The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “What makes you think someone is trying to murder your husband?” Cora asked. “Do you know...who?”

  “Heavens, no,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “But I do know why.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s Bulgarian. And unfortunately I did have to marry the first-born son. He’s very important in his country.” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes gleamed as if they held a secret.

  “He’s a prince?”

  “Cousin to a prince.” Mrs. Ivanov took another sip of tea. “The whole country is toppling apart there, and if his cousin dies, he might be called to inherit.”

  Cora widened her eyes. Mrs. Ivanov was casually saying that she might one day be married to Bulgaria’s king. “That would be exciting.”

  “Exciting?” Mrs. Ivanov pressed her hand against her heart. “It would be horrendous. What would I do as Queen of Bulgaria? What would Mr. Ivanov do? The people might expect us to move there. To hold the country together.”

  “So you believe someone within Bulgaria is trying to kill your husband? And may have compromised one of your guests?”

  Mrs. Ivanov nodded. “I know it sounds incredible. But the poor man was nearly electrocuted last night, and his brakes were cut on a recent jaunt on the Downs. The darling man nearly tumbled in his Jaguar off Beachy Head.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “No, he was much less melodramatic. He merely tumbled into a sheep field. Apparently, the sheep were quite delighted, at least the way the man tells the story.”

  “You must have been appalled.”

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Ivanov shuddered. “It was ghastly. The Jaguar has never been the same since, and we have had specialists look at it. It is a shame.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cora said.

  “But you’ve played a detective multiple times,” Mrs. Ivanov said, and her eyes glowed. “My other guests would not find it odd to have you with them. In fact, I believe you already know one of the guests.”

  “I doubt that is the case.” Cora had spent most of her time in Yorkshire, away from London’s West End and its bevy of actors and actresses.

  “You know all the procedures.”

  When Cora had starred in the Gal Detective movies, she’d always been able to solve the crime in the final scene.

  “I really must decline,” Cora said. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help.”

  “You will be of great help. Besides, the guests are truly quite entertaining. You will enjoy yourself. In fact...” Mrs. Ivanov’s eyes glimmered. “I’ll pay you.”

  “Oh.” Cora drew back. “I’m not trained as a detective.”

  “Nonsense, you’ve been playing one for years,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Besides, I couldn’t invite a real detective. My guests would think the person quite dull, and dear Mr. Ivanov would be most upset with me. You’ll attend my house party as a guest. You may even find it amusing.”

  “But I could hardly protect your husband...” Cora gestured at her muscle-devoid arms. Her frailty had been useful for years, but would be of no benefit now.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to tackle a murderer,” Mrs. Ivanov said with a smile. “Though from what I understand of Americans, I see that might be your first inclination. I merely want you to observe.” Mrs. Ivanov frowned and she tapped her scarlet cigarette holder absentmindedly against her saucer. “I hadn’t imagined that you would be...difficult.”

  Cora didn’t want Mrs. Ivanov to think her difficult.

  Not when her great aunt was employed by Mrs. Ivanov.

  Mrs. Ivanov could think what she wanted of Cora, but she hardly wanted to upset her great aunt’s employer. Cora would leave the household soon, but Aunt Maggie could not.

  “Perhaps we could come to an understanding,” Cora said reluctantly.

  Mrs. Ivanov removed her pocketbook with a smile. “Would three hundred pounds be suitable? You haven’t made a movie for a while. This job might be just the thing for you

  Cora kept her features composed, but her mouth wanted to drop open and her eyes wanted to widen.

  Three hundred pounds would be very helpful.

  “I’ll attend,” she said.

  Mrs. Ivanov clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”

  Cora’s smile wobbled. “But I do think if you’re worried about him, you should hire a professional.”

  Mrs. Ivanov beamed. “The man is so brave. He’d never hear of it. And you will suit my party perfectly. People will be delighted to meet you.”

  Cora nodded. People were always happy to meet her. But the thing was, even though she’d spent years memorizing lines and attending dance and music classes, the dream hadn’t been hers. Her father had simply announced one evening that they would be going to Hollywood for an audition, and that had been that.

  “What would you like me to do?” Cora asked.

  “Simply observe. Use your knowledge from all those years of playing a detective on the silver screen to see if someone is acting suspiciously. It will be easy.”

  Cora raised an eyebrow. “You mean, look for someone with a Bulgarian accent?”

  Mrs. Ivanov laughed. “I do wish it were that simple. I’m afraid many people can be influenced. Even the most unlikely.”

  Cora nodded. She understood. Political opinion was strong now. People might do things they would never have before considered, believing in a greater cause.

  Anarchists had spent the last decade in the United States blowing up buildings. One had even attempted to assassinate the attorney general. Apparently, this political stress spanned continents.

  “Who will be at the party?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Ah. Only four people. I believe they’re visiting some museum exhibit in Eastbourne. Quite tiresome, truly. But at least Mr. Ivanov was heroic in inspiring them to leave the house. I only wished for their sakes that they were going to see something more than colorful splotches on white canvas. The creativity of an artist is far overvalued. What always counted before was skill, and now it’s obscured.”

  “I take it you did not choose the artwork?”

  Mrs. Ivanov shook her head. “See! You are a good detective. Now tell me.” Mrs. Ivanov leaned closer to Cora. “Is there anyone special in your life? Someone for whom you would endure questionable art on your walls?”

  Randolph.

  The man’s name shot through her heart. Last December, they’d kissed, and in that moment, the world had been magical.

  But it was March now, and she hadn’t seen him since then. She didn’t know much about him, and it seemed he’d decided there was no need to learn anything else about her. Most likely, he’d kissed all manner of attractive women since then. The man was handsome after all.

  Her heart tightened, and she found her cheeks warming.

  Mrs. Ivanov’s gaze was still upon her. The woman had seemed quite capable of talking about herself, but now when Cora was for the first time confronted with a topic that made her uncertain, she was all observation.

  “There is someone,” Mrs. Ivanov said.

  “I—” Cora looked down at her cup.

  The house might be modern, but the tea set looked like it had come from the last century. Cora traced the dark blue and gold oriental pattern that promised excitement with her finger.

  “This is beautiful,” she said finally, setting it down.

  If Mrs. Ivanov was disappointed that Cora did not tell her more, she didn’t say anything.

  “My first husband’s grandmother was quite the collector,” Mrs. Ivanov said.

  “Was the original home on this land?” Cora asked.

  “Yes.” Mrs. Ivanov’s lips quirked up. “My nephew lives there now. I believe that looking at the sea was too much excitement for his ancestors. They preferred the rolling hills of the Downs. The chalk cliffs can be most unstable after all, and there once was the threat of war.” Her face sobered. “I suppose not everything has changed after all.”

  “But you like the ocean,” Cora said.

  “I’m not afraid of da
nger, Miss Clark.” She paused. “Or at least, I’m only afraid only when my husband’s life is at stake.”

  “It’s probably not anything,” Cora said gently.

  “Then you will simply be fed the best food and meet the best people for no reason at all,” Mrs. Ivanov said matter-of-factly.

  Cora didn’t mention that she was quite certain the best person, her great aunt, was downstairs.

  Chapter Three

  Boots clomped in the hallway. Voices grew louder, and a pleased smile appeared on Mrs. Ivanov’s face. “They’re back.”

  “Darling! There you are.” A rich baritone voice soared through the room, and Cora turned her head toward the sound.

  This was the man who was going to die.

  Mrs. Ivanov was correct. The man was handsome. His chin managed to neither recede nor protrude, and the rest of his face behaved in an equally suitable manner. He was tall, but not so tall that he needed to go about the house remembering to bow at every doorway. His skin was pale, but instead of appearing sickly, his pallor only gave him an artistic look. His hair curled, but his waves were tousled rather than unruly. He adhered to all the rules of handsomeness. The quality of his attire was excellent, and its cuts just unusual enough to indicate lavishness.

  Well.

  Mrs. Ivanov had declared her husband attractive, but Cora hadn’t believed it until now. Mrs. Ivanov’s locks’ strong honey color, gave the appearance of someone anxious to cover gray hairs, and Cora knew the handsomeness of a man was often directly correlated with the size of the man’s bank account. Rows of zeroes somehow impacted the breadth of the man’s shoulders, his height, and the regularity of his facial features. That was why certain producers and directors were referred to in the same breathless manner as top actors, and why some actors, who hadn’t yet reached the success they’d expected ever since being crowned King of the Cornfield in some obscure country fair, were dismissed.

  The cousin to a prince might not be the same as a wealthy producer, but Cora would have bet such a familial relationship would also have a favorable effect on the description of his appearance. Mrs. Ivanov’s description had been highly flattering.

  Surprisingly, this cousin to a Bulgarian prince lived up to all of them. The man had a face that surely caused women to swoon, and a figure that would inspire even the most cynical producer to leap with glee and proclaim him “discovered.”

  “Ah, you must be Miss Clarke. My wife told me last week she was eager to have you join our festivities. Enchantée,” the man murmured in a rich baritone that seemed designed to cause hearts to melt. He swooped into an elegant bow and kissed her hand. “The child actress. But you are no child anymore.”

  The man had a wicked gleam in his eye that should have made her giggle, but which, apparently, only made her heartbeat quicken, even though she would have expected her heart to be inoculated from such obvious flattery somewhere around her fiftieth Hollywood party.

  “It is an honor to have you here,” Mr. Ivanov continued.

  “Miss Clarke, the famous Hollywood actress, was visiting a relative in the servants’ quarters.” Mrs. Ivanov gave a smug look, as if even her servants were of such interest that famous people visited them, and that one might only imagine Mrs. Ivanov’s comparable importance.

  “My wife was most excited,” Mr. Ivanov said. “She said something about fate.”

  “Kismet, darling.” Mrs. Ivanov strolled toward Mr. Ivanov and then pressed ruby lips against his cheek.

  Mrs. Ivanov’s fears for her husband’s safety might have seemed excessive, but Cora understood them. The man did rather radiate perfection. He was an Adonis, one who somehow managed to not be a sculpture created centuries ago, whose days were occupied with having his photo snapped by gawking tourists and his nights occupied only with a security guard. Of course, Mrs. Ivanov cared about her spouse’s safety. Cora was surprised to find she cared about his safety too, even if she thought it most unlikely that anyone might desire to murder him.

  Mr. Ivanov was not an old and wizened man who threatened to disinherit his relations. He was neither cranky nor mean. He didn’t come with money—that belonged to his wife, and Mrs. Ivanov and he had no children. His death wouldn’t benefit anyone.

  And yet if his car had truly been tampered with... Her heart squeezed.

  A servant led Cora to a room upstairs. It overlooked the English Channel, and Cora settled into an armchair that faced the view. The crashing of waves was almost hypnotic, and she watched as the sun descended into the horizon, casting tangerine and lilac light over the once gray waves that danced upon the English Channel below.

  Other guests spoke in the adjoining rooms, and she wished she’d gotten the chance to ask Mrs. Ivanov more about them. Did any of them have connections to Bulgaria?

  Mr. Ivanov’s sister possessed them of course, but she doubted his sister was plotting to murder him, even if childhood slights had a tendency to grow larger over the years, casting every encounter into doubt. Would someone intent on murdering make such a distinction between people who possessed their same blood or not? Murder was already a breach of every etiquette.

  Cora tapped her fingers over the armrest, allowing them to sink into the sumptuous velvet material as a wave of longing for her home swept over her.

  Mrs. Ivanov and her husband had everything. They were wealthy, still relatively young, and seemed to have maintained friendships. Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had imagined the severity of the accidents. When one had so much, one must worry at the prospect of losing it.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and a maid entered the room. Cora recognized her from the staff she’d briefly seen downstairs. The maid had dark hair and a pale face. Even though Cora suspected they were the same age, it seemed the maid emitted respectability. Her hair was tied into a tight bun, and her face lacked make-up.

  The maid curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke.”

  “Hello,” Cora said. “What’s your name?”

  “Georgie, miss. Mrs. Ivanov thought you might need help.”

  “That’s very kind of her.”

  “Shall I unpack your suitcase?” Georgie asked.

  “Please,” Cora said. “And you can press my evening gown.”

  “Which one?” Georgie asked.

  “The blue one with ruffles,” Cora said. “You’ll spot it.”

  It was also Cora’s only evening gown, but she didn’t want to dwell on that fact now. Evening gowns had been less necessary in Hollywood where she’d worked very often. Here the only entertainment seemed to be around the dining room table.

  “Is my great aunt in the kitchen?” Cora asked.

  The maid nodded. Clearly, Great Aunt Maggie truly had told everyone that she was arriving.

  “I think I’ll visit her,” Cora said.

  “Very well,” Georgie said. “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  Cora shook her head with a smile. “The general direction is down. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  Georgie nodded and then picked up Cora’s trunk and moved it onto a stand. Her movements were quick and efficient, and Cora left her in peace.

  Soon Cora strode down the marble hallway. Glamorous modern sculptures lined the walls, positioned beside large canvases splattered with bright shapes. On the paintings where the artist had decided to depict more than shapes and tints, the images were always macabre. People were distorted, and they managed to look alternatively desperate or garish.

  Cora found the stairs and then found her way to the main floor. She remembered the narrow stairs that had led from there to the kitchen and walked down them. The kitchen lacked the innovative designs prevalent in the rest of the house, and Cora felt at home. Dim light came in through from small windows at the top of the walls.

  She found Aunt Maggie easily, hearing her voice. Aunt Maggie was in a small room off the kitchen, speaking with Mr. Mitu. Archibald lay at their feet. No doubt he was happy to be in the warmth again.

  “Cor
a dear!” Aunt Maggie’s eyes shone when she spotted her. “How are you enjoying the upstairs?”

  “It’s nice,” Cora said, certain Mrs. Ivanov would not want her to share the exact reason for the invitation.

  They chatted for a while, and then Cora took Archibald for a walk. The rain was less violent now, and Cora ambled toward the English Channel. Long grass, speckled with wildflowers, clung to her boots and dress, and the ground was soft underneath her feet. In the distance, some sheep grazed in a field, no doubt content that the rain had lessened. The gray ocean spread before her, continuing its incessant task of crashing into the shore. Tall chalky cliffs loomed over the channel, the fragile rock still managing to serve as an effective barrier against the relentless waves.

  Happiness fluttered through Cora. It didn’t matter that the sky and ocean were gray. It didn’t matter that it still drizzled. She was in Sussex, far from the trials of Hollywood. She had a great aunt and she had Archibald.

  When Cora and Archibald returned, the maid had already laid out her evening gown, and Cora slipped into it. She hadn’t had a maid in Hollywood, and the dress was easy to slip into, though she was grateful for Georgie’s help in doing her hair and makeup. Perhaps the other houseguests wouldn’t notice that the cut of her dress was from 1936. The huge puff sleeves and generous collar had a tendency to appear old-fashioned.

  Archibald curled up onto a comfortable looking oriental rug, and Cora strode down the marble stairs toward the sound of voices and big band music, determined to discover who might have murderous intent.

  Chapter Four

  The sun may have set, but the chandeliers and sconces sparkled valiantly to replace the lack of natural light. Cora entered the drawing room and surveyed the people about her, pondering who might have nefarious inclinations. Most of them seemed consumed with the efforts to eat the cook’s delicious canapes while holding champagne flutes.

  “Miss Clarke!” Mrs. Ivanov moved quickly toward her despite her floor-length dress, and feathers fluttered at the hem of her capelet. “You look divine. Isn’t Georgie positively magical?”