
killed Mrs. Chalmers and that she was going to kill you, and then .
. . well, you know what happened next.”

Pulling my hands free from Ernie’s, I buried
my face in them. “Oh, Lord, Ernie. It was so awful. She was . . .
crazy.”

“I know. We heard.”

Spreading my fingers, I peered at him through
them. “What . . . what did she look like? After she hit the pews, I
mean.”

His nose wrinkled. “She didn’t look like much
of anything. I mean she didn’t look all that bad. Just dead. If you
know what I mean. Glassy eyes and all that. She landed on her back,
so I guess it’s the back of her head and the rest of her back that
took the brunt of the fall. Phil called in the medical examiner and
some more of his colleagues, and they’re out there now, questioning
the woman’s husband and your Sister Emmanuel.”

“She’s not
my
Sister Emmanuel, curse you, Ernie Templeton!
If anyone had bothered to listen to me, this horrid thing wouldn’t
have happened!”

“I know. Sorry, kid.”

“And stop calling me kid!”

Ernie looked surprised and his mouth opened,
I imagine so that he could make some sort of a retort, but a soft
knock came at the door, and we both looked at it. It slowly opened,
and another minion of the church—I could tell, because she was clad
in white—one I hadn’t met yet, came in carrying a tray laden with
tea things.

Before I could help myself, the words
slipped out. “God bless you, sister.” But, darn it, I
really
wanted some of that tea. With
lots of sugar and milk.

“Of course, sister,” she said.

I cast a quick glance at Ernie but, although
his lips twitched, he didn’t say anything. He’d better not, what
with a pot of boiling hot water to hand.

How long we remained in Sister Emmanuel’s
office, I don’t know. It seemed like hours. Phil sent in a doctor
to check me over, and he said I’d be all right barring some bangs,
bruises, and bumps.

“Looks like you’ll have one hell of a shiner
for a while,” said Ernie, looking on impassively as the doctor
palpated my head and face in several areas. I tried not to cry out
in pain, but I’m sure both men noticed my winces.

I didn’t move when I asked, “What’s a
shiner?”

“A mouse. A black eye.”

“A black
eye
?” I must have said the words rather loudly,
because the doctor sat back abruptly. “Sorry,” I
muttered.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand why
a young lady might not want to walk around with a black eye.” He
smiled at me, and I decided I liked him. “But I suspect you will
have one for several days. Your left eye will probably be swollen
and black and blue by this time tomorrow. You might not be able to
see out of it until the swelling subsides.”

“Oh, great,” I said.

“You can probably hide the bruising with
powder,” Ernie said, sounding doubtful.

“Right,” I said, beginning to feel depressed
as well as sore and tired. I could have a powdered, swollen-shut
eye. That would look lovely, wouldn’t it?

“When they release us to go, I’ll drive you
home, kiddo. I mean Mercy.”

I lifted an arm, intending to give him an
insouciant wave, but my muscles were starting to hurt, and all I
managed was to say, “Mph.” Oh, boy, the next few days were going to
be rough. And . . .

“Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?” Ernie and the doctor
sang the words in a duet.

“I promised to take Lulu to lunch at the
Ambassador on Wednesday! How can I go to the Ambassador looking
like this?”

Tilting his head, Ernie, said, “You don’t
look so bad.”

I didn’t believe him. Talk about a tone
lacking conviction.

With a judicious frown, the doctor said, “I
don’t think you ought to be going out and about for a few days yet.
You need to rest and heal first.”

Once again, I buried my head in my hands. I
groaned.

The door opened once more, and I decided I
might as well face the music. So I lifted my head, dropped my
hands, and turned to see Phil and Sister Emmanuel enter the office.
The office was large for an office, but it wasn’t all that big, and
it was getting mighty crowded. Sister Emmanuel appeared pale and
distressed, which made perfect sense to me.

“I hate to ask this, Mercy, but would you
mind coming to the station? We can have a steno take your report
and Ernie’s and mine and Sister Emmanuel’s. I’m afraid Mr.
Everett’s will have to wait. He collapsed when he realized that it
was his wife squashed on the pews, and—”

“Phil!” I said, scandalized.

“Well, you know what I mean.” He had the
grace to look abashed.

I looked from him to Ernie, and noticed they
both appeared as tired and drawn as I felt—although probably not as
sore and definitely not as bruised. I resented them in that moment.
If they’d only listened to me, none of these past horrible hours
would have been necessary.

“Yes,” I said. “I know what you mean. And
yes. Let’s go to the police station and get this over with. You may
be certain I won’t gloss over your neglect of my suggestions in the
matter, too.”

Phil heaved a gigantic sigh. “I’m sure you
won’t.”

Sister Emmanuel still stood in the open
doorway. When I glanced at her again, she looked awfully pale and .
. . I don’t know. Diminished, somehow, if you know what I mean.

“I’m so terribly sorry about all this, Sister
Allcutt. If I’d had any indication . . .”

“It’s all right,” I said wearily. “Nobody had
any indication.” Except me. Curse them all.

Chapter Seventeen

I called Chloe from the police station to
give her a brief run-down on what had happened. “I’ll probably be
late getting home, but don’t worry. Everything’s all right, and
Ernie’s going to drive me.”

“Oh, Lord, Mercy.” Chloe sounded upset.

“Really, Chloe, everything’s all right now.”
Very well, so I’d just lied again.

“You only wish it were.”

“What do you mean?” Terrible things rushed
through my mind. In a panic, I said, “Oh, Chloe, it’s not the baby,
is it? Or Harvey? Or—”

“No, no. It’s nothing bad. Well, not
that bad. It’s only . . .” Chloe hesitated for a moment and then
whispered, “
Mother’s
coming
to dinner.”

It needed only this. I hung up, wishing I
lived in Wisconsin or somewhere else far, far away from Los
Angeles. Or at least from my mother.

I don’t know how long we spent at the police
station, but it wasn’t long enough. By the time Ernie, Sister
Emmanuel, and I were allowed to go, we’d all given statements, read
them, and signed them. Even Phil had testified to his
shorthand-taking cohort—not Officer Bloom this time—that he’d heard
Sister Everett, whose first name, I learned, had been Gwendolyn,
confess to murder. He also said that he’d seen her trying to murder
me, what’s more. That pretty much cleared Ernie of any lingering
suspicion of having done Mrs. Chalmers to death. I don’t know where
Detective O’Reilly was, but I suspected he was so disgusted that
Ernie wasn’t guilty that he’d taken himself off somewhere.

Brother Everett, whose given name turned out
to be Richard, was led into the station some time after we arrived
there, looking haggard, miserable, and embarrassed. Poor fellow. I
knew in my heart that he’d had nothing to do with his demented
wife’s ugly deeds.