Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (10 page)

      “We will first take hands.”

      We followed his instructions.

      “Then I must insist upon utter silence as Fernandez puts out the lights and Angelique calls upon the spirits. You understand,” he said with solemn intensity, “that occasionally the spirits are not available to us.”

      I heard assorted murmurs of assent and saw five or six heads nod gravely, as if the people attached thereto actually believed this folderol. Nevertheless, I murmured and nodded, too. I might have been there to debunk the d’Agostinos, but I wasn’t supposed to reveal my intentions to the crooks or dupes involved.

      The lights went down and the séance began. I have to admit that sitting there in the dark holding hands with Mr. Easthope and Mrs. Easthope got kind of creepy after a few minutes—or perhaps it was only seconds—of almost total silence. There was an occasional rustle of a skirt, but that was about it. We were good little boys and girls.

      Then, so gradually that I was scarcely aware of it, a faint noise began to rise from Miss d’Agostino’s end of the table. I also was scarcely aware of the smoky light gradually coming up until I realized that I could make out her face. She swayed slightly in her chair. You couldn’t see another single thing in that room. Only her beautiful, pale, ethereal face. I wondered where the light source was, but there wasn’t much I could do in the way of investigation right then. The effect was most spooky. The d’Agostinos might well be fakes, but they were sure good ones.

      Suddenly Miss d’Agostino slumped sideways in her chair, her head lolling and her dark hair falling over her face. A deep voice, wholly different from Miss d’Agostino’s former speaking voice, issued from her mouth. “I am here,” the voice said, and everyone at the table sighed.

      What ensued then was total hogwash. It was presented in an extremely competent manner, however, and I admit to experiencing an eerie sensation or two. The d’Agostinos didn’t go in for ectoplasm, for which I was grateful, and they also didn’t present those silly emanations I’ve heard about. You know what I’m talking about: arms and trumpets and stuff like that flying through the air.

      Messages from the late Mr. Easthope started coming through loud and clear, and I could tell that Mrs. Easthope derived great satisfaction therefrom. I had almost decided that the d’Agostinos weren’t absolutely to be despised until I remembered the money angle and the fact that these two crooks were taking advantage of a bereaved woman’s vulnerability. It was flat wrong to deceive a grieving widow in this way. How was she ever supposed to come to grips with her loss and get on with her life if she remained stuck in her grief and in believing that her husband could still communicate with her? The spiritualism trade was despicable, and that was that.

      I don’t know how long the séance lasted. It seemed like forever to me, and more than once I experienced an urge to scratch an itch or feel under the table in search of some kind of switch that might regulate the ghostly light illuminating Miss d’Agostino’s face.

      Eventually, however, the spirit of the priestess claimed she was tired and departed. Miss d’Agostino sank a little farther forward with a soulful sigh, and the room fell into utter blackness once more.

      Then Mr. Fernandez turned on the lights, and we all looked at each other. Except for Mrs. Hartland, who appeared to have fallen asleep. I thought her reaction to the evening’s shenanigans was rather amusing until Jacqueline Lloyd, her beautiful eyes fairly starting from their sockets, jumped to her feet, pressed her hands to her cheeks, let out an unearthly shriek, and fell to the floor in a gloriously theatrical swoon.

Chapter Six
 

Naturally these antics drew everyone’s attention to Miss Lloyd—except that of Mrs. Hartland, who remained slumped on the table. She looked as if she were napping to me, but Mr. Carstairs, who’d been holding her hand until then, looked at her and opened his mouth as if to say something, then suddenly thrust the hand aside, leaped from his chair and said, “Good God!”

      Well, as you can imagine, everything was confused for a while. I am pleased to report that it was I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, who demonstrated the most common sense in the bewilderment that ensued after Miss Lloyd’s faint and Mr. Carstairs’s startled exclamation.

      While Mr. Carstairs was on his knees rubbing Miss Lloyd’s hands between his and muttering broken syllables indicative of concern, and all the other people there looked at each other and muttered, I calmly walked over to Mrs. Hartland. There I bent over, pressed two fingers to what should have been the pulse in her neck, and didn’t feel any. Then I picked up her hand, which was warm and floppy, pressed my fingers to where the pulse in her wrist should have been, and didn’t feel any pulse there, either.

      Only then did I drop the hand, leap backward, and utter a soft scream of my own. At least I didn’t shriek loud enough to wake the dead—a mere expression, I assure you, since it didn’t awaken any corpses present at that moment—and then faint like Miss Lloyd. I did emulate Miss Lloyd in that I clapped my hands to my cheeks. Then my gaze frantically sought that of Mr. Easthope, and I cried out—not hysterically, I assure you—“She’s
dead
!”

      Mr. Easthope stared at me as if he didn’t know what to do about that.

      Fortunately I did. Gathering my wits together with some difficulty—I hadn’t encountered any dead bodies thus far in my career as a human being, although I’d come close to being one myself a few weeks previously—I sought Rupert as the person most appropriate to do some telephoning and gestured him over. He came to my side, looking pale and shaky.

      Mr. Easthope hurried up to me. “What should we do?” he said, wringing his hands.

      “Call the police,” I said, sounding much more confidant than I felt. After all, the poor woman had probably died of a heart seizure or an apoplectic fit or something. Still and all, I didn’t think it would be politic merely to call an undertaker. After all, she
did
have access to a whole lot of personal information about a plethora of celebrities, and she
had
died in a room full of people sitting in the dark during a séance. The circumstances sounded suspicious to me, although I couldn’t have said why particularly.

      “The police?” Mr. Easthope appeared both shocked and pained.

      “And her son,” I said, thinking I should have thought of her son before I thought of the police. I guess my employment had begun to affect my thinking processes.

      “But why the police?”

      “Um . . . and a doctor.” There. That was the best suggestion of all.

      “But why the police?” Mr. Easthope repeated, and his voice had taken on an edge.

      Why, indeed?

      “I really don’t want any negative publicity to come out of this, Miss Allcutt. After all, such publicity might affect the studio.”

      “Yes, yes, I know,” I said, thinking madly. Even I couldn’t have said precisely why I wanted to involve the police. I suppose, under normal circumstances, a doctor and the family were the most logical people to call. Still . . .

      Then it came to me. I took Mr. Easthope by the sleeve of his well-cut evening jacket and hauled him to the side of the room and away from the action. “Listen, Mr. Easthope, this looks fishy to me. You’ve got two crooked spiritualists, you’ve got Hedda Heartwood, the most famous and meddling Hollywood snooper in the picture business, and you’ve got a motion-picture starlet and a motion-picture lawyer, all together in one place for a séance, of all things. Something doesn’t seem right. Now maybe Mrs. Hartland died of a heart attack or a fit of apoplexy or a similar affliction. I still think you need to call in a detective to check things out. That way, when nothing is found to be amiss, there won’t be any wild rumors circulating in picture circles. That would surely hurt the studio, probably even more than if, by some odd chance, the poor woman had been . . . um . . . done away with by some person.” I’d lived and breathed motion-picture gossip since I’d come to live with Chloe, and I knew how vicious rumors and tittle-tattle got started and spread, not unlike the influenza pandemic of a decade or so earlier.

      Mr. Easthope said, “Well . . .”

      I seemed to be having a spate of dazzling ideas around that time, because another one struck me then. “And I know just the person!”

      Mr. Easthope blinked at me. “You do?”

      “I do. Detective Phillip Bigelow. He’s the most circumspect detective I know. Well, besides Mr. Templeton.” In truth, Phil Bigelow was the only detective I knew besides Ernie, but I felt no need to reveal that fact at the moment. “You should have Rupert telephone the Los Angeles Police Department and ask specifically for Mr. Bigelow.”

      Mrs. Easthope began to scream then, and Mr. Easthope got pretty rattled. As he turned to give aid and comfort to his mother, he said in a distracted undertone, “Very well. But please, tell the man to be discreet!”

      “I certainly will,” I said, relieved to have been given permission to do what I’d aimed to do anyway. Hurrying back to Rupert, I instructed him in a voice that brooked no argument to call the police. “And speak only to Detective Bigelow. Don’t speak to anyone else.” I had a troubling thought. “And if he’s not there, get his home number and phone him there. Tell him I made you do it.”

      Rupert saluted and dashed off to the telephone room. Gee, I don’t recall seeing anyone ever salute my mother. I must either be really good at giving orders or have a formidable personality. The latter might not be such a sterling character trait if my aim in life was to be different from my mother, but I didn’t have time just then to contemplate the matter.

      And then I thought of something that truly frightened me.

      If this wasn’t a simple case of a heart seizure or stroke, and if someone had somehow done away with the gossipy Mrs. Hartland, the murderous someone had to be a person in Mr. Easthope’s house at that very moment.

      That being the case, I took it upon myself to request that no one leave the premises. I did so by lifting my arms and my voice and demanding everyone remain until the doctor arrived. I didn’t mention the police.

      “But why?” said Miss Lloyd, still looking faint and shaky.

      Again my brain raced. “Because we need to know that poor Mrs. Hartland didn’t die from some kind of contagion.” I was proud of that particular fib.

      I didn’t expect it to happen, but both Mr. Easthope and Mr. d’Agostino came to my aid.

      “Yes,” said Mr. Easthope, sounding about as faint and shaky as Miss Lloyd looked. “Please, everyone, gather in the living room. I’ll have the cook prepare something to calm our nerves.”

      “Yes,” said Mr. d’Agostino. While Mr. Easthope looked ill, he looked fierce. Either he didn’t appreciate people dropping dead during his séances or he was doing a good job of acting like it. Probably both, actually. “This needs to be looked in to. This is not good.”

      For business, I presume he meant.

* * * * *

      Twenty minutes later, Phil Bigelow, accompanied by a couple of outriders in the form of uniformed Los Angeles police officers, arrived at Mr. Easthope’s home. Phil didn’t look awfully pleased to see me there, but I think that was only Ernie’s influence working on him. He and Ernie were really good friends, you see, and Ernie had impressed upon him before this that I was snoopy and shouldn’t be allowed to get involved in investigations, even those that he’d rejected.

      Too bad. I’d been involved in this one even before it became an investigation, and there wasn’t a single thing either one of those anti-feminist men could do about it.

      I was too glad to see Phil to berate him for his opinion of female detectives, however. As soon as he appeared in the doorway, I rushed over to him. Although it’s embarrassing to admit, I felt a little teary there for a minute. The past half hour or so had been
very
stressful.

      Believe it or not, people had even objected when I’d had Rupert call a doctor.

      “She’s dead. She’s beyond the need for a doctor,” said Miss Lloyd. Her statement was somewhat callous, I thought.

      “The doctor needs to confirm death before a death certificate can be officially entered into the records of law,” I told Miss Lloyd, proud of myself for being able to inform her of that fact, even though I’d only learned it myself within the past month during the course of my employment.

      Miss Lloyd sighed heavily. She really did look kind of sick, and I’m sure she wanted to go home, but so did everyone else. Poor Mrs. Easthope was still in a state of pitiable agitation. It must have seemed as though death were dogging her. First her husband. Now her friend. I felt sorry for her and figured calling in the doctor might be good for her, too. Maybe he could give her a nerve pill or something. Mr. Easthope sat on the sofa, his arms around her, giving her all the consolation he could, considering he appeared pale and shaken too.

      I couldn’t imagine myself sitting on a couch and putting my arms around my own mother. Not only would she stiffen up like setting cement, but I’d feel like an idiot. For a brief moment, I felt a trace of envy for Mr. Easthope.

      We had all gathered in the living room by that time, and Rupert, rather wan and wobbly himself, had served a variety of beverages from hot tea to different kinds of liquors, although the liquors were disguised in teapots. It looked a little silly, really, to have six teapots sitting on the coffee table, but I’m sure the police were used to it. Prohibition might have been the law of the land for a number of years, but the law never had and never would stop anyone with enough money to circumvent it. My goodness, that sounds cynical. I guess Ernie was rubbing off on me.

      Anyhow, I’ve digressed from my narrative. The police arrived, and I hurried over to them.

      “Oh, Mr. Bigelow, I’m so glad to see you,” I said in a low voice. “This has been a harrowing evening.”