The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  “Mr. Rosenfeld doesn’t seem to much respect Mr. Fawcett.”

  “That’s because Mr. Rosenfeld is Jewish, and Mr. Fawcett seems far too sympathetic to those dreadful Nazis. Besides, Mr. Rosenfeld has made his own path in the creative fields. He’s very successful. I don’t think he cares for Mr. Fawcett’s airs, and he’s happy to tease him about it.” Aunt Maggie shrugged. “Personally, I don’t care for either of the men much, but I just see them when I serve them things. They might have good qualities I don’t see.”

  The kettle thrummed merrily, and Aunt Maggie rose. “Cook baked some biscuits yesterday. I’ll get you some.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Cora said quickly.

  “Of course it is.” Aunt Maggie moved methodically about the kitchen, first handing Cora a plate with biscuits and then handing her a cup of milky tea.

  Cora didn’t think she was hungry. There’d been food in the breakfast room upstairs, but she hadn’t been tempted. She’d been too unsettled. But when she took a bite of the biscuit, in an effort more from politeness than anything else, she had to restrain a moan. The buttery biscuit crumbled enticingly in her mouth, and she followed it with a sip of tea. It was weak, like most English tea, but the milky taste was soothing. She ate the other biscuits and felt reinvigorated.

  “Did Mr. Mitu ever express any discontent with the Bulgarian government?” Cora asked, venturing into a discussion about the now arrested butler.

  “Naturally he did,” Aunt Maggie said. “But then who does not grumble about their governments? Personally, I’ve always found a discussion on politics to be far more interesting than musings about the weather or worse yet, grumblings of the various incompetencies of sports teams.”

  “Is it possible someone heard him complain?”

  “No doubt everyone heard.”

  Cora must have looked quite surprised, for her great aunt sighed and explained, “My dear, this might be what people term a grand home, but its rooms are neither infinite nor soundproofed. We all spend a great deal of time with one another and have for many years. There is a limit to even English reserve, and of course neither Mr. Mitu nor I were—”

  “British?”

  “Indeed, not. To think, Ireland is its own country now.” Aunt Maggie stirred her tea, wearing a thoughtful expression on her face. “I wonder whether I should move back. I’d never planned to do so, but with this...” Aunt Maggie sighed, leaving the rest of the sentence unfinished. It was clear Aunt Maggie loved England.

  “Is it possible Mrs. Ivanov might choose to leave?” Cora asked.

  “I’d want to leave a house where my husband was murdered,” Aunt Maggie said. “It would be quite natural.”

  “Where would she go?”

  Aunt Maggie shrugged. “She was on the West End for a while. Perhaps that theatre director friend will be able to find a new place for her. She’s older now, of course, but I’m sure there’s always room for famous people.” Aunt Maggie turned her gaze on Cora. “But you’re an actress. Wouldn’t you like to be on the stage again?”

  “I’d rather not,” Cora murmured. Acting and all the parties that came with it had never interested Cora. She’d excelled at being a child actress because she was good at following directions, but more talent seemed to be required for adult actors. “I don’t love it anymore,” she admitted. “Perhaps I never did.”

  She’d liked some parts of it. She’d enjoyed the dance lessons and the music lessons. She’d was glad to have met a few other child starlets. She wasn’t certain what she could have done without Veronica. But the rest of it? Having a whole crew watch her as she attempted to follow instructions? Having a director bark orders at her whenever he hadn’t been pleased with some tiny part of the scene? Having to get up before dawn to get ready for work? Those had never delighted her.

  Perhaps there was something else she could do with her skills. Or perhaps she could start fresh and do something completely different.

  “I still need to decide what to do,” Cora said.

  “Well, I’m here if you want to speak about it.”

  “Thank you.” Cora rose. “First, I want to make some inquiries about Mr. Mitu.”

  “I hope you won’t do anything dangerous,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “Nonsense,” Cora said briskly. “I happen to have a friend who can help.”

  The thought of Randolph made something in her heart glow, and she turned before Great Aunt Maggie could see it on her face and become suspicious. Thinking about Randolph was all very well, but having others know she was thinking about him might make everything more ridiculous. She left the room and proceeded up the steps to the main house.

  Yes, Randolph and she had kissed, and it had been pleasant, but then again, she hadn’t seen him in months. Her heart shouldn’t glow, and if it seemed to skip slightly now, it should only be attributed to the result of the physical toll it took to climb up the steep kitchen steps.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cora stepped into the drawing room. The room was now nearly empty, and she tried to dismiss the speed with which her heartbeat seemed to quicken. Perhaps she’d been gone for too long. Had the chief inspector and his men left? Was everyone celebrating that the murder had been resolved so quickly? Had they interrogated everyone, only for everyone to mention suspicious behavior on Mr. Mitu’s part in a conscious or unconscious effort to leave?

  The breakfast still sat on the table, and as she entered the room more fully, she saw Veronica had settled herself into an armchair and was reading. Veronica turned her head and smiled when she noticed Cora.

  “Honey,” Veronica said, in that slightly deep voice men found alluring. No wonder her transition to talking pictures at the beginning of the decade had not impacted her career. “You were gone for so long.”

  “I was having tea with my great aunt,” Cora said.

  “How fascinating. Is she nice? Does she take after you? Or your mother?” Veronica’s eyes glimmered.

  Veronica hadn’t seen Cora’s mother for years, but the two had got on well. Cora might be in possession of her mother’s sense of rhythm, but unlike her mother, she couldn’t quite imagine joining a chorus line. Cora’s parents had both met in Vegas, and perhaps it was natural that when they’d had a child, her father had decided to investigate child acting.

  Cora smiled. It was perhaps a bit difficult to imagine her great aunt prancing her fishnet stockinged legs up and down while swathed in a feather boa and short fringed dress. “She’s quite her own character.”

  “I must meet her.” Veronica closed her book and placed it on the coffee table. The large tome had the name of a popular artist emblazoned on the cover. Evidently, Veronica had not yet adopted a habit of reading that extended past perusing the short captions accompanying the photographs.

  Veronica rose. “I’m supposed to tell you something.”

  “Oh?”

  Veronica furrowed her lips together, but then her forehead relaxed. “That photographer was looking for you.”

  “Randolph?”

  “The handsome man.”

  Cora felt her heart glow again. “He’s not a photographer.”

  Veronica wrinkled her nose, perhaps remembering how Randolph had once investigated her, but she evidently decided not to comment. Instead, she took a large sip of an orange drink from a champagne flute. She leaned her head back and sighed. “Mimosas. At least this place has that.”

  “Where are the others?” Cora asked.

  “In their room. Sobbing? Complaining?” Veronica gave a languid shrug. “One really doesn’t want to speculate too much. Most likely something dull.” She shivered and then took another lengthy sip of her drink. “Shall I get you one too?”

  “I’m fine,” Cora said.

  “Honey, you were practically fainting. Most dramatic of you.”

  Cora stiffened. “I wasn’t fainting.”

  “No, but all the blood had decided to jaunt off somewhere all the same. Mimosas are not only divine for their cham
pagne bubbliness. They also possess orange juice, which apparently has quite spectacular vitamin properties. I’ll get you one.” Veronica pressed a bell that Cora had not noticed and a beleaguered maid soon appeared.

  “Can I help you?”

  Veronica explained her order as Cora shifted uncomfortably on the modern chaise-longue.

  “It’s really not necessary,” Cora told the maid.

  “Of course it is,” Veronica said. “It’s the least that we can have after succumbing to the horrors of this tragedy. Besides, the chief inspector still hasn’t given us permission to leave. Or at least, we mustn’t leave this area. But he only permitted that after Mr. Rosenfeld threw a fuss about how if he couldn’t get to London, London would have to come here and that he was certain the chief inspector did not desire to have a hoard of actors and theatrical personalities traipsing about the manor.”

  Cora smiled. “I suppose the chief inspector wouldn’t desire that.”

  “All quite ridiculous,” Veronica said. “I doubt anyone would have come here even to see the illustrious Mr. Rosenfeld. This is the site of a murder after all. It’s all quite horrid, isn’t it?” Her nose crinkled in distaste.

  “What exactly is your relationship with Mr. Rosenfeld?” Cora asked.

  Veronica gave a tight smile and took another sip of her mimosa. She set her champagne flute onto the glass table with a slight clang. “It’s really not important. I wasn’t even supposed to spend the night. I do have my own room here, a fact that doesn’t seem to have made Mr. Rosenfeld happy. He practically ignored me all through the morning. I just—” She sighed. “It would be nice if Hollywood and the theater had more female directors and producers. Then I could just woo them over cocktails or lunch and everything could be quite merry.”

  “That does sound pleasant,” Cora said.

  “Oh, well,” Veronica said, looking far less wistful. “At least this isn’t the most dreadful of locations.” She glanced at the view. “I can hear the waves. Shall we walk outside?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” a man’s voice said.

  Cora almost jumped, and she managed to restrain herself from inadvertently spilling her drink on the white sofa. She doubted Mrs. Ivanov wanted to lose both her husband and her couch.

  She turned toward the speaker. It was the chief inspector, and he eyed her curiously. “You’re a bit jumpy.”

  “There’s been a murder,” Veronica said drily. “Self-preservation applies.”

  “Hmph.” The inspector seemed to remove his gaze from her reluctantly.

  Cora tried to tell herself this was good. Perhaps this meant that he wasn’t completely convinced of Mr. Mitu’s guilt.

  Footsteps clicked softly on the marble floor, and in the next moment, Randolph was in the room and the world was better. He gave her a wide smile, and she returned it. Unfortunately, the gesture seemed to only make the chief inspector furrow his lips into a fiercer frown. Well, that was fine. The chief inspector hadn’t seen Randolph.

  “Is it my turn to be interviewed?” Veronica asked in a bored manner Cora knew she didn’t feel.

  “Yes. You’re the—er—actress?”

  “I’m the guest of Mr. Rosenfeld, who didn’t know we were arriving here until last evening.”

  The chief inspector narrowed his eyes. “How unusual.”

  “Not if you run with the fast set,” Veronica said. “Though next time I’ll encourage any companion not to take me on a harrowing three-hour drive over muddy roads to a place where a murder is to be committed.”

  “Er—quite reasonable,” the chief inspector said.

  Though he’d seemed confident in the morning, the man’s face appeared somewhat flushed.

  It was Veronica.

  She had a habit of unsettling men.

  “So you didn’t know the host until this evening?” the chief inspector asked.

  “Indeed not.” Veronica gazed at Cora and then Randolph before turning back to the chief inspector. “But I’ll tell you everything I remember about the evening in as much detail as I can remember.”

  “I—er—suppose that could be useful,” the chief inspector said.

  “Exactly.” Veronica tossed her hair, rearranging her glossy blonde locks into another, equally appealing style. “And I’m an actress, with an excellent memory.” She winked at Cora, and Cora had the curious feeling Veronica did not intend to recite a comprehensive recollection of the events of last night purely out of a stringent sense of duty, but that she instead intended Cora to be alone with Randolph.

  Cora swept her gaze toward him. His eyes shone brightly, and once the door clicked and even Veronica’s powerful voice grew fainter, he rushed toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “Besides assisting the police?”

  She nodded, and he sat in a chair beside her. It was not the most comfortable chair in the room. It seemed to have some Germanic design that lacked the comfort of cushions and soft upholstery. But it was the chair closest to her and in the next moment, he took her hands into his, and her heart fluttered, as if it were not safely encased in her chest.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said.

  “How did you know I would be here?”

  Randolph gave a secret smile. “I remember you said your great aunt worked here. And so I became curious when I heard about the murder. Mostly I invited myself along.”

  “But you didn’t know I would be here...”

  “I’m an optimistic sort of man,” he said. “I knew the trial was over. But even if you weren’t here, I wanted to make certain she was fine. These kinds of events are difficult for everyone.”

  Cora gave a wobbly smile. She was lucky. She’d hardly known Mr. Ivanov. She didn’t lose a friend or a husband or even a casual acquaintance.

  “He was a nice person,” she said. “He shouldn’t have died. It’s not...fair.” The words sounded ineffectual, but Randolph reached out and squeezed her hand.

  “I’m sorry.” He tilted his head, and his eyes became reflective. “I met Mr. Ivanov once. He was taking a walk near the cliffs. He seemed so vibrant and alive.”

  “I know it should be a relief that he lived what he had of his life to the fullest, yet...”

  “It doesn’t make it any less cruel,” he finished. “I’m sorry we had to meet again in these circumstances. But I’m glad we’re both here now.” The man’s eyes sparkled, but she drew her gaze away. It would be easy to stare at them and wonder at their ability to glimmer and it would be easy to get lost in the loveliness of the particular shade of brown of his eyes, and yet she knew such musings might verge on the ridiculous.

  She drew back. “You disappeared.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not withdrawing his gaze.

  She inhaled. They’d only kissed. It was the sort of thing that some starlets seemed to do nightly. Perhaps it was a moment of pleasure for him, much like the experience some people seemed to derive from eating a steak.

  Though the process of eating a steak takes more time.

  “Well, it is nice to see you,” she said in her most formal, matter-of-fact voice.

  His eyes seemed to leap up in surprise.

  Let them leap.

  “In fact,” she said, “I have some concerns about the case. Perhaps you might bring them to the chief inspector.”

  “Is that so?” Some expression that she could not discern crossed over his face, and his hold on her hand relaxed.

  “Or of course, I can bring it to him directly at my interview,” she said hastily. “Should you prefer.”

  He dropped her hand, and she despised that she already missed his touch.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “The chief inspector had an abundance of overcaution when he arrested Mr. Mitu. I met him yesterday, and he was quite pleasant.”

  “And that is your criteria for exonerating him?” His lips turned up.

  “Naturally not,” she said hastily. “But he did not ex
press any anarchist tendencies, and I find it feasible that someone could have planted some pamphlet in his room.”

  “At the moment he is the most likely suspect,” Randolph said. “No one else has any motive. Mr. Ivanov was an affable man without money of his own to draw those who might be compelled to act on sheer greed.”

  She shivered.

  “If you’re convinced the murderer might still be on the loose, I would suggest you get another accommodation,” Randolph said.

  “I’m here visiting my great aunt,” she said. “And I’m in no hurry to leave.”

  “Your safety is of higher importance than visiting a relative.”

  Cora didn’t need to ruminate over Randolph’s suggestion. It might have its merits, but she shook her head firmly.

  If Cora left this house, she wouldn’t be able to learn more about the guests. She wouldn’t be able to present the chief inspector with more suspects, and though perhaps he might find another suspect and free Mr. Mitu, it was also possible that he wouldn’t. Mr. Mitu was a servant and a foreigner and someone whose arrest would cause the local police a paucity of scandal. People were accustomed to occasional unexpected behavior by foreigners. Hadn’t someone in a country near Bulgaria started the horrors of the Great War? Perhaps they would consider the pamphlet sufficient proof of evil intent.

  “I’m staying here,” she said defiantly.

  He gave her a sharp look. “Be careful.”

  Chapter Twelve

  More footsteps on the marble floor alerted Cora to a new presence, and she straightened. In the next moment the chief inspector and Veronica appeared. He looked down on a piece of paper. “Miss Clarke?”

  Cora nodded and rose. She smoothed her dress, and even though she shouldn’t feel nervous, nervousness coursed through her all the same.

  There was nothing kind about the chief inspector’s gaze, as if he were determining what form of criminal she might take.

  “Go right down this hallway, Miss Clarke,” he said.