Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (9 page)

      “I’m very sorry to hear it,” said I.

      “I was too,” said Mrs. Hartland, sounding as if she counted her son’s absence in the nature of a defection.

      “It’s very nice to meet you, though,” I said, valiantly attempting to draw the woman’s mind from her wayward son.

      Mrs. Hartland sniffed, and I was trying to think of something else to say when Mrs. Easthope spoke again.

      “There’s more to Vivian than meets the eye,” she said in a titillated whisper. “Miss Allcutt, did you know that Vivian Hartland is really Hedda Heartwood? Or the other way around, I suppose.”

      I’m pretty sure I gasped. “Good heavens, really?” I goggled at the ferrety woman. “
The
Hedda Heartwood?”

      “None other,” said Mrs. Hartland, smirking slightly. When she smirked her chin seemed to become pointier, which might be the reason I wasn’t exactly drawn to her. A pointy chin wasn’t her fault, of course.

      And I certainly couldn’t blame her for the smirk. Hedda Heartwood was the most famous gossip columnist in the motion-picture industry. I was now seated next to the woman who’d fed the American public choice tidbits about every star in Hollywood’s firmament. She’d written about love affairs between Pola Negri and Rudolph Valentino, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, John Gilbert and Greta Garbo, and Gilbert Roland and absolutely everyone. She knew
everybody
.

      “My goodness!” I said, for once at a loss for words. I’d been bred to socialize, so this didn’t often happen to me. After gulping once, I blurted out, “Why, you must have the most interesting life, Mrs. Hartland. Or do you prefer Heartwood?”

      “Oh, my dear, just call me Viv,” she said with what sounded like an honest laugh. Her laugh softened her features and made her appear more approachable and kindhearted. I presumed she must laugh a lot in pursuit of her career or nobody would want to talk to her. “As to the interesting-life comment, you’d be surprised by how boring most Los Angeles celebrities are.”

      “She’s told me some astounding stories, my dear,” said Mrs. Easthope in a lowered voice. Then she giggled. If I’d ever been asked to describe a person who might be duped by phony spiritualists, my description wouldn’t have come within ten miles of Rosemary Easthope.

      “Oh, but still,” I persisted, “it must be fascinating to actually
know
some of the most famous people on earth.”

      “Of course, it is,” admitted Mrs. Hartland. “Although some of them take themselves far too seriously.”

      I darned near asked to whom she referred, but caught myself in time. Instead, I said, “Really?”

      “Really. Especially some of the newcomers. They get a motion picture or two under their belts and think they’re stars.” She sniffed meaningfully. “If you only knew where some of these people came from and their backgrounds, and—” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “—you’d be shocked and amazed.”

      Oh, boy, I
really
wanted to pursue that subject.

      However, almost as if the moment had been staged, Rupert appeared at the living room door and intoned, “Miss Jacqueline Lloyd and Mr. John Quincy Carstairs.”

      I glanced up instantly, catching the look of worshipful adoration on Rupert’s face as his gaze lingered upon Miss Lloyd for a second before he vanished. Then, just as he’d announced, in walked Miss Lloyd and Mr. Carstairs.
My
Mr. Carstairs. Or, that is to say, the Mr. Carstairs who’d just moved his office into the Figueroa Building.

      It was only then that I noticed another occupant of the room, one who’d been there all along, I guess, but who seemed to blend in with his surroundings. He was a tall, thin man who resembled Mr. d’Agostino slightly. He stood apart from the rest of us at the fireplace, as if he were trying to disappear into the lovely carved-granite hearth. His eyes were hooded, and he gazed upon the assembled company as if he were assessing us for a human auction. I’d not been introduced to him, and he gave me the creeps. I presumed he was the ghoul Mr. Easthope had mentioned when he’d unburdened himself to me in Ernie’s office.

      I didn’t have a chance to think about the odd man since Mr. Carstairs spied me at once, gently took Miss Lloyd’s elbow, and steered her in my direction. His smile looked to be one of utter delight. “Miss Allcutt! It’s such a pleasure to see you out of the office.”

      We shook hands. “I had no idea you’d be here, Mr. Carstairs.”

      “Indeed, the astonishment is mutual. But please,” he said, “allow me to introduce you to Miss Jacqueline Lloyd. Jacqueline, this is Miss Allcutt. Miss Allcutt works right down the hall from my new office.”

      Miss Lloyd didn’t display any overt sign that she was thrilled to meet me, but I made up for her coolness. I took the hand she extended and said, “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lloyd. I thought you were brilliant as Lillian in
Whispering Oaks.”

      My gushing speech thawed her considerably. “Why, thank you, Miss Allcutt.”

      She eyed my companions on the sofa, and I could tell the moment she registered Mrs. Hartland’s presence. It was plain that the two women had met each other before. It was also plain that Miss Lloyd was more interested in making a good impression on Mrs. Hartland than in continuing the conversation she’d begun with yours truly.

      “Hedda, darling!” she cried, extending her arms.

      Mrs. Hartland rose from the sofa to receive Miss Lloyd’s embrace of greeting. “It’s good to see you again, Jacqueline. Your career is taking off like a rocket.”

      The clinch didn’t last long. Both women looked kind of stiff to me, but then, I’d have been stiff too if someone had embraced me like that. I wasn’t yet accustomed to Los Angeles motion-picture manners, which included a whole lot of hugging and cheek-kissing.

      “Please, dear,” said Mrs. Hartland—I had a hard time thinking of her as Hedda Heartwood. She looked so innocuous. “Let me introduce you to my very good friend Mrs. Easthope, and Mr. and Miss d’Agostino. The d’Agostinos will be leading the séance this evening.”

      “So pleased,” Miss Lloyd murmured graciously, shaking everybody’s hands in turn. Then she introduced them to Mr. Carstairs.

      You know how sometimes you can go to a party or some other kind of function, and everyone there is relaxed and happy and ready to have a good time? Well, Mr. Easthope’s séance gathering wasn’t like that. I felt a tension in the air that I’m pretty sure wasn’t merely my imagination. There were awkward gaps in the conversation and then, when it seemed as if the silence would drag on into eternity, two or three people would speak at once, rushing into the blank space in desperation. That, naturally, precipitated a spate of “Oh, please excuse mes” and “I beg your pardons.” However much I admired Mr. Easthope, his house and his overall kindliness and social grace, this particular evening’s entertainment appeared destined for failure.

      I did learn the name of the ghoul at the fireplace. His name, according to somebody, I forget whom, was Leonardo Fernandez, and he was, again according to the same someone, assistant to the d’Agostinos. From the very little bit of information I was able to gather, he was as taciturn as he looked and only attended these functions so that he could oversee the action during the séance—what little there was of it—and make sure nobody cheated and/or fell into a faint or a fit or anything like that. I hadn’t realized the spiritualist business could be so dangerous. When I said this to my companion (I think it was Mrs. Easthope) she stared at me blankly. I don’t think she possessed her son’s quick mind.

      Evidently Mr. Carstairs and Miss Lloyd were the last people expected to arrive, because the two spiritualists arose not very long thereafter, and a hush fell over the room’s occupants. Not that conversation had exactly been scintillating before that.

      In spite of the awkwardness of the general conversation, Mr. d’Agostino displayed no overt signs of displeasure when he rose like a wraith from his chair, raked his dark gaze over those of us in the living room and said, “Shall we retire to the dining room? The time is ripe.”

      I didn’t ask for what. The spirits to show themselves, I guess.

      It’s probably time for an admission here. I know I said I suggested attending a séance for altruistic reasons. And I honestly
did
hope to assist Mr. Easthope in ridding his home of a blight. And it’s also true that I most assuredly wanted to get out of Chloe’s house as much as possible so that I wouldn’t have to put up with my mother. But the absolute, unvarnished truth is that I’d always wanted to attend a séance and could hardly wait for the silly thing to start. Anyhow, what true, red-blooded, aspiring novelist
wouldn’t
want to sit through a séance and learn how the things were conducted and try to figure out how crooked spiritualists ran the things?

      Besides, who ever said it was a sin to enjoy one’s work? Nobody I know. Well, unless you count my mother, who believed it was a sin to enjoy anything at all and positively wicked to work at a job, and who wants to live like that? Certainly not I.

      Mr. Easthope escorted me into the dining room. The table there appeared to me to be particularly appropriate for a séance, since it was almost round, and it looked as if someone, probably Rupert, had removed a couple of leaves to make it small enough to seat the eight of us. There was an uneven number of males to females, a situation that would probably have made my mother faint, but I guess these inequitable seatings happen a lot during séances, the females of the species being generally more likely to experiment with spiritualist matters than the males perhaps. I mean that comment in no way to disparage my own sex. I think it’s keen that women are open-minded about things. Even stupid things like spiritualism.

      However that may be, Miss d’Agostino sat herself at the head of the table and Mr. d’Agostino took the foot. The rest of us spread around it in no particular order, although I made sure Mr. Easthope was on one side of me. His mother sat on my other side. Across from us sat Mr. Carstairs, Mrs. Hartland and Miss Lloyd, in that order. Miss Lloyd would hold hands with Mr. d’Agostino, and Mr. Carstairs would hold the hand of Miss d’Agostino.

      “Most of you have experienced the process of communication with the Other Side before,” said Mr. d’Agostino after we’d all sat down and shut up. “But for those of you uninitiated into the cabalistic arts, let me give a brief précis of what will transpire this evening.”

      He was a well-spoken young fellow. If I hadn’t already pegged him for a fraud and a cheat, I might have found him attractive. Nobody said anything.

      Mr. d’Agostino continued, “First of all, I must insist upon silence. No one must speak, and no one must move. Communication with the spirit world is a chancy business, and there is great danger to the medium through whom the control speaks.”

      The control? I didn’t know what the man was talking about. Therefore, and because I figured I was allowed a question or two as a rank beginner, I raised my hand—not without some trepidation. Mr. d’Agostino, with his dark eyes and lowering eyebrows, scared me a little bit. “Um . . . I beg your pardon?”

      Those black eyes pinned me to my chair and I swallowed. Mr. d’Agostino said, “Yes?” in a not-very-friendly voice.

      “What’s a control?”

      “Ah,” said he, and he seemed to relax slightly. The corners of his lips even lifted a teensy bit. “You are truly a novice, eh, Miss Allcutt?”

      I only nodded.

      “The control in this case is the priestess Nefreziza-Afret. The priestess Nefreziza-Afret was a powerful figure in a cult that reigned in Egypt almost six thousand years ago. She came to Angelique one night in a mediumistic trance and is occasionally willing to communicate through her yet.” He looked at me, his brows lowering over his deep-set eyes, as if asking me if I had any more stupid questions.

      “Thank you,” I said meekly.

      Okay, here’s the thing. Well, one of several things, actually. From what I’d learned in school, there weren’t any priestesses in ancient Egypt, which, according to my teachers, didn’t allow women to do anything but breed and wait on men. Right after King Tutankhamun’s tomb was discovered, the entire world was flooded with information about ancient Egypt, and I, totally fascinated, devoured most of it, as did millions of other people. Evidently not everyone read the same material I did.

      Another thing is that even if departed souls did hang out in our world for a little while before traipsing off to heaven (or wherever their particular souls went), why would the soul of a lady who died six thousand years ago still be lingering around this mortal plane now? And if it did, wouldn’t there be millions, if not billions, of other souls flitting about and getting in its way? Why is it that every time you hear about a spiritualist medium getting in touch with the dead, nobody ever comes up with, say, the spirit of Jesse James? Or, God forbid, Jack the Ripper? Or even Joe Blow from down on the Boston docks? How come it’s always some princess or ancient king or someone like that? And what about the language barrier? Does nobody but me sense an incongruity in being able to communicate with a six-thousand-year-old person when most folks can’t even read the King James translation of the Bible without getting confused?

      Oh, never mind. Perhaps I’m just being picky. However, I do believe that this nonsense about summoning only the spirits of dead exalted ones is merely one more aspect of the overall phoniness of the spiritualist business. My understanding, now that the control part was explained to me, was that the medium goes into a trance and then somebody’s ghost takes over his or her body. Why’s it always somebody of high rank? I think it would be keen if some entranced medium some day was invaded by the ghost of a milkmaid or a goose boy or a farmer or a person occupying a similar situation in life. Or death.

      Anyway, I shut up once I knew what a control was, and Mr. d’Agostino continued with his instructions. He had a wonderful voice, deep and rich and, as I said before, softened by some kind of accent. It was probably a fake one, but it sounded nice.