The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries

by Bianca Blythe

  Pop huffed and seemed determined to root himself to the stage.

  Cora was conscious of murmurings in the audience. It wouldn’t do Pop any good if people were to overhear. “Perhaps the detective inspector is correct.”

  Mr. Darby-Brown sent her a smug look.

  Pop gritted his teeth. “I have a dressing room backstage.”

  “Splendid,” Mr. Darby-Brown said.

  Pop’s nostrils flared, and he marched off stage. Cora had forgotten how long his legs were. She hurried after him, brushing past sumptuous red velvet curtains and into a rather paler, more faded corridor.

  Vinny rushed toward them, a scowl on his face. “What’s all this? Why did you stop the performance?”

  “It’s a small intermission,” Pop said breezily. “Good for the manager to sell more drinks.”

  “No intermission was planned.”

  “Oh, it was added. Too few guests were ordering drinks. They didn’t want to miss a single note.”

  “She was talking at her table.” Vinny jerked his thumb in Cora’s direction.

  For a moment disappointment flickered on her father’s face and her cheeks warmed, but then Pop laughed. “Cora was setting a good impression.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Other singers will claim they’re artists, but the difference between the successful and the unsuccessful is I know it’s all about business. What club is going to hire a singer to perform if they’re just going to hamper people from buying drinks?”

  Mr. Darby-Brown frowned. “I did spot waiters.”

  “Ah, the Brits are too polite to speak during a show,” Pop said, answering quickly. He patted her shoulder. “Good job, honey bunny.”

  Pop must be scared to have a detective visit him. It didn’t bode well that the detective thought it necessary to interrupt Pop’s performance. And yet, Pop was still sweet-talking. His wits were as strong as his voice.

  “I did not come here to discuss the intricacies of intermission etiquette,” Mr. Darby-Brown said stiffly.

  “Say, what did you come here to discuss? Who are you?” Vinny stepped toward the detective inspector, invading his space.

  Pop cleared his throat hastily. “It’s a family matter, I’m afraid. It—er—concerns my daughter.”

  He entered his dressing room and ushered Mr. Darby-Brown and Cora into it before slamming it shut.

  “Obviously, it doesn’t concern my daughter,” he said gallantly, keeping his voice low. “I just thought you would prefer more privacy. Vinny can be intimidating. Most likely his family had a bulldog when he was a small child, and he accidentally imprinted on it.”

  The detective gave him a hard stare. “When I show up most people say they don’t know the reason. You haven’t said that. Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Right.” Pop looked down, as if he were an actor who’d flubbed his lines during rehearsal again. “I’m afraid I’m similarly flummoxed at your presence, detective. How can I help you?” He gave his broad beam again, but perhaps because they were in a closer space, or perhaps simply because the fluorescent light was unflattering, he appeared older and more uncertain. For the first time, Cora realized his golden skin, particularly unusual in the drizzly March weather of London, was abetted by makeup.

  “We found a body near the crematorium by the British Museum,” Mr. Darby-Brown said abruptly.

  Cora straightened.

  “It was a man dressed in a suit and wrapped in a daisy covered sheet,” Mr. Darby-Brown continued.

  Her heart thudded, and she forced her facial features to remain calm. She was glad she’d changed her bedding. She only hoped the police didn’t come after it, brandishing her matching daisy printed pillowcase in triumph.

  “Oh?” Pop kept his face calm, though Cora doubted that was enough to persuade Mr. Darby-Brown of his innocence.

  “Some tourists reported the...er...package was dropped off by a man in a red sports car. The car description matches one you own.”

  “Now what does this have to do with me?”

  The detective cleared his throat. “The implication, of course, is that you left the body there.” He shot Pop a strange look, as if assessing whether Pop truly had not understood.

  “Ah, I wouldn’t be caught anywhere near a museum,” Pop said easily.

  “And a crematorium?”

  “I’m far too healthy for those things.” Pop winked. “Besides, much as I like to think I’m the only man in London with good taste, we all know that’s not true. So some bad guy has a similar car. So what?”

  Mr. Darby-Brown gritted his teeth. “Is there anyone who might have access to your car?”

  “Yes.” Pop nodded solemnly.

  “Oh?” The detective looked interested and took out his notepad. “Who is that? Can I have their name?”

  Even Cora found herself looking at her father curiously, wondering whom he might implicate.

  “No one is allowed to drive my car but me,” Pop said. “But obviously it would be attractive to thieves who would desire to borrow it for a spin.”

  “Thieves?” The detective sputtered and then slammed his notepad shut.

  Pop nodded. “Precisely. After all, it’s a very nice vehicle.”

  “So you have nothing cooperative to say?” the detective asked.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “That will be my call.” Pop rose. “The intermission has gone on for long enough.” His face sobered, and he looked at the detective. “I assure you I would not have anything to do with anyone’s death.”

  Pop sauntered off, and Cora found herself smiling apologetically at the detective.

  “He is quite busy,” she said.

  “And unhelpful.” Mr. Darby-Brown’s frown did not dissipate, and a shiver ran through Cora.

  She rose, restraining the instinct to confess everything to the detective. The story was unbelievable, and he would only be further convinced her father had somehow murdered the man.

  “I should go,” she said hastily. She moved through backstage. Her father was already singing when she reached the stage, singing lightly about love, and she paused, wondering if there was another way she could join her table.

  “Please let me escort you, Miss Clarke,” an American voice said.

  She turned.

  Vinny stood before her.

  “Th-thank you,” she said.

  “This way.”

  She followed him through another corridor that led to the front of the club.

  “I trust you can find your table from here?”

  “Naturally.” She nodded, eager to leave.

  “You’re not very much like your father, Miss Clarke.”

  She gave a tight smile. It was an observation many others had made.

  “See that your father doesn’t get himself into trouble,” Vinny said. “We wouldn’t want any unfortunate incidents.”

  She swallowed hard, and he smiled, as if amused by her not very well hidden distress.

  She hurried to her seat. The other audience members seemed transfixed once again by her father’s singing, and fresh drinks sat on the tables.

  Pop had handled the police inquiry well. The police constables had left with the detective inspector, but a sudden tightness in Cora’s chest did not ease, not even when she sat down between Veronica and Lionel again.

  Perhaps Pop had managed to avoid being hauled away to jail, but Cora expected the detective would come back with more questions.

  No matter.

  She would just have to discover who killed Mr. Tehrani first.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pop’s set ended, but the pianist continued to play. Cora allowed the melody to flit over her, but she resisted the urge to suggest they dance. This was no time to forget her troubles.

  Cora picked up the paper and looked at her new neighbors. “I never asked you. What were you doing the morning I arrived?”

  “What a curious question.” Bess took a long sip of martini, and Cora almost worried, but
in the next moment Bess’s eyes glimmered, and in the moment after that, Bess’s lips broke into a wide smile. “It’s almost like we’re suspects. So very exciting. Just like in the pictures.”

  “You do have to see the Gal Detective films,” Rollo said. “They are charming.”

  “And you are for saying that,” Cora said, forcing her voice to remain light.

  “Personally, I find being a murder suspect highly overrated,” Lionel said.

  “Nonsense,” Rollo said. “You are enjoying the music and the martinis.”

  Lionel offered a small smile and shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “I think Lionel has a point,” Bess said, placing a cigarette into a cigarette holder. She struck a match, illuminating her exquisite scarlet manicure for a brief second before she lit her cigarette and crushed the match into the ashtray. “It is grizzly. You’re a man, and perhaps you don’t understand, Rollo.” She gave a slight shudder. “You must be certain to keep your windows locked, Cora.”

  “Her window was open when we discovered the body,” Veronica said.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. At least, it would have been uncomfortable, had the pianist not continued to play such lovely music.

  Lionel glanced at his cousin and then turned back to Cora. “I’m afraid I must apologize. I was airing the room out before your arrival. The victim and the murderer must have snuck in through the window. I’m afraid I should have known that even Bloomsbury is not immune to murder. No doubt the police will find he was some heroin-addicted person. Poor chap.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Cora said, and the others’ faces paled. Annoyance flickered on Lionel’s face, though the others seemed mostly surprised. She inhaled. “I mean, I’m simply curious.”

  Rollo laughed. “My cousin was sleeping.” He leaned closer to her. “He was hungover.”

  “He’s right,” Lionel said. “I didn’t hear a thing. I hope this doesn’t get back to Mother. It will be dashed embarrassing if she learns I was out of commission. I didn’t think I’d drunk so much the night before the incident, but I suppose I must have.”

  “He might be a medical student, but he’s astonishingly bad at math sometimes. You were drinking heavily.”

  Lionel raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t get examinations on how many shots I get through.”

  The others laughed, and tension eased from the table.

  “I was in the library,” Rollo said. “And Bess, you were at work, right?”

  “Er—yes.” Bess gave a wobbly smile. “All rather dull.”

  “I’m afraid we didn’t hear anything,” Rollo said.

  “Right,” Cora said. “How unfortunate.”

  Bess peered at the newspaper clipping and turned it over. “Mr. Tehrani is the person who was going to meet with Miss Greensbody.”

  “You know his name?” Cora raised her eyebrows involuntarily, and then took a hasty sip of martini.

  Bess shouldn’t know the man’s name. That hadn’t been in the newspaper clipping. Even Mr. Darby-Brown hadn’t mentioned the victim’s name, and Cora had not offered it.

  “Miss Greensbody had a picture of him for her exhibit,” Rollo said, offering Bess a new cigarette. “That’s probably where Bess saw him.”

  “Right,” Bess said hastily. “That picture is ever so grainy. Naturally, I didn’t recognize him at first. But after musing it over, it all comes back to me.”

  “Naturally,” Rollo echoed. “Perfectly understandable.”

  “I didn’t find the photograph particularly grainy,” Cora said.

  “No?” Bess fiddled with the clasp of her bracelet. “I suppose it may have been the pose. Yes, definitely the pose. It was so rigid. You see, when I saw him, he looked quite...alive. Very energetic. Definitely dashing.” There was a curious wistful sound to her voice that made Cora turn sharply toward her.

  “You mean you found the painting of Mr. Tehrani to be more dashing?” Cora asked.

  Bess’s face turned a distinct red shade, the color visible despite the room’s dim lights.

  “It’s all Miss Greensbody will talk about,” Bess said apologetically. “I was curious and went to the exhibit.”

  “With Miss Greensbody?”

  “Er—no. I believe she was at lunch,” Bess said. “I didn’t see her. But the portrait was—er—flattering.”

  “I see,” Cora said, even though she did not.

  The tension in Bess’s shoulders eased.

  “Miss Greensbody did seem most eager to meet Mr. Tehrani,” Rollo said. “It’s a pity he died.”

  There was an awkward silence, not saved by the music. Perhaps the others realized Miss Greensbody would be unlikely to kill the man whom she’d been so eager to see.

  “Apparently, the man was carrying the most brilliant jewels.” Bess’s voice was at a somewhat higher pitch than normal, and Cora regretted she was making her uncomfortable.

  She liked Bess.

  She liked all of them, with the possible exception of Lionel, who possessed an abundance of grumpiness that could be frustrating. Still, he was also jovial.

  “Perhaps someone stole them who needed money,” Lionel mused. “I wonder if the police found the jewels.”

  Cora glanced at Veronica. “That’s an interesting thought.”

  “That’s why I’m in medical school,” Lionel said with a smile.

  Perhaps Cora could find out if the police had discovered the jewels. They hadn’t seemed to be on Mr. Tehrani’s body. She hadn’t even found identification on his body, though that in itself was odd.

  Perhaps she could ask Randolph if he could make discreet inquiries about the jewels.

  Her shoulders eased, and she leaned back.

  “Are the police certain he was murdered?” Rollo asked.

  Lionel pushed the article toward him. “It says he was poisoned.”

  “How curious.” Rollo took a long sip of his cocktail. “Though it could have been suicide.”

  “If I were to commit suicide,” Lionel declared, “I would choose a quicker method.”

  “Not everyone has your efficiency,” Rollo said.

  Bess shuddered. “Let’s speak about something else.”

  “Where do you come from originally?” Cora asked, trying to change the conversation to something that might be taken as being less aggressive.

  “Peterborough,” Lionel said. “Not too far from here.”

  Cora tried to nod authoritatively, but her British geography was still imperfect.

  Rollo’s eyes softened. “It’s north of here. About an hour away on the train.”

  “I live farther away,” Bess said. “Though, I’m going to Cotswolds this weekend.”

  “Mother owns several apartments in London,” Lionel said. “I manage all of them.”

  “And your father?”

  “Father died in the last war,” Rollo said stiffly.

  “I’m sorry,” Cora said, feeling vaguely guilty she’d brought them to see her father. “Pop was too young to fight.”

  “If there’s another war with Germany,” Lionel said, “we’ll be just the right age to fight.”

  Cora swallowed hard.

  Most concerns had a habit of seeming petty compared to the prospect of going to war. The boys back home hadn’t worried about war. War was something some of their fathers had had to do, but Americans had made it clear they desired no more part in European battles. They’d had to step in at the end of the Great War, but war had continued in many countries in Europe since then, as they’d argued over their newly drawn borders with violence.

  “He’s just using that as an excuse to drink more,” Rollo said. “Chamberlain is on top of it. He won’t allow another war. England is just finished recovering from the last one.”

  It was true.

  Though some newspaper articles spoke chidingly about how nearly a quarter of the British population were living below subsistence levels, even when they possessed jobs, many people were doing well. Estate
s had sprung up in the suburbs, and when Cora traveled by train through the countryside, she’d spotted rows of new, matching buildings. Many of them were half-timbered, hearkening back to a romanticized time, while others took pride in displaying the large, curved glass windows that signified the latest in building techniques. The depression had been good for some people, who’d taken advantage of the falling prices to secure their own futures.

  No one wanted to lose everything for another war.

  A few people were dancing, and Lionel nudged his cousin. Rollo’s face grew a distinct ruddy color, but he turned to Bess. “Let’s go for a whirl.”

  Bess bit her lower lip. Cora had the impression her neighbor didn’t return Rollo’s obvious affections, but Bess made no polite refusal. Instead, she raised her chin and extended her hand. “Very well.”

  Rollo helped her from her seat and led her to the small dance floor. Bess’s dress didn’t shimmer like other dresses did, and her back was not exposed in the modern manner, but Rollo still gazed at her as if she were the loveliest creature he’d ever happened across.

  “Pathetic,” Lionel muttered. He staggered to his feet and approached Veronica. “May I have this dance?”

  Veronica stubbed out her cigarette. “Sure, honey.” She glanced at Cora. “You won’t mind being alone?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Cora said.

  Veronica flashed a smile, and in the next moment Cora was alone at the table, surrounded by mostly empty cocktail glasses. The lingering scents of the various alcoholic concoctions wafted through the air, some sweet, some sour, and now all unpleasant.

  She’d hoped she would be able to find a new, more normal life in London. She had a pleasant apartment, and she’d met pleasant people, but she’d spent her evening with them badgering them with questions that all possessed the same implication: she believed one of them might be a murderer.

  No matter.

  Some questions needed to be asked.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A taxi had carried them home last night from the bright lights of Soho to the not very bright lights of Bloomsbury.