Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery)

by Alice Duncan

  “The artistic temperament,” Miss Dunstable murmured. I could tell she didn’t want to dwell on Miss Lloyd’s shortcomings.

  I didn’t either. In fact I was a little ashamed of myself for that one fairly mild barb. Ernie Templeton had clearly been a worse influence on me than I’d heretofore guessed. That being the case, I said, in an effort to change the subject, “If you want to know what I think, it’s that Mr. Hartland staged his collapse last night in order to draw attention away from himself as his mother’s murderer.”

  Miss Dunstable’s mouth dropped open, and I realized I’d just accused a man of murder out loud. Good Lord, if my mother could see me now, she’d disown me entirely.

  Hmm . . .

  But I didn’t have a chance to ponder that pleasant possibility because Miss Dunstable said rather breathlessly, “My goodness, I wonder if you’re right.”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It only just occurred to me. I shouldn’t have said anything. After all, the poor man might well have been only upset by his mother’s death and reacted to something innocent—if you can call a séance innocent—a little dramatically.”

  “I just don’t know,” said Miss Dunstable. “It’s all so puzzling.”

  “It is that,” I agreed, and then I sighed. “Well, I suppose I ought to get back to work. If today is anything like the last several days, the phone will be ringing off the hook.”

  “You’re busy then?” queried Miss Dunstable, sounding faintly surprised.

  Her tone irked me. “Oh, yes, we have a very busy office,” I assured her, fibbing only a little bit. Since my ad came out in the Times, we actually had been busier than before. I didn’t like having to admit that so far the ad hadn’t yielded a whole lot of billable work, but it had at least generated interest. Interest is the first step toward getting more work, isn’t it? I wasn’t sure, but it made sense to me, so I didn’t feel guilty.

  As I walked down the hallway to Ernie’s office, I decided that I liked Sylvia Dunstable ever so well. She was not merely a competent secretary and one to be emulated, but she was a real comfort to a person in a time of need. Kind of like Buttercup, only without the fur.

  And, boy, did I need comfort a few minutes later when I walked into Ernie’s office to find Ernie and Phil standing there, staring at my empty desk. I stopped in the doorway and surveyed the men unhappily. If I’d only come back a minute or so earlier, they probably wouldn’t have noticed I was missing. Oh, well.

  Brazening it out, I smiled and lifted my chin. “Gentlemen. May I help you with anything?”

  They turned and stared at me. Flustered, I brushed past them and went behind my desk, wishing one of them would say something. Whatever was wrong? Ernie couldn’t be angry because I’d left the office for a minute or two, could he?

  As I usually do when anxious, I began to talk. “You know, gentlemen, I’ve been thinking about last night’s dramatic events, and it occurred to me that perhaps Mr. Hartland staged the whole thing so as to divert suspicion from himself. If we thought someone was trying to kill him after killing his mother, no one would look at him closely as the murderer of Mrs. Hartland, would they?”

  Ernie and Phil exchanged a glance I couldn’t read, but which made me nervous. “Well?” said I, sharply. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  Frowning down at me—I’d taken a seat in my chair and folded my hands on my desk—Ernie said, “Yeah, it might have been possible. But Hartland’s dead. Somebody smothered him with a pillow in the hospital during the night.”

  As I gawped at my employer, my brain spun, repeating the same refrain several times: So much for that fine theory, Mercedes Louise Allcutt. Come up with another one, why don’t you?

  Chapter Thirteen

  “He’s d-dead?” I glanced from Ernie to Phil and back again, my mind in a whirl.

  “He’s dead.”

  “But . . . but . . . how? Was it from natural causes? Oh, wait, you said he was smothered, didn’t you?” And then an idea struck me. Before I could mull it over, I blurted it out. “Well, then, the killer must be Miss Lloyd! Have you checked into her background? Perhaps she has a long history of assault.” With pillows? I shook my head hard. “Perhaps there’s insanity in the family or—”

  “She was drugged and unconscious all night long,” said Phil, bursting my balloon before it had even begun to float.

  Gathering my scattered resources, I demanded, “And how, exactly, do you know that?”

  “Because our guys were there first thing this morning and questioned the staff at the hospital. The nurses on duty during the night—when they weren’t crying on each other’s shoulders over Rudolph Valentino—said they gave Miss Lloyd a hypo along about midnight last night, and she’s still out cold.”

  “Well, when was Mr. Hartland smothered? Perhaps she did it at eleven.”

  “He was still alive at a quarter past twelve.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “One of the nurses gave him a pill to help him sleep at twelve-fifteen. The time is right there on his chart.”

  “Hmm. I don’t suppose it was the pill that did it.” I only suggested it because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “It wasn’t the pill. It was a pillow.”

  “I suppose you can tell the difference between when someone dies of a drug overdose and when one is smothered with a pillow?” Hope still faintly glowed in me, although it was fading fast.

  “Yes.” There wasn’t a shred of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Oh.” Blast it, that blew that theory sky high. Then I thought of something that boosted my morale considerably. “But at least you can’t blame Mr. Hartland’s murder on Rupert Mullins, can you?”

  Phil and Ernie glanced at each other, and my triumph soared. I recognized those expressions. They were expressions indicating that, no matter how much they hated to admit it, they had to agree with me.

  “Can you,” I persisted.

  “No,” Phil admitted.

  “So are you going to release him? I’m sure Mr. Easthope would be happy to have him back as houseboy.” That was a barefaced lie. I didn’t have a single, solitary clue what Mr. Easthope’s views on rehiring Rupert Mullins might be.

  “No, we aren’t going to release him yet.”

  “But why not?” I was building up to outrage, but hadn’t quite made it there yet.

  “We can’t release him until after we find out who killed Hartland.”

  “Which Hartland?”

  Phil heaved an aggrieved sigh I consider totally unjustified. “Both of them.”

  “But why? It’s obvious that Rupert didn’t have anything thing to do with Mr. Hartland’s death. It is logical, therefore, to conclude he didn’t kill his mother, but that one other person killed the both of them. I should think you’d be looking at the same perpetrator for both crimes.”

  “Yeah, well, have you ever heard of accomplices?” This question was delivered by a sneering Ernie.

  “Probably only one accomplice,” amended Phil. Just in case I missed Ernie’s sneer, he gave me one of his own.

  Accomplices?

  Ernie and Phil exchanged an expressive look.

  Accomplices? Hmm. I hadn’t actually thought about possible accomplices, unless Ernie and Phil were talking about—

  One accomplice?

  I gaped at the two men standing before my desk and my jaw dropped open and stayed that way for several seconds as the implications of what they’d said flipped over and over in my mind. When I shut my mouth, my teeth clacked so loudly, I’m sure Ernie and Phil heard them. I’d finally made it to outrage. Perhaps even beyond it.

  Livid, I stood, flattened my palms on my desk and demanded, “An accomplice? Are you two going to stand there and tell me that you think for one minute I helped murder a man? Of all the contemptible, revolting, inconceivable—”

  As I sputtered, hardly believing what I’d heard, Ernie looked at me, puzzled.

  So did Phil.

 
; Then Ernie’s expression of puzzlement changed to one of exasperation. “For Christ’s sake, Mercy, we’re not talking about you!”

  My mouth clacked shut again. My rage was so all-consuming that it took me a couple of seconds to settle down a trifle. Then I said, “Oh.” Then I swallowed more bile and tried to control my heartbeat using a method Mr. Easthope had explained to me once. He claimed the relaxation technique was practiced by Buddhist monks somewhere in the East. Wherever those monks were from, they were considerably east of Boston I guess, because the technique didn’t work on me for several tense moments.

  When I thought I could speak without shrieking, I asked, feigning Oriental calm, “Then whom do you suspect of being Mr. Mullins’s accomplice?”

  “She’s been working downstairs in the lobby for a couple of years now, for Pete’s sake,” said Ernie in patent disgust. “I can’t believe you thought we were talking about you.”

  “You mean Lulu?” I cried, any semblance of calm, eastern or otherwise, evaporating in yet another flash of ire. “Don’t be ridiculous! Lulu would no more murder a man than I would!”

  Another meaningful glance passed between the two men, creating in me an urge to batter them both with a blunt instrument. The only instrument to hand was the telephone, so I didn’t. Besides, I’m not violent by nature. Instead, I said, “That’s the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yeah?” Phil appeared peeved, and for the first time since I’d met him, he reminded me of a policeman. “Well, I’ve seen lots of stuff more asinine than that, believe me.”

  “I sincerely doubt that. Have you spoken with Lulu?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Phil’s on his way downstairs to question her now,” Ernie said.

  “Suspecting Lulu of murder is utter nonsense. What about those two wretched spiritualists? What about the O’Doyles? Have you questioned them? They’ve already proved themselves to be liars and crooks. To me, they’re much more likely to be the perpetrators than poor Lulu or her brother.” I thought of something else. “Or Fernandez! That man gives me the willies, and he’s already an accomplice of the O’Doyles! He’s in their employ, for heaven’s sake! I wouldn’t put it past him to kill someone if Angelique, or whatever her real name is, asked him to.”

  I thought it was a brilliant point, but Ernie only rolled his eyes. “The police are questioning everybody, Mercy, including the O’Doyles and Fernandez. They aren’t only concentrating on Lulu LaBelle.”

  I sniffed. “It’s a good thing.” Although I was still seething, there didn’t seem to be an appropriate target to impale with my pointed remarks, so I asked something about which I was curious. “Why’d he faint, anyway?”

  Phil answered me. “He said he thought he felt someone stick him with something.”

  “Stick him with something? Stick him with what?”

  Phil only shrugged, and I guess that was my answer. Some answer.

  Ernie and Phil toddled off to Ernie’s office to commiserate and, probably, discuss how irrational women were, always flying off the handle and so forth. It wasn’t fair. Women were certainly no more irrational than men, and men caused all the trouble in the world they were so proud of being in charge of. Besides, Phil was supposed to be going downstairs to question Lulu, not gossiping with Ernie. Stupid men.

  After sitting at my desk and fuming for a few seconds, I was interrupted by the telephone ringing, and I had to answer it. “Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.”

  A soft voice, one that sounded as if it might be slinky if it weren’t clogged with tears, answered my greeting. “Oh, is this the private investigator’s office?”

  Who’d she think she was calling, a dentist? Rather than take my wrath out on a possible client, I said sweetly, “Yes it is. Mr. Ernest Templeton, discreet private investigations.”

  “Oh, I read his ad in the Times.”

  My ad, thought I. And if she read the ad, why’d she think this was a dentist’s office? Still sweet, I said, “May I help you?”

  “Oh, I hope so!”

  I rolled my eyes. Clearly, this woman thought she had problems, but I didn’t feel like mollycoddling anybody, and especially not someone who sounded as if she might be young and lovely and, perhaps, vamp-like when she wasn’t crying. I’d had my fill of vamps during my first case with Ernie. “Would you like to set up an appointment to see Mr. Templeton?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  I wasn’t Houdini. I couldn’t get her out of a scrape telepathically. In fact, I don’t think even Houdini could do that. Possessing myself in patience with some difficulty, I said, still sweet, darn it, “If you have a problem with which you believe a private investigator might be able to help, Mr. Templeton is the man for you. He’s tops in the business.” I didn’t know that, of course, since I didn’t know any other private investigators, but at least I trusted Ernie. When he wasn’t being a pill to me.

  “Oh, do you really think so?”

  If she said “Oh,” in that breathy voice one more time . . . I gave myself a hard mental slap. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Templeton is the best.”

  “Oh.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Well, then . . .”

  I ground said teeth together.

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  I finally lost my patience. “If you have a problem, I will be happy to make an appointment for you to see Mr. Templeton. This morning. If you’re close by the office, you can come in at nine-thirty.” It was then eight-thirty. I couldn’t imagine that even a vamp would need more than an hour to prepare herself to see a P.I. “If you’re not sure, perhaps you should telephone later, when you are sure.”

  Evidently, my snappish tone of voice startled her, because silence prevailed on the other end of the wire. It lasted so long, I was about to hang up the receiver, feeling guilty but justified, when the breathy voice came again.

  “Oh, yes. Please. Nine-thirty will be fine.”

  I think she probably heard me exhale, but I couldn’t help myself. Regaining my composure along with my faintly tainted sweetness, I said, “Very well. What is your name, please?”

  “Persephone Chalmers.”

  Persephone Chalmers? Good grief. “Excellent, Miss Chal—”

  “Missus. Missus Chalmers.”

  Who’d’a thunk it? “Very well, Mrs. Chalmers. We’ll see you at nine-thirty. You have our address from the advertisement, correct?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I do.”

  “Fine, then. We’ll see you at nine-thirty.” Because I really didn’t want to make her life worse than it evidently already was, I added, “Please try not to worry. Mr. Templeton will be happy to help you.” Especially if she was young and pretty and had money and what everyone was calling SA, an acronym for sex appeal, at which descriptive phrase my stuffy Boston soul cringed even though I didn’t want it to.

  Because I was still irked with both Ernie and Phil—Lulu LaBelle as an accomplice, indeed—and because I’d been told that Phil was on his way down to interview Lulu, which was his job, blast it, and which he wasn’t doing as he sat and blabbed with Ernie, I decided to interrupt the two irritating men. Therefore, I strode to Ernie’s door, gave a quick rap, and without waiting for Ernie’s usual, “Yeah?” I marched right on in.

  “. . . blue pictures. I’m not sure about that, though. My men are checking into it.”

  “Lucky then.” Ernie’s chuckle was cut short by the door opening.

  Phil sat up with a start. He’d been leaning on his elbows over Ernie’s desk, and it looked as if the two men had been whispering. Just like a couple of silly schoolgirls. Schoolboys, I mean.

  Ernie’s head snapped up. He’d been leaning over his desk, too. Men. “Yeah?” he said to me, clearly irked by my intrusion.

  “A young woman named Missus Persephone Chalmers has an appointment to see you at nine-thirty, Ernie.” Even her name made me want to gag.

  Ernie lifted an eyebrow. “Persephone?” He grinned at Phil. “
There’s a name suitable for blue movies if you ask me.”

  Phil grinned back.

  I didn’t have any idea what the beastly men were talking about.

  “Okay, kiddo,” said Ernie, dismissing me with a wave.

  Furious, I stamped back to my desk, although, since I’m a good secretary no matter what the provocation, I did close the door behind me. And without slamming it, too.

  As I waited for Mrs. Persephone Chalmers (and shouldn’t she be using her husband’s first name? Mrs. Adonis Chalmers, or whatever?) to show herself in the office, I strained all my powers trying to figure out what “blue pictures” and “blue movies” were and if they might possibly pertain to the Heartwood/Hartland murders or if the two men had gone on to other topics altogether. I had planned to ask Phil when he finally went downstairs to do his policemanly duty, but what with one thing and another, primarily the telephone’s constant interruptions, I was unable to do so. On my own I had come to no definite conclusion about them when, at precisely nine-thirty, the outer office door opened and a young woman floated in as if borne on a cloud.

  I had just replaced the telephone receiver in the cradle, and I looked up. My heart sank. “Mrs. Persephone Chalmers?” I said.

  It had to be she, and, if anything, she was worse than a vamp. Clad head to toe in cream-colored fabric from her veiled hat to her lovely linen summer suit to her silk stockings to her dyed-to-match pumps, she radiated both money and distress. One or the other of those commodities and Ernie, who was a sucker for distressed females and who had no aversion to money, was sunk. When both were added to the face discernible through the veil, which was young and lovely and fragile and frightened, not to mention blond-haired, and Ernie had no chance at all of remaining unmoved. I sensed it in my bones, which felt particularly cold as I watched Mrs. Chalmers waft to a chair before my desk.

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Yes. I am Mrs. Chalmers.” She hovered near the chair, as if afraid to touch it or sit in it.

  With a sigh, I rose from my desk feeling entirely too sturdy, brunette and self-sufficient, and wishing it were otherwise. Oh, well . . .