Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (5 page)

      “Say, did you guys know that my brother is here in town?” Lulu asked, stepping into the office and dropping her air of sympathetic understanding. “He came here all the way from Oklahoma.”

      The word
Oklahoma
snapped my mind away from my problems for a moment. “Oh, my, are you from Oklahoma?” I tried to recall things I’d read about Oklahoma but could only fix on the fact that it used to be called the Indian Territory, which sounded quite wild and woolly to me.

      Lulu nodded. “I came here to L.A. a couple of years ago to get into the flickers.” She tossed her platinum-blond, shingled locks. “Rupert only got here yesterday. He’s younger than me by a couple of years.”

      To the best of my knowledge, Lulu hasn’t come any closer to the motion pictures than the local movie palace, but I’ve never probed deeply into her ambitions for fear of wounding her feelings. Not that she wasn’t good-looking or anything, but it seemed to me that if one aspires to do something, it’s probably best to pursue one’s goal a little more actively than Lulu seemed to be pursuing hers. Mind you, I know nothing about the inner workings of the motion-picture industry since Harvey never talked about it, but working as a receptionist in the lobby of the Figueroa Building and hoping a picture magnate would stroll in one day and discover her seemed to be leaving a lot to chance, if you see what I mean.

      “Your brother’s name is Rupert?”

      “Yeah. Stupid name, if you ask me, but nobody did.”

      “I understand completely,” said I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, who has a sister named Clovilla.

      Lulu parked her fanny on my desk, ignoring the chairs set out for the purpose. I didn’t mind. Lulu and I were friends. Kind of.

      “Hmm. Rupert LaBelle. Interesting name.” Ernie scratched his chin and leaned back against the doorframe. He appeared amused.

      She waved a pointy-nailed hand in a careless gesture. “Oh, his last name isn’t LaBelle. I just chose that last name for me. I thought LaBelle would look good on a marquee.”

      “Ah,” I said, clarity dawning. “I see.”

      “Ah,” said Ernie. “So do I.”

      “Our last name is Mullins.” Lulu made a face not unlike the one Chloe makes when she admits to her name being Clovilla. And then Lulu got down to business. Not that I didn’t believe her primary reason for visiting to be commiseration. I’d have done the same thing if she’d had a mother like mine who’d come to town. But she now revealed her underlying reason for paying us a call.

      Pinning Ernie with an entreating smile, she said, “Say, Ernie, can you think of some kind of job Rupert can get? I’d have set him up as the custodian here, but the management already hired Emerald Buck, and he’s doing a good job so I don’t think they’ll fire him just to hire Rupert. But he really needs a job. Can you think of anything?”

      I thought that was a little bit pushy, but I’m neither Lulu nor Ernie. Perhaps people in Los Angeles do this sort of thing all the time—you know, ask each other if they have a line on employment opportunities. I’d never had to think about jobs until I moved to Los Angeles, and I didn’t actually
have
to think about jobs then.

      Rather than brushing her off as I almost expected him to do—you never knew what, if anything, Ernie would take seriously—Ernie tilted his head to one side and considered her question. “I can’t think of anything offhand, but—”

      Proving my mother was correct in assuming my move to Los Angeles had damaged my manners, I interrupted, having just been struck by a brilliant notion.

      “I do!”

Chapter Three

Ernie and Lulu looked at me, and I felt silly. However, that didn’t prevent me from forging onward, ever onward. Shooting a quick glance at Ernie and deciding it didn’t matter if he heard my idea or not, I said, “Maybe he can work at Mr. Easthope’s place.”

“Huh,” said Ernie, wrinkling his nose. He didn’t scoff at me, though.

      “Who?” said Lulu, wrinkling her nose, too, although hers was a puzzled wrinkle and not a derisive one.

      With the air of one who is attempting to clarify muddled logic, Ernie said, “Are you thinking of having Rupert work as a plant in your buddy Easthope’s establishment?”

      Although I’d been picking up the vocabulary of my new profession speedily, I was still unsure of some of the expressions used by its perpetrators. “A plant?”

      Before Ernie could explain, Lulu’s interest spiked. “Easthope. Is that the name of that gorgeous guy who came in to see you this morning?”

      I smiled. “Francis Easthope. Yes. He is rather good-looking, isn’t he?”

      Lulu clasped her hands to her bosom. “You betcha! What a doll! He’s better looking than Valentino.”

      Ernie, looking displeased, muttered, “The guy’s a faggot, for God’s sake.”

      I didn’t know what a faggot was, either, in popular parlance, but evidently Lulu did. Her hands fell away from her breast, and she said, “Oh, yeah? Well, ain’t that just the way?” She appeared quite disappointed.

      Since I didn’t know what they were talking about, I frowned slightly at Ernie, taking “faggot” to mean something not quite right, and whatever it meant, I didn’t think he should be talking about a client in that way. Not that Mr. Easthope was his client. Still and all, I didn’t approve, and I decided to take command of the situation.

      “Why don’t you have your brother come up and see me tomorrow? I’ll talk to Mr. Easthope this evening when he comes to dinner, and perhaps we can come up with a job for him.”

      “I sure will, Mercy. Thanks a lot.” Slithering off my desk, Lulu gave Ernie a peck on the cheek, and I was shocked, although I didn’t want to be since being shocked seemed entirely too priggish a reaction to a friendly gesture. I guess I still had a lot of early childhood training to overcome.

      But that didn’t matter. I’d thought of an excellent idea, and I aimed to carry it out that very evening.

* * * * *

      Francis Easthope speared a piece of asparagus and said thoughtfully, “I’ve pondered a good deal about your suggestion this afternoon, Miss Allcutt, and I do believe you could be very helpful if you’re still interested.”

      “Oh, I’m still interested,” I assured him, peeking at my mother and suppressing a shudder.

      “And I do believe your idea of having Mr. Mullins work for me so that he can snoop around is quite clever.”

      Ha! I knew I wouldn’t be the only one to think so. To heck with Ernie Templeton.

      Mr. Easthope’s smile was a work of art. In fact, I wished I had a flair with a paintbrush. I’d have painted him myself. “As for the séances, are you sure you won’t mind attending one or two? I don’t think there’s any danger involved.”

      Danger? I hadn’t thought about danger. I’d only thought about getting Lulu’s brother a job and maybe helping Mr. Easthope foil a couple of mean-spirited tricksters. Oh, very well, I also anticipated more time away from Chloe’s house and, therefore, my mother. I guess I’m not a very dutiful daughter. “I certainly hope not.” I laughed softly. “No, I’m sure there won’t be any danger, unless one of the d’Agostinos unlooses a ghost on poor Rupert Mullins or me.”

      Mr. Easthope, bless his ever-so-polite heart, smiled at this weak sally and forked up a piece of swordfish. The chow at Harvey and Chloe’s house was always good, and this evening Mrs. Biddle had surpassed herself.

      I was seated next to Mr. Easthope at the dinner table. My mother was lording it over all of us from the other side of the table, proving that position isn’t everything, since Harvey sat at the table’s head and Chloe at its foot, and they both appeared as children compared to our majestic mother. I think Mother disapproved of the Nashes hosting so casual a get-together, it having been conceived of on the spur of the moment and handled without months of planning and engraved invitations. Not to mention the fact that there was an uneven number of males and females—but this was Los Angeles, she’d come here of her own free will, and she’d just have to put up with it.

      “Thank you so much. Lulu will be so pleased about her brother. She was worried that Mr. Mullins wouldn’t be able to find work. He’s from Oklahoma, you see.”

      Mr. Easthope arched an elegant eyebrow. “Oklahoma? Hmm.”

      “Yes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Oklahoma before. Well, except for Lulu.”

      He smiled for some reason.

      “Mercedes Louise,” said Mother, making me jump. “Your manners have declined deplorably since you moved to this benighted city. It is terribly impolite to whisper at the dinner table.”

      Whoops. “I’m sorry, Mother. Mr. Easthope just agreed to do a good deed for a friend of mine, and I didn’t think the rest of the diners would be interested.” It was weak and I knew it. My mother didn’t care for excuses.

      “Nonsense. Conversations that cannot be shared with others should be carried out in private.”

      “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Allcutt,” said Mr. Easthope, trying to save my skin. “Entirely my fault.”

      Mother shook her head in a manner that conveyed both pity and despair. “You are not at fault, Mr. Easthope. My daughter—” She said the word
daughter
as if she wished she didn’t have to. “—has been taught manners but seems to have forgot them all. I don’t know what’s to become of her.” She looked at me as if she wished she could think of a solution to the problem of me that involved something other than cold-blooded murder. Her expression riled me.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mother—”

      I didn’t get to finish my thought, which was probably a good thing, because Mr. Easthope spoke over my words. “Miss Allcutt is doing me a great service, Mrs. Allcutt. She is going to help me solve a puzzle in my life.” He gave me one of his heart-stopping smiles. “I truly appreciate her efforts on my behalf.”

      I could feel myself blushing, curse it. “It’s nothing, really,” I muttered.

      “Oh?” dropped from my mother’s lips like a chunk of ice.

      “It’s not nothing,” said Mr. Easthope heroically. “Miss Allcutt has been all kindness in her offer to help. You have two lovely and generous daughters, Mrs. Allcutt.”

      Mother said, “Hmm,” in a way that conveyed her deep skepticism.

      I seethed with impotent fury and longed to deliver unto my mother a few home truths. Not that doing so would have done anything but confirm her low opinion of me. Talk about frustrating. Nevertheless, we didn’t discuss the details of Rupert Mullins’s employment or the next séance taking place in Mr. Easthope’s house until after dinner, when we were all gathered in the front room sipping port (or having tea, in the case of Mother, Chloe and me).

      I tried to corner Mr. Easthope, but Mother wouldn’t let me. Ergo, I had to more or less explain to the entire room the problem of Mr. Easthope’s mother and my offer to help rid him of her phony spiritualists whether I wanted to or not. Smiling what I prayed looked like a confident smile, but which was as phony as a three-dollar bill, I said, “So you see, I believe there must be a way to discover the tricks being used by the d’Agostinos and rid Mrs. Easthope of their influence.”

      Mother looked as if she smelled something rotten. “Spiritualists?” She sniffed disapprovingly.

      Mr. Easthope sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid they’ve quite taken hold of Mother’s imagination.”

      “It’s all nonsense, this notion that people can communicate with the deceased.” Mother sipped tea. She never used cream or sugar in her tea, deeming both frivolous.

      “I agree with you,” said Mr. Easthope.

      “Whatever could have induced your mother to seek advice from such a fraudulent source?”

      Mr. Easthope sighed mournfully. “I fear she was awfully cut up when my father died, Mrs. Allcutt. I tried to assist her in every way, but a friend of hers, Mrs. Hartland, convinced her that she could communicate with my father through the d’Agostinos. She’s been a victim to their charms ever since.”

      At the words
my father
, Mother stiffened as if somebody’d stuck her with a pin. I cringed, praying inwardly that she wouldn’t begin telling Mr. Easthope her own problems with the father of her children. I should have known better. My mother would never reveal dirty family linen in public, although a hint of her annoyance with Father seeped into her next words.

      “Why ever would a sensible woman wish to establish communication with a deceased husband?” Her voice was as waspish as I’d ever heard it.

      “She loved him,” Mr. Easthope said simply. “He was a fine man.”

      I got the feeling Mother was biting her tongue so as not to spew forth on the stupidity of women who sink so low as to love the men they marry. She sniffed, but said nothing, drowning her spite in another sip of tea.

      “I think I understand why she did it,” said Chloe, shocking me completely.

      Mother turned regally, the only way she could turn given her personality and state of corseting, and pinned her older daughter with a glacial stare. Chloe turned pink.

      Nevertheless, she lifted her little chin, took Harvey’s hand, and clarified her shocking declaration. “If anything ever happened to Harvey, I might want to try to communicate with him from beyond the grave. I’d be completely devastated.”

      Harvey smiled indulgently and squeezed her hand.

      “Being devastated,” said mother in her chilly voice, “is no reason to behave in so foolish and wasteful a manner. Spiritualists are twaddle.”

      “Of course they are,” said Mr. Easthope with a sigh that sounded as if it were being wrenched from his soul. “Unfortunately, I fear my mother doesn’t possess your strength of character.”

      Chloe mumbled, “I don’t, either.”

      I felt like asking, “Who does?” but didn’t, which was the right thing to do.

      Mother said, “Hmph.”

      A fairly stiff silence followed Mother’s huff. I don’t know why Mr. Easthope didn’t up and leave at that point. After all, my mother had pretty much called his mother a fool, which she undoubtedly was, but it was impolite to say so; and Chloe had admitted to being weak-willed enough to attempt to get in touch with Harvey from beyond the grave, although there was no need to do that thank God; and everybody was sitting there, staring at the lovely Persian rug under their feet and not knowing what to say next.