The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

Cora’s stomach hurt, and Archibald trotted toward her, perhaps reading something in her demeanor.

  She’d never suspected Mrs. Ivanov. What person would invite a sleuth to a dinner party where she planned to murder someone?

  But I’m not a real detective.

  She’d played one in the movies, and perhaps she’d been flattered by Mrs. Ivanov’s request. She’d accepted Mrs. Ivanov’s fee.

  But if Mrs. Ivanov had truly worried about her husband’s safety, she would have hired a bodyguard.

  Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had counted on the fact that Cora was not trained. Cora hadn’t even attended school. Her tutors had hastily taught her things during breaks on the set while the adult actors and actresses indulged in cigarettes.

  She’d never considered that Mrs. Ivanov might be responsible. She’d spoken with Randolph and the chief inspector about all the other people in the house. She’d discovered things that implicated them.

  But who had easier access to Mr. Mitu’s room that Mrs. Ivanov? She’d probably hidden the pamphlet in his room when she knew he would be away, picking Cora up from the station. That was probably why she’d been in the servant’s quarters. She’d probably asked him to fetch Cora less out of concern for her great aunt than a knowledge he might mention his Bulgarian heritage, and then she’d had tea with Cora, musing over the Bulgarian nationals that might desire to harm her husband.

  As owner of Orchid Manor, she should have known about the tunnel at the folly just as well as her nephew. Mrs. Ivanov would have known about the strangely shaped Nepalese knife that would make killing her husband easier.

  Perhaps when Cora had told Mrs. Ivanov that she needed to make a phone call, implying that she knew the killer, Mrs. Ivanov had been compelled to act quickly, lest the chief inspector interview Mr. Badger again. Perhaps Mrs. Ivanov had told Cora to wait twenty minutes so that Mrs. Ivanov would have time to hide in the tunnel so she could kill Mr. Badger there when they met.

  Mrs. Ivanov smoked cigarettes and Mrs. Ivanov wore strong perfume, two things Mr. Badger did not do. Perhaps the fish had been chosen to mask those scents.

  Something tightened in Cora’s chest, and Mrs. Ivanov cast her an assessing look.

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and Cora fought the strange urge to scramble toward it. She wanted to leave this place and never come back.

  Yet, she couldn’t slink away and feign ignorance.

  She’d compelled people to investigate Zina, and now she could hardly let her hang. Would Cora’s suspicions suffice in absolving her?

  Mrs. Ivanov had been cozy with the chief inspector. No one would want the wealthy woman, patron to the police force, to be accused of such a crime without absolute evidence. Zina was convenient, just as Mr. Mitu had been convenient. They were both foreigners, in a land that quickly seemed to be increasingly wary of them.

  Mrs. Ivanov answered the door in a regal tone. Aunt Maggie stood outside.

  “How may I help, your ladyship?” Aunt Maggie asked.

  “Please pack Miss Clarke’s things,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “She is leaving.”

  “Very well.” Aunt Maggie curtsied and left the room.

  This was when she should make her exit, yet Cora seemed rooted to the spot, as if she’d been left with as little mobility as any of the furniture.

  Cora was alone with Mrs. Ivanov.

  “It must have been shocking for you to discover your late husband’s infidelity.” Cora tried to show careful interest and pity, aware that mentioning this could be risky.

  Mrs. Ivanov gave a tight smile. “I would prefer not to dwell on it.”

  “When did you first find out about your husband’s affair?” Cora asked, forcing the question to be casual.

  She knew Mrs. Ivanov must have learned about it before today.

  Randolph had not mentioned Mr. Ivanov’s affair in front of Mrs. Ivanov.

  “Does it matter?” Mrs. Ivanov asked sweetly.

  “I think it does to Zina.”

  “You mean, the woman who called herself Natalia.” Mrs. Ivanov’s normally sweet expression turned sour. “My husband’s mistress.”

  “You’re not supposed to know that about her,” Cora said.

  “Darling,” Mrs. Ivanov’s disgruntled expression was swiftly replaced with a charming one, “I am privy to rather more details from this investigation than you are aware of. After all, I was Anton’s wife, and you are someone who used to play a detective on the silver screen.”

  “No,” Cora said. “I told the chief inspector about my suspicions of her identity only this morning. I was with you the entire time after that. You would not have known about it from him.”

  Mrs. Ivanov was silent, and Cora cast a hard look at the other woman. “Why are you lying?”

  “Perhaps it pains me that my husband was unfaithful.”

  “Or perhaps you killed your husband?” Cora knew it was true the instant the words left her mouth.

  For a moment, Mrs. Ivanov widened her eyes and then she yawned lazily. “One would rather think seeing Mr. Badger’s body would make you more careful.”

  “You won’t kill me inside your room.”

  “No?”

  Cora glanced around the bedroom. A weapon would be most useful. She took comfort in a vase beside her. Perhaps she could throw it at Mrs. Ivanov if necessary.

  Mrs. Ivanov seemed to have the same thought for in the next moment she lunged toward the porcelain vase and clutched it toward herself. Her pretty lips turned into a sneer, and Archibald barked ferociously.

  Was this it?

  Were these her last moments before death?

  Cora’s heartbeat quickened and ratcheted, moving hastily like a film set on the wrong speed.

  “Why did you kill him?” she asked. “You loved him.”

  “He betrayed me.”

  “Many men betray their wives. They don’t deserve death.”

  “He was also betraying my country,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Is this about the tunnels?” Cora asked.

  Mrs. Ivanov paused and then nodded. “How do you know about them?”

  “They led from the folly. I imagine Mr. Badger also discovered them last night.”

  “Silly man wanted to blackmail me before he moved to Argentina,” Mrs. Ivanov said. “He was my accountant. He knew more than anyone how expensive this place is to run. Servants should be loyal.”

  “What made you frame Mr. Mitu? Had he betrayed you?”

  “He wasn’t important, darling. I knew Anton’s mistress deserved to be framed more, but one does not desire a scandal. Still, I’m glad she’ll hang now, even if Mr. Rosenfeld will be happy to tell everyone in London about my late husband’s foibles.”

  “How nice that you take such an optimistic look on things,” Cora said, imbuing her voice with sarcasm.

  Mrs. Ivanov didn’t blink. “Indeed.”

  “I imagine you won’t even have nightmares,” Cora said.

  “Those would be unladylike,” Mrs. Ivanov said.

  “But I do wonder,” Cora said, “how you feel that your husband was not working with the Germans to make this a location for a possible invasion.”

  “Pardon?” This time, Mrs. Ivanov did blink, and Cora allowed herself a smile, even though Mrs. Ivanov was still holding a very heavy vase in very close proximity to Cora.

  “No,” Cora said. “I suppose the chief inspector didn’t tell you that. That was all your nephew’s doing.”

  “Not Anton’s?” Mrs. Ivanov’s voice wobbled.

  “Everyone in high society would have forgiven you a bad marriage,” Cora continued. “But murder? For something your relative did? That is untoward.”

  Mrs. Ivanov’s face contorted. “It doesn’t matter. He was still disloyal.” The vase swayed in her hands, though, as if she were realizing its heaviness.

  Cora snatched it from her and put it away.

  In the next moment, the door swung open and Randolph, the chief inspector,
and Aunt Maggie marched into the room.

  “Mrs. Ivanov,” the chief inspector said. “I am arresting you for the murders of your husband and Mr. Badger.”

  “But—” Mrs. Ivanov seemed to gain fresh energy and she ran toward the dressing room. Randolph tackled her, holding her back.

  “Were you listening at the door?” Cora asked.

  “Best way to get a confession.” Randolph grinned.

  “But I had no idea.”

  “We thought Mrs. Ivanov would be more talkative thinking that no one was there.”

  “But she could have hurt me!” Cora said.

  The chief inspector glanced at the vase. “Seems like you were doing quite well on your own, little lady. You should thank your aunt. She knew something was wrong when she came to the door and called us in.”

  “Oh.” Cora glanced at Aunt Maggie. “Th-thank you.”

  “My poor darling,” Aunt Maggie said, sweeping Cora into her arms. “I’m so happy that you are fine.”

  And Cora knew then that she would be.

  Epilogue

  “The South Downs are not normally so exciting,” Mr. Mitu said, as he drove the car to Polegate Station.

  Cora petted Archibald. Sunlight splashed through the vehicle’s windows, casting everything in a pleasant golden light.

  “It was so good of you to come,” Aunt Maggie said from the front seat. “Really, really good of you to come.”

  There was a silence as everyone contemplated what would have happened if Cora had never decided to visit.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Mitu said, and his voice sounded uncharacteristically hoarse. “I owe you everything.”

  “I only wish you hadn’t spent any time at the station,” Cora said.

  “A bit of travel never harmed anyone,” Mr. Mitu said in an obvious effort to be jovial, and Aunt Maggie squeezed his hand.

  Cora smiled and turned her head, gazing at the sweeping curves of the Downs. In the distance she could see the azure ocean.

  Archibald scrambled onto her lap, as if to get a better view. She held him close to her, thankful that Mrs. Ivanov had not managed to kill her, thankful that everything was now fine.

  “What will you do now?” Cora asked.

  “Probably not drive this vehicle anymore,” Mr. Mitu said. “I probably shouldn’t be driving it now.”

  “But since the mistress and her heir are both in jail, no one could tell us not to,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “How naughty!” Cora laughed.

  “In all honesty, we’ll have to look for new positions,” Mr. Mitu said. “But some of the hotels on the Eastbourne seafront have openings, so we will probably go there.”

  “You’ll have to come back and visit us,” Aunt Maggie said.

  “I won’t be far away,” Cora promised.

  England agreed with her. Veronica was moving to London, and Cora had decided to move there too. It would be nice to finally experience a quieter version of England, one without murders.

  The car entered Polegate, moving past new brick buildings until they reached the station. They stepped from the car, and Cora smiled at the now familiar Italian roof. Cora knew she should feel relieved to leave the Downs, the location of so much horror, but she knew she would miss it.

  She pulled her great aunt into a long hug. They finished saying farewell, and Cora stepped into the train station.

  “Slow down, lassie.” A deep voice startled Cora, and she turned.

  Randolph.

  Her heart soared.

  His dark eyes glimmered, and he narrowed the distance between them. “Did you think I wouldn’t say goodbye to you?”

  “But you don’t even work in Polegate,” she said. “You work in Eastbourne, and—”

  He laughed and pulled her toward him. “I’m not letting you leave without a proper goodbye.”

  “And what does that consist of?”

  His eyes gleamed, and in the next moment his lips were on hers, and everything was wonderful. Finally, he drew back. “London is not far away, lassie. You’ll be seeing more of me.”

  “Oh.” She had the curious feeling that she was smiling ridiculously at him, but it didn’t matter. Randolph was here, the murderer was in prison, and life was good.

  Randolph bent down and addressed Archibald. “Be sure to take good care of her.”

  Archibald offered Randolph his paw, and Randolph shook it solemnly. “An admirable sign.”

  Cora laughed.

  “Now hurry up before you miss that train,” Randolph said. “And be safe in London. It’s the big city.”

  “You needn’t worry,” Cora said. “I’ll only be in Bloomsbury. Veronica says it’s terribly out of fashion, and it is bound to have no murders at all.”

  “There better not be,” Randolph said sternly, and Cora smiled as she turned to head for her new future.

  THE BODY IN BLOOMSBURY

  Murder in London...

  Former Hollywood starlet Cora Clarke is eager to move into a flat in Bloomsbury with her pet bichon Archibald. Unfortunately, when she enters her new bedroom, a man is already there.

  And he’s dead.

  Someone in Cora’s building is a murderer. Can she discover who it is before she becomes the next victim?

  Chapter One

  Pop was not supposed to be in London.

  He was supposed to be in Los Angeles, or possibly Palm Springs or Las Vegas. London was not his home, even though it was Cora’s now.

  Still.

  That was definitely Mr. Nick Valenti.

  Pop.

  Cora stared at the set of posters outside Club Paradiso in Soho. His name was emblazoned in a joyful font together with dates of a performance, and he tilted his head toward a microphone. Pop’s perpetually black hair gleamed, and he gave a wide smile that showcased his equally well-maintained teeth. He was dressed in one of his impeccable suits. Other men might shy from wearing scarlet, but Pop was not most men.

  Pop was an entertainer.

  Pop was a singer.

  Pop was famous.

  Veronica elbowed her. “Gee, isn’t that your father?”

  “Yes,” Cora said quietly. “That’s him.”

  “I didn’t know he was here.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  Archibald pulled against his lead, no doubt desiring to continue their walk through Soho, but Cora continued to stare at the poster.

  Veronica didn’t raise an eyebrow. Veronica was an orphan. They’d been child stars together, back in Hollywood, but now Veronica was newly single and eager to put scandal behind her, and Cora was eager to put Hollywood behind her.

  London offered an opportunity for a new beginning, one not only filled with people who said boot instead of trunk, queue instead of line, and pavement instead of sidewalk, but of a place with a long history, where she could be anonymous.

  Her father evidently did not harbor the same dreams for anonymity.

  Cora found her lips turning up. She hadn’t realized how much she missed him, even if his presence was unexpected. “Do you think he’s there now?”

  “Let’s see.” Veronica grabbed her hand, and they headed inside Club Paradiso. The performance was not until eight pm, but when they entered the club, the sound of Pop’s lilting voice was immediately recognizable.

  Whatever her father’s faults were, he knew how to sing.

  A coat check girl swayed softly before empty hangers to the music. “We’re not open for another four hours.”

  “She’s the entertainment’s daughter,” Veronica announced.

  The coat check girl’s eyes widened. “You’re Veronica James.”

  Veronica gave a cursory nod. “Indeed.”

  The coat check girl assessed Cora. “And you’re his daughter.” Her forehead wrinkled slightly, as it always did when people met her after they met Cora’s father.

  Pop was suave, charming and debonair.

  Cary Grant could take lessons from him.

  Pop didn’t let his ev
er increasing age impede being an idol for millions of women.

  Cora, in the prime of her life, was slightly more disappointing. She was too shy, and her features too ordinary to warrant stardom. Petiteness was not a common trait in starlets.

  “Let me ring his manager.” The woman scrambled through some papers.

  “We can hear him,” Veronica said. “We’ll just go in.”

  The coat check girl halted her search, and a rigidity her face had not possessed before appeared. “I’m under strict instructions not to let anyone see him.”

  “Nonsense.” Veronica grabbed Cora’s arm, and her always abundant collection of bracelets jangled. “Let’s go, honey.”

  “But Miss James—”

  Veronica marched through a glossy black door, and they entered the club. It seemed composed of all rich dark wood and claret colored walls and furnishings. Scents of cocktails lingered in the air. Tables faced the stage, and on the stage, stood Pop.

  He wore a dapper suit, even though the poster had clearly stated his show didn’t start until tomorrow night. Cora felt an instant sense of uncertainty. But he halted his singing and rushed down the steps from the stage.

  “Honey bunny.” Pop swept her into a hug.

  “What are you doing in London?” she asked.

  “Oh, California’s too small for me,” Pop said amiably. He turned to Veronica. “And how are you?”

  “Splendid,” Veronica said.

  “Managing not being a duchess instead anymore?”

  “Technically, I am still a duchess,” Veronica said icily.

  The dissolution of her marriage was a sore spot for Veronica. She’d left Hollywood last year, declaring her intentions to become an English aristocrat to the sorrow of many audience goers. She’d been reluctant to return to Hollywood quickly, even though everyone knew the duke lacked the magnificence his title indicated.

  “So grand!” Pop grinned, unperturbed by Veronica’s proclivity toward frostiness

  “You should have told me you were coming to London,” Cora said.

  Her father’s cheeks turned an uncharacteristic ruddy shade, and he lowered his voice. “It was a sudden trip. I called the number you’d given, but it seemed you’d already left.”