by Alice Duncan
I’d begin doing that very thing after we caught Mrs. Chalmers’ killer. Providing, of course, I survived dinner with my mother that evening.
Chapter Eight
As I’d guessed she would, my mother was fit to be tied that I’d sullied the Allcutt name and not merely ventured in to the Angelica Gospel Hall but had actually spoken to Sister Adelaide Burkhard Emmanuel herself.
“Why, the woman is nothing but a vulgar shill for that so-called religion of hers,” Mother said, her nose in the air. If she ever did that in the rain, she’d probably drown. Too bad it didn’t rain much in Los Angeles, not that it would have mattered then since we were indoors. “If anyone finds out that one of my daughters was lending her support to that trashy institution, the entire family will be disgraced.”
“I wasn’t lending my support to any institution,” I said. “I was trying to figure out why some people are so enthralled with the Angelica Gospel Hall and Sister Emmanuel. One of our clients was a member of the church, so you can call it firsthand investigation, if you will.” That’s what I hoped Ernie would call it.
“Sister Emmanuel.” My mother made the name sound like a curse. “Horrid woman!”
“She was actually very nice to me,” I said in a quiet voice, hoping to teach by example. Silly me. “She was awfully concerned when she learned about Mrs. Chalmers’ death. And she was kindness itself to poor Mrs. Pinkney, who was Mrs. Chalmers’ good friend.”
“And that’s another thing, young woman,” Mother ranted on. Well, what I mean is that she continued talking. My mother would no more rant than she’d attend the Angelica Gospel Hall. “Why you keep getting mixed up with dead people is absolutely beyond my understanding. Nothing like that ever happened in the family before you disobeyed your parents and began behaving in so outrageous a manner. Why, the way you stumble over dead people is an absolute disgrace. I want you to quit that so-called job of yours immediately!”
“You know I’m not going to do that, Mother.” I held on to my sigh, since to sigh in front of people was another Boston sin. Never mind that Boston was two thousand miles away and on another coast. “I love my job.”
“You consort with the lowest sorts of people.” Mother sniffed to let me know she was ashamed of me. Since I’d known that for years, her sniff didn’t bother me a whole lot, although what did bother me was why it was a sin to sigh and not a sin to sniff.
“Mother, why don’t you dress for dinner?” Poor Chloe must have been desperate, since she seldom interrupted our mother in full scolding mode. “Our guests will be arriving soon.
“Oh. Oh, certainly.”
Chloe and I exchanged a relieved glance as Mother marched toward the staircase. She’d been given the Green Room, the room allotted to visiting royalty or our mother. Why anyone needed to change for meals was beyond my understanding, but I’d not dare fate and tell Mother so.
Mother turned on the staircase. “Whom did you say were going to grace your table this evening, dear?”
Chloe was a dear. I was a monster. Oh, well . . .
“John Gilbert and Renee Adoree,” said Chloe.
“Oh, my goodness. I did so enjoy Mr. Gilbert’s performance in The Big Parade. And Miss Adoree’s, too, although I must say I don’t understand that name. It sounds odd to me, and rather vulgar.”
To the astonishment of her two daughters, our mother giggled. She didn’t stick around to confound us further, but left to accept Chloe’s suggestion that she dress for dinner.
Another speaking glance passed between Chloe and me. After peering up the steps to make sure enough distance existed between our mother and us to preclude Mother overhearing, I whispered, “How many times has John Gilbert been divorced?”
“Lord, I can’t even remember. He and Leatrice Joy were divorced last year. I do know that.”
“So how come Mother gets wobbly knees and giggles about a divorced man, and gets mad at me for attending church?”
“Everyone gets wobbly knees about John Gilbert,” Chloe said with some justification—except that we were talking about our mother. Chloe frowned, realizing what a silly thing she’d just said. Then she admitted it aloud. “I don’t know, Mercy. I think she’s mainly upset that you refuse to toe the line and continue to live the way you want to and not the way she wants you to.”
This time I allowed my sigh out into the open, since I knew Chloe didn’t give a hoot if sighs were considered unrefined in Boston. “You’re right, of course.”
Chloe made as if to bustle out of the living room. “I’m going to see if Mrs. Biddle needs any help. I’ve hired a couple of girls to help out with the serving. Lord, I hope Miss Adoree speaks English.”
“Mother will never forgive her if she doesn’t,” I said.
Chloe laughed, but we both knew I was right. Mother didn’t approve of languages other than English.
With another sigh, I said, “Well, I suppose I’d better change for dinner, too. Stupid custom.”
“It is, but with Mother here, we’d best conform.”
“Amen.” I guess my church experience hadn’t entirely left me by that time.
Chloe continued her interrupted bustle, and I climbed the stairs to my own suite of rooms.
Fortunately, I had a perfectly splendid dress to wear for the evening and it was exactly suitable to the occasion, so Mother at least wouldn’t be able to complain about my appearance at table. Unless, of course, she wanted to, and then my suitable appearance wouldn’t deter her.
The dress, a tubular-shaped one (that was the current mode—I couldn’t do much about it), was beaded and had wide shoulder straps, a knee-length skirt with a scalloped hem, and was in the very first stare of fashion. The straps were lined with silk and bound with velvet, so the dress was amazingly comfortable, except that I had to wear an elastic, waist-length bust-flattener. If I didn’t have any of the lumps and bumps considered unseemly at the time, I wouldn’t have had to wear it, but I did. Have lumps and bumps, I mean. Since I enjoyed my meals, I expected to have to continue using the bust-flattener until the fashions changed. Anyhow, the beading on the dress was green and gold, so I wore my gold, pointy-toed shoes and gold hoop earrings. I even had a gold evening bag to go with everything, but since I was at home, I didn’t bother with that particular accoutrement. After I’d donned my evening clothes and checked myself in the mirror, I decided the ensemble was charming, and Mother couldn’t complain about it unless she cared to stretch the point a good deal.
She didn’t, thank God. When I entered the room, I saw Mother in the far corner of the room, giving orders to Mrs. Biddle, who didn’t look as if she appreciated them. Then to my great joy, I discerned Chloe, also dressed to the nines, in the living room chatting with one of my favorite people, Mr. Francis Easthope. As far as I was concerned, Mr. Easthope was even more handsome than John Gilbert, but he had none of Mr. Gilbert’s buccaneering ways with women, being a polite and courteous bachelor who paid no undue attention to either Chloe or me. I tried not to take his disinterest personally. Ernie didn’t like him for some reason I didn’t understand, but Ernie wasn’t there that evening, so it didn’t matter what he thought.
“Mr. Easthope,” I cried enthusiastically, thinking at least I had one friend on my side. Chloe was on my side, too, as was Harvey, but they were hostess and host, so they’d be too busy contending with their guests to deflect Mother’s attentions from landing on me.
Mr. Easthope smiled attractively and held out his hand. “How lovely to see you this evening, Miss Allcutt. You look perfectly charming, too.”
He ought to know, since he was the chief costumier at Harvey’s studio. So there, Mother.
Speaking of whom, she suddenly loomed behind me. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there because . . . well, just because I was used to her looming over me, I suppose.
I gave Mr. Easthope a hasty, “Thank you,” and turned to face Mother. I even forced a smile. “Good evening, Mother.”
“Good evening, Mercedes Loui
se.” She looked me up and down, searching for imperfections, I have no doubt. “You do appear quite presentable this evening.”
Boy, I bet it hurt her to say that. I only smiled sweetly and said, “Thank you. You look grand yourself.”
And she did. For Boston. For a hot Los Angeles summer evening, she was overdressed. But it was Mother who would suffer for her refusal to adapt to change and not I, so what did I care?
“I do love your dress, Miss Allcutt,” said Mr. Easthope. I presume he and Mother had greeted each other earlier, because otherwise he’d never have intruded into our conversation—not that we were having one. “Who designed it, do you know?”
“I’m not sure. Chloe’s seamstress, Mrs. Martinez, made it. I like it, too. It’s awfully comfortable.” I left out the part about the waist-length breast-flattener. “And the colors are my favorites. I love green.”
“As do I,” said Mr. Easthope. “Green is a marvelous color for you.”
“Thank you.” I think I blushed, which was stupid of me.
Very well, so it wasn’t exactly an inspired conversation; at least Mr. Easthope had diverted my mother’s attention from her survey of my person, and for that I appreciated him. I believe I’ve already mentioned that he was a swell person. He also had mother problems of his own, so he understood Chloe’s and my problems with our own mother.
At that moment, a woman squealed. I can’t imagine who it was, since most of Chloe’s guests were inured to the presence of moving-picture stars, or pretended to be. Maybe it was one of the maids Chloe had hired for the evening. Anyhow, that little screech announced the entry of Mr. John Gilbert into our midst.
Oh, my goodness. Even my heart fluttered a bit when I beheld him, and I’d seen actors and actresses aplenty since I’d moved to Los Angeles.
But Mr. Gilbert was what one would call a major star in Hollywood’s firmament, and he was absolutely gorgeous. In actual fact, I believe Mr. Easthope outshone him in the looks department, but Mr. Easthope was a costumier. Mr. Gilbert was a star. He also has a certain sparkle about him that one just doesn’t see on the rest of us merely normal mortal souls. I’d noticed this phenomenon before. There are lots of good-looking people in the world, but people like Mr. Gilbert were folks other people noticed.
The perfect hostess, Chloe hurried over to him, bade the maid—she was probably the squealer—to take his hat, coat, and stick, and led him into the fray. I mean the living room.
Clutching his arm—they knew each other from before—Chloe guided him in the direction of our mother, which meant that she led him in my direction, too. My thumping heart sped up a good deal.
“Mother, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. John Gilbert. John, this is my mother, Mrs. Allcutt.”
Executing an absolutely stunning bow, John Gilbert took our mother’s hand and almost kissed it. It was the “almost” part that won our mother over to his side, I think. Hand-kissing is all well and good for European nobility, but it was gauche for Americans. That’s according to our mother. At that moment, it occurred to me that Chloe might well have warned Mr. Gilbert whom he’d be up against that evening. His twinkling eyes hinted that he knew all about our mother and was planning on charming her anyway. I liked him instantly.
Then Chloe said, “John, you simply must meet my sister, Mercedes Allcutt. We call her Mercy, she’s recently moved to Los Angeles to live with us, and she loves it here.”
Oh, my. To have such a fellow as John Gilbert bestow his entire attention upon one is . . . well, the sensation was almost overpowering. I nearly screeched myself.
He gave me one of his perfect bows, did the almost-hand-kissing thing again, and then gave me a wink for good measure, as if he and I were in some conspiracy together. I couldn’t restrain my smile. Here was a nice man, I told myself. And he was.
I have to admit that his speaking voice wasn’t altogether what one might want the hero of one’s dreams to possess. It was more of a tenor than a bass or a baritone, but it was nowhere near as high and squeaky as people would claim a few years later when he attempted to move from the silents to the talkies. I think someone deliberately undermined his career at that point, and I think whoever did it was mean and hateful and a real stinker.
Then Renee Adoree appeared upon the scene. This time the maid didn’t scream or faint, but she did catch Chloe’s eye, so Chloe hurried away, leaving John Gilbert with Mother, Mr. Easthope, and me. I tried not to flutter or stutter.
“Mother and I both enjoyed The Big Parade, Mr. Gilbert. You played your part wonderfully,” I ventured.
“Thank you, Miss Allcutt and Mrs. Allcutt.” He turned to Mr. Easthope. “You created the costumes for The Big Parade, didn’t you, Mr. Easthope?”
I could tell Mr. Easthope was pleased to have been praised. “Indeed I did. It was a pleasure to work with such charming people.”
One of Mr. Gilbert’s eyebrows lifted. “Was Miss Adoree charming to you? She was rather a cat once or twice on the set.”
Chuckling softly, Mr. Easthope said, “She was charm itself at fittings. I guess I was lucky.”
“I guess so.” Mr. Gilbert turned to me. There went my heart again, battering away at my bound bosoms like crazy. Stupid heart. I didn’t even know this man, for Pete’s sake. “Say, Miss Allcutt, your sister has told me all about your little poodle. I was thinking of getting a dog for myself, and would enjoy meeting your little Buttercup, if you don’t mind.”
Would I mind? Is my mother an overbearing Bostonian? The answers to those questions, in order, are no and yes. Trying not to gush, I said, “I’d love to introduce you to Buttercup.”
So, arm in arm, Mr. John Gilbert, one of the most famous men in the world (after bowing politely to my mother and Mr. Easthope again), and I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, an absolute nobody from Boston, walked out of the living room and down the hallway toward the sun room, where poor Buttercup had been confined for the evening.
“I’m planning to get Chloe and Harvey a poodle for Christmas,” I told him, in order not to appear tongue-tied. “They want a black one.”
“Chloe told me about the Christmas present. She also told me about your mother.”
I couldn’t help myself; I laughed. “I wondered if she’d done that!”
“I figured I’d do my best to rescue you,” he said, thus proving himself to be a hero off the screen as well as on it.
“Thank you very much. You can’t imagine how much I appreciate being rescued.”
“Still, I really would like to meet this Buttercup of yours. I like dogs. Truth to tell, I have a dog already. An English setter. I like to do the occasional bit of hunting, and she’s a great bird dog.”
“I believe poodles were originally bred to do that sort of thing. Retrieve birds and so forth.” That the notion of my precious Buttercup carrying a mangled bird corpse in her mouth made me shudder, I didn’t let on.
“I believe you’re right. I also think Germany claims them as their country of origin as does France.”
“We’d probably better not tell Miss Adoree that,” I said.
He chuckled, and I went all giddy for a moment. Good heavens, how silly can one girl get? Then again, if the notion of John Gilbert could make my mother giggle, I suppose I could be forgiven a certain giddiness in his company.
At that moment, I opened the door to the sun porch, and an overjoyed Buttercup leapt out of the bed in which she’d been moping and dashed over to me. Before she could jump up and rip any of the pretty beads from my gown, I bent and picked her up. “Buttercup, I would like you to meet one of the most celebrated men of our time, Mr. John Gilbert.”
Then Buttercup did a trick I’d taught her, as if on cue, and held out a paw to Mr. Gilbert. If she wasn’t the sweetest thing on the face of the earth, I didn’t know what was.
Darned if the man didn’t bow and take my dog’s paw and shake it as if she were a human being instead of a canine!
“It’s as great a pleasure to meet you, Miss Buttercup, as it was
to meet your mistress, Miss Allcutt. I must say you’re both delightful ladies.”
Buttercup returned the compliment by licking him on the chin. Fortunately, Mr. Gilbert had a sense of humor and only laughed.
After petting Buttercup and reassuring her that I’d rescue her eventually, I put her back into her little bed. She whined once, then gave it up. She knew who was boss. Poodles are smart that way.
“An admirable pooch, Miss Allcutt,” said Mr. Gilbert as we walked back to the crowded living room.
“Thank you. I’m ever so glad I got her.” It occurred to me that Mr. Gilbert might know if any of his fellow actors had been moved to join Adelaide Burkhard Emanuel’s cause, so I asked him.
He blinked once or twice, letting me know that I hadn’t exactly warmed up to the subject but had rather dumped it on him out of the blue, so I hurried to explain. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt. But that church or some of its members might have a bearing on the case my employer and I are working on.” I suppose I should cringe at admitting it, but I was becoming more adept at lying every day. I know that’s a bad thing, but it didn’t seem like one at the time.
“Ah, yes. Chloe told me you’d chosen to retreat from your ivory tower and pursue honest employment.”
The way he said it made me understand he wasn’t teasing, but understood that a person might get bored and crave new adventures. I appreciated him for it. “Indeed. And working for a private investigator is most interesting.”
His eyes thinned and his brow crinkled. “Say, you’re not talking about this Chalmers thing, are you? I heard that Persephone had passed away suddenly, but I didn’t realize it was a case. In that sense of the word, I mean.”
“You knew her?” I was surprised.
“Not well, but we’d met at a couple of parties. Her husband is a bigwig in some business or other, and his money has helped finance some pictures.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Well, as I said, I didn’t know her well, but I was sorry to hear of her death.”
