The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  War was far more present here, perhaps because they’d so clearly suffered under the Great War. Middle-aged men were often not in possession of all their limbs.

  People seemed alternatively eager to chide Chamberlain for not defending Europe’s smaller countries from Hitler’s greed to lauding Chamberlain’s restraint and maintaining that Hitler was not so bad.

  Cora hoped the latter was the case. That was Roosevelt’s opinion, and she was proud of her president.

  People might be so accustomed to viewing Germany negatively, given the number of people they’d killed for seemingly no reason in the last war, that it was natural for them to be suspicious of them now.

  Maybe Hitler was correct. Perhaps the people in the smaller countries that bordered Germany desired to be part of Germany. Certainly, their economy was doing relatively well. Czechoslovakia was a new country; it had only been formed at the end of the Great War. It made sense that a country with more experience at governing might take better care of its people.

  But Dowager Duchess Denisa seemed to view Germany’s rule over Czechoslovakia with absolute disdain, despite the fact that she’d not been part of that country for years.

  And more than one Jewish director and writer in Hollywood had fled Germany, speaking of such open discrimination that one wondered whether it could possibly be true...

  She wanted to ask the dowager more questions.

  The butler though cleared his throat. “Telephone for Miss Clarke.”

  “Me?” She’d expected it would be for the dowager, or possibly for Veronica.

  She frowned. “It’s not a reporter, is it?”

  “It does not appear to be, Miss Clarke. If it is one, it is a most unconventional one.”

  Cora frowned and followed Wexley to the phone. She picked up the glossy receiver.

  “Is that Cora?” An older woman’s voice sounded on the other side of the crackling line.

  “Yes,” Cora said.

  “Susan’s child?”

  Cora’s heart squeezed. “Yes.”

  Was this her great aunt?

  It can’t be.

  But the woman’s accent seemed to have an Irish twang to it that made it very likely.

  Very, very likely.

  “Oh, my!” the woman cooed in obvious excitement. “I’m your Great Aunt Maggie.”

  “Hello,” Cora said.

  The word did not seem adequate to convey the emotion Cora felt, and Cora was glad that her great aunt could not see her rapidly warming cheeks.

  “My sweet child,” her great aunt said. “This makes me so very happy.”

  “You found me,” Cora said.

  “Hmph. You’ve gotten yourself into a mishap,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “I read about it over my toast. Even managed to burn my tongue on the tea when I saw your picture. You’re the spitting image of Susan.”

  “Really?” Cora smiled.

  Her mother’s current hair color was a vibrant Rita Haywoodesque red, and before that she’d had a tightly curled platinum bob à la Ginger Rogers.

  Not that Mother was very likely to break out singing and dancing, like both those women were prone to doing on the silver screen.

  “I didn’t know that,” Cora said.

  “Do tell me that Susan is alive,” Great Aunt Maggie said.

  “She is!” Cora hastened to reassure her.

  “Good,” Cora’s great aunt said. “Haven’t heard from her in years. Now, what’s all this about a murder?”

  Cora shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose it sounds ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps. You did make all those Gal Detective movies.” She paused. “I saw every one of them.”

  “You did?”

  “You were excellent,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “And if you really did spend the holidays snowed-in at a manor house with two murderers—”

  “I did,” Cora said.

  “Well, then I’m very sorry. It’s certainly an imperfect introduction to England.”

  “I’m quite fine now.”

  “Brave girl.” Great Aunt Maggie was silent for a while, but then she said, “You should visit me in Sussex.”

  “Truly?”

  “Sunniest part of England,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “It probably doesn’t compare to California, but I would like to see you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cora said quickly.

  “Really?” The voice sounded almost surprised, but Cora repeated it again.

  She was serious.

  It would be nice to meet her very oldest relative.

  She wasn’t quite ready to go back to California yet. They chatted a while, but when she finally hung up, Wexley handed her a telegram.

  “For me?” Cora raised her eyebrows, but then realized everyone in the world clearly knew her location.

  Randolph took it out of the butler’s hands. “Come back to Hollywood. Stop.”

  “Probably some joke,” Cora said. “Anyone can send a telegram. I’m not going all the way back there to find—”

  The phone rang again, and the butler disappeared.

  He was soon back. “Miss Clarke? There is a phone call for you.”

  The butler gave her a curious look, as if to indicate his disapproval that she’d somehow managed to get so many messages at once.

  She took the phone receiver. “Yes?”

  “Darling!” A deep voice exclaimed.

  “Father?” A wave of relief rushed through her.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “M-merry Christmas,” she stammered.

  He’d been so disappointed in her the last time he’d seen her, but now she found herself beaming into the phone from his exuberant tone.

  “Palm Springs isn’t the same without you,” he declared.

  “Oh?”

  She didn’t remind him that she hadn’t spent Christmas in Palm Springs since she was twelve, and even that had been accompanied with many photo shoots.

  “Hello, darling!” another voice said.

  “Mother?” Cora shook her head.

  It couldn’t be her.

  Cora’s mother didn’t spend time with Cora’s father. Not after his habit of bedding chorus girls had been discovered. Suspicions that could be ignored in private were rather less easily dismissed when they appeared splayed on the covers of gossip magazines. Her father hadn’t stopped being a ladies’ man when he’d slipped a ring on Mother’s finger, and once his fame had risen with Cora’s, he certainly hadn’t halted his instincts to enjoy himself.

  Still. After the trauma of the last few days, Cora was awfully glad for any contact with the outside world. Even her parents.

  “Did you hear about the news?” Cora asked in a small voice.

  “Naturally,” her father said. “We might be thousands of miles away, but we’ve still got great news here.”

  “We want you to come back at once,” Mother said.

  Oh.

  That was nice.

  “We want you to speak to someone,” Mother said.

  “When I’m back?”

  “Right now,” Pop said.

  Her father’s voice seemed to beam through the receiver, and despite all the stress of the past few days, she found herself returning his smile.

  “Hello, Miss Clarke.”

  It was Mr. Bellomo.

  The head of the studio.

  The man who’d dismissed her.

  “Merry Christmas,” Cora said.

  The last time she’d seen him, he’d seemed very intent on not ever seeing her again.

  “Merry Christmas to you,” he repeated. “Now, I don’t have time for pleasantries, we’re having a smashing party here, but I am thrilled to be able to talk with you. We’ve got a big picture coming up, and your daddy thinks you’re just the one to play opposite Pierre Ballard.”

  “Me?” Cora stammered. “But I don’t even have a contract—”

  “It’s a top quality film,” Mr. Bellomo continued. “We need an actress who’s worldly
. Someone who’s seen things—” He paused. “Horrible things.”

  “You want me to work for you?” Cora sputtered. “Did you read the newspaper?”

  She didn’t want to remind him that her name was now written in big block letters on every broadsheet, but she couldn’t bear for the opportunity to be taken from her once he had.

  “Ah, yes. Quite the scandal you’ve got going,” the producer said.

  The thing was, his voice didn’t sound appropriately upset.

  “Nice way to stay in the news,” he continued.

  “So the offer stands?” Cora asked.

  “Naturally,” Mr. Bellomo said. “I don’t waste time.”

  “Thank you for your offer.”

  “So we’ll see you in a week,” the producer said. “We’ll put you in a brand new seven-year contract.”

  Cora hesitated. This was the call that she’d been waiting for.

  She should be jumping up and down.

  Her legs itched, and she wasn’t certain if it was from a desire to do just that, or if she wanted to pace. Trudging on the thick snow seemed for some ridiculous reason appealing.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Cora said.

  “Think about it?” The producer’s voice became shrill. “Think?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not a philosopher, honey,” the man said. “You’re an actress. And I’m offering you work. Big work. On thousands of very large screens.”

  “And I’m grateful,” Cora said.

  “But you gotta think?” he asked resignedly.

  “I’ll call you,” Cora said.

  “Better make it soon,” he said. “If you’ve gotta break my heart, I’d prefer to make someone else’s dreams come true.”

  “Give me until New Year’s.”

  “New Year’s?” The man practically sputtered.

  In fact, he might have sputtered, and Cora probably should have been relieved to be so far from the man’s telephone.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Cowering was in the past.

  “Will that be a problem?” Cora asked.

  “Of course not,” he said. “This studio has many things to do while wait for you. Many, many things.”

  Cora smiled. At one point those words would have scared her. Now, she only said, “Splendid.”

  “Cora! Cora!” Her father’s voice came through the line. It sounded frantic. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you just tell Mr. Bellomo, Mr. Vincent Bellomo of Bellomo Studios, to wait?”

  Cora smiled. “I believe I did.”

  “Do you know how hard it was to get him to call?”

  “It’s a big decision.” Cora hung up the phone and went to join the others in the drawing room.

  “Who was that?” Veronica asked.

  “Hollywood. They—er—want me to come back. They want me to star in a new film.”

  Veronica beamed. “Honey, I’m so proud of you!”

  “I believe they actually liked the scandal.”

  “How positively smashing. I’m glad this horrible holiday didn’t utterly derail your career.”

  “I’m sorry it derailed your—”

  “Marriage?” Veronica laughed, though the sound managed to be bitter. “Though that wasn’t the holiday’s fault. Thank goodness you found that my husband was a murderer. It’s really not the sort of negative trait one can live with.”

  “Especially since his mistress seemed eager to leave about clues to implicate you.”

  “No, indeed. Though quite honestly, I do think that even divorcing in Reno is more respectable than having a partnership dissolve because of execution. I do disagree with her there.”

  “I don’t believe she liked you,” Cora said.

  “No.” Veronica tossed her hair. “And so many people do.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I’ll return home. To California. And all those darling, darling fans. I’ll have to see when the next ship sails for New York City. Perhaps we can spend Christmas on board. I’ve really no urge to spend it in this country, no matter how good mince pies are supposed to be.”

  Cora hesitated.

  “You will be going back, won’t you honey?”

  It would be easy to say yes, to go along with Veronica’s plan and that of her parents and Mr. Bellomo.

  Everyone expected her to do that, and the decision would fulfill all her instincts for sensibleness and practicality.

  But she still hesitated.

  It might be nice, just this once, to do something for herself. She’d been an actress for years. These past days had taught her to not take anything for granted, even her life.

  Veronica narrowed her eyes. “Honey, I do believe you don’t want to come with me. You do know that I’m exciting?”

  “I want to try something actually quiet.”

  “But you’re a starlet!” Veronica said. “Quiet should not be a goal.”

  Cora smiled, conscious that Veronica would be just fine. Her husband might have been a murderer, an occupation that no bride would desire for her partner, but Veronica would return to Hollywood now and continue working. Cora suspected she would even enjoy it more than being an aristocrat in England, no matter if even Bel Air mansions did not equal the size of Yorkshire manor homes.

  “All the same,” Cora said. “I think I should try it.”

  “And where will you find that elusive state?” Veronica asked.

  “I’ll visit my great aunt in Sussex.”

  “On the South Downs?” Veronica rested her hand against her silk blouse and fiddled with her oversized bow in an uncharacteristic show of distress. “Heavens, you will succeed in finding quiet there. But you will be beside yourself with boredom! Why, there will be nothing to do except stare at the English Channel! And even that doesn’t extend very far, nor does it have any of the magnificence of the Pacific. I doubt you’ll experience a single tsunami!”

  “Nevertheless, I want to visit,” Cora said.

  Veronica gave a languid sigh. “Very well, honey.”

  Cora turned to Archibald. “Do you fancy visiting Sussex?”

  Archibald tilted his head to one side, as if calculating whether the strange word might entail anything delightful.

  “How about a walk?” Cora asked.

  At this, Archibald leaped up and dashed toward her, barking as his feet pattered against the parquet floor, and then he sprinted to the main door.

  Wexley and the duchess flashed looks of disapproval, but Cora followed Archibald. She slipped his lead onto him, and they stepped outside. The ice in the moat had nearly melted, and the sky was devoid of either snow or sleet.

  Archibald wagged his tail, enjoying the now-cleared drive. He marched toward the fields, away from the towering manor house and the evil that they’d found within.

  Thank you for reading Murder at the Manor House. I hope you enjoyed it.

  Murder at the Manor House is the first book in the Sleuthing Starlet series. Order the next book in the series, Danger on the Downs, now.

  DANGER ON THE DOWNS

  Sussex, 1938.

  Former Hollywood starlet Cora Clarke may be new to England, but she does know that visiting the seaside is supposed to be a soothing experience. The snowy white cliffs and foamy ocean are indeed idyllic, but when her great aunt’s employer insists someone is trying to murder her husband, Cora is whisked off to a house party with her pet bichon. When someone soon turns up dead, Cora discovers Sussex might possess scandals that exceed anything a Hollywood director might conjure for the silver screen.

  Chapter One

  March, 1938

  Sussex

  The rain probably wasn’t a harbinger, but Cora Clarke still shivered.

  There’d been little rain in Los Angeles where Cora had been a movie star for fifteen years, and there’d been still less rain in Las Vegas, where she’d lived prior.

  The directors, though, had always included rain at
ominous moments. Any hint of sorrow, even the impending kind, seemed to cause them to bark out instructions to wheel in rain machines.

  Unfortunately, this rain couldn’t be stopped by pressing a button. This rain was serious.

  The rain thudded against the train’s carriage, as if seeking to compete with the clatter of the wheels moving over the track. The view outside had been blurry, as rain had sloshed down the windows, but now condensation obscured even that. Archibald lay lackadaisically at her feet, and she bent to stroke his curly white coat.

  “You’re used to England,” she said.

  Archibald rolled onto his back, as if triumphant at the accomplishment, and she ruffled the hair on his belly.

  The rain had descended throughout her journey from London Victoria Station, and it seemed unlikely to stop before she exited the carriage onto the platform in Polegate. She inhaled, quelling the strange nervousness that ran through her, and urged Archibald to follow her.

  He wagged his tail, and his feet pitter-patted over the corridor of the now mostly empty train. Most of the passengers had been well-dressed businessmen, attired in six-button double-breasted suit jackets with wide lapels and wider shoulders, who had departed at Lewes.

  The men who were left seemed more tired, and their cheaper suits gleamed at times in the fluorescent light.

  The conductor announced Polegate, emphasizing each hard vowel in a manner typically found in vaudeville showmen, and Cora hoisted up her trunk and stepped from the door of the carriage, ignoring the prickle of nervousness that coursed through her. Archibald followed, wagging his tail despite the onslaught of rain, and rushed to investigate the weeds that poked from the platform.

  Cora’s transparent oiled silk coat might stretch past her knees, and the sleeves might reach her wrists, but it still managed to seem too short when confronted with the sudden surge of rain which seemed to be of a strange horizontal variety.

  Cora supposed the rain might be an improvement on the snow that had blanketed Yorkshire. The snow had covered every slope, accompanied by icicles that dangled from every roof, like makeshift crystals. Thankfully, the snow had vanished as she traveled south.

  Nothing sparkled on the platform in Polegate. The sky was a gunmetal gray, accompanied by the slightly less-gray clouds that sailed over it with great speed, as if seeking to intimidate the German army, rumored to be intending invasion. Rain tumbled down with equal force, striking against the worn platform with a noise more suited to the particularly violent scenes in certain James Cagney films.