by Alice Duncan
* * * * *
“It’s okay, kiddo. We heard everything. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I was still shaking like a leaf in a high wind, although somehow or other Ernie had managed to get me to the refuge of Sister Emmanuel’s office. I sat huddled in a chair. Ernie had pulled up another chair and sat facing me, holding my hands in both of his. Someone had thrown an afghan over my shoulders, but I still shook from head to toe like the proverbial aspen in autumn. Sister Emmanuel herself, Phil Bigelow, Detective O’Reilly, and Brother Everett were in the sanctuary, presumably investigating and/or cleaning up the damage I’d wrought.
“I-I-I d-d-didn’t mean to k-k-kill her,” I stuttered, sounding pathetic to my own ears.
“I know that. We all know it. You only did what you had to do in your own defense. Self-defense is not a crime. It’s a sensible act. She’s the one who was in the wrong. You were right about that, too. The murder did involve the church.”
“Not the church. Just a crazy member of it. You can’t blame any of this on Sister Emmanuel or the Angelica Gospel Hall.”
“Hey, you’re not becoming a convert, are you?”
I heard the grin in his voice, and it irritated me. Lifting my head and regaining perhaps a half-ounce of my former vigor, I frowned at him. “No, I am not. But you can’t blame that insane woman’s deeds on Sister Emmanuel, Ernest Templeton.”
He squeezed my hands. “Just funnin’ you, kiddo. I know you’re right. Sister Emmanuel didn’t have anything to do with the murder. I know. So do Phil and that rat O’Reilly now.”
I forgave him, although I didn’t tell him that. However, sparring with him, even gently, was reviving me a trifle. “I wonder, though, if religious zealotry isn’t perhaps a sign of an unstable personality. I guess Sister Everett was here virtually night and day. She was terribly jealous of Mrs. Chalmers. I think she thought Mrs. Chalmers was taking Sister Emmanuel’s attention away from her or something.” I stopped talking and gazed earnestly at Ernie. “Does that make any sense?”
“Well . . . no, but I understand what you mean. If it made sense, none of this would have happened.”
“How come you and Phil and that horrid O’Reilly person happened to be here when . . . you know.” I shivered again, and again Ernie squeezed my hands.
“After you stormed out of the office, we started talking about the possibility that somebody from the church might be involved in the crime. Hell, we’d eliminated everyone else. We tossed around all sorts of scenarios and didn’t come up with anything, but I was getting a nervous feeling about you coming out here alone. Then O’Reilly showed up and started throwing his weight around. Phil told him to shut up and sit down, and I told them I aimed to go after you, and they came with me.”
“Why didn’t somebody try to rescue me?” I thought it a reasonable question. I also really wanted to know. Why had they all just been standing there? Why hadn’t one of them raced to the stairs to help me out? Yet when I’d taken that one tentative look over the balcony railing—before ignominiously falling senselessly to the floor, something of which I’d never have believed myself capable—they’d just been standing there in the sanctuary, frozen, like a bunch of statues, staring up at me.
“We would have, but there wasn’t time.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. We heard hollering when we arrived at the church, and we all ran to get in. First there was a logjam at the door. The Emmanuel woman and that other guy arrived just when Phil, O’Reilly, and I did. When we got inside, we heard a lot more yelling and screaming, but couldn’t hear what it was about. When we began to discern words in all the hollering, we all started to run toward the stairs to the gallery. We heard the lunatic say she’d killed Mrs. Chalmers and that she was going to kill you, and then . . . well, you know what happened next.”
Pulling my hands free from Ernie’s, I buried my face in them. “Oh, Lord, Ernie. It was so awful. She was . . . crazy.”
“I know. We heard.”
Spreading my fingers, I peered at him through them. “What . . . what did she look like? After she hit the pews, I mean.”
His nose wrinkled. “She didn’t look like much of anything. I mean she didn’t look all that bad. Just dead. If you know what I mean. Glassy eyes and all that. She landed on her back, so I guess it’s the back of her head and the rest of her back that took the brunt of the fall. Phil called in the medical examiner and some more of his colleagues, and they’re out there now, questioning the woman’s husband and your Sister Emmanuel.”
“She’s not my Sister Emmanuel, curse you, Ernie Templeton! If anyone had bothered to listen to me, this horrid thing wouldn’t have happened!”
“I know. Sorry, kid.”
“And stop calling me kid!”
Ernie looked surprised and his mouth opened, I imagine so that he could make some sort of a retort, but a soft knock came at the door, and we both looked at it. It slowly opened, and another minion of the church—I could tell, because she was clad in white—one I hadn’t met yet, came in carrying a tray laden with tea things.
Before I could help myself, the words slipped out. “God bless you, sister.” But, darn it, I really wanted some of that tea. With lots of sugar and milk.
“Of course, sister,” she said.
I cast a quick glance at Ernie but, although his lips twitched, he didn’t say anything. He’d better not, what with a pot of boiling hot water to hand.
How long we remained in Sister Emmanuel’s office, I don’t know. It seemed like hours. Phil sent in a doctor to check me over, and he said I’d be all right barring some bangs, bruises, and bumps.
“Looks like you’ll have one hell of a shiner for a while,” said Ernie, looking on impassively as the doctor palpated my head and face in several areas. I tried not to cry out in pain, but I’m sure both men noticed my winces.
I didn’t move when I asked, “What’s a shiner?”
“A mouse. A black eye.”
“A black eye?” I must have said the words rather loudly, because the doctor sat back abruptly. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand why a young lady might not want to walk around with a black eye.” He smiled at me, and I decided I liked him. “But I suspect you will have one for several days. Your left eye will probably be swollen and black and blue by this time tomorrow. You might not be able to see out of it until the swelling subsides.”
“Oh, great,” I said.
“You can probably hide the bruising with powder,” Ernie said, sounding doubtful.
“Right,” I said, beginning to feel depressed as well as sore and tired. I could have a powdered, swollen-shut eye. That would look lovely, wouldn’t it?
“When they release us to go, I’ll drive you home, kiddo. I mean Mercy.”
I lifted an arm, intending to give him an insouciant wave, but my muscles were starting to hurt, and all I managed was to say, “Mph.” Oh, boy, the next few days were going to be rough. And . . .
“Oh, no!”
“What’s the matter?” Ernie and the doctor sang the words in a duet.
“I promised to take Lulu to lunch at the Ambassador on Wednesday! How can I go to the Ambassador looking like this?”
Tilting his head, Ernie, said, “You don’t look so bad.”
I didn’t believe him. Talk about a tone lacking conviction.
With a judicious frown, the doctor said, “I don’t think you ought to be going out and about for a few days yet. You need to rest and heal first.”
Once again, I buried my head in my hands. I groaned.
The door opened once more, and I decided I might as well face the music. So I lifted my head, dropped my hands, and turned to see Phil and Sister Emmanuel enter the office. The office was large for an office, but it wasn’t all that big, and it was getting mighty crowded. Sister Emmanuel appeared pale and distressed, which made perfect sense to me.
“I hate to ask this, Mercy, but would you mind coming to
the station? We can have a steno take your report and Ernie’s and mine and Sister Emmanuel’s. I’m afraid Mr. Everett’s will have to wait. He collapsed when he realized that it was his wife squashed on the pews, and—”
“Phil!” I said, scandalized.
“Well, you know what I mean.” He had the grace to look abashed.
I looked from him to Ernie, and noticed they both appeared as tired and drawn as I felt—although probably not as sore and definitely not as bruised. I resented them in that moment. If they’d only listened to me, none of these past horrible hours would have been necessary.
“Yes,” I said. “I know what you mean. And yes. Let’s go to the police station and get this over with. You may be certain I won’t gloss over your neglect of my suggestions in the matter, too.”
Phil heaved a gigantic sigh. “I’m sure you won’t.”
Sister Emmanuel still stood in the open doorway. When I glanced at her again, she looked awfully pale and . . . I don’t know. Diminished, somehow, if you know what I mean.
“I’m so terribly sorry about all this, Sister Allcutt. If I’d had any indication . . .”
“It’s all right,” I said wearily. “Nobody had any indication.” Except me. Curse them all.
Chapter Seventeen
I called Chloe from the police station to give her a brief run-down on what had happened. “I’ll probably be late getting home, but don’t worry. Everything’s all right, and Ernie’s going to drive me.”
“Oh, Lord, Mercy.” Chloe sounded upset.
“Really, Chloe, everything’s all right now.” Very well, so I’d just lied again.
“You only wish it were.”
“What do you mean?” Terrible things rushed through my mind. In a panic, I said, “Oh, Chloe, it’s not the baby, is it? Or Harvey? Or—”
“No, no. It’s nothing bad. Well, not that bad. It’s only . . .” Chloe hesitated for a moment and then whispered, “Mother’s coming to dinner.”
It needed only this. I hung up, wishing I lived in Wisconsin or somewhere else far, far away from Los Angeles. Or at least from my mother.
I don’t know how long we spent at the police station, but it wasn’t long enough. By the time Ernie, Sister Emmanuel, and I were allowed to go, we’d all given statements, read them, and signed them. Even Phil had testified to his shorthand-taking cohort—not Officer Bloom this time—that he’d heard Sister Everett, whose first name, I learned, had been Gwendolyn, confess to murder. He also said that he’d seen her trying to murder me, what’s more. That pretty much cleared Ernie of any lingering suspicion of having done Mrs. Chalmers to death. I don’t know where Detective O’Reilly was, but I suspected he was so disgusted that Ernie wasn’t guilty that he’d taken himself off somewhere.
Brother Everett, whose given name turned out to be Richard, was led into the station some time after we arrived there, looking haggard, miserable, and embarrassed. Poor fellow. I knew in my heart that he’d had nothing to do with his demented wife’s ugly deeds.
When a policeman escorted him to Phil’s desk in the crowded room, he looked pleadingly at me. “I’m so very sorry, Sister Allcutt. These fellows tell me my wife confessed to murdering Sister Chalmers. I . . . I can’t quite take it all in.”
I nodded, feeling sorry for him.
“I knew she wasn’t happy,” continued Brother Everett. “But she was never happy.” He shook his head sadly, as if he blamed himself for his wife’s unhappiness.
“I understand,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”
“She tried to kill Miss Allcutt, too,” said Ernie, who evidently didn’t share my forgiving nature. His voice was hard as granite. “Didn’t you know your wife was a lunatic, man?”
“Ernie,” I mumbled, too tired to take him to task.
Richard Everett hung his head. “No,” he said simply. “I knew she was unhappy, but I had no idea . . .” His words trailed off, and tears filled his eyes.
Ignoring the policemen all around us, Sister Emmanuel rose from her metal folding chair and went to her minion. “Brother Everett, take heart. The Lord is still with us, and He is still good. He and I will help you through this terrible time. No one could have known that Sister Everett had let Satan into her heart. The poor woman must have gone mad.”
“Christ,” muttered Ernie. I kicked him, but not awfully hard, my limbs being miserably stiff by that time.
I don’t think Ernie’s blasphemy mattered, since neither Sister Emmanuel nor Brother Everett seemed to hear him. The gaze Richard Everett cast upon Sister Emmanuel was all but worshipful. “God bless you, sister,” he said, hiccupping slightly, but I think that was from his tearful state.
“With God’s help, the terrible burden on your soul will be lifted, brother,” Sister Emmanuel promised.
“God bless you. God bless you. I thank God for you every day, sister.”
Ernie said, “Huh.”
I didn’t bother to kick him again. I was getting a little tired of the maudlin sentimentality flowing between the church folk myself by that time.
Phil, looking tired and distracted, said, “Please, everyone, take a seat. Mr. Everett, I know this is difficult for you, but you’ll have to save the prayers until later. We need to get this police business finished first.”
“Of course, Detective. Matters of this world need to be accomplished. Then we can remove ourselves to a higher plane.” Sister Emmanuel answered for the poor, beleaguered Brother Everett. I guess she sensed he didn’t possess her strength of character, at least not at that moment in time.
And she was right. Brother Everett pretty much collapsed into another uncomfortable chair, crying quietly, while she, looking out of place but regal in her white robe, reclaimed her own seat. I was impressed yet again by the way she’d totally given herself to her role. Or to God. At that point, I neither knew nor cared if she was a fraud or a genuine minister of the Gospel who believed the message she spouted.
And so the questioning recommenced, only this time to the accompaniment of little gasps and moans from Brother Everett, who’d been completely oblivious to his wife’s nuttiness. And that shocked me. I mean, it became apparent that the couple had been married for more than thirty years. He’d noticed nothing odd about her in all that time? But as often as Phil asked the question, and in as many varied ways, Brother Everett’s answer was always the same: he hadn’t noticed a single, solitary odd thing about his wife except that she was unhappy, but she’d always been unhappy so he hadn’t thought much about it.
Good Lord, was this what marriage was? Completely losing track of one’s spouse’s behavior? I wondered if the Everetts had ceased all forms of communication with each other, or if they’d just stopped listening to each other. Chloe and Harvey didn’t ignore each other’s changes of mood or behavior. In fact, Harvey was very solicitous of every nuance of Chloe’s comfort or discomfort. Would they end up like the Everetts in time? What an abysmal thought.
Finally, at long last, Phil said we were free to leave. Although I didn’t much want to, I asked to use the ladies’ facilities at the station to assess the damage to my person before going home. I had some thought that I might somehow cover up most of the worst of it before having to face my mother.
Ernie said, “Um . . . are you sure, Mercy? You don’t look so great.”
I glared at him through eyes that were beginning to swell. Oh, boy. Shiners? Is that what he’d called them? I wanted to see them for myself. “My mother is waiting for me at Chloe’s, Ernie, and I’d better assess how not great I look before I have to enter into her presence.”
“Oh, boy,” said Ernie. “I’m sorry, kid. But you’re probably right. Got any powder in that handbag of yours?”
Rising painfully to my feet, I sighed heavily. “Yes. Whatever good powder will do.”
“You never know.”
I think he was trying to be encouraging.
Unfortunately, once I got to the ladies’ room, the direction of which I knew from a previous visi
t to the police station, I realized that no encouraging words were going to help me. Neither was powder. I was a total mess. Big red spots on my cheeks, chin, forehead, and arms would surely turn black and blue before morning, and my swollen eyelids, which now looked merely red, would be purple in the morning, too.
Mother would have a fit. And she was waiting for me at Chloe’s, like a lioness ready to pounce on her prey. Only lionesses pounced in defense of their children, didn’t they? They didn’t pounce on their children. Did they?
Well, it didn’t matter what lionesses did. I knew very well what my mother would do. I washed my face with soap and water, dried it on the rather unsanitary towel resting on a rack for the purpose, and did my best with my powder puff. My best wasn’t too good.
As I climbed painfully into Ernie’s Studebaker, Ernie asked, “Are you sure you want to go to your sister’s house tonight?”
I turned and stared at him. Staring was gradually becoming more difficult as my eyelids continued to swell. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
“Well, what about Lulu? Can you stay at her place?”
“She doesn’t have room enough for me.” I knew that, because I’d seen her apartment when my cab dropped her there on our way home from lunch after visiting the Angelica Gospel Hall the prior Sunday.
Thinking of Lulu made me think of our promised luncheon at the Ambassador, which was but one day hence. Two, if you counted this one, but you might as well not since it was nearly over. Oh, Lord.
“Too bad,” said Ernie. He sounded genuinely concerned.
“I agree. Too bad I don’t know more people in L.A. I guess maybe Mr. Easthope would take me in, but I hate to ask him out of the blue and all.”
“You’d stay with Easthope?”
As I’ve mentioned before, for some reason Ernie didn’t like Francis Easthope. I still didn’t know why that was, but I sure didn’t want to discuss the matter that evening.
“I would if I’d already made arrangements,” I said mildly. “But I’m not going to pop in on him tonight, looking like this. I’d probably frighten the poor man.”
