Fallen Angels

by Alice Duncan

  “You probably would.” Ernie’s voice was snide.

  Again, I felt no desire to pursue his attitude, so I just sighed and remained silent.

  “I suppose your mother would die of some kind of attack if you came to my place,” Ernie said, sounding ruminative, as if he were thinking hard about alternatives to my going to Chloe’s.

  My head swiveled, and I squinted at him. Squinting was easier than staring, but still no fun. “I couldn’t stay at your place,” I said. “You know as well as I do that it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Proper. Huh.” I could tell he was rolling his eyes, even though it was too dark by then for me to see his face clearly. “Yeah, I know. It would be terribly improper.”

  I only sighed once more.

  “But I hate the thought of you walking into that lion’s den. It would be all right if it were just your sister and brother-in-law. They’re swell folks. But that mother of yours . . .”

  I tried to grin at the realization that Ernie and I were thinking of my mother in the same terms. It was then I remembered that I had a split lip, so I stopped grinning. “She’s a dragon,” I said, mixing my metaphors, although Ernie couldn’t know that.

  “How about a hotel? You’ve got money. You could stay at the Ambassador, where they’d pamper you until you healed up, and then you’d be okay.”

  “It’s kind of you to be concerned, Ernie, but I’ve braved my mother before now. I can do it again.”

  “I guess. I just hate to think of her beating up on you. You’re already beat up.”

  “Too true. I never would have believed Sister Everett could be so strong.”

  “She was nuts. I think when people go crazy, it gives them strength.”

  “I’ve heard that theory, too. Maybe it’s true. She darned near threw me over that railing. I know she wanted to.”

  I shuddered, and was surprised when Ernie laid a hand on my arm. “You’ll be all right, kiddo. It’ll take a few days, but you’ll heal up and be right as rain. And eventually the memories of that final fatal push will fade, too. Remember that it was her or you. I’m glad you chose yourself. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

  How very kind of him. Before I could succumb to emotion, I sucked in a deep breath and said, “Thank you, Ernie. I wish I didn’t have to, too.”

  “Well, I’ll stick with you through the worst of it, kiddo.”

  “Thanks, Ernie.” I meant it sincerely. Somehow, the thought of facing my mother with Ernie and Chloe at my side didn’t sound half as difficult as the notion of dealing with her all by my battered self.

  We got to Bunker Hill at last which, unfortunately, wasn’t very far away from the police station, and Ernie pulled his disreputable-looking Studebaker to a stop in front of the iron gates of the Nash residence. I gazed out my side of the machine at the house, my heart residing somewhere around my kneecaps, knowing the peril awaiting me within those elaborately decorated walls.

  But Ernie played the gentleman that night. He got out of the automobile on his side and came around to open the door for me. It was a good thing he did so, because I wasn’t sure I had strength enough to shove the door open on my own.

  “Chin up, kid. I mean Mercy.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ernie.” I was too dispirited to fuss with him about calling me kid. In truth, the notion of being this man’s kid sister didn’t seem at all distasteful to me at the moment. I’d rather have a big brother like Ernie than the one I had, who was a big poop.

  He helped me out of the car and up the walkway to the big front door of the Nash home. I was so tired, I didn’t even look around to see how nice it would be to own the place myself.

  “You have a key?”

  “Yes, but please ring the bell. I don’t feel like getting the key out of my bag.”

  “Sure.”

  So Ernie rang the doorbell, and Mrs. Biddle opened the door after a very few minutes. She gasped when she saw me.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I assured her, although I was lying. I’d been lying a whole lot lately.

  “I certainly hope not,” said Mrs. Biddle, staggering back slightly. She hadn’t known what to make of me ever since I invaded her territory—the kitchen, I mean—seeking cleaning stuffs in order to spiff up my office when Ernie first hired me. She stepped aside, and Ernie tenderly guided me into the foyer.

  Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Where to? Want to go to your room before you face the monster, or would you rather get it over with?”

  I considered for only a couple of seconds. The notion of hiding away in my room and locking my mother out held a certain charm, but it would have been cowardly. “Let’s get it over with,” I muttered. Besides, I wanted to see Buttercup, and I was pretty sure she was in the living room with Chloe.

  So, holding my arm in a way that didn’t touch any of the bruises, Ernie led me through the archway and to the living room, where we both stopped to look around.

  They were all there: my mother, Chloe, Harvey, Buttercup, Francis Easthope, and—oh, my God—John Gilbert. Of all the nights in the world for Chloe to be holding a casual get-together at her house . . .

  Buttercup scampered over to me, and Ernie, bless his heart, bent and picked her up so she could lick my wounds without my having to bend my battered body.

  “Mercedes Louise Allcutt, what have you been doing this time?”

  My mother’s autocratic tones cut through the air like a sword through a churl’s throat.

  Chloe leapt to her feet. “Mother, poor Mercy has been through—”

  Mother turned on Chloe. “Don’t you ‘poor Mercy’ me!”

  Chloe swallowed and subsided.

  “Your daughter performed an heroic feat today, Mrs. Allcutt. You should be proud of her.”

  I’d have blinked if my eyelids were capable of it. But I did turn to gape at Ernie.

  “And you—” Mother began.

  But Ernie cut her off.

  “Yes, sirree, she foiled a crook in her lair. Almost got herself done in for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the police don’t pin a medal on her for this day’s work.”

  Oh, dear. He was laying it on really thickly.

  “My dear Miss Allcutt!” Francis Easthope, who had been appalled by my appearance—I could tell by the look of horror and distaste on his face—rushed over to me. “Whatever in the world happened to you?”

  “It’s that so-called job of hers,” my mother said. “If she—”

  But again she was interrupted, this time by none other than John Gilbert himself. He hurried up to me, too. “Good God, Miss Allcutt, whatever in the world has happened to you?”

  “Mercy took on the crooks and won,” said Ernie, who didn’t seem at all awed to be in the presence of one of Hollywood’s most celebrated stars.

  “How . . . how intrepid of you, Miss Allcutt,” Mr. Gilbert said. He held out a hand, as if he wanted to help me but didn’t quite know how.

  I didn’t know how he could help, either, but I appreciated the gesture. “Thanks,” I said.

  But Mother didn’t like it that the conversation had got away from her.

  “Stuff and nonsense! If you were at home with your mother and father, where you belong, and not pretending to be some kind of working-class—”

  It was Ernie who cut her off this time. “Hey, that’s my secretary you’re talking about. Best secretary I’ve ever had, and I’ll thank you not to speak unkindly to her.”

  God bless Ernie Templeton.

  “And you,” Mother went on. “How dare you speak to me—”

  “Hey, Mercy,” said Ernie, running roughshod over my mother’s words once more. “Are you really up to this nonsense? How’s about we take a powder to Chinatown and have a little grub there?”

  “I will not—”

  “Thanks, Ernie. Help me upstairs, so I can put some ointment on the worst of my scratches, and I’ll be happy to go to Chinatown with you. Carry Buttercup up, won’t you?”

  “M
ind if I go along?” asked John Gilbert.

  “Not at all,” said Ernie.

  The two men smiled companionably at each other. Mr. Gilbert turned to Chloe. “Do you mind, Chloe? I’ve just got to hear what happened.”

  “I will not—” Mother tried again.

  “Please,” said Chloe. “Be my guest. Poor Mercy needs some tender, loving care.”

  Our mother turned upon her elder daughter. “I will not—”

  “And,” continued Chloe, anger swelling her voice for one of the first times I could remember, “she sure won’t get it from her mother.”

  “Why, I never!”

  * * * * *

  Both Ernie and John Gilbert lolled on the sofa in my sitting room, playing with Buttercup, while I took a change of clothes and retired to my bathroom. I’m sure my mother thought such behavior on all our parts shocking, but by that time I didn’t give a care. The two men and the dog on my sofa were kind to me. My mother wasn’t.

  My hair was more easily tamed than the rest of me, but I managed to daub some pancake makeup on the worst of my bruises, smear ointment on my cuts and bandage them, and lay a cold washcloth across my eyes for several minutes.

  “Need any help?” Ernie hollered at one point.

  “No, thanks,” I hollered back. For some reason, I was feeling much more chipper now that I knew I’d be able to escape from Mother’s clutches, at least for the evening. God alone knew what she’d do to me when she got me alone again, but tonight I would be free of her.

  “Hope I didn’t keep you too long,” I said as I hobbled back into the sitting room where Ernie and Mr. Gilbert seemed to be getting along like a house on fire. Both men jumped to their feet when I entered. Poor Buttercup tumbled to the floor, but she didn’t seem to mind. Dogs are so forgiving.

  “You look much, much better, Miss Allcutt,” said Mr. Gilbert approvingly.

  “Thank you.” I looked at Ernie, whose opinion I valued more than Mr. Gilbert’s. Not that I didn’t care what Mr. Gilbert thought of me, but I trusted Ernie to be honest.

  He tilted his head and stared at me for a few seconds. Then he said, “You still look as if you’ve been in a barroom brawl, but you’ll do okay in Chinatown.”

  “Thank you ever so much,” I said dryly.

  “Any time.” He grinned broadly at me.

  Then, flanked by two handsome men and leaving poor Buttercup in the sitting room, I tottered down the staircase and out into the night. When we reached the curb, we got into Mr. Gilbert’s Stutz Bearcat, which was a most remarkable automobile, and tootled on down the hill to Chinatown. All things considered, the evening was quite enjoyable. What was even better was that, by the time Mr. Gilbert drove us back to Chloe’s house, Mother had gone to bed with a sick headache.

  * * * * *

  “Golly, Mercy, Ernie told me what happened.”

  As soon as Lulu saw me limp into the lobby of the Figueroa Building the day after my adventures at the Angelica Gospel Hall, she jumped up from her chair, darted around her desk—leaving an open bottle of nail varnish sitting there, drying out—and hurried to me. I guess she aimed to help me if I needed help.

  She went on, “But he said he told you to take a few days off. Said you were pretty beat up. I can see he was right. What are you doing here? You ought to be home resting!”

  “My mother’s at Chloe’s house,” I said.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Nothing else needed to be said. Lulu understood completely.

  “But I’ve got some exciting news for you, Lulu.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “You know the luncheon we were going to have at the Ambassador tomorrow?”

  We’d been slowly making our way to Lulu’s desk. When I got to the “we were going to have” part of my speech, Lulu stopped dead. “You mean we’re not going?”

  I thought for a minute she was going to cry.

  “Not tomorrow, because I’m too battered, but there’s good news,” I hurried to assure her.

  “Oh?” She walked around her desk and resumed her chair, looking up at me dubiously.

  “We’re all going to dine at the Ambassador. On the Tuesday after next.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “And it’s not just you and me, either, Lulu. Ernie’s invited, and Chloe and Harvey will be there, and you’ll never guess who else will be joining us.”

  “That handsome Easthope fellow?” she asked hopefully.

  “Him, too, but you’ll never guess who else.”

  She thought for a minute, but I was pretty sure she’d never come up with the right name. Eventually, she shook her head and said, “Who?”

  “John Gilbert.”

  Shoot. I’d expected my news would shock her, but darned if Lulu didn’t join in with the rest of the women I’d met recently and faint dead away.

  The worst part of this whole story, however, was that I never did learn why Mrs. Chalmers persisted in calling herself Mrs. Persephone Chalmers. I suppose some mysteries are too deep for even the best detectives, darn it.

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico. She’s not a UFO enthusiast; she’s in Roswell because her mother's family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Since her two daughters live in California, where Alice was born, she’d like to return there but can’t afford it. Alice would love to hear from you at alice@aliceduncan.net. And be sure to visit her website at http//www.aliceduncan.net and her Facebook pages: https://www.facebook.com/alice.duncan.925?ref=sgm and https://www.facebook.com/AliceDuncansBooks