He paused, drawing into the condensation of his cocktail glass. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. After all, they weren’t particularly close, and unlike the others, they couldn’t claim even complete neighborliness. He’d been unfriendly when he saw Randolph, seeming to take glee in his position as the landlady’s son.
“I didn’t take you as someone who attended places known for their connections to certain—er—negative facets of Italian society.”
She blinked, unsure for a moment what he meant. Pop was Italian, but he’d lived in America most of his life. Besides the limoncello, this place didn’t seem particularly Italian.
But then she got it.
“You mean organized crime,” she asked, conscious that her voice wobbled.
“Naturally,” he said. There was a faint sound of amusement in his voice. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the only club in West London with them, even though they do seem to prefer greyhounds.”
Cora stiffened.
“I find your father vastly more entertaining, even if he hasn’t displayed his racing skills.”
Her heart seemed to speed faster. She wanted to ask Lionel more questions, but the music was restarting, and soon Pop would start singing again.
She swallowed hard.
Pop was Italian. He was proud of it. Proud of having come from Sicily, which he declared sunnier and lovelier than anything in the stodgy north which he said had an abundance of cathedrals instead of sunshine, a sign more of punishing weather sent down from the heavens than of spirituality and piousness.
“Hey, you’ve gone pale,” Lionel said. “If I thought I would scare you—”
“I’m not scared,” she said sharply.
Pop had always surrounded himself with groups of men with Italian heritage. It made sense. They had something in common, and there always seemed to be a plethora of these men at the Las Vegas casinos and California nightclubs Pop frequented.
Even the producer who’d discovered her had been Italian. Had it been more than her ability to recite lines that had got her hired? She frowned. Perhaps she’d been naive the whole time.
Chapter Fifteen
The rest of the performance was a blur. Pop sang about diamonds and daffodils, when Cora’s mind was on nothing as nice.
If Pop had gotten himself into some trouble, perhaps that explained his hasty and ill-advised disposal of Mr. Tehrani’s body. He may have thought he’d been framed, or he may just have been anxious to have one less thing for these men to hold over him.
Cora finished the rest of her drink, savoring the sharp fiery taste, and Veronica’s eyes widened slightly.
Let her be surprised. Cora wasn’t going to be naive anymore.
She needed to solve this murder so Mr. Tehrani’s death wasn’t hanging over them like some modern boulder.
She rose and marched from the table and toward the coat check girl. “Good evening.”
“Miss Clarke, how may I help you?”
“I need to purchase the most recent edition of The Daily Mail. It’s important. Can you please see that it’s delivered to my table?”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment she looked like she might protest. Newspaper reading was an unusual activity at the club, particularly during nighttime performances.
“It’s important,” Cora urged, handing her a generous amount of money.
“Naturally, I’ll get it for you,” the woman said, though Cora thought she may have laughed, had Cora’s father not been Club Paradiso’s lead performer.
“I have a copy of The Times,” the woman said. “Will that do?”
Cora frowned. “May I see it?” She rifled through the pages and came to an article about the newly discovered body.
There was no accompanying picture. It was good taste of the newspaper, but unfortunately not very useful for Cora’s current purposes.
“No,” she said. “It must be The Daily Mail.”
“Right.” The woman nodded, but Cora noticed the flicker of displeasure on her face.
“Or perhaps I should get it myself.”
“No,” the woman said quickly. “I’ll get it. Enjoy the performance.”
Cora returned to her seat. She attempted to enjoy the performance, just as she had before, just as everyone else at Club Paradiso was now enjoying themselves, but her back suddenly felt too stiff, and her shoulders for some reason ached. When she reached for her martini glass, her fingers trembled and the bubbly cocktail did nothing to sooth the flutters in her stomach.
Perhaps it was mad to show the others the picture.
Perhaps she should change apartments after all and make sure there was no connection between her family and the place in Bloomsbury anymore.
And yet...
She couldn’t have this hanging over her and her father for the rest of their lives. She couldn’t worry that at some point a police constable or investigator would make a connection. What if someone had seen Pop?
And more than all of that, she couldn’t let the poor man whom she’d found in her room die unavenged.
People weren’t supposed to murder other people. A life was the most sacred thing a person had. Sometimes it was the only thing a person had.
She’d only met two murderers before, but both ones had seemed to take a curious trivial outlook on the importance of a person’s life. They’d seen their actions to end a life as relatively minute, a necessary temporary unpleasantness that could be equated to a few nights in the trenches. They’d seemed to see the act almost as a sign of valor and bravery, one that should be rewarded for having gotten past a certain squeamishness most people, in similar circumstances, never would have gotten past.
No, when the paper arrived, she would show them the photograph. Perhaps one of them would admit to having seen the man.
“Oh, there comes the waiter,” Veronica said happily.
The waiter placed the newspaper before Cora. “As you requested.”
“You requested a newspaper?” Veronica widened her eyes. “I know you enjoy reading, but this is rather supposed to be the definition of a place to have a good time. You don’t need to read.” Veronica shuddered slightly as she said the last word.
Normally Cora might have found her friend’s consistent abhorrence of anything to have to do with reading amusing, but Cora simply snatched the newspaper, murmured a quick thank you to the waiter.
Lionel moved her cocktail glass away hastily. “Wouldn’t want to have any nasty spillage.”
“Thank you.” Cora turned the pages until she came to the article.
Yes.
This was the one.
Murder in Bloomsbury.
She shoved the paper in Lionel’s direction.
“I’m afraid I’m as disinclined to reading as your friend,” Lionel said.
Cora didn’t have to glance at him to know he was smirking. It was obvious from his voice. She didn’t flush. She was going to get to the bottom of this. No matter how amusing people thought her.
Pop started a new solo. It was a soft song, almost sentimental. It wasn’t a song in his normal repertoire, but she soon recognized Italian words. She gazed at the bulky men who followed him around, they smiled approvingly at him, and their eyes misted.
Good music was good music, no matter the language, but Cora had the curious sensation Pop hadn’t chosen this precise song. A few of the audience members looked bored, perhaps perplexed by the new words,
People in Britain were warier of Mussolini than Americans. In the US Mussolini was much lauded in communities for his ability to improve the country’s economy. People in Britain seemed to take a more pessimistic view to Italy’s invasion of Ethiopia and Mussolini’s close relationship to Hitler.
Some audience members shifted in their seats, and Pop seemed to sense that and sang with more force, more passion, than perhaps the songwriter had intended.
It worked.
The audience continued to gaze at him, once more only in adoration.
Cora pressed the paper to Lionel. Ideally, she would have shown it to Rollo or Bess first. They were more amiable. She was still somewhat intimidated by Lionel, ever since she’d realized he took his responsibilities to act as a landlord seriously, despite his penchant for extending morning activities into the afternoon.
“This was the man whose body I discovered,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and her gaze on her father. Pop was beaming at her, and she felt guilty for using his performance as a place to speak about murder.
Still, when else would she have so many neighbors around her? Bess worked, and Lionel and Rollo attended graduate school. Besides, what if one of the people she asked was the murderer? They might feel compelled to silence her if they thought themselves the only people who knew the identity of the dead body. This way, they would all know everyone knew the identity of the person in question. Cora would be safer. Her concerns would be that of any person who happened to find the body of someone murdered in their bedroom. Perhaps her questions might annoy the murderer, but now she had asked them, her death wouldn’t unask the questions.
Furthermore, Rollo and Lionel knew she’d seen the body. She hadn’t discussed the murder with Bess yet, but it was possible she would learn soon from the two cousins even if she didn’t bring it up. Rollo did seem to be gazing at Bess with quite open adoration, and Cora smiled. She wondered how long it would be for them to become a couple.
Still, what would Randolph think of her brandishing about the paper and asking nosy questions? She didn’t have to ask him. He would no doubt disapprove. He seemed to hold her safety as being more important than the course of justice. It was a most infuriating quality.
Lionel had already taken the paper. “Murder in Bloomsbury?”
He fumbled in his pocket for some spectacles and then placed them on his nose. “Oh.” He turned to her abruptly. “That’s the body you saw.”
“Yes.”
Lionel frowned. Despite his proclivity to drinking which indicated some habits of going out, Lionel was more withdrawn than either Rollo or Bess. But then Rollo simply seemed overjoyed to be in the company of Bess, and Bess seemed to be consistently pleasant company. That was one of the reasons why Cora was happy she was living opposite Bess, and one of the reasons she knew she’d made the right decision to choose this apartment and stay in it.
“Do you recognize him?” she asked.
He continued to pause. Finally he sighed. “No. I never saw him before in my life.”
“I-I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you should. And frankly, I see most of the people who come to the building.”
“You would if you interrogated everyone’s guests with the passion you did my friend,” she murmured, remembering his tiff with Randolph.
He handed the paper back to her. “So this really isn’t necessary.”
She cleared her throat. “Please pass it to the person beside you.”
He gave her a hard stare. “Fine.” He shoved it at Bess, who stared at it bemused.
“Are we reading newspapers now?” she giggled. “It’s a bit after breakfast.”
Cora leaned over and pointed at the picture of Mr. Tehrani. “I saw this man on my bed the other day. He was dead.”
Bess’s eyes widened comically.
“Do you know him?”
“No, of course not.” Her face though paled, and her fingers trembled. She clasped the stem of her martini glass, as if the action might hide her sudden quivering.
“Are you certain?”
“She’s certain,” Rollo said. “You heard her.”
“Er—yes.” Cora felt suddenly self-conscious. “I don’t suppose you...know?”
His eyes softened, but he shook his head. “No. And I would urge you to stop worrying about him. He’s not your concern.”
Right.
She pulled back, and Veronica looked at her with concern.
“Look,” Rollo said. “Perhaps this gentleman just took ill or something and died elsewhere.”
“He was dead,” she said sullenly.
“He was,” Veronica said.
“You’re not doctors.” Rollo looked at his cousin. “They must be mistaken, right?”
Lionel nodded gravely. “Of course. They’re not doctors.” His voice was surprisingly soothing, and he stood up. “I’m getting us more drinks.”
It had seemed like a good idea to get them all to look at the newspaper clipping when they were together, but they didn’t know Mr. Tehrani. They thought her crazy.
When the waiter arrived with fresh drinks, Cora took a deep sip, but it didn’t rid her of the feeling of embarrassment.
This evening had been going so well. These were the people she lived with, and she’d wanted to make them into friends. They’d been impressed with Club Paradiso, impressed with her father’s presence—well, Lionel’s opinion might have been less positive, but now they were only mystified.
Veronica gave her a sympathetic smile. “It’s alright.”
Cora was quite certain it wasn’t.
Chapter Sixteen
Cora wasn’t the only one who seemed unsettled.
Some people murmured in the crowd, and Pop missed a note. This was uncharacteristic, and Cora frowned. His face seemed a trifle whiter than before, even under the glare of the spotlight, and a sour feeling hit Cora’s stomach that she wished could be attributed to the uncharacteristic second cocktail.
“I had no idea so many police constables like music,” Veronica mused. “They are quite adorable with their helmets. I suppose people are correct when they term London a cultured city.”
Cora swung her head around.
Veronica was right. There were about ten police constables in the room. Some leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and feet tapping, as if hoping to act. Others had found seats on the roundtables. They stared glumly at the stage, unabashed that their presence was causing the swankily attired guests at their table discomfort.
She hoped Pop had added a police constable act to the performance. Perhaps the men would stand up from their corners of the room and then proceed to the stage, Busby Berkeley style, into an intricate tap dance that would end with them hoisting Pop above them. Their blue helmets matched Pop’s blue suit far too much for Cora’s taste, but choreography and costume design had never been her father’s thing.
But no matter how much she hoped the men were part of the act, she couldn’t actually believe it.
These men hadn’t been here when she’d spoken with the coat check girl. They’d just arrived.
They must know.
She shifted on her chair. Pop had moved a body, and then the constables had found the body. They weren’t going to suspect anyone in the apartment. They were going to suspect him.
Her heart beat uncomfortably. Her dress seemed too tight, and the bodice seemed to dig into her chest, as if she’d accidentally put on a corset.
Pop’s gaze met hers. She could read the worry in his eyes. Her father wasn’t supposed to worry. That was an occupation he’d always said was for other people.
The song was going to end soon. Pop’s breath seemed to be longer, and the pianist slowed the tempo, confusion on his face. This wasn’t Pop’s moment of triumph in London.
Cora gritted her teeth. These men were ruining the act. They weren’t supposed to be here. If they wanted to ask questions, they could have done so before he got on stage for his performance.
Still, Mr. Tehrani’s body had just been discovered. They were already acting quickly in speaking with him. No doubt some witness had directed them at Pop. It was a pity his face was on so many billboards in London.
Finally, the song ended. Pop leaned toward the microphone. “We’ll take a short intermission. Grab a new drink. I know I want one.”
The pianist’s eyebrows rose, and Cora was certain there wasn’t supposed to be an intermission here.
She gazed as a man in a long brown trench coat approached the stage. The constables seeme
d to defer to him.
“Excuse me,” Cora said quickly and rose, nearly toppling her drink.
“Cora?” Veronica looked concerned, but Cora didn’t have time to explain. She forced herself to send a reassuring smile and then marched to the stage.
“I’m Detective Inspector Darby-Brown,” the man was telling her father.
Pop surveyed him, and his gaze drifted to the man’s coat. “How unimaginative.”
Cora hastened her steps. Her father was going to get himself into trouble.
The detective inspector gave her a cold look when she appeared at Pop’s side and then returned his gaze to her father. “Can we please speak backstage? This is not a topic for the club’s guests.”
The man’s manner was brusque even though Cora knew enough about British accents to know his accent generally belonged to the elite. She suspected his elevated position on the police force had less to do with a man who’d managed to scrounge his way up the ladder through sheer determination and intellect, than a man who’d been born well, educated at the best schools, and then had to make his own way in the world because of his status as a younger child in a family prone to having sons or a father’s predilection for gambling.
“This is no guest,” Pop said.
“Oh?” The detective elevated one eyebrow, though his demeanor still emanated casual indifference. Cora felt unimportant in his presence. She was suddenly self-conscious of her dress. American dresses tended to lack the sophistication the British prided themselves in. “Are you his...date?”
The word seemed coarse, and Cora stiffened.
“She’s my daughter,” Pop growled.
Cora smiled. The words were probably painful for her father to admit. He didn’t like drawing attention to his age.
Pop narrowed his eyes. “You can’t be much of a detective if you don’t know this is Cora Clarke, the world-famous actress.”
The detective’s cheeks managed to flush. He turned to her, as if considering an apology, but remained silent, perhaps wary of drawing attention to his faux pas. Finally, he sighed. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke. This matter remains private though.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 45