by Alice Duncan
“My goodness. Did your . . .” I swallowed, aghast at what I’d almost asked him. Then I told myself that Ernie’s very life might be on the line here, and I asked my question anyway. “Did your father mind that Mrs. Chalmers donated a lot of money to the Angelica Gospel Hall?”
One of his shoulders lifted and dropped in what might have been meant as a shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t live here anymore. Haven’t for years. Only visit once in a while.”
“I see. Do you work at that golfing academy?”
He stared at me as if I’d said something absurd. “Work? I don’t work anywhere. Investments. That’s what’s needed in today’s society. I do like to play golf, though.”
“Ah. Yes.” A man after my mother’s heart. My father probably wouldn’t like him, since, according to him, men—even men from his family—should at least try to earn their way in the world. His standards, as I may have mentioned several times before, were different for the women in his family, who weren’t supposed to do anything but sit still, look decorative, and attend tea parties. “So you don’t know if your father approved or disapproved of your stepmother’s religious inclinations?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think he minded. Anything she wanted to do was fine with him.”
“But you do believe that someone from the church stole her jewelry?”
He heaved a huge sigh. “I don’t really know, but I wouldn’t put anything past one of those crazy people.”
“I see. But Mrs. Chalmers enjoyed her association with the church?”
“Enjoyed it? She loved it. She’d go on about that Emmanuel character for hours, but Dad didn’t seem to mind.” Simon Chalmers shook his head. “She’d have driven me nuts, but he loved her.”
I hesitated to say what popped into my mind, but I said it anyway. “I gathered a rather odd impression from Mrs. Chalmers when I first met her.”
This time he actually chuckled. “Odd? I always thought she was crazy as a coot. But the old man couldn’t see it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand love does have that effect on some people.”
“She was always good to him. Waited on him. I think she doted on him as much as he doted on her.”
“How nice for both of them.” I decided we’d drifted off topic, so I said, “But you think someone from the church might have stolen Mrs. Chalmers’ jewelry? Do you think that, perhaps when she confronted the culprit, he or she . . .” Bashed her on the head sounded so undignified. “Um, did her in?”
Again he shrugged. “I don’t know. What I wonder is if she sold the jewelry and gave the money to Sister Emmanuel. Or maybe she just gave her the jewelry and then told Dad that it had been stolen.”
Merciful heavens! Now there’s an idea I hadn’t thought of before. Perhaps Mr. Chalmers, disgusted with his wife’s extravagance, had, in a moment of sublime rage, killed her!
“My goodness, that doesn’t sound like very Christian behavior on her part.”
Simon Chalmers sighed again. “I’m probably wrong about that. I don’t know.”
But I wasn’t so certain he was wrong. I couldn’t wait to tell Ernie what I’d learned.
Chapter Five
“I’m only going to tell you this once, Mercy. Stay out of the Chalmers business. Don’t pretend to be an investigator. Don’t even talk to anyone concerned with the case. It involves a vicious murder, and it might well be dangerous for you to do any snooping. Do you understand me?”
Ernie was furious. And all I’d done was propose my well-thought-out theory of what might have happened at the Chalmers residence the day before. I must say that he looked a wee bit better today than he had on the day mentioned. Still, that didn’t mean he could dictate to me what I could and couldn’t do on my own time.
“I understand you, Mr. Templeton, believe me. You want me to butt out, as you once so eloquently put it. However, I’m not willing to do that. Why, if we don’t find the true culprit in this crime, the L.A.P.D. might pin it on you. I’m not going to sacrifice my employment because you don’t want me looking into a murder that might well be blamed on you.”
“Your employment.” Ernie’s sneer was a work of art. “I don’t know why you want to work anyway. You’re already richer than God.”
Drat the man! He’d pegged me for a rich man’s daughter the moment he saw me. I guess they teach things like that at the police academy. You know: how to differentiate among the classes we in the United States aren’t supposed to have. Still, that piece of detection had convinced me that he was good at his job and that I could do worse than to emulate him. In some ways. In others, he was the last man on earth I’d want to copy.
“Nonsense. Why, I’ve already interviewed Mr. Simon Chalmers, Mr. Chalmers’ son, and learned that the late Mrs. Chalmers was crazy as a coot.”
At Ernie’s ironic expression, I amended my statement. “Those are Mr. Chalmers’ very words. They’re not mine.”
“Of course not. You’d never be so unrefined as to call anyone crazy as a coot.”
Blast the man. “Anyhow, Mrs. Chalmers had recently joined the Angelica Gospel Hall, and was spending vast quantities of money there. It’s quite possible that either the younger or the older Mr. Chalmers did her in to curtail her extravagance.”
“If either of them did it, they curtailed her extravagance with a vengeance, I’d say. There are a lot of easier ways to curtail a woman’s spending habits than by killing her.”
“I agree, but perhaps someone didn’t see it that way. Remember, it was you who taught me that the first people to investigate in a case of murder are family members.”
“It’s good to know that you take some of the things I tell you to heart.”
I ignored that jibe. “Anyhow, you knew about her activities with that church, didn’t you?” I actually hoped he hadn’t known, because then I would have proved to him that I could ferret out information with the best of them.
“Sure. She told me all about it.”
Nuts. “Well, do you think someone from the church might have had something to do with her death?”
“At this point, I don’t know anything at all about her death, Mercy Allcutt, and neither do you, except that she is definitely dead. And this is one case where you’re not going to become involved. Let the L.A.P.D. and Phil do their jobs for once without your interference, will you? For God’s sake, Mercy, you’re a pampered young lady from Boston! You have no business fiddling with murder.”
“But Phil said some detective named O’Reilly would lead the case, and you told me yourself that O’Reilly hates you.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like him, either.”
“Why not? What did he do?”
Ernie’s grin was wry. “You’re sure our animosity is all his fault, are you? How very loyal of you.”
I felt myself flush, blast it. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve already told me most L.A. coppers are as dirty as old laundry. Is O’Reilly a dirty cop? Is that why you don’t like him? And he doesn’t like you because you’re not dirty?” Oh, boy, if my mother ever heard me talk like that, she’d have a fit—or, which is more likely, she’d give me one.
“He was one of the policemen on the Taylor case. They really botched that case. So badly that it’s never been solved. Some of them were paid off. I’m as sure of that as I am my own name.”
“I see.” Ernie had told me he’d decided to leave the L.A.P.D. after William Desmond Taylor’s murder and its resultant deplorable investigation by the police. They did such a lousy job that the case isn’t solved to this day. “So you suspect O’Reilly might be on the take? And maybe you told him so? And that’s why he hates you?”
“Yeah, yeah. It doesn’t matter.”
“Nonsense! It might matter a whole lot, Ernest Templeton. If there’s a dirty cop who hates you investigating this case, it could mean the difference between the real culprit being caught or you being blamed for a crime you didn’t commit. You can’t leave it to O’Reilly to solve this crime,
Ernie. We’ll have to investigate it ourselves.”
Ernie let out a huge gust of air, as if he didn’t want to pursue this matter anymore. “Hell, let O’Reilly hate me. He’s a good cop. More or less. No worse than most, at any rate. All I’m saying is that you need to butt out of this case. It has nothing to do with you.”
If I’d forsaken my roots as much as I liked to pretend I had, I’d have sworn at him. But I couldn’t make myself form a swear word at that moment in time, even in my head. I was standing there, feeling totally furious but impotent to express myself when Ernie continued.
“And if you do continue to interfere, I’ll damned well fire you!”
My mouth dropped open in astonishment. I snapped it shut and said, “You wouldn’t!”
“I would.”
He appeared to mean it. I was so angry I could have spat railroad spikes. Since I was unable to do that any more than I could curse, I said, “Good. Fire me. Then I’ll have all day, every day, for however long it takes, to investigate Mrs. Chalmers’ murder!”
I left Ernie’s office while he was still rolling his eyes and muttering swear words—he didn’t have my personal qualms against cursing, blast him—slamming the door behind me. I was sorry about the slam, not because I thought Ernie deserved a silently closed door, but because my mother and Chloe had managed to enter the office while I’d been arguing with Ernie inside his office.
Sweet Lord, have mercy on Mercy, please. I know: you’re not supposed to pray as if you’re asking Father Christmas for things, but I couldn’t help myself at that moment in time. Stopping in my tracks from what had been a pretty nifty flounce, I gaped at the two women in consternation. For once in my life, I didn’t know what to say.
Mother never had that problem. “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, your behavior since you moved from your home in Boston to this city of sin becomes more deplorable every day.”
I swallowed. “Good morning, Mother. Hey, Chloe.”
My sister and I exchanged a grimace of mutual sympathy. In truth, Chloe was worse off than I as far as dealing with our mother went, because she didn’t have a lovely job as a private investigator’s secretary to which she could escape Mother’s presence. See? There you have yet one more good reason for women to seek employment.
“Um, I didn’t know you were in Los Angeles, Mother.”
“I arrived today. The trip was grueling, but one must endure if one is to prevail.”
Exactly the point I’d been trying to make with Ernie. However, I didn’t appreciate my mother talking about enduring and prevailing after grueling. For heaven’s sake, all she’d had to do was take a train from Boston to Los Angeles. I had to solve a ghastly murder. Well, I didn’t actually have to, but . . . Oh, you know what I mean.
“You’re coming to luncheon with us right this minute, Mercedes Louise,” my mother went on to say. “We have a number of things to discuss.”
Uh-oh. This didn’t sound good. Mind you, I’d stood up to my mother before, but it had been a hair-raising experience, and I didn’t relish having to do it again. I suspected this luncheon idea was being proposed to me—I mean demanded of me—because she wanted to bully me into moving to Pasadena to live in the home she and my father had bought a month or so ago as a winter residence.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost twelve-thirty. Just about time for lunch, unfortunately, so I couldn’t get out of this demand by pleading work to do. Nevertheless, since I really didn’t want to dine with my maternal parent, I said, “Let me see if Mr. Templeton needs me for anything, Mother. We run an extremely busy office here, you know.”
Very well, so I’d just lied to my mother. You’d have lied to her, too, if she were your mother.
“Nonsense,” Mother said. “This job idiocy has got to stop.”
“No,” I said firmly. “It does not have to stop. I like my job, and I intend to keep it.”
“In that case,” said a voice from Ernie’s office door, which now stood open revealing Ernie in his coat and hat—his coat and hat were the first garments he removed in the morning after he arrived at the office—“you won’t be messing around in the current case, will you?”
His smile was positively evil.
“I don’t mess around with any of your cases, Mr. Templeton, thank you very much.”
He ignored me. Removing the hat he’d so recently donned, he bowed to my mother. It was an ironical bow, but I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t know that. “How do you do, Mrs. Allcutt? How nice to see you again.”
Very well, so Ernie lies, too. He’s had more practice in the activity than I, so his lie didn’t count.
“And good day to you, too, Chloe. Good to see you.”
He wasn’t lying that time. Chloe and Ernie liked each other.
“Hey, Ernie. Good to see you, too.”
Our mother said, “I’m perfectly exhausted, young man, and I intend to take my daughter to luncheon.” She added an imperious “Now,” to her command.
“Be my guest,” said Ernie, plopping his hat on his head once more. “See you back at the office after luncheon, Mercy, unless you decide to use the sense God gave a flea.”
And he left the office with one of his more insouciant waves.
“Deplorable manners,” Mother muttered. “I don’t know how you can work for such a man, Mercedes Louise.”
And I didn’t know why Mother persisted in calling me Mercedes Louise every time she spoke to me. It’s not as if I didn’t know who I was, for heaven’s sake.
“Manners in Los Angeles are less rigid than they are in Boston, Mother.” Resigning myself to my fate, I fetched my hat—a cunning cloche that went well with the white shirt, blue blazer, and gray flannel skirt I wore—and handbag from my drawer.
“Yes. I noticed that the last time I was here. Shocking. Absolutely shocking.”
Shocking, my eye. If she wanted shocking, I could tell her some really shocking stories. Not that I ever would. I had enough trouble with Mother already, and she only knew a mere tenth or so of what my job entailed.
“Then I’m surprised you and Father wish to spend half the year here,” I said, knowing as I did so that I was provoking the dragon.
“You know very well why we plan on spending our winters in California. For one thing, the weather in Pasadena during the winter months is more salubrious than that in Boston. For another thing, Pasadena, unlike Los Angeles, is a civilized city.”
So much for me.
In silence we took the elevator down to the lobby where Lulu wasn’t. She’d gone to lunch, too, I suppose. It was just as well. I could tell her all about my luncheon with my mother when I came back to the Figueroa Building and garner much sympathy from doing so. Lulu had met my mother, too.
In silence Chloe drove us to the Ambassador Hotel, which was fairly new, and where all the so-called stars of the moving-picture industry dined. I’d just as soon grab a tamale and a lemonade from a street vendor or a corned-beef sandwich with Lulu, but today I was with Mother, and Mother didn’t do things like that. She’d undoubtedly faint if faced with a tamale, and I believe I’ve already mentioned her feelings about corned beef.
Chloe entered the restaurant first, which was a good thing since the place was packed and the maître d’, who smiled warmly at us, knew her and Harvey. Evidently she’d telephoned ahead for a reservation, because he said, “Please come this way, ladies. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Nash.”
“Thank you, Houston. This is my mother, Mrs. Allcutt, and my sister, Miss Allcutt.”
Houston, a tall, dignified fellow who looked rather oldish, with white hair and moustache and a perfectly splendid black suit, bowed to us both. His bow wasn’t ironical at all. His living depended on kowtowing to people who considered themselves important, so he probably didn’t dare be anything but absolutely respectful until after he got off work. After that, I suspected he and his cronies laughed a lot at the airs and graces some people adopted. I did notice that Chloe slipped something into
his hand as she stepped aside to introduce Mother and me, so I have a feeling he’d had to make room for us, probably by ousting some other, more deserving, diners. Money talks. Even I know that.
He held chairs for Mother, Chloe, and then me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back, which was nice.
Naturally, as soon as we were seated, Mother started in on me. “You’re deplorably underdressed for dining in this restaurant, Mercedes Louise.” She looked around the room with an upper-crust sneer. “Even if it is in Los Angeles.”
“I didn’t know you were going to make me go to the Ambassador for luncheon, Mother,” said I, snapping my menu open.
“Make you go to the Ambassador? I should think you’d be grateful for a nice meal instead of devouring one of the corned-beef sandwiches Chloe has informed me you feed on regularly.”
I shot a scowl at Chloe, but I couldn’t really blame her for telling on me. After all, she had to say something to our mother, who was a difficult conversationalist at the best of times. Therefore, my scowl only lasted a second before I grinned at my sister. “I adore corned-beef sandwiches,” I said to Mother. “With sauerkraut, especially.”
Mother would have shuddered had she been another sort of woman. She wasn’t. Instead, she pressed her lips together and decided to save her guns for the bigger battle, which, I suspected, would be that of forcing me to move in with her and Father.
* * * * *
Talk about grueling! I’m surprised I survived that luncheon with Chloe and our mutual mother with my skin intact. The entire meal, except when we were chewing, was devoted to my lack of family feeling, disgraceful behavior, and general moral laxity.
I more or less staggered into the Figueroa Building at one-thirty or thereabouts, having left Mother steaming in Chloe’s machine, and not from the heat of the day, but from the heat of her anger with me. Thank God Lulu LaBelle had returned from her own lunch (short form) and occupied the desk in the lobby, where she sat in one of her more astonishing costumes, filing her nails. She filed her nails almost constantly. I’m not sure why.
