Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  Angels of Mercy

  A Mercy Allcutt Mystery

  Alice Duncan

  FIRST EDITION

  First Printing, 2012

  Copyright  2012 Alice Duncan

  Smashwords Edition 2012 Alice Duncan

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Visit www.aliceduncan.net

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF ALICE DUNCAN

  LOST AMONG THE ANGELS

  “Lost Among the Angels is an absolute delight. The affectionate antagonism between properly-brought-up Mercy and brash ex-cop Ernie reminds one of old Clark Gable comedies such as It Happened One Night. The appealing main characters are backed up by a strong supporting cast from many walks of life—most of whom are either in the movie business or trying to get there. Alice Duncan has written a first-rate book with Lost Among the Angels.” ~ Verna Suit, Mystery Scene Magazine

  ANGELS FLIGHT

  “I enjoyed this tale about Miss Allcutt’s adventures in our neighborhood in 1926. The depiction of her and her upbringing remind me of the era of my mother—born in Los Angeles in 1905.

  ~ John Welborne, President of the Angels Flight Railway Association

  FALLEN ANGELS

  “As far as Mercy Allcutt is concerned, she doesn’t have anything to lose. When her boss PI Ernie Templeton’s latest client, Mrs. Persephone Chalmers, is murdered, Ernie becomes the LAPD’s prime suspect. Since Mercy had already stuck her nose into several of his other cases—and nearly gotten killed as a result—Ernie warns Mercy to steer clear of the Chalmers investigation or he will fire her. Of course, if the police succeed in pinning the crime on Ernie, Mercy will be out of a job anyway. Setting aside her steno pad, Mercy begins asking questions in the hope of finding out who really murdered Persephone Chalmers, but being a private investigator isn’t quite as easy as Ernie makes it seem. Duncan’s latest nicely executed Mercy Allcutt mystery (Angel’s Flight, 2009) delivers plenty of colorful characters (including a plucky protagonist), a cleverly constructed plot, and just the right dash of dry wit.” ~ John Charles, Booklist

  “A young Boston Brahmin finds a fulfilling new life among the private eyes and criminals of Los Angeles. Mercy’s formidable mother is in town to provide some distraction by constantly deploring Mercy’s socialist tendencies, but she soldiers on, oblivious to the real danger she is courting. Mercy’s third appearance combines a nice feeling for life in 1920s Los Angeles with a solid mystery.” ~ Kirkus Reviews

  Chapter One

  My goodness, but things move fast in Los Angeles. I’d barely begun to think about purchasing my sister and brother-in-law’s lovely home on Bunker Hill—the name of which my parents deplored because it had been borrowed from a revered eastern landmark—when the deed was done!

  Oh, very well . . . things didn’t happen quite that quickly, but almost. Chloe, my sister, and Harvey Nash, her husband, had intended to build their own home, probably in Beverly Hills, in anticipation of a family to come, the first infant member of which was already on its way to being born. Then Velma Blackwood and Stanley Hastings, two huge names in the motion-picture business, divorced. Their gigantic home in Beverly Hills, complete with swimming pool, acres of gorgeous gardens and huge iron privacy fences, went on the market. Harvey said the deal was too good to pass up, and Chloe liked anything that didn’t require her to work very hard—Chloe had suffered from morning sickness for a couple of months by that time—and voila! I owned a house.

  I already lived in the house, Chloe having kindly offered me a haven from our parents when I dared leave the nest, which was in Boston, a good two thousand happy miles away. It was thus that I ended up buying the Nash home, only a couple of blocks away from Angels Flight, the almost vertical funicular railroad running the steep block from Olive to Hill that I took to work every day.

  I loved that railroad. I also loved my job. I’d had to endure gobs of pressure from my parents and assorted other relations to get it, what’s more. You see, I was born and bred in the upper echelons of Boston society, and the women in the Allcutt clan did not work for their bread. It was baked for them by cooks and served to them by various maids, butlers and house boys. In leaving home and securing employment clear across the country, I had bucked centuries of proper Allcutt heritage. Phooey on heritage, say I.

  What I wanted was experience of the real world, and there wasn’t much of that to be had in my parents’ Beacon Hill estate in Boston. But I was getting plenty of valuable experience as secretarial assistant to Ernest Templeton, P.I. By the way, P.I stands for Private Investigator. I only mention it because I didn’t know that until Ernie told me.

  I didn’t have to go to an agent or an attorney to purchase the Nash place. Harvey sent his own personal representatives to me at the Bunker Hill house, so I was able to secure the property with ease and in comfort. I’ll admit it here, but I’d never tell Ernie, that having scads of money does make one’s life easier. That didn’t mean I took grievous advantage of the legacy my great-aunt, Agatha, left me; I only used her money for emergencies, and it didn’t look as if it would be running out any time soon, because the principal was invested in secure bonds and so forth. That’s what my odious brother George had told me, his nose wrinkling the while. Both George and my father are bankers. Banking is a fine profession for them, but I had tired of my ivory tower in Boston eons earlier. Therefore, I’d made my way to Los Angeles, where I was jolly well enjoying myself.

  No one in the Allcutt family except Chloe and me approved of people enjoying themselves. The women in my family are supposed to take tea with friends, shop, go to the theater occasionally, do “good works” at their assorted churches and deplore everything else. Our church was Episcopalian. I think being an Episcopalian is de rigueur in Boston for some reason. My mother almost suffered a spasm when she learned I’d gone to services at the Angelica Gospel Hall a month or so ago and enjoyed a rip-roaring sermon delivered by the charismatic female preacher.

  Anyhow, now that I owned the property on Bunker Hill, my next plan was to rent out rooms. The house had suites of rooms, any of which would serve as a wonderful apartment for a working woman like me. My first tenant would be Lulu LaBelle, receptionist at the Figueroa Building, where I worked for Ernie on the third floor. Lulu was also a good friend to me.

  On this, the third Monday in September, I’d come to work in a sunny mood. This, in spite of the shocking news of another celebrity death published in the newspaper just that morning. As I read the paper over breakfast, I shook my head, thinking Los Angeles was quite a violent place. Much more violent than staid old Boston.

  Anyhow, Chloe and Harvey had sent in a swarm of people to pack and move them and their belongings to their newly acquired mansion in Beverly Hills, and I’d spent a good deal of time and a very little bit of Great-Aunt Agatha’s money in furnishing the former Nash residence. Chloe and Harvey left most of their furniture, Harvey claiming that it would be easier to buy new stuff than move the old. See what I mean about money? I only had to make a few purchases to round out my household furnishings.

 
; Because I’d planned the acquisition of my home and what I aimed to do with it carefully, I’d already hired Mr. and Mrs. Emerald Buck to be my housekeeper/cook (Mrs. Buck) and caretaker (Mr. Buck). Mr. Buck was the custodian at the Figueroa Building, but he said he didn’t mind keeping things running in my home as well as doing his regular job. The man was a positive well of energy. I also provided them with their own apartment, which sweetened the deal for them.

  But that’s not the point. The point was that I was in a very good mood when Ernie Templeton strolled into the office about nine-thirty on that hot Monday morning. According to Chloe, September is always hot in Los Angeles, although in Boston it’s generally beginning to cool off a bit by that time. However, for my independence from my overbearing mother, I could endure months of hot weather. Already had, if it came to that.

  “Good morning, Ernie,” said I, beaming at him with genuine pleasure. I liked Ernie. He was a trifle slovenly and definitely not cut of the same upright cloth as my social “equals” in Boston, but that only made him more appealing to me. He was a good, honest man—a shade too honest sometimes—and an overall good egg.

  He frowned at me. This was his habitual greeting, so I didn’t take umbrage. “What the devil are you so happy about?”

  “It’s Monday, I love my job, and I now have a home of my very own.”

  He grunted. “Oh, yeah. You bought Chloe’s house, didn’t you?”

  “Indeed I did. Now I intend to stock it with girls like me who hold jobs in the neighborhood.”

  “Huh. Must be nice to have money.”

  He was always saying things like that. As a matter of fact, he’d pegged me as a rich girl the moment he saw me. I’d chalked up his astute perception to long years in his profession. He was good at this detectival business. Before he became a P.I., he’d belonged to the Los Angeles Police Department, but he couldn’t stand the corruption therein and had quit. I was almost accustomed to his snide references to my upper-crust roots by then.

  Ergo, I only said, “Yes, it is.”

  With a characteristic roll of his deep brown eyes, he moved toward his office door. I, you see, sat in the outer office, where I had my own desk, my own telephone, and a good deal of my own property, which I’d bought here and there to spiff the place up some. The office—nay; the entire building—had been a run-down, dirty mess when I’d first begun working for Ernie in July. Some of the run-downedness had been the result of an inefficient, not to mention mentally disturbed, custodian, but that problem had been fixed by the hiring of Mr. Buck, who kept the place shiny and clean.

  Figuring that was it as far as morning greetings that day would go, I went back to my work. Well . . .

  To tell the truth, there wasn’t much work to do in that office at the time. Ernie and I had solved a terrible murder the preceding month, but business had been rather slow since then. A couple of wives wanting Ernie to spy on their husbands; a couple of husbands wanting Ernie to spy on their wives. That was it. The business side of a private investigator’s life can be, all things considered, a bit on the sordid side in between murder cases. I’d never tell my mother that. Actually, I didn’t have to. She told me how sordid it was every time she wrote me a letter.

  That morning, however, before Ernie shoved his office door open, entered, flung his hat and coat at the rack set there to receive them—he often missed, but that’s neither here nor there—and plunked himself in his swivel chair to read the Los Angeles Times, he hesitated. Then he stopped. Then he turned around and spoke to me again.

  “Who are you going to rent rooms to?”

  “Lulu, of course. But I suppose I’ll have to place an advertisement in the Times in order to find other working girls who need a place of refuge from the rigors of Los Angeles life.”

  “Huh. You’re going to get yourself into trouble, Mercy. You know that, don’t you?”

  Ernie and I’d had similar conversations earlier in our association. He considered me too innocent for words. I agreed with him, which had been the whole point of my moving west and getting a job. I wanted experience of the real world in order to write the novels I had within me begging to get out. Gritty stuff. You know what I mean. How can a girl write gritty stuff when she has no understanding of grit? The answer to that question is: she can’t.

  “I will not,” I said hotly. “You think I’m an idiot, don’t you, Ernie Templeton?”

  He heaved a deep sigh. “No, I don’t think you’re an idiot. I think you have no experience, and that you’ll find yourself in trouble because of it. How do you plan to select these so-called working girls of yours?”

  “Well . . . um, actually, I haven’t given that much thought yet.” Golly, I hated admitting that.

  “Figures.” Ernie slouched over to me and took the chair beside my desk. “Tell you what, Mercy. You place your ad in the Times, and when people begin responding, I’ll sit in on the first interview to show you how it’s done.”

  “Interview?” I blinked blankly at him.

  Another eye-roll. “How the heck else do you expect to choose which people will grace your grand home? You’re not going to let in any old Tom, Dick or Harry, are you?”

  “Heavens, no! I’ll allow no men at all above the first floor.”

  He covered his face with his hands for a second and his shoulders shook slightly. I think he was laughing at me, and I resented it. “Good God, Mercy,” he said in a voice that hinted of amusement and exasperation. “I’m not talking about allowing men in your house. I’m talking about finding suitable tenants. You can’t just let in anybody, you know, or you’ll end up with a house full of riffraff.”

  Deciding it wouldn’t behoove me to chastise Ernie for his amusement at my expense, I said stiffly, “Very well. I shall interview the women desiring accommodations.”

  “Do you know how to interview anyone?” he asked, his tone laced with doubt.

  I bridled instantly. “I certainly can’t do any worse than you did when you interviewed me!”

  He grinned. He would. “Yeah, that was something, wasn’t it? I knew you’d do the minute I saw you.”

  I sniffed significantly. “There. You see?”

  “But you don’t have my experience.”

  “I’ve learned a lot—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. You fancy yourself a real detective by this time. But you’re not. Tell you what. You show me the ad before you take it to the Times. I want to make sure you word it properly. Then, as I said, I’ll sit in on the first interview with you. In fact, I’ll conduct your first interview. Show you how to go about it. Then you’ll know what questions to ask of these working girls of yours.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’d better take my offer, Mercy, or you’re liable to end up in the soup.”

  I hated to admit it, but he might well be right. My judgment concerning people hadn’t always been the best of late, although I chalk that up merely to having been reared in the confines of the aforementioned ivory tower. I was learning and learning fast. Therefore, rather than refuse Ernie’s offer and perhaps make a huge mistake, I said graciously, “Very well. Thank you for your kind offer.”

  “You’re welcome.” And he rose and slumped to his office. Shortly thereafter I heard his hat hit the floor, Ernie’s soft ensuing “Damn,” and the workday began.

  About the only interesting thing that happened during the rest of the day was that I composed what I considered a nice ad to run in the Times:

  Rooms to let to employed, single young ladies.

  Telephone Miss Allcutt at HOllywood 3-765.

  As much as I didn’t want to, I showed the ad to Ernie before I took it to the Times to place it. He was correct in that he was the one with the experience in that office.

  “You’re giving them your home telephone number?” he asked, squinting at me.

  As I sat in the chair across from his desk, I’d been wringing my hands in anticipation of what I expected from Ernie, which was criticism. It looked as if I wasn
’t going to be disappointed in that expectation. “Well . . . yes. If I’m at work, Mrs. Buck will answer the telephone. Why? Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

  “I think the idea stinks. I also think you shouldn’t say, ‘Telephone Miss Allcutt.’ Hell, Mercy, that’s announcing to the world that you’re a single woman alone in the world.”

  I goggled at him for a moment, confused. “I don’t see how it announces anything of the sort. It’s only my name.”

  “Just leave out the ‘Miss Allcutt’ business altogether, all right? It’s safer that way. You don’t want any madmen showing up at your door looking for single women, do you?” He tapped the side of his head. “Think about it, Mercy.”

  I thought about it. Again, I regretted the conclusion I came to, which was that Ernie was, as usual, right. I sighed. “But what should I say then?” I was losing a good deal of my confidence along with some of my happy mood.

  “Just give the telephone exchange. Don’t mention your name, and definitely don’t let on that you’re a young, unmarried woman living alone in that huge house.”

  “I’m not living alone!” I cried, because it was the truth, and because his words stung. Darn it, you’d think I hadn’t learned a single, solitary thing about life on the mean streets of Los Angeles in the months I’d lived here, and that wasn’t accurate. “The Bucks have already taken up accommodations in the suite of rooms downstairs. And I’m not stupid, either, Ernie Templeton! You’re acting as if I don’t have a lick of common sense.”