Lady Rample and the Silver Screen

by Shéa MacLeod

  I turned the page to Sunday. Again, a blank page. No doubt the police would declare that this meant he planned to commit suicide. That since there were no appointments on those days that he knew he wouldn't be around to keep them. I wasn't so sure.

  I continued paging through the calendar. Over the next few days there were no appointments but once I got to later in the month, I found that the appointments resumed. Under September 15, 10 a.m. there was the notation: "Bob at Chasson’s."

  I had no idea who Bob was or what Chasson’s was, but clearly that meant that he planned to attend this meeting. Why else would he write it in his calendar?

  There were several other appointments and reminders throughout the calendar. Birthdays, parties, business meetings, and so forth. Everything you'd expect to see in the calendar of a busy and important individual. There was no indication to my mind that this was a man who planned to end his life. I supposed he could have decided his future plans were less important than ending it all, but I just didn't buy it.

  I slipped the notebook back in its drawer and sat for a moment deliberating. This study was a small one. The desk sat facing the door. Behind me was a narrow window with the curtains pulled over it. To my right a cozy-looking armchair. To my left, against the wall, a narrow bookshelf with a few books.

  I got up, wandered over to the bookshelf, and carefully inspected the spines. Not much to go on there. Mostly it was classic fiction. A few memoirs of famous men. A couple of history books. I took a few out and flipped through the pages hoping that perhaps a letter or something would magically fall out. But nothing did.

  Along the bottom of the bookshelf were some file boxes each neatly marked with a year. I took out the one for 1932. Inside were a few contracts, some bank statements, that sort of thing. I didn't know much about the business of making movies, but it did seem that Cyril was running a little low on cash. In fact, if what I was reading was correct, he was flat broke. So how on earth could he afford to live in this house? Never mind throw pool parties. He must have been spending Lola’s money.

  I kept digging until I found a sheet of paper. Sure enough, it was a typed agreement—an IOU—signed by Cyril. It seemed he had borrowed a significant amount from Lola. Interesting.

  At the very bottom of the box, I found a life insurance policy for the sum of one million dollars. Seemed a hefty amount, but Cyril was a movie director. He had a lot of influence in Hollywood, or so it seemed. And until I'd seen his bank statements, I would've thought he was worth a pretty penny. I quickly scanned the document and realized that the sole beneficiary was Lola. Again, very interesting. Granted she was his wife, but the policy had been taken out several months ago. Around the time he’d borrowed money from her. Perhaps it was to insure she’d get her money back if he died. Except, if he really did commit suicide, she’d never see a dime. If he was murdered, she’d want it to look like murder. She wouldn’t fake a suicide.

  Stuffing the documents back in the box, I tucked it away in its spot on the shelf. With nowhere left to search, I decided to make use of the telephone.

  I picked up the receiver and gave quick instructions to the operator. Within a few moments, I was connected to the Villa de la Bella Mer.

  "Mr. Singh," I said when he came on the line. "Were you able to get the message through as I asked you?"

  "But of course, Lady Rample," he assured me. "I delivered the message promptly as instructed."

  "And?" Why was my stomach in knots? Why was I so ridiculously nervous? It wasn't like I was sixteen and Hale was a new love. We were just... Well, I didn't know what we were just. But it wasn't anything that I should be nervous over. I prided myself on never being nervous when it came to men.

  "Mr. Davis gave me a message to return to you."

  The knots got tighter. "Yes?"

  "He asked me to tell you that he was disappointed that you would be kept away longer than planned," Mr. Singh said in a slightly stilted voice as if he were reading from a cue card. "And he said that if you would like to speak to him, he could be available tomorrow evening via the telephone here."

  Tomorrow evening. Which would make it morning for me. "Mr. Singh, please tell Mr. Davis that that would be most amenable."

  "I will do so straightaway, Lady Rample," Mr. Singh assured me.

  After hanging up with my aunt’s butler, I found myself still assaulted by nerves to the point I was a bit queasy. There was but one thing for it. I left Cyril's study and headed straight for the drinks cart and a Vieux Carré.

  Chapter 10

  That night, Lola finally put in an appearance around nine. Aunt Butty and I had already dined on a simple meal of cold sliced meats, cheeses, and bread prepared by Carter and were enjoying cocktails around the pool. I heard a car drive up, a door slam, and then high heels clip-clopping on the wood floor followed by thumping on the stairs. About thirty minutes later, Lola clattered out on silver heels and wearing a snug, silver gown. Her white and silver wrap had a ruff of fur around the collar. She looked magnificent and not at all like someone who’d just lost her husband.

  “Oh, there you are. I figured you’d have scatted off to England by now.” She seemed a little tipsy already and took an odd little side-step as if slightly off balance.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to rely on your hospitality a bit longer,” Aunt Butty said. “The police have ordered us to remain here.”

  Actually, they’d ordered us to remain in the area, not here specifically, but I wasn’t going to argue. Staying on the premises would allow me to continue my investigations into Cyril’s death.

  “Oh.” Lola gave a little pout. One clearly well-practiced and which accentuated the voluptuous curves of her scarlet-painted lips. I’d seen it on the silver screen more than once. “I suppose that’ll have to do. Well, I’m headed out. Party at the Ritz, doncha know. Simply everyone will be there, honey.”

  “But your husband just died,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be—I don’t know—in mourning?” Wearing black at the very least.

  She waved a hand. “Pish posh. That’s so conventional. Who cares about convention?”

  “The police, for one,” Aunt Butty said tartly.

  “The studio’ll take care of them.” Lola arched a brow. “Ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, honey. They’ll fix it.”

  “You mean they’ll happily cover up a murder?” I suggested.

  “It wasn’t a murder!” She stamped her foot, silver flashing in moonlight. “That idiot killed himself and messed up all my plans.” She seemed to realize she’d given herself away and quickly added, “Our plans. We had a great future ahead of us. Cyril always said so.”

  “I don’t believe it was suicide, Lola,” I said gently. “Neither does Aunt Butty.”

  “Had to be. There was a note.”

  “I haven’t seen a note, have you Ophelia?” Aunt Butty asked over the rim of her glass.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “There you are. Neither of us have seen it. Have you, Lola?” Aunt Butty eyed her narrowly.

  “Well... no,” she admitted, sounding somewhat surprised. “But surely the police wouldn’t lie about that.”

  “Of course not,” I assured her, not entirely sure that was true. After all, a force that could be bought by a movie studio wasn’t one to be trusted. Though Aarons had seemed an honest man. “But until either you or Aunt Butty can confirm it is in Cyril’s handwriting, then...” I shrugged. “Beside which, aren’t you curious about what’s in the letter?”

  “Well, now you mention it,” Lola admitted, propping her right fist on her hip. “I guess I am.”

  “There you go, then.” Aunt Butty slapped the arm of her chair. “We need to get that letter from the police.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to fork it over just because we ask politely,” I muttered.

  “True, but Lola is his widow, and as such she has a right to see the note. And we, as her caring friends, will be there to help her along.” Aunt Butty gave me a knowing l
ook.

  “Oh, would you?” Lola gushed, clasping her hands and fluttering ridiculously long eyelashes. “That’d be so nice of you.”

  “Of course. Anything for you, dear Lola,” I said with my own fake flutter. Although my lashes weren’t nearly as impressive.

  “I’ll ring the detective tomorrow,” she assured us. “But for now, I’m off. Toodles.” She gave us a finger wave and toddled off up the steps to the drive. Once again, I heard the slam of a car door followed by the roar of an engine quickly fading.

  “Well, how do you like that?” Aunt Butty muttered.

  “It’s an odd way to react to someone’s death. Especially someone you just married,” I agreed.

  “Do you suppose she’s behind it? Or is she simply that callous?”

  “Hard to say.” I shook my head and got up to refill my cocktail. I told her about the million-dollar life insurance. “I can’t see her killing him and covering up as a suicide. Not with that amount of money involved. It could simply be that the marriage was far more business arrangement than we realized, and she’s simply getting on with things. We should definitely keep an eye on her. But at least we’ll be able to see the note now. Find out exactly what it says. And whether or not Cyril actually wrote it, or if the killer left it behind to throw us off the scent.”

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED bright and sunny. As if it did anything else here. Every day, it seemed, was much like the next. Did it never rain? I could simply kill for a lovely, cloudy day and a bit of drizzle.

  "Good morning m’lady," Maddie said cheerfully as she marched into my room and flung open the curtains. A shaft of light spilled over my face, and I let out a groan. She was much too fond of early morning

  "That Miss Burns already been up, dressed, and out of the house ages ago," Maddie informed me as she turned to the tray she’d placed on the table under the window. The clink of silver against porcelain rang in my ears.

  “That's no good," I said, making a half-hearted attempt to sit up. "She promised me she was going to ring the detective."

  "Oh, that she did," Maddie assured me. "First thing. She said to tell you that Detective Aarons bloke will meet you at the police station this afternoon. She left a note." She handed over a rumpled folded piece of paper.

  I unfolded it and squinted at it. Sure enough, in barely legible handwriting, there was an address and a time. One o’clock.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  Maddie handed me a steaming cup. “Just gone ten, m’lady.”

  I sniffed at the contents of the mug. “Coffee again?”

  “No decent tea to be had ‘round here, and that’s a fact. Coffee will have to do.”

  I sighed. “Very well.” I took a sip. Decent stuff, and liberally dosed with cream and sugar. “I think I’ll wear the linen shift with the buttons today.”

  “Very well.” Maddie turned and disappeared into the closet—Americans had them built in! No wardrobes, just lovely deep closets for storing loads of clothing.

  I finished up my coffee, poured myself another cup, and then went about the business of repairing my hair and face. Half an hour later—suitably powdered and lipsticked—I headed down to breakfast.

  The dining room was empty. No doubt Aunt Butty was still in bed. This would be an excellent time to make a few phone calls. Maybe Chaz would be free for a bit of shopping. But my stomach gave an unholy growl. Food first.

  The sideboard was laden with chafing dishes of scrambled eggs, American style crispy bacon, and a rack of toast. It seemed Mrs. Mendez was back at her post. I made myself a bacon and egg sandwich and carried it with me to Cyril’s study.

  Closing the door gently behind me, I sat behind the desk, picked up the receiver, and gave the operator Archie’s phone number.

  “Hullo.”

  “Chaz, darling! It’s Ophelia. What are you doing answering Archie’s telephone?”

  “He’s out at the moment. Some meeting or other. What’s up, love?”

  “Something dreadful happened,” I told him about Cyril’s death. “The police think it’s suicide, but I think it might be murder.”

  I sighed. “Trust you to find a dead body everywhere you go.”

  “I didn’t actually find it this time, thank goodness. The butler did.”

  “Classic,” Chaz said. “I am sorry, though. Cyril seemed a nice chap. Butty must be devastated.”

  “She’s locked herself in her room for the day. Which leads me to the reason I called. I’m meeting Lola later today but am at loose ends at the moment. Wondered if you’d like to, I don’t know, go shopping or drinks or whatnot.”

  There was a pause. “I’m afraid I can’t. Not today.”

  It was unusual that Chaz wouldn’t be available, particularly when drinks were involved. “What are you up to?”

  “Archie got me a screen test,” he said in a giddy rush. “It’s this afternoon.”

  “Oh, my! Tell me everything.”

  He quickly told me about Archie’s latest film in which he wanted Chaz to play his brother. “People around here think we look alike. Which we don’t, of course, but if it gets me a job in film, who cares.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that Archie/Cary and Chaz did indeed look very much alike. “I didn’t know you were interested in becoming a film star.”

  “Well, I wasn’t. Not until Archie suggested the screen test. I think it’ll be good fun. And if it leads to a career, why not? My father’s generosity isn’t endless, you know.” Chaz came from a very wealthy family and was given a monthly allowance, but there was always the worry it would be rescinded should his family discover the truth about him.

  “It sounds brilliant! When’s the test?”

  “This afternoon. I wish you could come, but it’s a closed set.”

  “I’ll be crossing my fingers for you,” I said.

  “Thanks! But are you sure you’re all right? Sounds like you’ve got yourself in a spot of bother.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. At least the police don’t suspect me this time. But I do think they’re wrong about the suicide angle.”

  “And you think you can show them up,” Chaz said.

  “Not show them up so much as show them the error of their ways. I would hate for this killer to get away with murder.”

  “Do be careful, old thing. Riding to your rescue in England is one thing. America has its own set of rules.”

  I laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

  “I forgot to tell you, Varant was asking about you right before I left,” Chaz said, voice rife with meaning.

  Lord Peter Varant was one of my suitors, for lack of a better word. Rich, titled, and of the highest pedigree, he was a perfect match. Certainly a more acceptable one than Hale Davis. At least according to society. But somehow, we’d never managed to get our act together, so to speak. He’d hint at his interest, then disappear, too busy for anything but a quick note. When meeting in public, I could expect to generally be ignored. Unless, of course, he caught me flirting with someone else. Although the few times we did manage to spend a bit of time together, I found him interesting and incredibly delicious. Frankly, I found it frustrating and terribly annoying.

  “What did you tell him?” I asked.

  “That you were swanning about America with Butty, of course. He was not amused.”

  “He hasn’t the right to either be amused or not,” I said.

  “Perhaps you should tell him that,” Chaz said archly.

  We chatted a bit more, before ringing off. Mindful of the passing time and his need to prepare for the screen test.

  By the time we said our goodbyes, I figured it was late enough to ring my villa in France. Mr. Singh picked up on the third ring.

  “Yes, Mr. Davis arrived a few minutes ago, Lady Rample. I shall put him on. One moment.” I could hear Mr. Singh set the phone down, and then his measured steps as he walked away. Mr. Singh was not one to rush.

  I tapped one nail on the desk as I waited impatientl
y. At last I heard footsteps, quicker than Mr. Singh’s measured pacing. Then, “Ophelia.”

  His voice was low and smooth and just a little husky. It did indecent things to me, and I barely repressed a shiver as goosebumps rose on my arms. I could see his smoldering, bedroom eyes and full, kissable lips as if he were right there with me.

  “Hale, how are you?” My voice came out a bit breathier than intended. Which irked me no end. I sounded like Lola when she was playing the sex kitten angle.

  “What do you Brits say? Brilliant.” He chuckled. “Arrived about a week ago. Already played a few sets down at the club. They really pack in. Standing room only every time.”

  “That’s fantastic!” I’d heard Hale and his band play in London several times at the now defunct Astoria Club. He was so talented. I was glad it was going well. “You think you’re going to be there for a while?”

  “Another couple months at least.” There was a pause. “You going to make it?”

  “Oh, yes. There will just be a slight delay.”

  Another pause. “Let me guess. You stumbled onto a murder again.” There was no censure in his tone, just amusement and perhaps slight exasperation.

  “You make it sound like it happens every week.”

  His laugh was loud and hearty, completely uninhibited. “I’m surprised it’s not every day.”

  “Well, can I help it if I keep getting invited to parties that turn murderous?”

  “I suppose not. But you will be careful.” His voice dipped into a register so sexy I had to grip the phone cord in a vice. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I promised.

  “Good. I have plans for you.”

  Oh, my.

  Chapter 11

  That afternoon, I found myself back at City Hall. Previously the scene of a strange but joyous occasion, and now here I was trying to get my hands on a suicide note. And for some reason, Lola—probably number one on my suspect list— was actually trying to help me. It made me doubt her place on said suspect list, but I wasn’t about to remove her entirely.