Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery)

by Alice Duncan

  When I took Chloe her water, I decided to work the conversation around to the business aspects of Mr. Valentino’s death. I couldn’t think of anything less conducive to melancholy than business, unless one’s own were failing or something like that. “What is this going to mean for Harvey’s studio?”

  After nearly draining the glass, Chloe set it carefully on a doily, thereby forestalling a lecture from our mother. “I don’t know. Valentino isn’t one of Harvey’s stars, but it’s still such a terrible blow to the industry. And all of his fans. Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

  So much for business. I sighed. “No, it doesn’t. Do you know what’s going to happen now?”

  She shook her head. “Harvey telephoned. He said he thinks they’ll send his body back to Los Angeles by train for burial.”

  “Hmm. I suppose the newspapers will give a schedule. I expect there will be people lining the railroad tracks.” I vaguely recalled when Theodore Roosevelt’s body was transported for burial. The newspapers had run photographs of people flocking along the tracks, hats over their hearts, heads bowed in respect. They were quite touching pictures of a nation in mourning.

  As if she couldn’t contain her contempt a second longer, Mother spoke. “I think it’s a disgrace that people should give a motion-picture actor such adulation. Lining the tracks. Disgusting.”

  We all looked at her, but none of us said a word.

  Fortunately, we heard Harvey’s machine make its way down the drive at that point and Chloe perked up considerably. Defying Mother, she rushed straight into Harvey’s arms when he appeared in the archway between the hall and the living room. He greeted her warmly and with the affection that was the hallmark of their union.

  Needless to say, our mother looked upon this tender reunion with asperity. The old cow. If she’d shown more overt affection for our father, perhaps he wouldn’t have sought it elsewhere.

  But I don’t suppose that was fair. Even though our mother was far from a cuddly person, there was no possible excuse for flouting one’s marriage vows. I know people have been doing it since the beginning of time, but that didn’t make it right.

  Oh, nuts. It was all too deep for me.

  Dinner that night was probably quite tasty, but the mood was somber. I wasn’t sorry when the meal was over and I could retire to my room and prepare for the ordeal to come.

  * * * * *

  It was a definite ordeal, too. Mr. Easthope himself drove Mother and me to his house after dinner. The staff, already upset by Rupert’s arrest, was in shock over Rudolph Valentino’s demise. The little housemaid, who had been teaching Rupert the tricks of the serving trade, had swollen, red-rimmed eyes and looked as if she’d been crying since she’d heard the news. Updegraff, who was acting as a butler since Rupert had been arrested and couldn’t perform his duties as houseboy, and whose demeanor was always grave, that evening looked as if he were attending a funeral rather than a séance.

  When Mr. Easthope escorted us into the living room, I was a little surprised to see a youngish man seated beside Mrs. Easthope. He appeared strained, but she looked positively haggard. Mr. Easthope, suavity itself, guided my mother over to his mother and the fellow.

  “Miss Allcutt, you already know my mother.”

  “Yes. How do you do, Mrs. Easthope?” I held out my hand politely.

  She took my hand but only shook her head, as if speaking was too much of a chore for her to contemplate, much less attempt.

  “And this, Mrs. Allcutt and Miss Allcutt, is George Hartland, the late Mrs. Hartland’s son.”

  “Oh!” Good gracious, this was wonderful. I could investigate a suspect at close range. I didn’t reveal my joy. “Good evening, Mr. Hartland. I’m so terribly sorry about your mother.”

  George Hartland had stood upon our entry into the room. “I’m as well as I can be, Miss Allcutt. Thank you,” he said, casting a nervous glance at the door to the living room, searching, I presume, for Mr. Carstairs. I also presume he didn’t dare not attend this particular séance, no matter to whom he owed money, since it had been set up specifically to unveil the identity of his mother’s murderer.

  “Mother, please allow me to introduce you to Miss Allcutt’s mother, Mrs. Allcutt.”

  Mrs. Easthope held out a limp hand once more, and this time she managed to speak. “So pleased to meet you.” She didn’t yet know my mother or I’m sure her pleasure would have dimmed considerably. She turned to me and gave me a wan smile. “I’m so glad you could attend this evening, my dear. It’s always a good idea to have continuity, in spite of the dreadful news the day has brought.”

  Whatever that meant. I smiled and said, “It’s very good to see you again, Mrs. Easthope, although I’m still very sorry about the reason for this séance.” I shook her hand again, and warmly, deciding my mother, while insensitive, was basically correct in that a motion-picture actor, no matter how handsome and appealing, really shouldn’t have such an impact on the citizens of the great United States of America. It seemed frivolous somehow that the world should be cast into a gloom over Valentino’s untimely passing.

  Of course it’s always a tragedy when a young man or woman dies, but . . . oh, bother. You know what I mean.

  Mr. Carstairs and Miss Lloyd showed up at the same time the d’Agostinos did, and I do believe I saw a look of relief wash over Mr. Hartland’s face when the meeting was almost immediately called to order. So to speak. In actual fact, Mr. d’Agostino murmured something to Fernandez, who vanished like a spirit himself. Then we were all herded to the dining room (this time Updegraff did the honors, since Rupert was languishing in the pokey) and we took our places around the table. That night I sat next to my mother and had to hold her hand. Mr. Carstairs was on my other side. Across from us were Jacqueline Lloyd, Mr. Hartland, and Mrs. Easthope. Mr. Easthope sat next to Miss d’Agostino, who sat at one end of the table. Mr. d’Agostino was at the other.

  The same folderol ensued. You know: dimmed lights, courtesy Fernandez; admonitions from Mr. d’Agostino to be silent; a good deal of writhing and moaning on Miss d’Agostino’s part; and then her classic slump. The deepness and resonant quality of her so-called “trance” voice still impressed me.

  What impressed me even more was when, about ten minutes into Ms. d’Agostino’s trance, as her control was holding a breathy conversation with the late Mrs. Hartland, Mr. Hartland suddenly leaped to his feet, screeched, “No!” and collapsed to the floor.

  Fernandez must have been standing right smack at the light switch because the lights went on instantly. Sure enough, there was a hole in the seating arrangement across from me where George Hartland had been sitting. I muttered, “Oh, no, not again,” which I guess was callous. But honestly, how much of this sort of thing is a person supposed to take?

  I anticipated what happened next. Jacqueline Lloyd, who had been holding Mr. Hartland’s hand, glanced at her own empty hand, then at Mr. Hartland’s body on the floor, rose to her feet, cast a hysterical glance around the table, shrieked like yet another banshee on yet another Irish moor, and flopped to the floor like a beached flounder.

  “For heaven’s sake,” my mother muttered. For once, I didn’t blame her for her sour tone of voice.

  I heaved a large sigh as Mr. Easthope raced around to the other side of the table, hesitated in the face of two fallen bodies, and decided to eschew gentlemanliness for the nonce as he knelt beside Mr. Hartland. Knowing he needed my support, if only because I was a commonsensical person, I rose and hurried to assist him.

  My mother barked, “Mercedes Louise!”

  I ignored her.

  “Thank God you’re here, Miss Allcutt,” he whispered. “I can’t believe this has happened again.”

  I knelt beside him. “Do you know what exactly did happen?”

  “No.”

  Since Mr. Easthope appeared to be on shaky emotional ground, I pressed two fingers to the side of Mr. Hartland’s neck. Surprised and gratified, I said, “He’s got a pulse!”

>   “Thank God,” came Mr. Easthope’s heartfelt response.

  “Updegraff,” I called, remaining beside Mr. Hartland. “Will you please call a doctor and the police?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Updegraff, and he left in more of a rush than I’d heretofore believed him capable of.

  Because we’d determined that George Hartland lived, even if we didn’t know for how long or what had happened to him, Mr. Easthope turned his attention to Jacqueline Lloyd. Luckily, Miss Lloyd already had a couple of champions at hand in the persons of Mr. Carstairs, who was on his knees beside her, chafing her hands and looking otherwise helpless; and Mr. d’Agostino, who’s expression was more pinched and angry than fearful or worried. I wondered if that meant anything.

  Mr. Easthope took charge, bless him. “Let us get her to a sofa, fellows. I believe she only fainted.”

  “I think you’re right.” I could hear the relief in Mr. Carstairs’s voice.

  “I’m sure that’s it,” agreed Mr. d’Agostino. “I expect Mr. Hartland only fainted too.” He sounded grumpy. I guess he didn’t appreciate people dropping like flies during his séances. I doubt that he cared much about the individuals involved, but I’m sure he didn’t want to garner a reputation as a medium who killed off his clients, even by accident.

  Speaking of mediums (or should that be media? Well, who cares?) I glanced over to see what the other half of the team was doing. Miss d’Agostino sat, looking almost as statue-like as my mother, and with an expression almost as grim as Mother’s on her face. Mother’s gaze was fixed firmly upon her errant daughter, naturally.

  If the two spiritualists were behind these occurrences, they gave no indication of it. If I read the expressions on their faces right, they were more peeved than pleased by this latest interruption of their mystical twaddle. Then again, what did I know?

  I was still on my knees, wishing I knew more about first aid and medical techniques so that I might be of more assistance to Mr. Hartland, when I heard my mother’s voice. Unfortunately, it was closer than it would have been if she still sat at the table. I sent up a silent prayer for strength and patience.

  “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, get up from the floor this instant and telephone for a taxicab. We must get out of here before the police arrive.”

  I squinted up at her, astounded by her order. “We can’t do that, Mother. No one can leave the scene before the police get here.”

  Her bosom swelled and her chin would have lifted if she weren’t still glaring down upon me. “And why not?” she demanded. “I am not accustomed to these sorts of goings on.”

  “Neither am I,” I said, feeling not the least bit obedient at the moment. “And you’re the one who wanted to come here tonight.”

  “How dare you speak to your mother like that?”

  “Oh, go sit down, Mother. We can’t do anything until the police get here.”

  To my utter amazement, not to mention my eternal gratitude, she did, giving me only one last irate huff before doing so.

  That gave me time to think, and I instantly thought of the back of Mr. Hartland’s neck. Well, I don’t mean that exactly, but I recollected the little pinprick on the back of Mrs. Hartland’s neck, so I looked for one on her son.

  I didn’t find one, which might well account for the fact that Mr. Hartland, while unconscious, yet breathed. Hmm. I didn’t know what the lack of a pinprick signified, if anything. Maybe he did just faint.

  Or . . . merciful heavens, what if George Hartland had staged this scene simply for the purpose of diverting attention from himself as the killer of his mother? If everyone believed an attempt had been made on his life, they’d be less likely to think of him as a murderer.

  Except that I just had. And I’m sure the police would think about the matter in that light, too.

  So what did this mean? Was George Hartland another innocent victim of a crazed fiend who haunted séances—so to speak? Or was he a cold-blooded murderer who was only acting the part of a victim?

  Bother. I had no earthly idea.

  * * * * *

  “Can’t you stay out of trouble for a single damned day?”

  Ernie. He’d just opened the outer office door and didn’t even bother to remove his hat or shut the door before bellowing his question at me. I’d arrived at work a little earlier than usual in order to escape Chloe’s house before my mother could renew her inquisition and vilify me some more for being undutiful and rude and a disgrace to the family.

  She and I hadn’t left Mr. Easthope’s house until well after midnight and she’d rebuked me all the way home, into the house, and even up the stairs. She covered every single aspect of what she considered my sinfulness until I honestly believe she was on the verge of accusing me of Rudolph Valentino’s unfortunate passing. I finally escaped to my room and shut the door in her face but it was a truly miserable evening and night, and it took me a long time to get to sleep, even with the faithful and fluffy Buttercup to give me succor and companionship.

  The police—in the person of Phil Bigelow, who wasn’t happy to see me, and a couple of uniformed officers—had arrived about twenty minutes after they’d been called. The doctor was already there and had called an ambulance to transport Mr. Hartland to the hospital on Hill and College. Mr. Carstairs said he was going to take Miss Lloyd there, too, since she was so shaken up, and the doctor said he believed that was a good idea. Nobody, to my knowledge, had figured out what happened to Mr. Hartland by the time Mother and I finally got to go home.

  Then on my way to work I saw black bunting everywhere, in honor of Rudolph Valentino’s decease, I presumed. The two women who rode Angel’s Flight with me that morning looked as if they’d been crying all night long, and the entire city of Los Angeles seemed to have been cast into a state of terminal gloom.

  Therefore, I was already feeling abused, mistreated and unhappy, not to mention exhausted, and I didn’t appreciate Ernie’s attack on me first thing in the morning. I reacted negatively.

  “Curse you, Ernie Templeton, don’t you dare swear at me! And it’s not my fault George Hartland collapsed last night or that Jacqueline Lloyd fainted! She seems to faint all the time, for heaven’s sake!” That wasn’t really fair, but I wasn’t feeling fair and didn’t give a fig.

  “I swear to God, Mercy Allcutt, you’ve got to stay out of this sort of thing! Don’t you understand that it might be you next time?”

  “What do you mean, it might be me? And what do you mean next time?” I regret to say my voice was quite loud. But so was Ernie’s and, darn it, if I couldn’t yell at my mother—and I couldn’t. It was all I could do to stand up to her at all—I’d jolly well yell at him. “No one in the entire world has any reason whatsoever to kill me!”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  The blasted man loomed over my desk with a hand on each of the chairs I’d set there for clients. I was standing, too, but he was much taller than I and I felt intimidated.

  Before I could tell him how I knew that, he continued his rant. “If you keep sticking your nose into dangerous business, somebody might just take it in mind to get rid of you, damn it! You don’t have a single, solitary notion of what to do to stay out of trouble! I swear to God, you drive me crazy!”

  “Well, you drive me crazy, too, curse it! How dare you yell at me?”

  “I’m not yelling, damn it!” he bellowed.

  The outer office door, which Ernie had left standing open, opened a little wider and Phil Bigelow appeared. “Jeez, you guys, I could hear you on the elevator.”

  I knew my face was blazing with fury. Now it blazed with embarrassment, too. I turned on Phil in reaction. “Then you tell Ernie nothing that happened last night was my fault! He’s blaming me!”

  “I’m not blaming you!” Ernie roared. “I’m telling you to stay the hell out of police business!”

  “I’m not in police business!” I roared back heatedly. “I was only helping a friend! You wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, I suppose!�
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  Phil held up both of his hands. “Hey, kids, calm down. Let’s all just relax for a minute here.”

  Ernie snatched his hat from his head and slapped the back of a chair with it. I winced. It was a hard blow. “She drives me nuts,” he said more softly.

  “He drives me nuts,” I said, also softly. I’d opened my drawer in order to stow my hat and handbag, and now I slammed it shut. I don’t believe I’d ever done such a thing before in my whole life. Ernest Templeton, P.I., was the most aggravating man I’d ever known. And I’m including my idiot, awful brother in the bunch, too. My brother was only a snob and a bore. Ernie truly rattled my cage.

  Phil placed a hand on Ernie’s shoulder. “Let’s you and me go into your office, Ern. It’ll give you a chance to cool down.”

  And how was I supposed to cool down? I guess I was on my own. Nobody cared about secretaries, did they? Of course not. They yelled at them and then left and went off to chat with their friends, leaving secretaries to their own devices.

  Well, that was fine with me. I had a device of my own. Picking myself up out of my chair, I fairly flounced to the office door and stamped down two offices to that of John Quincy Carstairs, Esquire. There I opened the door and stood on the threshold, probably looking a good deal as Miss Dunstable had when she’d conveyed the news of Rudolph Valentino’s death to me the day before.

  She looked up, registered my presence, and stood. “Oh, Miss Allcutt, I heard! How perfectly ghastly for you!”

  And bless the woman, she came to me with her hands outstretched. I crumbled like stale bread as she led me to the chair beside her desk.

  After sniffling and blowing my nose, I apologized. “I’m sorry. It’s just all so upsetting,” I said, trying to explain my breakdown, which was truly out of character for the usually stoic me.

  “Nonsense. You suffered a great shock,” Miss Dunstable said bracingly. “I understand Miss Lloyd actually fainted.”

  I sniffled again, not entirely because of my tears. “Yes, well, she faints at everything, I guess. She fainted before, too.”