Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  “He’s not mine.” Boy, was I grumpy. Oh, I’d known Ernie would kick up a dust when he learned about Peggy’s boyfriend being acquainted with Mr. Gossett, but I hadn’t any idea he’d take it this hard. Imagine him accusing me of arranging such a thing! He made me so angry.

  “Right. Well, I’ll see what I can find out about him. For all you know, he’s a second-story man, and this Wickstrom character is only scouting out your place and aims to burgle it one of these days when you’re all at work.”

  “She’d have a difficult time of it,” I told him snappishly. “Don’t forget Mrs. Buck and Buttercup.”

  “I haven’t forgotten anything,” he said.

  Suddenly he removed the key from the ignition and opened his door. “I’ll see you to your porch,” he said.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I didn’t give him a chance to open my door for me. Rather, I opened it myself and hopped out, slamming it behind me. “I don’t know what you have to gripe about, Ernie Templeton. At least you have another person to interrogate about the Gossett murder!”

  “I’m sure we’d have come across Autumn without your help.”

  “Oh, I just bet! I’ll call Phil myself and ask him if he’s ever heard of a person named Johnny Autumn, darn you! He’s probably stopped looking for anyone at all since he has Calvin Buck behind bars. I should think you’d thank me for providing you with something of a clue.”

  “A clue, eh?”

  “Well, what else do you have?” I demanded. “Exactly what have you done to move forward on the case? How do you expect to spring Calvin Buck from the pokey if you get mad at every single person who brings a little tidbit of information to your attention? I should think you’d thank me, but no. You accuse me of butting in, is what you do!”

  “A little tidbit of information, eh?” he said. I could hear the sneer in his voice. “Listen, Mercy, if this Autumn character has anything to do with the case, I’m sure we’d have discovered it in due time. Yes, Phil’s still investigating. I don’t want you involved. At all. Do you understand that?”

  I rolled my own eyes, a gesture that was lost on Ernie because it was dark outside. “You’re impossible!”

  “So are you.”

  It was a ghastly end to a rather enjoyable driving lesson, all things considered.

  * * * * *

  As you can probably imagine, I waited for Ernie to arrive at my home on Sunday afternoon with something less than joyous anticipation. In fact, I wondered if he was so angry with me he might skip the lesson entirely.

  But there I wronged him. At one o’clock, as I was quietly reading The Benson Murder Case, by S.S. van Dine in the living room (Lulu was reading yet another movie magazine, Caroline was visiting her parents who lived in a town called Alhambra, and I don’t know where Peggy was), Buttercup set up her happy “we have a visitor” bark, and the doorbell rang. With a sigh, I put a bookmark in my novel, laid it on the table beside my chair, and slowly walked to the front door.

  I knew it was Ernie before I opened the door, because I could see his shadowy form in the leaded glass paneling that took up half the front door. Inhaling a deep breath and praying for no more lectures about my getting involved in criminal cases, I opened the door.

  “ ’Lo, Ernie. Want to come in and say hey to Lulu?”

  “Sure.” And he stepped into my front entryway as if we hadn’t ended our last encounter only hours before under most unpleasant circumstances.

  As I led the way to the living room and Buttercup ecstatically greeted Ernie, of whom she was inordinately fond for some reason known only to God and canines, I pondered the problem of Ernie and the lesson to come. Should I mention last night’s tiff? Should I pretend it never happened? Or should I leave that part of this day’s business up to Ernie himself. By the time we’d reached the living room, I’d decided upon the latter course of action. Or inaction.

  “Hey, Ernie,” said Lulu with a smile for him as he entered the room. She slapped her magazine on her lap. “Gonna take Mercy for another driving lesson, eh?”

  “Yup. Pray for me.”

  I smacked him on the arm, and he recoiled as if I’d used a hammer. “Hey! I’m only saying, is all.”

  Lulu laughed. “You’d better be nice to her, Ernie. What would you do if she quit being your secretary?”

  “Breathe easier,” muttered Ernie, sliding me a sideways glance.

  Furious, I slammed my fists on my hips. “He’s mad at me because Peggy’s boyfriend knew Mr. Gossett,” I told Lulu, thereby violating my own decision before a minute had passed since I’d made it. Ernie did that to me: made me so angry, I’d lose control of my temper. Nuts. “He’s being totally unfair to me!”

  “She’s right, Ernie. Peggy’s boyfriend isn’t Mercy’s fault,” Lulu pointed out, with quiet but brilliant logic. “You can’t hold that against her.”

  “Exactly what I told him.” I was ever so glad Lulu and I were friends. We might have come from polar opposites social scales, but we were sisters under the skin.

  Ernie’d already removed his hat. Now he slung his long body onto the sofa. “Yeah. She told me that, all right. What I don’t understand is how she manages to get involved with people who know people who kill other people all the time.”

  “You don’t know that Johnny Autumn killed Mr. Gossett!” I cried, furious at the injustice of his statement.

  Lulu, blast her, laughed. “Yeah, she does have a knack, doesn’t she?”

  “Not you, too!” I said to Lulu.

  “Not your fault,” she said.

  Before I could defend myself, which would have been a wholly undignified thing to do, Ernie said, “Say, Mercy, it’s hot out there. Before we go, I don’t suppose you have a glass of lemonade or some water or something for a thirsty gent.”

  Glaring at him sprawled casually on my own personal couch, I growled, “I might, if I could find a gent somewhere. The only male present whom I see is you.”

  Both Ernie and Lulu laughed at that riposte, and I felt a tiny bit better.

  “Well, can this cad have something to drink? Teaching people to drive is thirsty business.”

  “I think there’s a pitcher of lemonade in the Frigidaire. Mrs. Buck is very thoughtful about things like that.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Ernie, uncoiling and standing before the sofa.

  So he did. I led the way into the kitchen, and I could imagine him glancing around at everything. I guess he was so accustomed to taking in details—being a detective teaches you observational skills, I’d learned—that he did it wherever he went.

  The kitchen was big and well-stocked with appliances, thanks to Harvey’s largesse and his willingness to furnish his new home with all new appliances and leave his not-very-old ones to me. The stove used gas and had a self-regulating oven, a feature Mrs. Buck said was the latest and greatest of modern cooking inventions, and the Frigidaire was only a year or two old. It kept everything nice and cold, and it even had a freezing compartment where Mrs. Buck kept little trays filled with water for ice. I’ve already admitted I enjoyed the benefits wealth could supply. Not that I wanted the worker proletariat to go without the things I had, but I was all in favor of manufacturers producing appliances that could be afforded by those of the worker proletariat who actually had to live on their incomes.

  “Pretty nice,” he said when I opened the Frigidaire and removed the pitcher of lemonade.

  “Yes, it is. Harvey bought only the best stuff, you know.”

  “And he left it for you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Must be nice,” said Ernie, not bothering to finish his sentence, the end of which I knew by heart by that time.

  “Yes, it is. And I’m trying to help others with my own money, so don’t start in on me about being a snotty rich girl, Ernie Templeton. It’s not my fault I was born to wealthy parents.” I sniffed and added, “Would you like some ice cubes?” I got a glass from the c
upboard and walked to the Frigidaire.

  “I wasn’t going to say a word about money, and yes, I’d like some ice cubes. Thank you.”

  “Hmph.”

  It was pleasant to discover, when I opened the freezing compartment, that Mrs. Buck had a ready supply of ice already removed from the ice-cube trays and sitting in a bowl right there, waiting for people to grab. Naturally, I didn’t grab. I used the ice tongs.

  “No, I mean it,” said Ernie. “You have a great place here, and I’m happy for you.”

  I squinted narrowly at him as I handed him his frosty glass of lemonade. He didn’t look sarcastic, although it was difficult to tell with Ernie. I opted for a neutral “Thank you.”

  A big square table sat in the middle of the large kitchen to make it easier to fetch and carry foodstuffs from cupboards to the counters for mixing or the stove for roasting, sautéing or whatever. I sat in one of the four chairs surrounding the table and gestured for Ernie to take another. I didn’t want lemonade, having already drunk three glasses that morning, which, as Ernie had mentioned, was very warm.

  Out of the blue, Ernie asked, “Say, Mercy, can you cook?”

  “Cook?” I blinked at him. “Why . . . I . . . don’t know. I mean, I’ve never had to cook for myself. And don’t say anything about money!” I added before he could mock my background and upbringing.

  “I wasn’t going to say a single word,” he said in a self-righteous tone of voice I didn’t believe for an instant. “I was just asking.”

  “Hmm. Well, I’ve never cooked, although I think it might be fun.”

  “What are you going to do if you ever get married and have a family? Going to marry a rich man so you won’t have to learn how to do anything for yourself?”

  “Marry? I’m not getting married!”

  “Maybe not right away, but you want to marry someday, don’t you?”

  I eyed my boss, wondering if he’d finally gone ’round the bend. Why was he asking me about getting married?

  “I haven’t even thought about marriage, to tell the truth,” I said, telling the truth. I’d never met a man I wanted to be around for any length of time thus far in my life, and I most assuredly didn’t want to marry anyone like my father or my beastly brother George.

  “Huh. Well, I just wondered. You might need to learn to cook unless you marry a millionaire. You can probably hook another Harvey Nash if you hang out with your sister and her friends long enough.”

  “For your information, Ernie Templeton, I have no intention of hanging around my sister and her friends, as you so crudely put it, nor do I aim to hook a rich husband. My goal in life at the moment is to gain experience of the world in which we live. As you’ve so often and so cogently pointed out, I didn’t learn a whole lot about the real world in my ivory tower in Boston.”

  “Hey, don’t get mad, kiddo. I just wondered, was all.”

  “And I think it would be a good idea to learn to cook,” I said after pondering for a second or three. “Mrs. Buck can teach me. I’m a good student, darn you.”

  “Never said you weren’t.”

  “And it might be a pleasant pastime.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What about you?” I demanded of my aggravating employer. “Can you cook?”

  “Eggs and toast, maybe.”

  “I hope you add an apple or a piece of celery to your diet every now and then. Man cannot live by eggs and toast alone, you know. At least not for very long.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Ernie downed the last of his lemonade and rose from his chair. “Well, it’s a bright, shiny day out there, so let’s get at it, shall we?”

  “Gladly,” said I.

  Before we left the house, I took Ernie’s glass to the sink and rinsed it out. Never let it be said that Mercedes Louise Allcutt was a messy housekeeper. Or a woman who made messes and expected her housekeeper to clean them up.

  For some reason, all the way to the vacant lot where Ernie aimed to conduct his lesson that day, I thought about learning to cook. Drat Ernie, anyhow!

  “We’ll have lots of space here,” he commented as he pulled the Roadster onto a dirt road off Sunset Boulevard. I’d had an unpleasant experience on one of those unpaved roads once, but I tried not to think about it that day. “There’s a big place up ahead where they’ve already bulldozed about six acres for some picture star’s new home.”

  “My goodness. I thought all the picture people were moving to Beverly Hills these days.”

  With a shrug, Ernie said, “Not all of ’em, evidently.”

  “Evidently.”

  Quite soon, I saw what he meant. A good deal of earth-moving equipment lay about, from bulldozers to ladders, piles of wood and so forth, but they surrounded a huge flat space, and as long as we stayed away from the equipment, I wouldn’t hit anything. I hoped.

  After giving me a brief précis of the basics he’d taught me the night before, Ernie opened his door and said, “Want to give it a go?”

  “Absolutely!” I said with glee. I really, really wanted to be a good driver and show my boss I wasn’t the dolt he kept treating me like. I think that sentence is grammatically incorrect. Well, it doesn’t matter. This is only my journal.

  At any rate, I hopped out of my side of the car, took the key from Ernie as we passed behind the Roadster’s rump, and I got into the front seat.

  Only then did I realize my feet didn’t reach the various pedals placed on the floor for the driver. Ernie, who stood next to the driver’s side of the auto, grinned down at me. I frowned back at him. “What does this mean? Only tall people can drive? Chloe’s not any taller than I am, Ernie Templeton, and she drove this car everywhere!”

  “Exactly. So I’m going to show you how to move the seat back and forth. Step out for a moment, please.”

  So I did, and he did, and I resumed the driver’s position, feeling slightly humiliated. I mean, I was glad he’d showed me how to move the seat, but I wished he hadn’t done it the way he had. I’m sure you understand.

  “Thank you.” My voice was rather stiffish.

  “You’re welcome.” Ernie’s, on the other hand, nearly crackled with laughter.

  Trying to keep my temper under control, I started the Roadster. I did it well, too, by golly, and then I gently put my foot on the clutch, put the car into first gear, and even more gently pressed the gas pedal.

  We stayed in that flattened lot for at least an hour, during which I only stalled the car once or twice and I never even came close to hitting anything. I saw perspiration bedew Ernie’s brow, and he took out his handkerchief to blot it a time or two, but I chalk that up to the general heat of the day and the fact that we were in an open flat field with no shade or anything.

  So there, Ernie Templeton.

  Chapter Nine

  “All righty, then, I think it’s time to take a rest, Mercy. You’ve done very well today.”

  We sat in the Roadster under the baking sun, and I felt like a dripping puddle of moisture. I eyed my boss to see if he was telling the truth about the relative goodness of my driving, and didn’t discern anything but exhaustion and perspiration, so I said, “Thank you.”

  “In fact, you’ve done so well, I think you deserve an ice-cream soda. Let’s go back down to Sunset and find an ice-cream parlor.”

  “What a heavenly idea!” By that time, I wished I’d thought to bring a jar of Mrs. Buck’s lemonade. Maybe a gallon jar. With ice.

  As for Ernie, he took a swig from his flask containing apple cider, then held it out to me and lifted his eyebrows.

  Did I want hot apple cider from a flask carried around by Ernie Templeton every day of his working life? I decided I wasn’t that thirsty. “Thanks. I think I’ll wait for ice-cream.” I smiled when I said it and hoped he wouldn’t be offended or anything.

  He only shrugged and stuck the flask back into his pocket. He’d taken off his jacket, which he’d hung on the back of his seat. I was glad I’d chosen to dress for the weather in a lightw
eight gingham day dress. Even so, it was drenched in parts, and I felt as though I were glued to the Roadster’s seat.

  “Want to try driving in traffic? It’s Sunday, so Sunset shouldn’t be too bad. Most of the Sunday drivers are off out of the city somewhere, looking at cows and clogging country lanes.”

  I’d heard of Sunday drivers: people from the big city who piled into their automobiles and headed out of the crowded towns and took to little unpaved roads in farming communities. I guessed from Ernie’s comment, they were not universally admired.

  “I’d like that,” I said, even as my heart hammered. It was, after all, one thing to drive in a flat field where there were no impediments in one’s way. It was quite another to drive on a paved street in a big city and have to stay on your own side of the pavement and not hit cars parked at the various curbs.

  However, I did quite well. I didn’t stall out once on our way down the unpaved dirt road to Sunset, and I took the turn onto Sunset with no trouble at all. Luckily, Ernie was correct about the lack of traffic. Things began to get busier—and, therefore, more sinister as far as I was concerned—as we approached the more populated area of Los Angeles.

  “Why don’t you take Sunset to Figueroa? I think I know a place where we can get some ice cream.”

  “Very well.” I thought I knew where Sunset and Figueroa met, although I prayed hard the whole way there. I didn’t want to have to ask Ernie if I was going the wrong way. But I wasn’t! By golly, there was the intersection of Sunset and Figueroa, big as life—with automobiles everywhere, and not a policeman in sight to direct the traffic. Oh, dear.

  “Just pull up slowly and watch for your opening,” Ernie advised. “And don’t forget the arm signals I taught you.”

  Easy for him to say. He did this sort of thing every day.

  But I did it! And only one person honked at me. Mind you, the honk startled me nearly out of my skin, but Ernie leaned his head out of the window and hollered an oath to the honker, so I felt better after that.

  “Bastard,” grumbled Ernie. “You were in the right, Mercy.”