Calamity Under the Chandelier
Page 20
As they began to climb a steep hill, Cora spotted the English Channel through the rain. The waves were gray and furious, but Cora loved it at once.
Mr. Mitu gestured to their right. “I present Orchid Manor to you.”
The house was not half-timber, and the roof was decidedly not composed of any straw. Glass gleamed and curved beside crisp white concrete, jutting in novel directions.
“It’s very modern,” Cora said.
“Isn’t it? Mrs. Ivanov’s first husband may be dead, but her ability to spend money is still strong,” Aunt Maggie said.
“Clearly,” Cora said, still staring at the house.
This was the sort of home that belonged on the cover of an architectural magazine. It probably had graced the cover of an architectural magazine.
A small structure stood near the house. Unlike the main house, this structure emanated the beauty and grace that ancient Greeks had once extolled. Columns that looked like they would be equally at home in a temple in Athens flanked the entrance, and urns, formed of the same stone as the rest of the building, sat on the roof, bestowing it with a no doubt unnecessary ominous look.
“That’s the folly,” Aunt Maggie said, noticing the direction of Cora’s gaze. “Isn’t it pretty? It’s the oldest building here. It was built during the Napoleonic Wars. The estate’s original building is farther back.”
Perhaps the urns had been intended to intimidate invading French soldiers, though even a soldier without a familiarity with geometry should have been sufficiently intimidated by the length of the steep cliffs that separated the English Channel from the Downs.
Mr. Mitu stopped the car at a small entrance in the back, and Aunt Maggie ushered Archibald and her inside the house. Mr. Mitu drove farther, presumably to park the car.
“Come,” Aunt Maggie said. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
They rounded the corner and came to the kitchen. Its black-and-white checkerboard floor gleamed. A series of servants in crisp black dresses and white aprons that matched the floor worked furiously, and Cora bent to attach her dog to his lead, lest Archibald decide to explore the kitchen and inadvertently decorate it with muddy footprints and strands of curly white hair.
“There’s a house party going on,” Aunt Maggie explained.
“Does Mrs. Ivanov have many such parties?” Cora asked, impressed at the servants’ relentless efficiency.
“Oh, indeed.” Aunt Maggie’s face brightened. “You wouldn’t believe the delicious meals. Leftovers have never been so good. I worked in a house before where the person only wanted meat pie.”
“I’m glad you are taking pleasure in the food,” a cool voice said from behind.
Aunt Maggie stiffened and she turned around. “Mrs. Ivanov.”
Cora turned her head.
There, amidst the other kitchen staff, and looking decidedly out of place, was a glamorous woman. She wore a sea green day dress with a long, sheer peplum overjacket that appeared as if the slightest touch might unravel it. Cora suspected the overjacket’s price was not lessened by the garment’s fragileness. A gold and enamel chain bead bracelet gleamed from one wrist. The woman held a scarlet cigarette holder in her other hand, though the ashy scent was generously masked by a heavy floral perfume. Puffs of smoke coiled from her mouth, as if seeking to compete with the steam being emitted from the cook’s pots and pans.
“Mrs. Ivanov.” Aunt Maggie curtsied. “Is there something with which I may help you?”
Mrs. Ivanov extended a placid smile. Her honey-colored hair, visible even beneath a glossy turban, was arranged in immaculate waves and suggested an intimacy with a hairstylists’ entire arsenal.
She ignored Aunt Maggie and addressed Cora. “You’re Cora Clarke? I’ve heard about your detective films.”
“That’s my girl,” Aunt Maggie said fondly, and Cora felt a prickle of gratitude.
Had her parents even expressed such pride? Cora thought not. It had always been part of her life, and of course, Pop was a performer as well.
Mrs. Ivanov scrutinized her and then smiled. “I thought Maggie must have been fibbing, but it’s really you. How incredible to find you in my kitchen. Quite marvelous. And fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Cora asked with cool politeness.
Mrs. Ivanov nodded vigorously. “I’m having a party tonight. You must come. In fact, why don’t we have tea together now?”
Cora glanced at her aunt. “I’m here on a visit.”
“Maggie has work to do,” Mrs. Ivanov said.
Well.
“It’s fine, dearie,” Aunt Maggie said with a strained smile. “You go ahead. I’ll watch Archibald.”
Cora hardly wanted to upset her relative’s employer. “Very well.”
“Oh, good.” Mrs. Ivanov led her away from the kitchen and her aunt. They strode up a winding set of stairs and then entered a wide room with a marble floor. A colorful chandelier dangled in the entryway, and Cora gave a wary glance at it. Bright expressionist paintings, their vibrant colors at odds with their morbid scenes, dotted the walls.
“You don’t approve?” Mrs. Ivanov asked.
“It’s lovely,” Cora said honestly.
The studio executives in Hollywood would have adored a place like this. The large windows overlooked the sea, but unlike at the Malibu homes of top directors, the view was not of a calm, azure ocean. Gray waves crashed against each other in incessant rolls, spewing chalky foam. Some ships tumbled in the sea, but mostly it was empty.
Cora could have stared at it for hours, and she forced her gaze away.
“Let’s sit in the parlor.” Mrs. Ivanov gestured to a polished chrome and glass table. Its glossy surface glistened under the abundance of crystal lamps that were lit, even though the space was devoid of people. Two teal tufted couches sat regally on either side of the coffee table, their curved backs unmarred by pillows. “We can have tea. Or coffee.” Mrs. Ivanov gave her a quick smile. “I do believe in efficiency. And the caffeine is truly far more effective in coffee. No doubt that is why Americans favor it.”
Cora glanced at the servants bustling about, wondering exactly what efficiency was required of Mrs. Ivanov.
“Tea is fine,” Cora said, aware that despite any praise for coffee’s prowess that an Englishperson might muse upon, every Englishperson still seemed to favor tea over all other substances.
Mrs. Ivanov beamed. “Oh, Mr. Mitu! Can you have some tea brought up for us?”
Mr. Mitu appeared and gave a deep bow. “Very well.”
Mrs. Ivanov gestured to an armchair, and Cora sat in it obediently, conscious she was having tea with her relative’s boss.
“Now tell me,” Mrs. Ivanov said, “How do you like England?”
“It’s nice,” she said, as she did to anyone who asked. She shifted her legs. The armchair’s generous size was not particularly suited to her, and she felt lost between the two armrests.
Mrs. Ivanov narrowed her eyes. “I see small talk isn’t one of your skills.”
Cora’s cheeks warmed.
“But that’s fine,” Mrs. Ivanov said breezily. “I can talk enough for the both of us, and I have some things to ask you.”
“About Hollywood?” Cora asked cautiously.
Cora had been a child star, playing the title character in the Gal Detective movies for years, until the studio had to stop since it was no longer believable that eighteen-year-old Cora, even with her petite frame, was a girl anymore. Other child stars had transferred to adult roles years before, but when Cora attempted to play an adult, her girlish voice and slight frame seemed so unbelievable in a heroine that her contract had been swiftly terminated. Memorizing lines and dance steps had been a feat as a child, but it was rather less remarkable as an adult.
Mrs. Ivanov leaned toward her. “Someone is trying to kill my husband.”
What happens next?
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Calamity under the Chandelier
Danger on the Downs
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Meet the Author
BORN IN TEXAS, CAMILLA Blythe spent four years in England. She worked in a fifteenth-century castle, though sadly that didn’t actually involve spotting dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.
Camilla now lives in California with her husband. She sometimes writes regency historical romances under the name Bianca Blythe.
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