The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  Dim light illuminated the hallway, its strength marred by the crystals that adorned the chandeliers. If the crystals were intended to make the light more magnificent, they succeeded only in making it cloudy.

  She poked her head through the door.

  The room seemed empty, and she frowned.

  Could she have imagined Signor Palombi and Archibald’s presence?

  The room was dark, but she could make out shapes: an armchair, likely leather and luxurious, and a kidney desk that curved on two sides, like Mr. Bellomo’s.

  She walked past the library door, and it was only when she reached the end of the corridor that she remembered she’d wanted to go to her room.

  Voices came from the drawing room, and she was just about to turn around when she heard her name.

  “Miss Clarke!” Lord Holt greeted her. “Come join us.”

  “You can call me Cora,” she told him.

  For a moment, he looked uneasy, but he soon smiled. “Splendid. And—er—Lord Holt is unnecessarily formal. Edmund will do just fine.”

  Edmund and his older half-brother were sitting in the drawing room.

  “You can call him, Ed,” Mr. Ardingley said.

  “No!” Edmund said.

  “Eddie?” Cora asked, and Mr. Ardingley’s eyes twinkled.

  A dark rose hue seeped into Edmund’s cheeks. “That’s—er—not preferable either.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cora said.

  It was refreshing to be in the presence of someone who was not suave and convinced of the veracity of his every statement.

  “Have you seen my wife?” Edmund asked.

  “I thought she was planning to join you in the drawing room,” Cora said.

  “Good.”

  “Should I go find her?”

  “Oh, no,” Edmund said hastily. “Don’t want to make a big deal about it. Why don’t you have a seat?”

  Cora hesitated. It would be nice to get to know Veronica’s husband better. “Very well.”

  Perhaps it might distract her from thinking of what exactly Signor Palombi was doing in the duke’s library. She had the faint feeling that the proper etiquette might be to mention the fact to one of the hosts. But she’d found the duke so unappealing that she was reluctant to get Signor Palombi into trouble.

  She picked up a thick book on the coffee table.

  Edmund glanced at the book. “Shakespeare. The only fiction Father permits. Are you a fan?”

  “I haven’t read much,” Cora admitted.

  “Oh, that’s fine,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I don’t think Father has either. Otherwise he would be sure to disapprove of all the vile jokes and grizzly deaths.”

  Cora widened her eyes, and the brothers laughed.

  “I don’t mean to put you off,” Mr. Ardingley said. “It is entertaining, and since you’re in England...”

  “Perhaps I should read England’s greatest author,” Cora finished.

  “Exactly,” Edmund said. “Though you needn’t start with Macbeth. Shakespeare would have given a much truer depiction of the British Isle if he’d devoted his life to writing on foxhunting and degrees of blusteriness.”

  Cora smiled and flicked to the table of contents, reading titles of plays she’d heard of but never seen. She settled into the armchair. The fire’s orange and red flames danced merrily in the fireplace, and she absorbed some of its warmth.

  She felt foolish for having desired to retire early. She turned to the first page and began to read. A bone-chilling scream echoed from above, sending a chill down Cora’s spine and making her heart stampede against her ribs.

  And then a scream sounded.

  Chapter Six

  The scream soared through the manor house.

  It was long.

  Fearful.

  Cora had never heard the sound of terror so clearly.

  But they were alone.

  King Kong hadn’t wandered into the room.

  Cora glanced at Edmund and Mr. Ardingley, as if to confirm the scream had really sounded.

  Their eyes were wide, fearful.

  “It’s Father!” Mr. Ardingley jumped to his feet and rushed from the drawing room.

  Edmund and Cora followed him. They hurried up the grand staircase, and Cora cursed the curves in the stairs, which had likely been more designed for beauty than for efficiency.

  They sprinted over the carpeted hallway, past carved oak cabinets and painted vases depicting faraway lands. Signor Palombi and the duchess stood outside one of the doors, still attired in their evening wear. Signor Palombi jiggled the door’s handle, and Lady Audrey, Mrs. Ardingley and Veronica approached from the other end of the corridor.

  “Your grace?” Signor Palombi shouted. “What’s going on? Open the door.”

  The scream continued to sound, but then it stopped abruptly.

  A chill swept over Cora.

  Edmund brushed past the others.

  “Father!” He banged on the door. “Father!”

  The room remained silent.

  Perhaps it was good.

  Perhaps a mouse had appeared, but it had hopped away, and the duke was no longer frightened.

  But dread crept along Cora’s spine. The duke didn’t seem to be the type of person to be unnerved by a mouse, not with his comfort in confronting others, and certainly not with his history of questionable business dealings with foreign powers.

  “What’s going on?” Mr. Ardingley asked. “Papa?”

  “I’ll enter via the balcony.” Edmund dashed through the next door, which Cora realized must belong to the duchess. They heard another door slam, and then utter silence.

  “Edmund!” Veronica shrieked. “Are you all right? How is your father?”

  Finally, Edmund swung open the door.

  His face was pale and somber.

  The duchess pushed past him.

  Edmund tried to catch her. “Don’t go there—”

  “Horace!” screamed the Duchess Denisa, and the others entered the room.

  And then Cora gasped.

  The curtains were open, as were the French windows leading to the balcony. Moonlight shone over the bed. Shards of crystal and broken glass tubes lay shattered. They glimmered under the strength of the moonlight.

  But that was not what drew horror. Horror came from the curve of the blanket that indicated someone was lying underneath, and horror came from the scrapes of dark liquid over white, wrinkled, unmoving flesh.

  “Oh, my God,” Mrs. Ardingley said.

  “My husband,” the duchess wailed. “Remove that chandelier. Rescue him!”

  She tossed pieces of the chandelier behind her.

  Edmund nodded and swept off large pieces of the chandelier to the floor.

  “He can’t just die,” the duchess shrieked. “Not like this.”

  Unfortunately, it looked horribly like he’d already died. His eyes were glassy and unseeing.

  “Do something, someone,” demanded the duchess.

  “I’ll call the doctor.” Mr. Ardingley rushed from the room, and the pounding of his footsteps echoed in the corridor.

  “Cora, what would you have done in the Gal Detective movies?” Veronica asked.

  “That’s hardly relevant,” the duchess wailed.

  “She’s right,” Cora said.

  “But there’s no doctor,” Veronica said. “There’s no one else...”

  Cora approached the bed and inhaled.

  She put her fingers on the duke’s pulse. She had done it before in one of The Gal Detective movies. There it had been almost amusing, since she’d recited her lines on camera saying that she couldn’t feel anything, when in fact the pulse of the actor who had played the corpse had vibrated beneath her fingers.

  The duke’s wrist was cold beneath her touch, and there was no pulse.

  Cora swallowed hard and moved her hand. She brushed some chandelier shards from his heart and tried to listen, but there was nothing, no sound. She was touching somebody who no longer existe
d.

  How quickly death descends.

  Cora drew back abruptly. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  The wooden floorboards creaked beneath her steps, as if to groan, and she wavered, unsure where she could next step.

  “He can’t be,” insisted the duchess. “He was just alive.”

  The others stared dumbly at her. Even Signor Palombi’s face was white, and he was silent, evidently unable to conjure the power to launch into a speech on the swiftness and finality of death.

  Wexley arrived and quickly lit the candles in the room, and Veronica took a candle from him. She resembled a Victorian woman in her gown, and even though Cora knew it was a modern mint, it appeared white under the incessant golden flickers of the candle.

  Lady Audrey and Mrs. Ardingley were also wearing clothes better suited for sleep. Mrs. Ardingley wore a long negligee. The polka dotted fabric and pink ruffles on the square shoulder yoke seemed absurdly cheerful. Lady Audrey was clothed in a nightgown, though the long bishop sleeves afforded her some privacy. A lace-trimmed silk eye mask perched on her head.

  Cora could tell in the light that even the Duchess of Hawley looked less polished than she’d seemed initially. She was wearing slippers with her evening gown, and her slippers had snow on them.

  How odd.

  Lady Audrey was silent, and Cora exchanged glances with her.

  Neither of them were supposed to be here. They were joint intruders in this family tragedy.

  Cora had never even seen a dead person before. Her visit wasn’t supposed to start with a blood-spattered host.

  Mr. Ardingley soon arrived back, and the butler accompanied him with a flashlight.

  “No good, I’m afraid,” Mr. Ardingley said. “The lines aren’t working.”

  “Not working?” Cora blinked.

  Mrs. Ardingley smiled. “You poor American darling. So unfamiliar with snow.”

  “And rightfully assuming a proper infrastructure,” Signor Palombi said. “England is behind the times.”

  “Now is not the time to talk about that,” admonished the duchess.

  “No, of course not,” Mr. Ardingley said, his face once again white, as if seeking to match the salty strands in his hair.

  “When will the telephone work again?” Cora asked.

  “Likely at some point when there is less snow,” said the butler.

  “Perhaps one of the servants should go into town to fetch the police,” the duchess said.

  “And someone should remove the body,” Veronica said. “It is terribly grizzly.”

  “Be that as it may,” the butler said, “I would prefer to limit the death count to one tonight. I’ll send one of the footmen to the village when it’s light.”

  “Of course, Wexley,” the duchess said smoothly. “You are clever.”

  “I say,” said Mr. Ardingley. “Is that mustard on your face, Wexley?”

  The butler’s face reddened, and he removed a handkerchief. “Forgive me. We were having dinner in the kitchen. Cook makes a very good sausage.”

  “Were all the servants there?” Cora asked.

  “Yes. No one misses dinner.”

  Edmund knelt beside the bed. His voice was solemn. “I can’t believe it. It can’t be true.”

  Cora and the others lingered, as if unsure what to do now that their host had been crushed to death.

  Chapter Seven

  Tree branches rattled against the walls of the manor house, the tapping sound evident despite the howl and whistle of the wind as it thrust through the trees. Snow fell outside, visible through the large windows framed by green velvet drapes that stretched onto the wooden floor, settling into luxurious piles.

  The sumptuous surroundings contrasted with the mangled body of the duke. Nausea threatened Cora’s throat, and she swallowed hard.

  Edmund brushed off the shards of the crystal on the bed, and they slid onto the floor, clanging as they collided with the floorboards.

  “I’ll send for a maid, your grace.” Wexley left the room.

  Mrs. Ardingley drew in her breath sharply.

  And then Cora realized it.

  Your grace.

  Edmund was a duke now.

  Veronica was a duchess.

  All of this now belonged to them, and any tiffs Edmund had had with his father over money were irrelevant. His fortune was large and could not be disputed.

  Some aristocrats’ possessions did not amount to anything beyond that of their title and property. The latter often acted more as an impediment to the aristocrats as they struggled to maintain their estates and pay governmental fees. Veronica had told her that the duke—the late duke—had not belonged to this category. He’d managed to continue his wealth, investing in weapons during the Great War and unafraid to make deals with other countries to further the interests of his family.

  Veronica and she had marveled that the scruffy, determined girl she’d met all those years ago could be transformed into an English aristocrat. She’d seemed to have made good on such a large scale, surpassing even the ostensibly impossible dream of becoming a Hollywood actress. The gossip columnists had marveled over her success and the magnificence of her future title. How had no one contemplated the horrors of death that must accompany any such change in title and fortune?

  A maid arrived with a pail. Her face was grim, and she approached the bed with obvious trepidation.

  “Please clear the bed as much as you can,” the butler said. “The late duke should retain some modicum of dignity.”

  The maid nodded and placed the pail beside the bed.

  Unease coursed through Cora.

  Every Gal Detective film had mentioned the importance of not disturbing the crime scene.

  Of course, this wasn’t like those films.

  This wasn’t a crime scene.

  The fact would be absurd.

  Except...

  The poor man had seemed utterly terrified when he’d screamed.

  Perhaps the chandelier had not fallen on him simply because of an accident? Perhaps somebody had been irritated by his constant harangues and had taken matters into his own hands.

  “Stop,” Cora said abruptly.

  Everyone stared at her.

  “Why?” Edmund asked. “We can’t let him lie under this.”

  “The police might want to see it,” Cora said.

  “To declare the death,” he said. “Naturally. But he doesn’t have to appear so—”

  “Undignified,” the duchess finished for him.

  “A victim of the brutality of chandelier accidents.” Mrs. Ardingley smirked.

  No one joined her in laughter.

  The horror of this could not be overstated.

  “But what if his death wasn’t accidental?” Cora asked.

  Veronica widened her eyes. “Do you think it might be murder?”

  The word clung to the air, and the others stiffened, their expressions aghast.

  “I might be wrong of course,” Cora said.

  “I assure you that you are,” the duchess said. “What possible evidence is there to even suspect a crime? Who would want to kill my husband?”

  The silence that followed was of the awkward variety.

  Cora had dined with them.

  None of them had liked the duke. A great many people did gain from the death, including his duchess. She obviously hadn’t cared much for the duke. Devoted wives did not have a habit of bringing their lovers to their home for the holidays.

  “I think the police should examine the crime scene,” Cora said. “I think it’s possible someone dropped the chandelier on him on purpose.”

  “Then I’ll leave my husband’s body with remnants of Venetian crystal sticking out of it? I should pay him such disrespect?” The duchess glowered.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him now,” Lady Audrey said.

  Likely she was eager to dismiss the tension swirling in the room. Clearly, she was managing to be more effective at it than Cora, for her grace
’s shoulders relaxed.

  “Well, honey. If you think there’s a problem, I think it’s worth investigating,” Veronica said.

  “I’m happy to send the maid away,” Wexley said, turning a questioning gaze on Edmund, “if you do not have an objection, your grace.”

  “Of course I have an objection.” Edmund scowled at Cora. “What did you mean about the police?”

  Cora frowned. “I mean, he died—didn’t he?”

  “But it was an accident,” Mr. Ardingley said. “You can’t mean to imply that something untoward occurred.”

  Edmund nodded and pulled Veronica toward him, and she leaned against his shoulder. For that moment, they looked every bit as wonderful a couple as the gossip columnists proclaimed.

  Had it been an accident?

  One didn’t hear about chandelier deaths.

  Could someone have forced it to have come down?

  The man had sounded as if he’d known what would happen—and feared it.

  Was it possible that the scream had occurred before the chandelier crash? Would he have been able to see something?

  Could he have screamed so loudly with a chandelier on top of him? Perhaps. After all, the man had seemed in control of his vocal chords. He’d certainly been able to berate Veronica and then his own son with every bit of the same efficiency as a much younger Hollywood director.

  Edmund seemed to realize the implications and drew in his breath. “I know you are a friend of my wife’s, but I do not appreciate that you are in my house and standing over my father’s lifeless body and insinuating that somebody must have despised him enough to murder him.”

  Cora’s shoulders sank an inch. He was right.

  This person had just died, and all Cora had contributed to the alleviation of their grief was pondering whether he had been murdered.

  She shouldn’t be here.

  She should be in LA, where icy wind did not batter against the buildings and where even fires in every room could not mitigate the incessant cold. She wasn’t supposed to be pondering investigations. She may have played a detective once, but that had been for the camera.

  She could give in.

  She could say she was probably wrong.

  But what if she wasn’t wrong? What if he’d really been murdered? And she’d just walked away? He might have been unpleasant to be around, but no one deserved to be murdered, and no one should go about murdering other people.