by Alice Duncan
“But please, Miss Allcutt, do come into the living room. I’ve tea things all set up for us there. We can have a comfortable coze.”
Whatever that was. I was glad her husband wasn’t home, though, since I considered him a likely murder suspect. “Sounds lovely,” I gushed, and allowed myself to be led to her living room, which was a bit too full of overstuffed furniture with doilies flung everywhere. I sat on a chair facing a sofa. A table in between the chair and sofa had indeed been laid with tea things, along with bread and butter sandwiches and some cookies my grandmother used to call Scotch shortbread. I guess everyone does, although that points out yet one more thing I’d learned since my move to Los Angeles: different ends of the country call things by different names. For example, where I come from, we have ponds. Californians refer to those same-sized bodies of water as lakes. See what I mean?
Tea and food aside, I learned a great deal about Mrs. Chalmers’ association with the Angelica Gospel Hall. Mrs. Pinkney confirmed that Mrs. Chalmers had sold her so-called stolen jewelry and given the money to the church. Truth to tell, that kind of shocked me.
“But didn’t she think it was . . . well, a sin to lie like that? To her husband, I mean.”
A huge sigh preceded Mrs. Pinkney’s next words. “Yes. And she confessed her sin to Sister Emmanuel. Sister Emmanuel told her to confess to her husband, and I think she was going to, although I don’t know if she’d got around to it by the time . . .”
She stared out of her front window—which was clean as a whistle, by gum—for a moment, and I said, “I don’t think she did. He still seemed under the impression that the jewels had been stolen.”
With a melancholy sigh, Mrs. Pinkney said, “Frankly, I don’t know why she didn’t tell Franchot to begin with. He’d probably have donated the money to the church himself, let her keep her jewelry, and been happy to do it. He was ever so fond of her and was forever giving her jewelry and furs and things like that.”
She sounded more than a little bit wistful, and that prompted my next words. “When I spoke to him, I got that impression, too. That he loved her dearly, I mean.”
“Oh, my, yes.”
“It’s too bad we all can’t have marriages like that, isn’t it?”
Mrs. Pinkney’s eyes, which were small and blue, snapped to mine. “Oh, my dear, you have no idea. I love my Gaylord, but he can be such a . . .”
I guess she couldn’t think of a polite word for what her Gaylord could be. “He dislikes your association with Sister Emmanuel’s church, I remember you telling me.”
“Yes. He certainly does. He’s violently opposed to my going there.”
Aha! That word struck me hard. I tried not to sound like it when I said, “Violently?”
She nodded sadly. “Yes. He’s even thrown things and told me he’d forbid me going, but I told him you can’t stop a person from worshiping God in his or her own fashion. That’s the law of this country, after all.”
By golly, I think she was right about that. I hadn’t memorized the Constitution, but it’s what my teachers always said: that our country was founded because people needed freedom to express their religious beliefs.
“Why is he so opposed to your going to the Hall?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. Going to church seemed like such an innocuous activity.
“Gaylord grew up in a Roman Catholic family. I did, too, but I saw the light, thanks to Persephone. Still, I can’t convince Gaylord that Sister Emmanuel’s message is the correct one. He thinks I’m going to hell. Sister Emmanuel is more forgiving than he.”
Because she didn’t consign Gaylord Pinkney to hell? I thought stuff like punishment and forgiveness were God’s jobs, but I didn’t say so. What I said was, “I’m so sorry you have such opposition from such an important person in your life,” I told her, meaning it sincerely. She was an average-sized woman, with mouse-brown hair drawn up into a bun, a slim figure, and a face that held a world of unhappiness. Or perhaps it was disappointment, as if all of her dreams had crashed around her.
“Thank you. You’re very kind. Sister Emmanuel and I pray about Gaylord all the time. So far, he hasn’t softened, but at least he no longer—”
Her teeth snapped together like a metal trap closing. So I said, “He no longer what?”
Another sigh, this one even bigger than her last. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. I told you Persephone had been getting threatening letters, didn’t I? They absolutely terrified her.”
“Yes.” My heart started beating wildly. “You don’t mean to tell me that . . .” I decided I would let her tell me. And she did.
Tears began leaking from her eyes again, and I felt sorry for her. She nodded. “Yes. Gaylord thought it was Persephone who was ‘leading me astray’—that’s what he called it. I believe it was he who sent her those foul letters. I found one in his desk not long after Persephone was killed. Until then, I didn’t know he was the one who was terrifying her so. If I’d known, I’d . . . well, I don’t know what I’d have done. But I found that letter. I guess he didn’t send it because . . . well, he didn’t need to anymore. If you see what I mean.”
“Yes, I understand completely.” Speaking of seeing what she meant . . . “I don’t suppose you could show me that letter, could you? I’m not merely being snoopy, Mrs. Pinkney. Unfortunately, my employer, whom Mrs. Chalmers hired to look into the stolen jewelry situation, is under suspicion of the murder. Now, I don’t believe your husband had anything to do with Mrs. Chalmers’ death, but it might clear up some things if Mr. Templeton, my employer, could see one of those letters.”
If she bought that lousy reasoning, she was a whole lot more stupid than I thought she was. But she surprised me.
With shoulders sagging, she said, “You might as well take it with you. I don’t believe Gaylord had anything to do with Persephone’s death, but if he did . . . Well, if he did, then I hope he hangs for it! By the good Lord’s name, I do! And then I hope he rots in hell!”
Oh, my. I guess that put marriage and friendship where they belonged, at least in Mrs. Pinkney’s estimation. I said humbly, “I’m sure he was only trying to frighten her and hoping that by doing so, he’d influence her to withdraw from the church. He probably figured that if she left, you’d leave, too.” Yet another big, fat lie to add to my growing list of sins. Still, I was going to get that letter, by gum!
“I hope you’re right. But we’d best hurry. Mr. Pinkney will be coming home soon.”
“Thank you.”
She led me to what Mr. Pinkney probably thought of as his sanctuary from the overstuffed life he lived with his wife, a small room sparsely furnished with an easy chair, a floor lamp by which he read to judge from the pile of newspapers and books stacked on a side table, and a desk. She opened the top desk drawer, withdrew a piece of paper, and handed it over. “Here. Please do whatever you think is best with it.”
So I tucked the letter away in my handbag without even reading it first, thanked Mrs. Pinkney heartily for the delicious tea and shortbread, and decided to skedaddle out of there before the possibly murderous Mr. Gaylord Pinkney returned to his home.
“Would you like to call a cab?” Mrs. Pinkney asked. “I’m sure you don’t want to be here when Gaylord returns.” She sounded so sad, I felt bad about leaving her.
On the other hand, I wanted to get out of there. Fast. Therefore, I thanked her politely and declined the use of her telephone. Rather, I walked as fast as I could to Venice Boulevard, where I was lucky enough to hail a cab.
As I sat in the backseat of the cab, I withdrew the letter from my handbag. It was an ugly thing, in regard to its appearance and its words. In big, bold, black letters, Mr. Pinkney had written: STAY AWAY FROM THE ANGELICA GOSPEL HALL, OR YOU’LL DIE A HORRIBLE DEATH. Shuddering, I folded the nasty thing up and shoved it back into my handbag.
By that time it was nearly five o’clock, and I doubted Ernie would have returned to the office, but I had the cabbie take me there anyway.
When I entered the lobby, Lulu had stopped filing her nails for the day and was just picking up her handbag. “Hey, Mercy. Ernie was looking for you.”
“He’s here?” My heart did one of those little dancey things it occasionally did when things went right for me.
“Yeah. Looked real bad, too. I guess they grilled him down at the station. Darned coppers. They’re all on the take, you know. Every last one of them.”
Although Lulu’s opinion of the L.A.P.D. was rather extreme, it was also, unfortunately, pretty accurate. I knew that dismal fact from the things Ernie had told me. “Oh, dear. I hope they didn’t give him too hard a time.” He’d gone with Phil. If Phil had manhandled Ernie, I’d have something to say to him the next time I saw him.
Shrugging, Lulu said, “Dunno. All’s I know is that Ernie looked beat.”
“They beat him?” I cried, shocked.
“No, no, no. I don’t mean that. I mean he looked whipped. Tired. You know. Worn out. Beat.”
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Every now and then the language differences between Lulu and me got in the way of clear communication, although I was learning Los Angeles street cant quite quickly, if I do say so myself.
“Well, I gotta go now. See ya tomorrow.”
“Have a good evening.”
“You, too.”
With our conversation over, I went up the stairs to Ernie’s office, happy that I had something pertinent to tell him but sorry he’d had a bad day.
I opened the outer office door. Every time I saw the office, I felt a sense of accomplishment. When I’d first been hired by Ernie, the office had been dull, dusty, and ugly. Now it was quite perky, and I dusted it every day. It looked ever so much better than it had when I’d first entered it. I’d mentioned to Ernie that I’d like to spiff up his office, too, but he’d adopted a horrified expression and told me to keep my hands off his stuff. Men.
Anyhow, I called, “Ernie? Are you still here?”
“What are you doing here?” came a disgruntled voice from Ernie’s office.
“I found out something!”
He grunted.
I walked to his office and entered, only to find Ernie with his arms folded on his desk and his head resting on his arms. My heart did a flip-flop, and I darted over to him.
“Oh, Ernie! Did they hurt you? They did, didn’t they? I’m going to kill Phil Bigelow!”
Ernie lifted his head and scowled at me. “For God’s sake, Mercy, take it easy, will you? Nobody hurt anybody. I’m just tired. It was a rough day, and I don’t like being a murder suspect.” He hesitated for a moment and added, “And O’Reilly is a real ass. He’s just aching to pin the murder on me.”
“Oh.” I guessed having to endure such a frightful day might exhaust a man.
“Yeah.”
“But I found out who’d been sending Mrs. Chalmers those nasty letters, by gum!”
“You did?” He perked up slightly
“I did.” I was feeling quite proud of myself by that time.
“Well?” he demanded. “Who the hell was it?”
Some of my exultation slipped a bit. “Honestly, Ernie Templeton. You can be the most aggravating—”
“Dammit, Mercy, will you just tell me who sent the damned letters?”
I huffed, but gave in. “Mr. Gaylord Pinkney.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” I said bitterly.
“Huh.”
“Well, you’re going to tell Phil, aren’t you?”
“Of course, I am”
“And then they’ll investigate him?”
“Sure they will.”
We were both silent for a moment. Then Ernie said, “I don’t suppose you managed to get your hands on one of those letters, did you?”
My pride kicked in again. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
Ernie actually smiled at me. “Good work, Mercy. Can I see it?”
Without overtly correcting his grammar, I said, “Yes, you may. Mrs. Pinkney gave me the one she found in his desk drawer. I guess he didn’t send it because he killed her before he got around to it.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve pegged him as the killer, eh?”
“It makes sense.” I fished in my handbag and withdrew the letter. “Here.” I held it out to him.
Ernie read it and wrinkled his nose. “Ugly. He really hated her, didn’t he?”
“Looks like it to me.”
“Yeah, well, you never know. Maybe he was just peeved. Anyhow, I’ll give this to Phil, and the police will check on his location at the time of the murder.”
“You don’t sound very encouraged by this new discovery,” I said, feeling slightly miffed.
With a shrug, Ernie rose from his chair and took his hat from the rack beside his desk. “Come on, kiddo, let’s beat this joint. You gotta get home for dinner or anything?”
“Well, I generally dine with Chloe and Harvey, but I don’t have to. What did you have in mind?”
“Call your sister and tell her you’re dining in Chinatown with me this evening.”
So I did, thrilled with the possibility that Ernie was actually going to discuss the case with me and ask for my input.
Chapter Thirteen
I ought to have known better.
“Mercy, I don’t want to talk about the damned case,” he told me flatly as we drove the few blocks to Chinatown in his battered Studebaker. And all I’d done is ask if he considered Mr. Pinkney a viable suspect. “All I want to do is get some Chinese grub at Hop Luey’s, then go home and go to sleep. I’m bushed.”
Hmph. So much for that. Feeling put out, I said, “Very well.”
After Ernie parked his car on Hill Street, we walked to Hop Luey’s, climbed upstairs to the restaurant, and were seated by a dignified Chinese waiter. Hop Luey’s interior was dim and lovely, with Chinese hangings on the walls and little Chinese candle holders on the tables. Holding candles, I’m sure I need not add. Although I just did. Oh, never mind.
“I’m sure I can help you with this case if you’ll only let me,” I pressed him after we’d been handed menus and the waiter had gone off to get our tea. “In fact, I already have helped you with it. You have to admit that’s so, Ernie.”
“I don’t want to talk about the damned case.” Ernie’s words were measured, as if he were deliberately putting large spaces in between them so I’d get the message.
Irked, I said, “Well, we have to talk about something, don’t we?”
Lowering his menu so he could squint at me from across the table, Ernie said, “Yeah. How’s your mother?”
“Darn you, Ernest Templeton. I don’t want to talk about my overbearing mother! And you certainly don’t need me to eat Chinese food with you if you don’t want to talk about anything pertinent.”
He carefully set his menu on the table, and I took a good look at him. He appeared exhausted and defeated, and I felt a little guilty.
“Can’t we just have a nice little dinner and chat like friends?” he said at last. “I’m sick and tired of the case, crime, the L.A.P.D. and everything else that’s happened lately. Give me a break, can’t you?”
Chastened, I said, “I’m sorry, Ernie. I know you’ve had a hard time these past few days.”
He heaved a big sigh and picked up his menu. “I think I’ll have number two, with the egg-flower soup. What about you?”
“That sounds good to me.” In truth, it was too much food, but I supposed I could always take the leftovers home and bring them with me for luncheon on the morrow. That’s what other working girls did. At least, I think that’s what they did.
I tried to think of something to talk about that wasn’t connected with the case. My mind floundered. Then I thought about Chloe and Harvey selling their house and moving, so I told Ernie about that. “It’s because the studio’s going to move to Culver City,” I said.
He tilted his head to one side. “They’re moving to Beverly Hills? That’s where all the flicker
folks are moving to these days.”
“So I hear. Harvey wants to build a house there. He might get started on the building part, but they aren’t going to move into the new house until after the baby’s born.”
Was it indiscrete for a single lady to discuss people having babies with a single gentleman? There was so much I still didn’t know about real life! It got downright discouraging sometimes.
“Are you going to move with them?” Ernie asked, surprising me out of dismal thoughts about my inadequacies.
Aiming for a lightness I didn’t feel, I said, “No. I want to stay around here and keep my job. You can’t get rid of me that easily, Ernest Templeton.”
He chuckled. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Mercy. Most of the time.”
The waiter returned and took our menus and our orders.
“I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse and follow it up with a moose,” Ernie said.
“Didn’t they feed you at the police station? Gee, they came and took you away right about lunchtime, didn’t they?” I was counting up grudges against the L.A.P.D., and the stack was getting awfully high.
“Phil had them bring me a sandwich and coffee, but they were both so bad, I didn’t eat much. Besides, I didn’t feel like eating at the time. I was too busy being grilled.”
There was that word again. Grilled. The waiter placed soup before the two of us, and I fiddled with my bone spoon. Ernie dipped his spoon into his soup and dug right in. He glanced at me. “What’s the matter? Don’t like your soup?”
I took a sip. “It’s delicious.” Then, because I couldn’t seem to help myself, I said, “Ernie, I know you don’t want to talk about the case, but I really want to know what they did to you at the station. I don’t want you to be hurt.”
Another sigh rippled the soup in Ernie’s bowl. “They didn’t hurt me. They asked me questions for hours and hours. It seemed like the same questions over and over. Phil was there, so nothing got out of hand. I think they’re frustrated because they can’t find any other likely suspects, so they’ve fixed their attention on me.”
