Fallen Angels by Alice Duncan Page A

stern
Boston breeding into play in this situation. That’s probably
because my mother would have preferred to be caught dead than have
anything at all to do with the police and, therefore, I had no
memories upon which to call. I cast a glance at the body of Mrs.
Chalmers, which had finally been decently covered with something
that looked like a sheet and recalled the younger Mr. Chalmers’
confession.
    Somewhat cheered by this recollection,
even though I still wasn’t sure I’d heard it exactly right, I said,
“When I telephoned to Mr. Simon Chalmers, he said he knew his
mother was dead.” When both men stared at me blankly, I said with
some impatience, “Don’t you see? He already knew !”
    Ernie and Phil exchanged a glance. Then Ernie
said, “Mr. Simon Chalmers’ mother has been dead for years. Mrs.
Persephone Chalmers was his stepmother.”
    My euphoria at having already tagged the
crook evaporated like steam from a teakettle. “Oh.”
    “So I’m still their chief suspect.”
    “I can’t believe this,” I finally said in
something akin to defeat.
    Ernie patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry
about it, Mercy. I’ll figure out who did this. It sure as hell
wasn’t me.”
    “Of course, it wasn’t,” said I in staunch
defense of my employer, even if he did swear too much.
    With studied nonchalance, Ernie reached into
an inner jacket pocket and pulled out the wretched flask that had
so upset me the first time I saw him use it, and took a long
swallow. I guess I could understand that he might be thirsty after
having that gag in his mouth for . . .
    “How long has Mrs. Chalmers been . . .” I
looked around and lowered my voice. I didn’t want to upset Mr.
Chalmers any more than he was already upset. Provided, of course,
that he hadn’t done the deed himself. “How long has she been
dead?”
    “We won’t know that until the coroner gets
here,” said Phil. He looked worried, which worried me. “I don’t
like this.”
    “Neither do I,” said Ernie.
    “Nor I,” I said.
    Plaintively, Ernie said, “Doesn’t anyone have
any headache powders?”
    I led him to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hanratty
dumped a paper of powder into a glass of water and stirred. Ernie
gulped down the resultant cloudy mess with a grimace of
distaste.
    “Thanks,” he said to Mrs. Hanratty.
    “Humph,” said she. I got the feeling she
blamed Ernie for not protecting her employer. I suppose I
understood her attitude, although I didn’t appreciate it.
    Ernie and I returned to the living room and I
got my first look at Mr. Simon Chalmers a couple of minutes after
that, because a police officer escorted him into the room. I eyed
him thoughtfully. He looked like a younger, spryer version of his
father, whom he approached with what seemed like touching
solicitude. I’d learned early in my career as a private
investigator’s assistant—I mean secretary—that it was best not to
take anything for granted. For all I knew at that point in time,
Simon Chalmers had cracked his stepmother on the head and dumped
her down the stairs. And then gone out to play golf? I eyed him
some more. His current clothes didn’t look anything at all like the
stupid knickerbockers my brother always wore when he went out to
play at golf tourneys. Perhaps Simon Chalmers was an employee of
the Sierra Vista Golfing Academy. Or whatever its name was.
    “I’d like for you to make a statement to one
of our officers who takes shorthand, Mercy,” said Phil,
interrupting my survey of the younger Mr. Chalmers. “Is that all
right with you?”
    No. It wasn’t all right with me, mainly
because I was mad at Phil Bigelow and the entire L.A.P.D. However,
for Ernie’s sake, I agreed to be interviewed. It would have been
easier for me to go back to the office and type out a statement,
but I sensed that would be going against another one of the
department’s idiotic rules.
    I tried not to let the young officer who took
my statement know exactly how put out I was