Murder among the Stars

by Adam Shankman

  “You got the hots for writer-boy now?” Sal asked, sounding amused. “Good thing you’re not my girl . . . yet. I’d be sore if you were messing around. Does noble young Freddie know? Or care?”

  “None of your beeswax! And anyway, no,” she snapped.

  “Just pipe down for one minute and listen to me. I followed you down here to make sure that John wasn’t gettin’ funny with you and to tell you I heard from one of the worker bees here that John Emerson was seen wandering around the estate before dawn, yapping to himself about what he was going to do to all the people who were out to get him. From what the guy said, Emerson was upset about a broad who thinks she’s too good for him. Talked about pulling out her black hair by the roots.”

  Lulu’s hand involuntarily rose to her lips. Dolores had black hair. Had Emerson propositioned her and turned murderous after being rebuffed? On the other hand, Anita Loos also had black hair, and the world knew Emerson had reason to resent his wife’s stellar success. Maybe he was talking about her.

  Lulu told Sal about the other evidence she’d gathered and how it all pointed in one direction: John Emerson, unbalanced and enraged, had murdered Juliette and Dolores.

  “I’m gonna gut the bastard,” Sal growled. He pulled out a knife and held it low between them. Lulu stared at it, spellbound. The blade was wide at the hilt and curved outward slightly before tapering to a point. At first she thought it was dirty, and recoiled, thinking it might be covered with old blood. But a moment later she realized the blade was made with dark metal that didn’t glint at all in the moonlight. That must have been an advantage in his line of work. Let the show-offs have shiny blades. Serious killers have dark weapons.

  It wasn’t a big knife, but its purpose was certain and grisly. Even though she was sure Sal meant her no harm, she felt afraid with that deadly weapon so close.

  Impulsively, she put her hand on his and pushed the knife down. “You can’t.”

  “Give me one good reason why not!” he shouted, jerking his hand away. “When I think what he did to that poor dame! She was a good egg, Lulu. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. She didn’t deserve that ugly ending. . . .” He rubbed his temples with his free hand, covering his eyes at the same time. Was he crying?

  “She was . . . She talked so tough, you know, carrying on like she was high class for Hollywood, but she was just a goof. She was a good kid . . . like you.”

  “Did you love her?” Lulu asked.

  When he moved his hand to look at her, his eyes were dry. “Love? Does that matter? But she shouldn’t have died. Nothing that beautiful should die. When I get my hands on Emerson, I’m gonna carve the flesh off his face and—”

  “Sal, don’t be an idiot. You have to leave it to the police.”

  “My kind doesn’t leave revenge to the police. They didn’t nail the man who killed my father. I did.” He pounded his chest with the fist that clutched the knife.

  “We have enough evidence for them to arrest Emerson and put him on trial. This has to be done the right way. If you kill him, you’ll go to jail, Sal. It’s a sure bet.”

  “There’s so much you don’t understand, Lu. I’m untouchable,” he snarled.

  “Just give me enough time to make my case to the police. Give them a chance to do their job. No matter what Emerson deserves, you don’t need another death on your conscience.”

  “My conscience feels pretty clean, and I’ve killed an awful lot of people.” He brandished the knife in front of her again. “I’ll give you one more day. But if the cops don’t arrest him by tomorrow night, I’m handling it myself.”

  Freddie sat at the dinner table for a full five minutes after Lulu left, considering his next move. Visions kept assaulting his brain: Lulu in Sal’s arms, Lulu sitting intimately with Paul Raleigh, her hand brushing against his. Freddie knew that Lulu loved him, but somewhere inside he heard the voice of burning doubt. He wanted to build a life with this extraordinary woman, but what did he have to offer? Creatively, he didn’t hold a candle to the writer Paul, who must understand the passions and motivations of an actor so much better than Freddie ever could. He vividly recalled the glow of interest in Lulu’s eyes when she’d sat pressed close to Paul’s side.

  And when Lulu was in mortal peril it had been Sal who saved her, not him. Sal the gangster, with his broad shoulders and arrogant swagger, that curling lip, half smile, half sneer.

  Suddenly he balled up his napkin and threw it down on the table. With his eyes burning and his jaw set, he stormed after Lulu and her followers.

  “About time,” Veronica said audibly, chewing a mouthful of string beans amandine as she watched him leave.

  With the help of some observant servants Freddie discovered what door she’d exited through, and after a moment he heard a rough male voice. The words were for the most part indistinct, but one carried unmistakably through the landscaped grounds: “kill.”

  Freddie broke into a run. The path was cobblestone, but it was covered in soft decorative moss, and his footsteps were silent. For a second he stopped at the edge of the clearing near the stables.

  Sal. Lulu. And between them, the dark but unmistakable wedge of a knife.

  He didn’t hesitate. Back in New York, Freddie’s valet-cum-bodyguard Mugsy had made sure his charge was prepared for any manly confrontation. From an early age, Freddie was schooled in boxing and hand-to-hand combat. Ostensibly, this was so he could thwart any kidnapping attempt. Really, though, Freddie suspected it was because the former fighter Mugsy wanted a sparring partner.

  Adrenaline propelled Freddie forward with lightning speed as he dashed to save Lulu. He grabbed Sal’s knife hand at the wrist and twisted it up behind him. Then with a savage jerk he all but dislocated Sal’s shoulder, sending the knife flying. He stomped hard with his foot against the back of Sal’s knee, bringing the gangster down. Then, foolishly, he began to let up, thinking he’d won.

  But Sal—whose idea of a fight was usually that only one fighter left it alive—spun on his knee and caught Freddie with a punch to the gut that doubled him over. Rising smoothly to his feet, he swung for Freddie’s jaw. Freddie managed to get his hands up just in time to block it, and tucked into a boxing stance, sidestepping away.

  “Stop it!” Lulu shrieked, but Freddie didn’t know if she was talking to him or to Sal, so he darted in with a neat left jab that made Sal’s head rock back.

  Sal shook his head, looking surprised, then with a roar charged like a bull and knocked Freddie down to the ground. For a moment it was all dust and confusion as they rolled, first one on top, then the other, punches flying as Lulu shouted. Both of their faces were bloody. Then Sal was on top, straddling Freddie’s chest, his fist raised to smash Freddie’s face.

  He stopped, his arm shaking with controlled power. Freddie, pinned helplessly, waited for the blow he knew would knock him unconscious at the very least. It would definitely break his nose and probably knock out a few teeth too.

  And then Sal looked over at Lulu, a bloody trail running from the corner of his contorted mouth, down his jawline and neck, and blooming on the starched white collar of his shirt.

  “You wouldn’t forgive me if I messed up that pretty face of his, would you?” Sal gave Lulu a little smirk. “I won’t have any chance with you then.” He looked to Freddie and whispered, “This is your lucky day, pretty boy.” And with that, he jumped to his feet, caught up the knife and sheathed it under his jacket, and stalked away, saying over his shoulder, “Tomorrow night, unless you give me a damn good reason not to.”

  Freddie dragged himself up, straightening slowly as his bruised midsection protested. He found Lulu regarding him with eyes that were filled with terror, fury, and tears. “What. Were. You. Thinking?” Each word seemed to cost her a tremendous effort.

  “I saw the knife. I thought . . .”

  “So you jumped in and risked your life to save me?” She moved closer until she was standing right before him. She sounded so angry, but there was something else there too.
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  “Of course,” he said, stifling a groan. He was pretty sure a rib was cracked.

  Suddenly she shoved him hard, two hands on his chest. He staggered and winced. “Then why didn’t you do it before?” she shouted at him.

  He was confused. Save her from Sal? Or did she mean save her from the tiger? “Did he accost you before?” he asked.

  “Sal wasn’t threatening me, Freddie. More important, he wasn’t threatening you. No man is, not as far as we’re concerned. I don’t love Sal. I don’t love Paul. I love you.” She gave a quick sniff, and he saw the sorrow beneath the anger. “I thought you loved me.”

  He felt his eyes get hot. “How could you doubt—” he began.

  “How could you?” she countered before he could get any further.

  “I was . . . well, I was jealous,” Freddie admitted with supreme effort. “Lulu, I swear I have never been jealous before in my life. But when I saw you with one man, then the other, I couldn’t help thinking maybe there was a better man out there for you. Someone who could understand and excite you more than I can. Or who could keep you safe as I never could. Maybe if I was still rich . . .”

  She raised a hand swiftly, and for an instant he was sure she was going to slap him. But instead, she covered his lips with her fingertips.

  “You are the man I want,” she said with absolute certainty. “And you always will be.” He felt a smile start to creep up on his mouth, straining the fat lip one of Sal’s punches had given him. “Unless,” Lulu added, stopping the smile in its tracks, “you ever treat me like that again. Start thinking you’re not good enough for me, and maybe I’ll start agreeing with you.”

  “I’m sorry I was such a fool,” he said, taking her hand and softly, painfully kissing her palm.

  Lulu wiped away a tear and sighed. “Just don’t let it happen again. I’ve had to resort to writers and children to help me with this case, for goodness’ sake! I need a real private eye in my corner.”

  Freddie chuckled. “Oh, is that all I’m good for?”

  “Not all,” she said teasingly. “Now, let’s get you back to your room and cleaned up. I can get Ginnie to bring in some iodine and bandages for those cuts. Frederick van der Waals, you are a certified mess.” And with that, she leaned forward and kissed him with a passion and abandon that seemed to make time stand still.

  When they finally separated, they just stood looking into each other’s eyes, basking in the feelings that overwhelmed them both. Finally, Lulu, not able to help herself, blurted out, “I think I’ve thoroughly cracked the case,” prompting a great belly laugh from the love-struck young detective. “Wait till you hear all the evidence I have. We have to convince the police to make the arrest before tomorrow night. Otherwise, Sal will take matters into his own hands. That’s why he was waving a knife around. Just making a point.”

  “I see. Well, you could warn me next time. Avoid all this bothersome medical attention,” Freddie said, grinning. Life suddenly seemed joyous again now that he and Lulu had cleared the air. “Though I trust your judgment, I came up with a couple more suspects myself—for both the murders and the blackmail. You might want to hear about them before you tell the police—or let Sal and his knife loose. I’ll tell you after you tell me about what you’ve got on Emerson. Maybe together we can get to the bottom of both cases.”

  She looked at him with earnest, loving eyes. “Just make sure whatever we do, we do it together.”

  Twenty-Two

  Lulu went to sleep feeling intoxicated with love and relieved by the knowledge that she and Freddie were no longer on the outs. After she’d told Freddie everything she knew about the murders, he reciprocated by sharing all he had. And there they were, synchronized again.

  “Marion is an appealing suspect on a certain level,” Lulu admitted. “I can see how her addiction and insecurities could make her crack. And it certainly would tickle Lolly and the other gossip columnists. But I have to say, though she might be capable of it, not enough evidence points directly to her.”

  “And what about Docky?”

  “How on earth did Lolly keep him a secret all this time? Can you imagine anyone so . . . ?” She had been about to say “vile,” but she stopped herself. Hollywood—particularly the men inhabiting it—had a tendency to destroy innocent young girls. How many of them had made one mistake or been pressured into doing something they regretted only to find themselves punished with a potentially lifelong consequence? Some of what he did might not be legal, but Docky gave these girls a second chance. As for the pills, well, most of them were legal. As much as it disturbed Lulu to think of girls drugging themselves to become perkier or thinner, they bore some responsibility too. She had to admit Docky might have his place in this already disturbing world she lived in. She just planned to stay well away from him.

  Still, she didn’t think he was the murderer. He and Lolly had almost certainly been together when Juliette was killed.

  “No,” Lulu said with assurance. “It’s John Emerson. I’m certain.”

  Freddie agreed he would go over all of the evidence she’d gathered and present it first to Hearst, then to the police tomorrow morning. If all went well and they believed him, Emerson would be arrested and the whole nightmare would be over.

  She’d been a little worried about him waiting until the next morning to come forward, but Freddie wanted to make sure the argument for Emerson’s guilt was airtight, so the authorities would act quickly and decisively, and that, he said, required some preparation. Lulu was concerned that another day’s delay could mean another victim, but after a few discreet inquiries with the staff, Freddie found out that Emerson and Docky had gone on a private bender in the billiard room and were both currently unconscious and drooling on the green felt. Emerson would neither be alone nor capable of crime that night. If there was any movement, Freddie would be notified immediately.

  So Lulu’s night was uncharacteristically peaceful. The morning, though, began far too early, with Veronica’s face inches from her own cooing, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. It’s time to wax Shakespearean! Good Lord, your fingernails look like you’ve been on a chain gang! And how long have you let your eyebrows go? They’re like rogue caterpillars on a spree. There’s character and then there’s character actors. It’s a little soon for you to be playing the hillbilly aunt. We’ve got work to do.”

  She clapped her hands, making Lulu wince and burrow deeper under the crisp linens. “Is the show really today?” she asked blearily.

  “Of course it’s today! All those other girls have been tapping, high-kicking, and warbling their heads off for the last two days! Personally, I’m still against you doing Shakespeare. This is Hollywood, not Stratford-upon-Avon. Hopefully your talent is not making everyone fall asleep with those speeches. Do you have your sonnets memorized? Can I convince you to jump through flaming hoops while you’re doing them? It’s just a thought.”

  “I have them memorized, and no flaming hoops, thank you.”

  Lulu washed her face, tied her hair back with a scarlet kerchief, and looked for something sensible to put on.

  Comfortable in trousers and a red silk blouse, Lulu headed out to the gardens so she could rehearse in peace. The Ranch, however, was not designed for peace, at least not when a house party was in full swing.

  Finally, she found an undisturbed spot by a yew tree that had been shipped across the Atlantic from a Welsh churchyard. She took out a slim copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets she’d found in Hearst’s library and started reading over her chosen set. But the words were so familiar that her mind seemed to blur, then go restless, and before long she turned her attention to the other reading material she’d brought with her.

  Though Hearst being blackmailed seemed rather sleepy in comparison to dual homicide, it was nonetheless an interesting mystery. Lulu pulled the reports from the envelope and began to study them.

  Freddie and his boss had made very little progress. None of the staff had seen anything suspicious; none of the
guests had been seen in the family’s personal wing, where Hearst’s office was located. Other than Marion, no real suspects had emerged, and Freddie still didn’t know what secret Hearst was afraid might be revealed.

  Freddie had included photographic prints of the blackmail letters too. Lulu looked with interest at the disparate words cut from newspapers and magazines and glued to paper to form the blackmailer’s demands. The first letter contained a vague threat. The second asked for a specific sum—$30,468—and threatened to expose some shameful truth if the money wasn’t paid. The third had very specific instructions: Place nonsequential, small bills in a leather satchel and leave the money in the freezer of the St. Vincent de Paul soup kitchen. If the money wasn’t delivered by that very night, the blackmailer would “reveal Hearst’s darkest secret to the world.” Lulu stared at the photos, though she didn’t think she would discover anything new. After all, Hearst, Mr. Waters, and Freddie had been poring over them for days now. What could a person tell from cut-out words, anyway? Maybe one could trace which periodical they’d come from, but most of the words were so commonplace they could be found in any newspaper, published on any given day.

  But wait, perhaps there was something a little bit odd. She squinted and looked closer. It wasn’t so obvious on the shorter words, but the edges of the longer ones had small but distinct curves. The longest had a crescent moon, and part of another. How strange.

  Before she could give the matter any more thought, she heard the joy-filled yipping of dogs and was nearly knocked off her perch by Charlie and Gandhi, who were tugging Patricia in their wake.

  “So! How goes the investigation?” Patricia asked, plopping down beside Lulu and turning the dogs loose to play in the gardens. The child looked nervous and, unlike every other time, didn’t seem graphically curious about the crimes. While Lulu started to fill her in, Patricia absently opened a little ostrich-skin purse and pulled out a manicure set. As Lulu spoke, Patricia stared into the distance, filing her nails.