The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  Their audience applauded, and excitement coursed through Cora. Mr. Mitu turned on the lights.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” Mr. Ivanov continued clapping his hands, joined by the others.

  “I think tonight calls for dancing,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  “I don’t dance,” Mr. Rosenfeld grumbled.

  “Honey, it will be fun,” Veronica promised.

  “Oh, yes,” Natalia said. “Let’s dance.”

  “Good idea,” Mrs. Badger said, glancing at Mr. Ivanov.

  Mr. Badger reluctantly assented.

  “Very well,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, standing up. He winced, as if moving his portly body was comparable to lifting a heavy dumbbell.

  The butler whispered something to Mr. Ivanov, and their host nodded. “Shall we meet again in fifteen minutes?”

  “What are you doing, darling?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.

  “I’m just going to make a phone call in my study.”

  Mr. Fawcett scowled, but Mrs. Ivanov gave a tight smile, and the others nodded, some dispersing to the balcony and some toward the rooms. The lights were still dim, and the servants prepared the ballroom.

  “I’m going to get out of this beastly dress,” Veronica said. “Dancing requires considerably less tight attire.”

  “You managed to dance just fine in it just now.”

  “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you. You always manage to be the voice of reason.” Veronica leaned toward her. “I think Mr. Rosenfeld would benefit from seeing me in a wider selection of my clothes.”

  “So he can consider you for more roles?”

  Veronica giggled and grabbed Cora’s hand. “Something like that. Now, which one is your room?”

  They strode up the marble steps. In the end, Veronica was content with smoking a cigarette on the balcony as they chatted. The sky was dark. It may have stopped raining, but thick clouds still covered the sky, obscuring the moon and stars.

  Rustling sounded below, and Veronica shivered. “Oh, I will be happy to return to London. All these strange sounds in the countryside. I want to hear automobiles and people chatting.”

  “You do mean to make a home in London?”

  “Why not?” Veronica leaned closer. “After all, I heard you found a flat in London. Had enough with Hollywood too?”

  Cora nodded, and Veronica squeezed her hand.

  Veronica knew Cora’s departure from Hollywood had hardly been elegant. Producers weren’t prone to firing lead actresses halfway through filming, but despite Cora’s success as a child actress, she’d never adjusted to adult roles.

  “I’ll just have to think of something else,” Cora said.

  “Maybe teaching music or dance,” Veronica said.

  “Maybe,” Cora said, thinking about the money that Mrs. Ivanov had promised her to investigate her husband’s safety.

  “Come, let’s go down,” Veronica said finally. “If Mr. Rosenfeld doesn’t want me in one of his plays, I can at least dance with Mr. Fawcett. The man is handsome.”

  They strolled down the stairs and into the ballroom. Natalia and Mrs. Ivanov had actually changed dresses, perhaps because they actually resided here and had more options. Natalia was swaying to the sound of an Irving Berlin song with Mr. Fawcett, while Mr. and Mrs. Badger were dancing together.

  “Oh, there you two are.” Mrs. Ivanov greeted them. “Now what did you think of the evening so far?”

  “It’s been lovely,” Cora said honestly.

  Mrs. Ivanov beamed. “I’m so very glad. It is nice to have two such famous actresses here. Most amusing for the guests.” She glanced over at Mr. and Mrs. Badger. “Though I’m afraid some of them are intimidated.”

  “A natural state for some,” Veronica said breezily, and Mrs. Ivanov laughed.

  “Quite.” Mrs. Ivanov looked around. “Now where is my husband? Dancing was his idea. And now he’s not here. We have a paucity of male partners anyway.”

  “How long can phone calls take? I’ll go get him. My husband’s office is just through the dining room.” She hurried away.

  Veronica and Cora smiled, and Mr. Rosenfeld approached them with fresh drinks. “Care for some cocktails?”

  “Always,” Veronica said, taking a festive looking drink from Mr. Rosenfeld’s hand. “You are too kind.”

  A shrill cry from outside the room exploded through the air, and Veronica dropped the glass on the floor. Her eyes rounded. “I’m so sorry. I don’t normally do that.”

  “Not to worry, my dear,” Mr. Rosenfeld said gallantly. “Seems like someone else is having a worse time. Probably saw a mouse. Besides, the drink was prepared by Mr. Mitu, not me.”

  One of the footmen approached and proceeded to clear the spill. The scream though continued to ring out, and Cora shivered.

  Had something...bad happened?

  Cora’s chest tightened, and she glanced at the others. Everyone had stopped dancing.

  “I’ll go see what it is.” Natalia stepped away from Mr. Fawcett.

  “I’ll come with you,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  They exited the ballroom, and after a moment’s hesitation, Cora followed them. Footsteps shuffled across the floor behind her, and a quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that all the guests had decided to join the investigation, likely spurred on by the horrible scream.

  Natalia entered the dining room and then proceeded to another door. “Mrs. Ivanov? Are you here? What happened?”

  Natalia opened the door and then stopped abruptly. Sitting before them was Mr. Ivanov.

  But he didn’t look quite the same as before.

  His features seemed stiffer, and though his eyes were open, Cora had the curious feeling that he wasn’t really seeing through them.

  “He’s dead!” Natalia shrieked, rushing to her brother’s lifeless form. “My poor darling!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Let’s call the doctor.”

  “He’s completely rigid. All of him,” Veronica said.

  “But—but he’s young,” Mr. Badger stammered, as if in this moment of grief more concerned with calculating his own morality. “I-I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Badger started to shake, and she pressed a handkerchief against her face.

  “He’s been murdered,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Someone killed him.”

  “Did he have a bad heart?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked.

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Ivanov snapped. “The man was the picture of health. Right until the end.”

  “Still, it could have been a heart attack,” Mr. Rosenfeld said obstinately.

  “Look at his back,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “Heart attacks don’t leave pools of blood.”

  The others stiffened. Murder.

  Someone here in this room had murdered their host. Someone who was feigning sympathy had stabbed and killed him.

  Cora shivered, as if she’d stepped into an arctic country, instead of their congenial host’s office.

  “I knew it,” Mrs. Ivanov wailed. “I knew he would die.”

  “Poor Mr. Anton,” Natalia mourned. “Poor, poor Anton.”

  “We need a doctor,” Mrs. Ivanov declared.

  “No doctor will be able to cure that,” Mr. Fawcett said. “To think, I always thought you would be the first to go.”

  Guilt and fear surged through Cora.

  Was there something that she’d missed? She’d dismissed Mrs. Ivanov’s worries. Perhaps she should have been more vigilant.

  At least she could do her best to make certain that no one touched anything else.

  “The police will need to come,” she said.

  “Oh, dear,” Mr. Fawcett said. “How frightfully middle class.”

  “She’s right,” Mrs. Ivanov said faintly. “We need to call them.”

  “How on earth is the man so handsome even in death?” Veronica mused, her eyes still on the body. Mr. Mitu poked his head through the door. “I heard a commotion.”

  “There’s been a bit of a murder,” Mr. Rosenfeld said, and M
r. Mitu’s face paled. “I suggest you call the police,” Mr. Rosenfeld continued. “I reluctantly suggest that.”

  “You don’t want my husband’s murder to be solved?” Mrs. Ivanov called out.

  Mr. Rosenfeld had the decency to look embarrassed.

  “He doesn’t want it to get into the papers,” Veronica whispered to Cora.

  “Many people depend on me,” Mr. Rosenfeld said stiffly. “It really isn’t heartless. Negative press might lead to negative ticket sales.”

  “How economical,” Mrs. Ivanov said drily.

  Mr. Mitu disappeared from the room, and in a minute heavy footfalls clomped in the hallway.

  “That’s it,” a female voice said. “You’re coming with me.”

  Cora lifted her head. Aunt Maggie glared. Her hands rested on her waist, her legs were spread, as if she needed to claim more space in order to be intimidating, a fact which was certainly not necessary. Archibald was beside her. Archibald shot Cora a stricken look. Perhaps he didn’t know what had happened, but he did know everyone was upset. She braced herself

  “Young lady,” Cora’s newfound relative said, “you can dine upstairs, but you cannot be involved in murder!”

  Various eyes about the room widened, and some eyebrows seemed to have discovered an affinity for flight, since they seemed to be soaring upward.

  Cora rose. Perhaps this was some sort of breach of etiquette, but she was almost relieved at her great aunt’s outrage. Someone here was a very bad man or a similarly nefarious woman, and she had no urge to continue to make small talk.

  Mr. Ivanov had seemed to be the best one of all of them, and now he was dead.

  “Come, Archibald,” Cora said, and Archibald eagerly strode toward her, his feet pattering against the marble floor. She scooped him up into her arms and turned to the others.

  “Good night, Mrs. Ivanov,” she said. “The dinner was delicious, and I am sorry for your loss.”

  The others murmured similar expressions of sympathy.

  Now, she wanted to go to bed.

  Away from this room.

  Away from the corpse at the desk.

  “That sounds like a splendid idea,” Natalia said quickly, springing from her seat with a speed Cora did not associate with the newly grief-stricken. “I will retire as well.”

  “And I,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.

  Cora inhaled. It was tempting to go upstairs to her room and lie underneath the covers and have the sound of the waves soothe her as she lay in bed. It was certainly tempting to sleep after her long day of travel, socializing, and murder.

  But a man was dead, and she should help.

  “We need to seal this room,” she said authoritatively. “No one must disturb it.”

  “I can help with that,” the butler said, removing a key.

  “I’m not leaving my husband,” Mrs. Ivanov said.

  “The police may consider you a suspect, Auntie,” Mr. Fawcett said.

  Mrs. Ivanov flushed. “That’s absolute nonsense.” But she followed the butler and the others from the room.

  Mr. Mitu locked the windows and then the door.

  Cora’s shoulders relaxed at the sound of the final click.

  Mr. Ivanov had seemed so affable to everyone. He’d laughed at Mrs. Ivanov’s warnings and seemed so in love with life. Who would kill him? And why? She gazed at the other guests as they retired to their respective rooms and was suddenly very grateful that her great aunt had called her away.

  Chapter Six

  Cora woke to the sound of the waves crashing against one another. For a moment, everything was pleasant, and then she remembered last night.

  Mr. Ivanov was dead.

  Murdered.

  And she hadn’t stopped it. She didn’t have the least idea who would have wanted to kill him.

  The door swung open, and Veronica bounded in. “Rise and shine.”

  Cora blinked, but then relief moved through her. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “It would be so dreadful to be here without you.” Veronica plopped down on the bed. She was attired in wide-legged black trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt, a concession perhaps that they were mourning the host. She hadn’t resisted wearing a long strand of pearls, and even though Cora knew some people claimed pearls denoted sadness, she rather suspected the size and multitude of these were more likely to be viewed as flamboyant.

  Loud voices and scrapings drifted from downstairs.

  “What’s that noise?” Cora asked.

  “The police, darling. Some of them are most scrumptious. Climbing the Downs is good for leg muscles.” Veronica’s eyes had a naughty gleam to them.

  “You’re here with Mr. Rosenfeld.”

  “I accompanied him. Nothing more.” Veronica tossed her platinum hair. “I’m hoping he’ll give me a part in one of his plays. Well. I was hoping. We’ll see if he makes Cleopatra now. I wish I were back in Hollywood.”

  Cora selected a dark gray dress which she hoped was relatively somber, but she suspected the bright white bow on her chest might be seen as overly cheerful. Death had not been on her schedule. She dressed hastily and then accompanied Veronica down the stairs. The police were everywhere.

  When Veronica’s new father-in-law had died in Yorkshire, it had been during a brutal snowstorm. The police had not been able to be notified until several days afterward, and it had taken them a while to visit the isolated manor home amidst the snow drifts.

  The Sussex police clearly had no qualms about breaching the mud-strewn drive up to the house. They swarmed through the house, cordoning some areas off with an authority she associated more with people who actually lived in the house. They dusted for fingerprints and carried magnifying glasses, just like Cora had done when she’d played an actress in the Gal Detective movies.

  Cora gazed curiously at them. The men moved determinedly through the house, and Cora’s shoulders eased.

  It would be fine.

  It would not be like...before.

  The police would discover the murderer, arrest him—or her, and Cora would be able to have lunch in the kitchen with her great aunt as she’d always planned to do.

  After all, the chief inspector had allotted many people to help him in his task.

  Cora moved her gaze over the men. Two men were not uniform. The man with a large mustache was likely the chief inspector. The other was—

  She swallowed hard, taking in broad shoulders and chiseled features.

  It’s not him.

  Her heart still squeezed, even though she told herself her mind was imagining things.

  Randolph was not standing in Mrs. Ivanov’s living room beside the late Mr. Ivanov.

  That would be absurd. The sort of things hearts might invent but which could never be true.

  After all, she’d met Randolph in Yorkshire.

  But wasn’t he supposed to be some form of a detective?

  “Oh, my.” Veronica tugged on Cora’s sleeve. “Look.”

  Veronica dropped Cora’s arm and pointed at the man. Perhaps it wasn’t Cora’s imagination after all. Perhaps it really was him.

  “Didn’t you kiss that guy?” Veronica asked.

  “Veronica!” Cora whispered. “Now is not the time.”

  Besides, Veronica knew the answer.

  Not-Randolph strode toward her, and Cora’s heart galloped in her chest. Finally, he stopped.

  “It’s you,” Cora squeaked.

  Succulent lips spread into a wide smile, and his eyes twinkled more than was altogether necessary. The man’s eyes were seldom not twinkling, as if they always were conscious of a source of amusement, one not visible to others.

  Her cheeks seemed to have been set aflame. Perhaps her words were not the most articulate.

  But the man wasn’t supposed to be here. This was Sussex. Nowhere near Yorkshire, where they’d last met, and more importantly, nowhere near Inverness, where the man was from.

  “What on earth are you doing here? Are you going to tell me th
is was some sort of accident?”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “I can’t always be having fortunate coincidences to run into you, lassie.”

  “Then why are you here?” she asked, conscious her voice was wobbling.

  His gaze softened. “I wanted to see you. Do you find that outrageous?”

  “Well—” Her throat dried. It wasn’t outrageous. It was...nice.

  Her legs quivered, and she was thankful the dress she wore would hide the exact manner in which her knees buckled.

  “Not precisely outrageous,” she said. “Though you could have written a letter.”

  “I found it far easier to wrangle an invitation from the chief inspector,” he said with a wink.

  Mrs. Ivanov appeared, and Cora excused herself. Mrs. Ivanov didn’t need to see Cora wasting her time speaking to a handsome man. Not when her own husband had just died. Not when Cora had done nothing to stop it.

  She approached Mrs. Ivanov, noting the woman’s red eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cora said. “I wish I could have done something.”

  Mrs. Ivanov gave her a brave smile. “He needed true protection. But he didn’t believe anything could happen. I don’t suppose you saw anything?”

  Cora shook her head.

  “No one has ties to Bulgaria?”

  “No,” she said, and then frowned. “Except his sister of course. And Mr. Mitu.”

  “The butler?” Mrs. Ivanov widened her eyes.

  “But he’s just a servant,” Cora said quickly. “He couldn’t gain from Mr. Ivanov’s death.”

  “I always thought Mitu was a funny little name,” Mrs. Ivanov said slowly. “I-I had no idea. Or I must have forgotten.”

  “But he’s a pleasant man,” Cora added hastily.

  “Everyone here is pleasant,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “That’s why they’re my guests or my staff. But the fact remains, I don’t think Mr. Ivanov stabbed himself in the back and hid the knife goodness knows where before perishing. Now excuse me.” And she swept off and strode toward her nephew.

  Chapter Seven

  The authoritative man with the mustache cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone. I’m the chief inspector.” He gave a smug glance as if he expected congratulations at attaining his rank and cleared his throat. “I’ll be asking everyone questions. Please take a seat.”