Except...
It hadn’t truly been fine.
If it had truly been fine, there would have been no police constables scattered in the audience.
If it had truly been fine, Vinny wouldn’t have implied the presence of the police was unwelcome.
If it had been truly been fine, the detective wouldn’t have questioned Pop at all.
“How did they connect Pop to the body so quickly?” Randolph asked.
She shrugged. “It seems Pop is not an expert at the disposing of bodies. He dropped the body off at a crematorium.”
Randolph raised his eyebrows.
“It seems the crematorium’s instinct on discovering the body at their doorstep was to call the police, rather than simply burn it,” Cora said.
Randolph smiled. “It was sensitive of him to leave it there rather than in the Thames for some poor child to discover and for some poor constables to haul up.”
“You sound like him,” Cora grumbled. “Unfortunately, some passersby remembered his vehicle, and even more unfortunately, they traced it back to him.”
“I suspect he has a nice car.”
“Yes, he likes the good life.” Cora hoped her voice didn’t sound bitter. When she looked up, Randolph was assessing her. Sympathy definitely seemed to be in his eyes.
Golly.
“Pop’s surrounded by a lot of burly Italian-Americans.”
“How odd,” Randolph said.
“And one of them told me he hoped any unfortunate incidents didn’t happen,” Cora continued, wincing at the memory.
“Perhaps he was saying he didn’t want your father to be arrested, in a collegial sentiment sort of way.”
“Perhaps,” Cora said, but Randolph must have heard the doubt in her voice, for he squeezed her hand.
“It will be fine,” he promised. “He probably didn’t mean he would cause anything unfortunate to happen to your father.”
Cora nodded. “I know.”
The thing was, she wasn’t entirely certain.
It was all very well acting confident when she didn’t want people to worry about her, but she’d spent long enough on sets to know that how one acted and how one felt were two entirely different things.
She raised her chin. The last thing she needed was to waste time dwelling on her worries. They were huge and gnawed at her with surprising consistency.
“Cheer up,” Randolph said. “If you’re worried, we can go to another one of your father’s performances tonight. You’ll see there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
We?
“You wouldn’t mind meeting my father?”
“Naturally not,” he said. “In fact, I’d quite like to meet him.”
“But he might think—”
Randolph raised his eyebrows, and Cora’s cheeks warmed.
“It’s just that,” she continued, “generally it’s considered a sign of being serious when a man meets a woman’s parents.”
“Is that so?” Randolph asked, with a smile.
Cora nodded. “I thought you should know.”
Randolph clasped her in his arms. “Cora, sweetheart, I am serious. You have a surprisingly thick skull for such a delicate creature.”
Cora tilted her head up. He was all strength and splendor. The light glinted over his tousled hair, and she reached up to touch it, still unused to the fact she could do this, that he was hers.
In the next moment their mouths met, and Cora’s thoughts quieted, indulging only in the sensation of Randolph’s lips, Randolph’s tongue and Randolph’s hands.
She pulled away. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything, sweetheart.” He tucked a lock behind her ear. “Particularly if you’re going to suggest a weekend break somewhere.”
She stepped away, and her cheeks flamed. “Er—right. I wanted to know if the policemen found Mr. Tehrani’s jewels.”
“His jewels?” For some reason, Randolph’s lips turned up. “You’re right that is a much less romantic contemplation.”
“I mean, obviously maybe you don’t have access to that sort of information. But if you did, it would be most helpful.”
“Normally it would be difficult for me to receive that. But since Mr. Tehrani was a foreigner, I suppose I could make inquiries. Some people in Britain worry that the Shah has too many financial links to Germany, though the main worry is their border with the Soviet Union.” Randolph pulled her closer to him, as if sensing her discomfort. “I’ll check,” he promised. “And then I’ll pick you up in my car, and I can meet your father. Good?”
“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” she murmured.
His eyes twinkled. “I’m rather an expert at making wonderful plans.”
“You’re an expert at many things.”
He winked. “That’s true too.”
Chapter Twenty-One
For the first time, the coat check girl did not narrow her eyes when Cora appeared. Her gaze was decidedly on Randolph.
Cora didn’t blame her. Her gaze tended to be on Randolph too. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he fit his clothes well and his facial features were chiseled, but his entire bearing was one of strength and competence.
Club Paradiso was undoubtedly no stranger to important guests, but the coat check girl was evidently not immune to Randolph’s considerable charms.
“Go right inside, Miss Clarke,” the coat check girl gushed, keeping her gaze on Randolph.
Cora smiled and entered Club Paradiso, Randolph at her side.
It was almost time for Pop’s performance, and everything in the club sparkled, waiting only for the final onslaught of guests.
It should have felt odd striding in with Randolph, but it felt only natural, and for a while she forgot this was a monumental moment.
Pop must have finished rehearsing for the stage was empty.
“We can check backstage.” Cora strode authoritatively past the curtain and led Randolph to her father’s dressing room. She knocked, and the door soon opened.
“Hi, honey bunny!” Pop flashed a customary smile at her, though it soon changed to a rather less customary frown. Pop looked far less pleased to see Randolph than the coat check girl had been. “Who is this?”
“I’m Randolph.”
Cora clasped his hand, and Pop’s gaze dropped to their linked hands.
“Hmph,” he muttered. “I preferred Archibald.”
“Randolph has his good qualities,” Cora said.
Pop continued to frown. “So you’re the sweetheart.”
“Yes.” Randolph flashed his own perfect smile, though it did nothing to inspire Pop to replicate it.
“So what are you in? The police force? Scotland Yard? The Secret Intelligence Service?” Pop narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you work for another country.”
“Pop!” Cora exclaimed.
“Sorry. He just has that look about him,” Pop said. “You have to be careful about these government workers. Not to be trusted.”
Cora frowned. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard statements like this from her father, but they’d typically been said with such lightheartedness, she’d thought he was joking or had simply watched too many James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart films, a definite hazard for people her father’s age.
“Speaking of the government, Pop,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Have you heard more from Mr. Darby-Brown?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “False alarm.”
“I hope so,” she said. “You shouldn’t have dropped Mr. Tehrani’s body at the crematorium.”
“It looked quiet,” Pop said defensively.
“It was around the corner from the British Museum!”
“Then the tourists should all have gathered there,” Pop said sullenly. “Far more interesting.” He shrugged. “Besides, do you know what it’s like to drive around with a corpse? It’s the sort of thing that might affect the seat cushions.”
“Not to speak about if you’d gotten pulled ov
er,” Randolph said, interjecting himself into the conversation.
Pop narrowed his eyes. “That is a most unhelpful comment. Obviously, I’m far too good a driver to ever get pulled over.”
“Even driving on the other side of the road?” Cora asked.
Pop raised his chin. “Even then.”
“What sort of car do you drive?” Randolph asked, perhaps attempting to steer the conversation into something Pop might find less controversial.
“Are you going to run a trace on it?” Pop asked.
“No,” Randolph said. “Of course not. Er—probably not.”
“It’s a 1937 Jaguar SS 100 3.5-litre Roadster,” Pop said, and Cora’s gaze wandered as the conversation shifted to cars, despite Pop’s obvious pride.
It hadn’t been necessary to learn how to drive in Hollywood, and she’d always been so busy she’d never had the time to dedicate to learn anyway. A car would be a liability in London. The tube functioned fine, though Cora would always prefer to walk when given the choice, despite London’s propensity to rain.
Murmurings sounded from the hall, and piano music wafted through the room. Evidently the performance would start soon.
“We should take our seats,” Cora said quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” Randolph said.
“Er—yes.” Pop gave a tight smile.
A hostess soon led Cora and Randolph to a table. The club was filled with people. Women in slinky dresses wearing their hair in elaborate updos sat beside men wearing dinner jackets and bow ties. Waiters flitted about regally, moving silently, as if practicing for a role as a specter in the local theater production.
Pop appeared on the stage a few seconds later. He beamed at the audience and then his smile wobbled. His eyes darted from side to side, and then he inhaled and gave his customary smile. “Well, hello folks. I’m thrilled to see you all here. I have a special announcement to make. My daughter is going to sing with me.”
Cora widened her eyes.
This was news to her.
She’d just seen Pop, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned it then.
“Let’s give her a hand,” Pop said, and the audience applauded. “Come on, Cora!”
Cora swallowed hard. She didn’t leave her seat. She wasn’t supposed to sing. That hadn’t been planned, and she certainly hadn’t rehearsed. Her voice felt tight, as her heartbeat quickened, as if pounding against her diaphragm.
Pop looked around the room. For some reason, he had an anxious glint in his eyes and he soon descended the steps from the stage and stood before her. “Come on, honey.”
Cora shook her head. “I haven’t practiced...”
Pop waved his hand dismissively. “So you’ll have that raw sound. It’s fine.”
Cora raised her eyebrows. Her father had never enthused about the virtues of not rehearsing before. In fact, he took rehearsals seriously, devoting hours each day to practice the songs that seemed so effortless to everyone he impressed in the evenings.
Cora looked at Randolph. This hadn’t been exactly a date, but she hadn’t expected to abandon him.
“It’s fine,” Randolph said. “I’ll watch.”
“Well, I suppose I could do it...” Cora pressed her lips together.
“Good,” Pop said. “You know the songs.”
“Not the Italian ones.”
“Then we’ll cut them.” Pop waved his hand. “Easy-peasy. Let’s go!”
She followed him, even though she was astonished. Normally, Pop would insist she get into a pretty dress and that she do her hair and makeup. She’d walked through London, and she had the decided impression her makeup was rather more faded, and her hair rather less pristine, than when she’d started out.
“Here’s the sheet music, if you need it. In fact, this has the sheet music for all the songs on the program,” Pop said.
“Well, I won’t need that.”
“Keep it anyway.” Pop strode confidently to the microphone.
The audience’s applause intensified as she followed him onto the stage, and murmurings sounded. Evidently, some audience members had recognized her.
And then she noticed them.
The constables were back. Mr. Darby-Brown was back. They were all in the audience.
Mr. Darby-Brown was at the front of the stage and gestured for him to stop.
Pop didn’t stop. Instead, Pop spoke into the microphone, chatting about how pleased he was that his daughter the starlet was here and then proceeding to get the audience excited.
Pop did not seem to subscribe to the theory of lowering expectations so as to better delight them. He seemed intent on raising expectations, and Cora resisted the urge to run from the stage.
The detective frowned, and Pop quickly halted his adulations. He nodded to the pianist, and then in the next moment he was singing, and in the next moment after that, Cora had joined him.
Well.
She could do this.
She hadn’t expected to do this. And she certainly would have preferred to be wearing something rather more suitable to performing than a plain blue dress, but she could do this.
Pop had been right.
It was almost enjoyable.
Almost.
Pop was walking around on the stage, even though during last night’s performance he hadn’t strayed from the microphone. Perhaps he’d decided to approach the song from a new artistic direction.
Except... It was odd just how much Pop was walking.
Wait.
Is he walking...away?
Cora’s heart thundered, even though that was most inconvenient, since she was trying to sing.
Why is Pop walking away?
Cora resisted the urge to frown, concentrating on her lyrics.
She should have known better.
Pop had been spooked by the police and the detective, and now he was leaving, even though he’d promised this crowd a whole evening of entertainment.
Golly.
He stepped behind the curtain, winked at her, and then disappeared.
Double golly.
She had two choices. She could stop the performance and run after him, alerting the detective and constables that he was attempting to run away, or she could stay and pretend that this was all part of the duet, all part of the act.
In truth, she only had one option.
Pop was her father, and she was wasn’t going to send the constables on him if she could help it.
So she sang.
And sang.
And sang.
The sheet music was helpful, and she ignored the startled expression on the pianist’s face, as she proceeded to each new song.
Finally, she finished the last song.
No one should have applauded.
She hadn’t warmed up her voice, and she hadn’t even sung since her last musical.
And yet, for some reason, the audience still applauded. In fact, some still applauded. Some of them even stood. Most of them stood.
She blinked at the shadowy figures, blinded by the bright lights.
She’d been so determined to keep the police constables and detective distracted. She’d worked so hard to make them think she truly belonged on the stage, that she’d forgotten some of her fears.
She strode from the stage, stopping as people congratulated her. Some people mused on their memories of watching her on the silver screen.
“Miss Clarke.” Cora stiffened, recognizing the voice immediately.
It didn’t matter that their conversation had been brief. Nothing could compel her to forget Mr. Darby-Brown’s rounded vowels and excellent articulation.
She shuddered and turned toward him.
“I must congratulate you on your remarkable performance.”
She gave a tight smile.
“Though I’ve spoken with the manager here, and he said you were not scheduled to sing.”
“I was a surprise guest.”
“That is taking surprise to extremes.”
S
he was silent.
“Perhaps more surprising is that your father did not rejoin you.”
She remained silent, conscious only of the heavier thudding of her heart.
“Where is he now?” Mr. Darby-Brown asked sternly.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said honestly. “Er—perhaps he returned to his hotel room. I—er—believe he wasn’t feeling well.”
“Balderdash.”
“What did you want to see him about?” Cora asked. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“This is a police inquiry, Miss Clarke.”
“And my father was happy for you to speak in my presence before,” Cora reminded him.
He sighed. “Well, I’m not going to waste time thinking about what he might prefer. Though I doubt you can help.”
“Try me,” Cora said the words lightly. She had no intention of revealing to the detective just how interested she was in the case and just how much she knew.
“Very well,” he said. “Do you know anything about Persian jewels?”
“I like jewels,” she said honestly. “Though I’m not acquainted with the Persian kind. Are they any different?”
“No,” the detective said flatly. He then shrugged. “Well, there are some variations in the settings.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s not the focus of the discussion. The important thing is that the victim was carrying these jewels with him from Persia.”
“Don’t tell me he liked to wear them too.”
The detective frowned. “Don’t be facetious. Mr. Tehrani was from all accounts an exceptionally proper man. One of the local museums was giving an exhibit on Persian archaeology, goodness knows why. There’s enough interesting things in this current world to ponder about what happened centuries, much less millennia, ago.”
Cora suspected Miss Greensbody would have an excellent argument against this, but she remained silent. She didn’t need to encourage the detective to take a more open-minded view on history, she only needed to encourage him to divulge more.
“The jewels?” she prompted.
“Er—right.” The detective hesitated, as if wondering whether he should tell her anything. He sighed. “I suppose you may as well know. It will probably be in the paper tomorrow anyway. What we need is a good war. That will give the journalists something else to focus on except murders of minor royals from other countries.”
The Sleuthing Starlet Mysteries Page 48