Fallen Angels (31 page)

But again she was interrupted, this time by
none other than John Gilbert himself. He hurried up to me, too.
“Good God, Miss Allcutt, whatever in the world has happened to
you?”

“Mercy took on the crooks and won,” said
Ernie, who didn’t seem at all awed to be in the presence of one of
Hollywood’s most celebrated stars.

“How . . . how intrepid of you, Miss
Allcutt,” Mr. Gilbert said. He held out a hand, as if he wanted to
help me but didn’t quite know how.

I didn’t know how he could help, either, but
I appreciated the gesture. “Thanks,” I said.

But Mother didn’t like it that the
conversation had got away from her.

“Stuff and nonsense! If you were at home with
your mother and father, where you belong, and not pretending to be
some kind of working-class—”

It was Ernie who cut her off this time. “Hey,
that’s my secretary you’re talking about. Best secretary I’ve ever
had, and I’ll thank you not to speak unkindly to her.”

God bless Ernie Templeton.

“And
you
,” Mother went on. “How dare you speak to
me—”

“Hey, Mercy,” said Ernie, running roughshod
over my mother’s words once more. “Are you really up to this
nonsense? How’s about we take a powder to Chinatown and have a
little grub there?”

“I will
not
—”

“Thanks, Ernie. Help me upstairs, so I can
put some ointment on the worst of my scratches, and I’ll be happy
to go to Chinatown with you. Carry Buttercup up, won’t you?”

“Mind if I go along?” asked John Gilbert.

“Not at all,” said Ernie.

The two men smiled companionably at each
other. Mr. Gilbert turned to Chloe. “Do you mind, Chloe? I’ve just
got to hear what happened.”

“I will
not
—” Mother tried again.

“Please,” said Chloe. “Be my guest. Poor
Mercy needs some tender, loving care.”

Our mother turned upon her elder
daughter. “I will
not
—”

“And,” continued Chloe, anger swelling her
voice for one of the first times I could remember, “she sure won’t
get it from her mother.”

“Why, I never!”

* * * * *

Both Ernie and John Gilbert lolled on the
sofa in my sitting room, playing with Buttercup, while I took a
change of clothes and retired to my bathroom. I’m sure my mother
thought such behavior on all our parts shocking, but by that time I
didn’t give a care. The two men and the dog on my sofa were kind to
me. My mother wasn’t.

My hair was more easily tamed than the rest
of me, but I managed to daub some pancake makeup on the worst of my
bruises, smear ointment on my cuts and bandage them, and lay a cold
washcloth across my eyes for several minutes.

“Need any help?” Ernie hollered at one
point.

“No, thanks,” I hollered back. For some
reason, I was feeling much more chipper now that I knew I’d be able
to escape from Mother’s clutches, at least for the evening. God
alone knew what she’d do to me when she got me alone again, but
tonight I would be free of her.

“Hope I didn’t keep you too long,” I said as
I hobbled back into the sitting room where Ernie and Mr. Gilbert
seemed to be getting along like a house on fire. Both men jumped to
their feet when I entered. Poor Buttercup tumbled to the floor, but
she didn’t seem to mind. Dogs are so forgiving.

“You look much, much better, Miss Allcutt,”
said Mr. Gilbert approvingly.

“Thank you.” I looked at Ernie, whose opinion
I valued more than Mr. Gilbert’s. Not that I didn’t care what Mr.
Gilbert thought of me, but I trusted Ernie to be honest.

He tilted his head and stared at me for a few
seconds. Then he said, “You still look as if you’ve been in a
barroom brawl, but you’ll do okay in Chinatown.”

“Thank you ever so much,” I said dryly.

“Any time.” He grinned broadly at me.

Then, flanked by two handsome men and leaving
poor Buttercup in the sitting room, I tottered down the staircase
and out into the night. When we reached the curb, we got into Mr.
Gilbert’s Stutz Bearcat, which was a most remarkable automobile,
and tootled on down the hill to Chinatown. All things considered,
the evening was quite enjoyable. What was even better was that, by
the time Mr. Gilbert drove us back to Chloe’s house, Mother had
gone to bed with a sick headache.

* * * * *

“Golly, Mercy, Ernie told me what
happened.”

As soon as Lulu saw me limp into the lobby of
the Figueroa Building the day after my adventures at the Angelica
Gospel Hall, she jumped up from her chair, darted around her
desk—leaving an open bottle of nail varnish sitting there, drying
out—and hurried to me. I guess she aimed to help me if I needed
help.

She went on, “But he said he told you to take
a few days off. Said you were pretty beat up. I can see he was
right. What are you doing here? You ought to be home resting!”

“My mother’s at Chloe’s house,” I said.

“Oh, my God.”

Nothing else needed to be said. Lulu
understood completely.

“But I’ve got some exciting news for you,
Lulu.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“You know the luncheon we were going to have
at the Ambassador tomorrow?”

We’d been slowly making our way to Lulu’s
desk. When I got to the “we were going to have” part of my speech,
Lulu stopped dead. “You mean we’re not going?”

I thought for a minute she was going to
cry.

“Not tomorrow, because I’m too battered, but
there’s good news,” I hurried to assure her.

“Oh?” She walked around her desk and resumed
her chair, looking up at me dubiously.

“We’re all going to dine at the Ambassador.
On the Tuesday after next.”

Her mouth fell open.

“And it’s not just you and me, either, Lulu.
Ernie’s invited, and Chloe and Harvey will be there, and you’ll
never guess who else will be joining us.”

“That handsome Easthope fellow?” she asked
hopefully.

“Him, too, but you’ll never guess who
else.”

She thought for a minute, but I was pretty
sure she’d never come up with the right name. Eventually, she shook
her head and said, “Who?”

“John Gilbert.”

Shoot. I’d expected my news would shock her,
but darned if Lulu didn’t join in with the rest of the women I’d
met recently and faint dead away.

The worst part of this whole story, however,
was that I never did learn why Mrs. Chalmers persisted in calling
herself Mrs. Persephone Chalmers. I suppose some mysteries are too
deep for even the best detectives, darn it.

About the Author

Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives
with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with
fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico.
She’s not a UFO enthusiast; she’s in Roswell because her mother's
family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Since
her two daughters live in California, where Alice was born, she’d
like to return there but can’t afford it. Alice would love to hear
from you at
[email protected]
. And be sure
to visit her website at
http//www.aliceduncan.net
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