by Shéa MacLeod
Lola was waiting for me in the grand marble foyer. She looked positively smashing in a white V-necked dress with a green circle pattern and matching green velvet bows on the sleeves, at the waist, and marching down the bodice. A little green beret was perched jauntily atop platinum curls, and her pumps and handbag were the same apple green.
“Ophelia, there you are. I’ve been waiting ages.” Her heels made a clacking sound on the marble floor as she trotted toward me. It didn’t escape my notice that her nasally East Coast accent was gone, along with the dropping of her Gs.
“Hello, Lola.” I didn’t mention that I had arrived at precisely one o’clock as instructed. “Didn’t you bring a solicitor?”
“Say what now?” Her brows lowered, then understanding dawned. “Oh, you mean a lawyer. No thanks. I’ve got it covered. Come on.” She sashayed across the foyer, and I followed.
We passed through a dizzying array of corridors, archways, and echoing chambers before finally arriving at the part of City Hall inhabited by the Beverly Hills Police Department. A young, earnest-looking man wearing a blue uniform sat perched behind a desk. He nearly fell off his stool when Lola strode in.
“I need to speak with Detective Aarons,” she informed him in a loud, carrying voice. “It’s urgent.”
“Ah... sure. Yes, of course. Right away... M-Miss Burns.”
She flashed him a charming smile. “Call me Lola, honey. What’s your name?”
“C-Clint.” His cheeks flushed crimson. “Clint Anderson.”
Lola propped her elbows on his desk. “Well, Clint Anderson, think you can get me an audience with Detective Aarons right away? I’d be sooo grateful.”
“Y-yes. I think so.” He picked up a telephone receiver, fumbling with it a bit. He finally managed to get it up to his ear and connected with someone. “Visitor for Detective Aarons... No... I don’t care if he’s busy—this is urgent!” He set the receiver down, only dropping it once. “He’ll be right up. You can... you could sit over there.” He pointed to a row of chairs against the wall.
“Naw, I’ll stand,” Lola said. “This is my friend, Ophelia. She’s a proper English lady. She’s got a title and everything. Imagine that.”
“How do you do,” I said in my proper English lady voice.
Clint barely glanced my way. “Howdy.”
“How long you been a policeman, Clint?” Lola fluttered her lashes. I swear she did.
Clint went bright red from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears. “N-not too long. Three years.”
“I’m surprised you’re not running the place by now. Bet you will be soon enough. You should be in Hollywood, you know that, Clint? With that adorable cleft chin, you could be in the movies.”
“Golly, miss, you think so?”
He certainly had the rugged good looks for Hollywood. And if he blushed every time a pretty actress walked by... well, I couldn’t imagine he’d do very well as a policeman. Maybe acting would be a good backup plan for him.
While they chatted about screen tests, extras work, gaffers, and I don’t know what all, I kept an eye peeled for our elusive detective. At last he put in an appearance.
He pushed through a door next to the front desk and glared at us. His suit was rumpled, his tie askew, and his eyes red rimmed. He’d either been up all night or been on one hell of a bender. I was betting the former since he appeared to take his job quite seriously.
“Miss Burns. Lady Rample. What are you doing here?” His tone was blunt to the point of abject rudeness. I chose to ignore it. Lola did not.
“Is that any way to treat a widow?” she snapped. Then, as if realizing she came off a little less than sympathetic, tears welled up in her big, blue eyes.
Aarons immediately panicked. “There, there, Miss Burns,” he said a little desperately. “No need to cry. What can I do for you?”
By this time Lola was sobbing loudly, though strangely enough, her eyes were nearly dry, and her makeup had yet to run. I’m an ugly crier. Lola cried daintily and beautifully. That or she was faking it. Jury was still out on that.
“Miss Burns has a request,” I said, taking over since she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to answer the man.
Aarons turned to me as if relieved to leave Lola and her sobbing to Clint. “Of course. What can I help you with?”
“The suicide note her husband left. It was written to her, correct?”
“Yes,” he said, somewhat hesitantly.
“Well, she never got the chance to see it. It seems only proper she should be allowed to, don’t you think? Give her some closure and whatnot.”
Aarons rubbed his chin. “I suppose that wouldn’t be a problem. It’s evidence, of course, so she can’t take it with her.”
“Of course not,” I assured him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well, then, if you ladies would follow me.”
Lola immediately quit crying. “Oh, Detective Aarons, you are too kind!”
It was Aarons’s turn to blush like a schoolboy. How did she do it?
We followed Aarons through the bullpen teeming with activity and into a tiny but quiet office. He opened a file on the top of the desk and took out a piece of paper, handing it to Lola. “It’s been dusted for prints, so go ahead.”
“Were there any?” I asked.
He blinked. “Any what?”
“Prints.”
“Oh, yes. Cyril’s, of course.”
“No one else?”
“It’s a suicide note, Lady Rample.” His tone was a little too sarcastic for my taste. “Why would there be?”
“Just curious,” I said lightly. “After all, Carter could have picked it up when he found the body.”
“He didn’t.”
Lola and I bent our heads over the note. It was odd, that note. Not quite... right. For one thing, it looked like it had been torn out of a notebook or journal. The left-hand edge was ragged. For another... it made absolutely no sense.
I dug around in my handbag for my own pencil and notebook and began copying the note word for word. Fortunately, Cyril had wonderful handwriting.
“What are you doing, Lady Rample?” Aarons snapped.
“Copying the note for Lola. That way she can reread it later. It will give her comfort. At least until she can get the original back.”
Lola patted my hand and dabbed at her eyes with the white handkerchief in her other hand. “So kind of you, Ophelia. You are a true friend.”
Aarons harrumphed, but said nothing more.
The minute I finished copying the note, I tucked my notebook and pencil back in my handbag and gave Lola a nod. She handed the note back to Aarons and thanked him profusely.
“I can rest easier now,” she told him.
Aarons eyed us with suspicion, but he had no choice but to escort us out. Just a grieving widow being supported by a friend. Nothing to see here, detective.
But I could feel his eyes boring into my back all the way out of City Hall.
BY MUTUAL CONSENT, we waited to discuss Cyril’s final letter until we were seated at the restaurant down the street, Café Paradise. It was one of those places with bamboo wallpaper and far too many potted palms, but it appeared popular with the Hollywood set. I saw more than one familiar face. In fact, I was fairly certain that was Gary Cooper in the back-corner dining with a rather attractive blonde.
Once ensconced in a booth, I pulled out my notebook and opened it to the page where I’d copied the note and handed it to Lola.
“Good gosh, Ophelia, your handwriting looks like chicken scratch.” Lola squinted at my notebook.
“Well, pardon me, but I was in a hurry. Aarons was looming over us like the Sphinx,” I said, spine stiffening.
“I can hardly read it.” There was a distinct nasal whine creeping in. A hint of her true self, perhaps? The unpolished girl she’d been before her Hollywood days. I could definitely understand that, though I found her brashness a bit off-putting at times.
“Very well. I shall
read it aloud once our food arrives.” I took the notebook back.
After the waiter delivered our salads—hearts of romaine with mandarins and melons—I leaned over the note. “This is what he wrote. ‘Dearest, Darling...’”
“Cyril never called me that,” Lola interrupted with a delicate snort.
“Pardon?” I blinked.
“He called me Lola. Or doll face. Or some ridiculous nonsense. He never called me his 'dearest darling.' I’d’ve laughed in his face.”
“I see. Do you suppose the note was meant for someone else?”
“I don’t see who.”
“Shall I read the rest?”
She waved languidly and munched on a section of mandarin. “Go on.”
“Right. ‘It can’t be helped. I must do it. It’s the only way to make up for what I did to you. I love you. Last night was but a charade’... That’s strange.”
“What is?”
“Well, I copied down exactly what the note said, right?”
“Sure.” She popped another orange section into her mouth.
“So this last line.” I tapped the page. “There was no full stop after the last sentence.”
She frowned. “What’s a full stop?”
“Oh, I believe you Americans call it a period.”
Her forehead smoothed out. “Oh, yes. Maybe you just left it off?”
“No,” I assured her. “I was very careful to copy it exactly.” Knowing it was perhaps a clue, there was no way I would have missed even something so simple as a full stop.
“Well, that’s a little strange, right?”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “It’s as if he stopped in the middle of a sentence. He didn’t even sign the note. Are you sure he wrote it?”
She nodded. “Positively. It was his hand writing all right.”
I guess she would know. “What about the contents of the note? Do they mean something to you?”
“Not a bit.” She sipped from her glass of white wine. “He never done me no wrong. He was always the sweetest.”
There it was again. That hint of gun moll. “You’ve no idea to what he could be referring?”
“‘Fraid not. I mean, he was sorta doin’ me a favor.”
I leaned forward, ignoring my own meal. “What do you mean?”
She glanced around to make sure no one was listening, then she lowered her voice. “It ain’t common knowledge, see, but Cyril weren’t exactly the sort to enjoy the company of women, if you know what I mean.”
I did.
She continued. “But we been friends for a couple years, see. And he helped me a lot with my career. So when he asked would I marry him for respectability’s sake, I said sure. Why not? Could only be good for my image, right? And he knows everybody who is anybody. Think of the roles I could get.”
It made sense. It wasn’t that far off from my own marriage. While Felix and I had a genuine fondness for each other, we were never in love. We both provided something the other needed, and it made us happy enough. At least until he kicked the proverbial bucket.
“What about the money he borrowed from you?” I asked, remembering the IOU in Cyril’s study.
“How’d you know about that?” she asked suspiciously.
Since I didn’t want her to know I’d been snooping, I said, “He told Aunt Butty.”
“Oh, well,” she waved it off. “He was a little short of funds, see. So I helped him out. I knew he’d pay me back after his next picture. Anyways, he’s half the reason I have any money. I kinda owed him.”
I mulled over the facts at hand.
The note had clearly been torn from some sort of book. Which meant it could have been written at any time. Because why would someone write a suicide note on a piece of paper torn from a random notebook? Surely they would use stationary or something.
While the note was written in Cyril’s handwriting—per Lola’s claim—the note ended abruptly as if he hadn’t finished the sentence. Why would he kill himself before finishing whatever it was he wanted to say?
It wasn’t signed. Who doesn’t sign their own suicide note?
The note was vague about who it was meant for. Both Carter and Detective Aarons seemed to think it was meant for Lola, but it didn’t actually say that. I would think that a man about to off himself would want to make sure his final thoughts in this world were delivered to the correct person.
Lola had no idea what the note meant. Or so she claimed. I tended to believe her. So, was the note meant for someone else? If so, who was his “Dearest Darling?” To what events did it refer? Who had he done wrong?
So many questions, and so far, the answers were elusive. But from where I sat, I was betting that note had been planted. Perhaps torn from his personal journal, thoughts he’d written down much earlier, but which the real killer felt suited the situation.
I stabbed a chunk of melon and chewed it with vigor, enjoying its sweet, juiciness. That gap in time nagged me. Why hadn’t Carter called the police immediately? There was only one thing for it. I was going to have to force him to tell me. I wasn’t sure how yet, but I was convinced Aunt Butty could come up with something. She was devious like that.
I bit into another melon piece with gusto, more convinced than ever that Cyril had been murdered. And I was going to prove it!
Chapter 12
My plan to confront Carter fell apart after we arrived back at the house to find Aunt Butty entertaining guests. She wore a cream pantsuit with a gold kimono trimmed with fringe and gold mules to match. On her head was a turban of peacock blue with a cluster of peacock feathers sticking out from it, all held together with an enormous gold pin in the shape of a peacock. She had a cocktail in one hand and a red cigarette holder in the other, from which dangled an unlit cigarette. Like me, Aunt Butty didn’t smoke, but she thought cigarette holders were chic, so she generally had one or two about with which to gesture dramatically.
The guests were Detective Aarons in his cheap suit and an uncomfortable expression, and a freckle-faced uniformed police officer who stood behind Aarons and looked somehow both awkward and eager at the same time.
“Lola! Ophelia! Thank goodness you two are here.” Aunt Butty waved the cigarette holder, nearly upsetting a Tiffany art deco lamp.
“Detective,” Lola said with an arched brow. “Didn’t we just see you?”
He gave her a grim smile. “I’m afraid I had a question that couldn’t wait.”
“Go on,” she said, removing her hat and gloves and fixing herself a drink.
“Do you know this woman?” He held up a snapshot of a middle-aged woman with dark hair and eyes. There was something familiar about her...
Lola gave the picture half a glance. “‘Fraid not. Never seen her.”
“You sure?” he prodded.
“Of course I am,” she snarled. “Whaddya take me for?”
“Wait.” Aunt Butty snatched the photo out of Aarons’s hand. “I know this woman. This is Dorothea.”
“Cyril’s ex-wife?” I asked, leaning in for a better look.
“I was Cyril’s only wife,” Lola snapped, but I noticed a tic near the corner of her left eye. She knew more than she was saying. Question was, how much?
“I know her, too,” I said as it finally dawned on me where I’d seen this very same woman. “This is the woman in the bushes.”
“The one you told me about?” Aarons asked with a frown. “The one you saw the night of the engagement party?”
I nodded. “The same. I suspected it might be Dorothea but couldn’t be sure. Why?”
He plucked the photo from Aunt Butty’s fingers. “Because this woman was fished out of the Los Angeles River this morning. Jumper.”
“Did she... how is she?” Aunt Butty asked, looking a little pale.
“Dead, I’m afraid,” Aarons said gloomily.
“And how did you think to ask us about her?” I asked. “Since I assume you didn’t know she was Cyril’s ex-wife until now.”
“Cyril
didn’t have any wife but me!” Lola cried again, with a stamp of her foot.
“There, there, dear,” Aunt Butty soothed. “There were probably a lot of things about Cyril you didn’t know.”
“That’s not true!”
“Ladies,” Aarons said sharply. “To answer your question, Lady Rample, we found her suitcase on the riverbank near where she went in. There was a locket inside with Cyril Brumble’s picture and a receipt from a nearby hotel. It was obvious she was connected to Cyril somehow, we just weren’t sure how. Hence I decided to ask you ladies.” He turned to Aunt Butty. “Do you know anything more about her?”
She shook her head, the peacock feathers waving wildly. “Not much, I’m afraid. Her name is, or rather was, Dorothea Caron. She was originally from France, though I couldn’t say where, exactly.” She quickly told Aarons what she’d told me earlier about the common law marriage and Dorothea having spent time in a sanitarium.
“This is bull— This is ridiculous!” Lola shouted. “You’re making this up!”
“I’m afraid not, dear,” Aunt Butty said soothingly, as one might to a recalcitrant child. “Cyril had many years of living before you came along. And he and Dorothea very much lived as man and wife for a number of years.”
“But they weren’t really married,” Lola whined.
“According to the laws of New York, they were,” Aunt Butty assured her. “Though, perhaps, not by the laws of California. I’m rather vague on that. In any case, they haven’t lived together for quite some time, though I know Cyril has been helping her financially.”
“So that’s where all his money went.” Lola’s tone was tinged with fury. I could understand that. She’d given Cyril a heck of a lot of money which he’d turned around and given to a woman she had known nothing about. Well, supposedly knew nothing about. I’d be furious, too.
Aarons caught Lola with his sharp gaze. “What do you mean by that, Miss Burns?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled. “Just... there were some accounting discrepancies, that’s all.”
I found that interesting, seeing as how she’d been entirely unconcerned about lending him money. Or so she’d pretended.