The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  She proceeded ahead of him, turning in to a new corridor. The magnificent marble floors remained the same as in the drawing room, but the walls were lined with photographs. Most of them featured Mrs. Ivanov, looking alternatively artistically pensive or displaying a jubilance that might be intended to be jealousy-inducing. A few of the photos featured a younger Mr. Ivanov, and one was even a newspaper clipping in Bulgarian of him and his sister. He was beaming as he held a trophy, and she felt a strange surge of pride for him.

  If only she knew who killed that smiling man.

  “Next door to the right,” the chief inspector said.

  “Very well.” Cora felt self-conscious, knowing the chief inspector was behind her, as if to prevent her from making any mad dash away. When she saw the door, she opened it gratefully.

  She’d expected to be led to a library, but it seemed to be a music room. She supposed that neither Mrs. Ivanov nor her husband had seemed to have much interest in literature, and this place was too new to come with dusty leather tomes from past centuries.

  A piano took up much of the room, and the chief inspector motioned her to take a seat on an uncomfortable looking settee. He sat down in a chair opposite her, balancing a notebook on his knee.

  He cleared his throat. “Your name?”

  “Cora Clarke.” She lowered her lashes. “Though it’s my stage name.”

  “It’s rather odd, going by two names, isn’t it?”

  “It’s quite common in my field.”

  He nodded, but the suspicion didn’t leave his face, and he wrote something on his notebook. His hands were large, suited to someone battling crime, and the pen seemed too small, as if he were an overgrown schoolboy.

  “How did you know the victim?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Not well. I-I’d only just met him.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “So you wouldn’t be stopped from murdering him because of any sentimental attachment.”

  “What? Nonsense.” Cora’s fists clenched involuntarily at the absurdness of the chief inspector’s accusation.

  “So sentimental attachment wouldn’t stop you?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she said hotly.

  “It seems you thought we were not giving sufficient concern to other suspects,” he said. “I disagree.” He gave her an assessing gaze that made her skin prickle, but she raised her chin and inhaled.

  “I did not murder him,” she said.

  “So you claim.”

  “Now, what brought you to Orchid Manor?”

  “My great aunt is a servant.”

  “Housekeeper? Cook?”

  “No,” she said.

  “She hasn’t reached that status?” He sneered.

  “I believe Mrs. Ivanov’s cook is a famous chef from Europe.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Bulgarian?”

  “French.”

  “I suppose there is a limit of the people from Bulgaria that can found even in this oversized eyesore.”

  “You’re not fond of modern architecture, chief inspector?”

  “I’m fond of order and regularity, concepts that have evidently failed to entice the adherents of modern art.”

  “I see.”

  “Now. If you came to visit your great aunt, what exactly were you doing up here at the time of the murder?”

  “Mrs. Ivanov had learned of my visit and decided to invite me.”

  “That seems most implausible,” he said. “Servants dine in the kitchen, and I would not expect their unemployed relations to have a higher status.”

  Cora forced herself to remain calm in the face of the chief inspector’s continued condescension. “Mrs. Ivanov obviously thought differently. Though it is true that I am presently between positions, I spent most of my life acting in Hollywood. I starred in multiple pictures. Mrs. Ivanov had learned of me from that and thought I would be beneficial to add to the house party.”

  “I see.”

  “And did you notice anything suspicious?”

  “Mrs. Ivanov expressed concern for her husband’s safety. I was under the impression she did not trust all the guests.”

  “And she thought that situation would be improved by adding a stranger to the party?” Derision coursed through the chief inspector’s voice.

  Cora averted her eyes, and sadness welled through her again. “I wish I had seen something. I wish I could have stopped it. But—”

  “You didn’t,” he said, and she nodded. Her limbs felt heavy, and even the act of shifting positions seemed to belong to the athletic variety. He gave a languid sigh. “Well. I think this is it. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  Cora widened her eyes. “But there were hardly any of them.”

  “You seemed sufficiently uncomfortable with the ones that I had.”

  “But surely there’s something else you might want to know?”

  He closed his notebook. “Miss Clarke. I am fully aware that you are new to this home and to these people. I in no manner expect you to have anything valuable to say.” He removed a rather worn wallet from and then a rather shinier business card. His name and title was emblazoned in a bold red color. “If something should occur to you, you are welcome to call me. No one, though, has greater motive than Mr. Mitu, and I do not care for you to suggest otherwise, especially in front of people. It is difficult for a young lady such as you to think someone you may have met, someone you may have conversed with, may be a murderer. These are new times though. Anarchists have wreaked havoc over Europe. That is why it is important to quell such political movements. We thought Herr Hitler over in Germany would be a good deterrent against the German people’s instincts toward communism, but it seems he too has caused trouble. The other European countries are not British. The people do not have our ideals, and when they come here, calamity can ensue.”

  “It seems your mind is quite made up.”

  “You don’t rise to my position through dilly-dallying and waffling,” he said.

  Cora rose. “I urge you to reconsider. I will see myself out.”

  She left the room hastily. The chief inspector wanted to believe that Mr. Mitu was guilty. He hadn’t even wanted to ask her any but the most cursory of questions, even though she’d attended the small dinner where the host had died. She moved rapidly through the marble corridor and pushed open the door to the drawing room.

  Randolph rose rapidly when he saw her. “How was it?”

  “Atrocious.” Energy surged through her. She wanted to go outside, away from this house.

  She glanced at the window. The sky was a pleasant shade of azure blue, and the clouds that had filled the sky so mercilessly yesterday had abandoned it. It seemed satisfied with the world, as if also believing that right had been restored with Mr. Mitu’s arrest, and Cora’s lips sank into a frown.

  “Let’s go on a walk, lassie.”

  “I’ll fetch Archibald.”

  He nodded and Cora returned shortly with her dog.

  They stepped outside Orchid Manor and onto the gently sloping green hills of the Downs. Before them was the English Channel. Gray ships barreled through the waves at high speed, and smaller sailboats bopped over the waves at scarcely any speed. The coast curved, making visible chalky cliffs.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, despite herself. She was still angry, and it didn’t seem appropriate to muse over the charms of the landscape.

  They continued away from the house. When they were farther away, and when their conversation was unlikely to be heard through an open window, Randolph turned to her. “Tell me about the interview.”

  Cora sucked in some air. “The man is convinced he’s already found the killer.”

  “I see. Who had access to his study?”

  “Anyone,” she said. “He had to take a phone call, and some people went to change their attire and others went to the ballroom.”

  Randolph nodded. “No one has an alibi, though everyone seems to have assured the chief inspector they wouldn
’t possibly have killed Mr. Ivanov. What did you think of the guests?”

  “I knew one of them of course. Veronica. But the others were new.” She sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know them well. Mr. Fawcett seemed perturbed that Mrs. Ivanov had built this house. He ascribes to similar architectural ideals as the chief inspector.”

  “Well. That’s one quality in his favor,” Randolph said. “He didn’t seem to possess many.”

  “Mr. Fawcett is rather brash,” Cora admitted. “Mr. and Mrs. Badger were pleasant, though they seemed ill at ease throughout the dinner.”

  “As if they were expecting something bad to happen?”

  “I thought at the time they were overwhelmed by the other guests. Mrs. Badger’s dress was of the shop variety, and its fit was unideal. Too tight at some parts and too loose at others. They seemed unable to follow, much less join, the conversations, and they even seemed unsure how best to eat their food.”

  “I suppose they do not often attend such social gatherings.”

  Cora shrugged. “Mrs. Ivanov told me she wanted to keep her accountant happy.”

  “A curious thing to say.”

  “Quite. And I suspect Mr. Badger would have preferred to take his wife to a restaurant in town.”

  “Mrs. Ivanov has a high opinion on her house. I’m certain she would deem any restaurant inferior.”

  “As for the other guests... There was only Mr. Rosenfeld who seemed to know Mrs. Ivanov the best and of course Natalia, who knew her brother the best.”

  “Poor her,” Randolph said.

  “Indeed. I had the impression they were quite close. Always laughing together.”

  “I wonder where she’ll go now.”

  “Perhaps her brother left her some money. Not that he was supposed to have much of his own.”

  “We can hope so for her sake.”

  “And Mr. Rosenfeld?”

  “He’s the British version of any movie producer. I rather prefer his accent. He has an equally disagreeable sense of pompousness, that I’m certain propelled him to his current stature.”

  “And what motives might they have to murder Mrs. Ivanov’s husband?”

  “I’m not sure,” Cora said. “But I intend to find out.”

  “You haven’t changed much,” Randolph remarked.

  “I’m not certain that’s a compliment.”

  “It is absolutely a compliment.” His gaze raked over her, and butterflies fluttered within her. She remembered being in his arms. It may have been months ago, but the exact feel and pressure of his arms about her and the sensation of succulent lips pressing against hers may as well have been seared into her memory.

  Her heart lurched, and she stepped away. There was no reason to act maudlin and sentimental. They were simply having a conversation: an important one.

  Archibald was investigating the underside of a bush, and she called him toward her. He wagged his tail, clearly not considering her to be less worthy of interest than Sussex’s fauna, and she bent down to pet him.

  “You still have him,” Randolph said.

  “Naturally. Archibald has had sufficient upheaval in his life.”

  Randolph’s face grew more serious, as if he were about to launch into weightier issues. She didn’t want any speech from him where he began by praising their time together, offered an apology for not speaking to her since then, and then made some sort of platitude about the past being the past and the benefits of friendship. Even worse, she didn’t want him to not make a speech, as if their past kiss was less important than weather patterns.

  “Shall we go back to the house?” she asked, despising that her voice sounded strained and seemed to think it belonged to a higher octave than customary.

  Randolph gave her a curious look but remained silent, and soon they were marching back toward the large glass and stone house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When they returned to the house, the others were once again in the drawing room.

  “Ah? Did you have a nice walk?” Mr. Rosenfeld asked with his customary joviality.

  Cora murmured something in agreement, and the man beamed, as if he’d personally ordered the sun.

  “Splendid. Then I suggest we all have a ramble,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “There’s supposed to be a delightful place for cream tea in one of the local villages.”

  Mr. Fawcett’s face darkened, as if affronted at the possibility of squeezing into a tea shop with the non-lofty, but he nodded. “Anything to leave this place.”

  “We are going home,” Mr. Badger declared. “We should have left long ago.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Mr. Fawcett asked.

  “Something about constables swarming the house and wanting to interview us. All absolute balderdash.”

  “Yes. What does my husband have to do with Bulgarian anarchists?” Mrs. Badger crinkled her nose.

  “Well. I intend to go,” Mr. Rosenfeld said. “Who will join us?”

  “I will,” Cora said hastily.

  Veronica’s gaze narrowed momentarily, but she rose and slipped an arm through Mr. Rosenfeld’s. “As shall I. I am ever so fond of cream tea.”

  Cora hid her smile. Veronica wasn’t fond of anything that hindered her efforts at reduction. She’d ranted at Cora that donuts and cakes should be denounced with the same vehemence as Bolsheviks, but that was the sort of thing one didn’t want to admit before a man. Effortlessness was prized.

  They decided to simply take a taxi, and before long, they were moving along at a brisk pace over the winding road. Sheep frolicked in the green hills that seemed suited as backdrops for chocolate tins.

  Mr. Rosenfeld rode in the front with the driver, effusing about the charm of the countryside and providing frequent qualifications about how he’d never give up the superior magnificence of London. The others were squeezed in the back seat, and Cora found herself sitting beside Natalia.

  The vehicle followed the curves of the cliffs, swerving occasionally, and Cora wondered if this was where Mr. Ivanov had experienced a brakes failure.

  “Were you present at your brother’s accident?” Cora asked Natalia.

  Natalia shook her head, rustling the black netting of her hat. “It seems so ominous now. He made quite light of the fact that he lost control of the car. It seemed all quite fun, but now...”

  Cora smiled sympathetically.

  Natalia was quiet, perhaps musing over the fact someone had desired to kill her brother, had tried multiple times and then had succeeded. Then she lifted a gloved hand and pointed at a nearby farm. “I believe it happened there.”

  Cora followed Natalia’s gaze to a fence that looked freshly repaired. The slabs of wood looked new compared to the weathered and dull color of the rest of the fence.

  “Had the other guests arrived at Orchid Manor then?”

  “Anyone could have entered the garage.” Natalia edged away from Cora slightly. “I hope you wouldn’t suggest that I made the car malfunction. What would I know about the inner machinery of automobiles?”

  “Ladies, if you’re going to fight, perhaps it can wait until you return to Orchid Manor, and then you can proceed, preferably with pillows and rather less attire,” Mr. Rosenfeld said airily.

  Natalia stiffened.

  “Forgive me,” Cora said gently. “I know he was your brother.”

  “Yes.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Naturally. My brother.”

  “I suppose it will be difficult to break that news to your parents,” Cora said.

  Natalia’s face whitened, but she only shook her head. “They’re dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” This time Cora’s voice wobbled, and her cheeks warmed.

  The taxi slowed and turned away from the coastline. Fields were on either side of them, and for a moment, Cora was distracted by the utter beauty of the scenery. It seemed impossible to conceive that any death could take place here. Even the strands of grass seemed to glisten under the bright light of the sun, now unobscured by even the smallest of clouds.


  Gradually the open fields vanished, replaced by trees. This was still March, and the trees were still mostly bare. Gray gnarly branches seemed to tangle with each other. The road twisted, and Cora was relieved when the driver turned into a village. Stone and half-timbered buildings that appeared like they’d been there since the middle ages lined the square. Some were painted pastel colors, perhaps to ensure some brightness lest rain decide to make one of its frequent journeys here.

  This was the England she’d imagined before she’d arrived. This was the fairytale version of Europe, and all it needed was some prince. But then, Mr. Ivanov might have come close to inheriting a throne, and he’d turned up dead.

  The taxi stopped before a cottage that had been converted into a tearoom.

  Mr. Rosenfeld bounded outside. “This way!”

  There was nothing quite like the eagerness of an Englishman in anticipation of tea. She exited the taxi with the others. Mr. Rosenfeld shoved some money in the taxi driver’s hand.

  The ceilings of the tea room were low. Evidently, the original owner had not anticipated the size of its guests in a few centuries, and even Natalia had to duck her head as she entered.

  They followed a hallway and then stepped into a tiny room filled with round tables. Contented people sat at them, sipping from vibrantly colored teacups with elaborate floral designs. Towers of scones, cakes, and crustless sandwiches sat at some of the tables.

  A server led them to a tiny table, and they settled around it. Clearly, the taxi had simply been practice for them to cram together. It seemed wrong to indulge in sweets when someone had just been killed, but perhaps they were at least not requiring Mrs. Ivanov to perform hostess duties.

  “Now you seemed awfully cozy with a certain policeman,” Mr. Fawcett said to Cora. “I’ve seen him snooping around the seaside before.”

  Mr. Rosenfeld winked. “Fast work.”

  “Are you looking to learn what the police might say?” Mr. Fawcett asked. “Please tell me if I’m a suspect. I would want advance notice to flee to Brazil. Packing is such a bother. My valet gets quite overwhelmed.”

  “Not to speak about booking the travel,” Mr. Rosenfeld said.