by Shéa MacLeod
“I’d every right,” she said, her face turned in a petulant frown. “It was my money.”
“Yes, that’s right. Your money. You discovered Cyril was dead broke. In fact, he had to borrow money from you at one point just to pay the bills. He owed money all over town. Even to mobsters.” She glanced away, and I knew she realized I was talking about Vinnie. “Worse, you discovered that not only did Cyril have an ex-wife, but your hard-earned money was going to support her.
“But you had more than one reason to murder Cyril. He was cheating on you. And with men. Granted, you already knew about his predilections, but if it got out... well, it wouldn’t be just his career that would be over.”
Lola’s face flushed red. “He was a selfish bastard. He could have ruined me. I almost wish I had offed him. But I didn’t.”
“No,” I said agreeably. “You didn’t. Even though it was your wrap that was used to muffle the shot that killed Cyril, you didn’t fire the gun. Because you were too busy in the garage getting acrobatic with Sam.” It was an absolute wild guess, but I knew I was right the moment I said it. The look on Sam’s face gave it away.
Lola, on the other hand, blinked big, doe eyes at me. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“Can it, doll face,” Aunt Butty snapped. “I’ve seen the looks you two throw at each other. I doubt Sam’s little crush is entirely one-sided. And I’m well aware of Cyril’s proclivities. There is no way you were going to spend your married life celibate. Besides which, we’re well aware of your propensity for a bit of rough.” Again, the reference to Vinnie.
Lola flushed crimson but held her ground. “Don’t be crass.”
Chaz was beaming ear to ear, clearly enthralled by the drama. “What I need right now is popcorn,” he muttered.
“Just admit it, babe,” Sam said, ignoring Chaz. “We were together all night.”
Lola glared. “Fine. I was with Sam.”
I nodded. “Which gives him an alibi.”
“Hey, I didn’t have a motive for Cyril’s murder,” Sam said.
“Of course, you did, darling,” Aunt Butty clucked. “You were fornicating with his wife. And while the dear man may have preferred the company of other men, that didn’t mean he wanted his wife sleeping with the chauffeur. If he found out, you could have been fired.”
“Could have,” Sam admitted. “But he didn’t find out.”
“Of course, Dorothea herself had a perfectly good motive for killing Cyril. He left her. He married someone else. And that someone else didn’t want him supporting her anymore. She had every reason to want to kill him. And she was arguing with him mere hours before his murder. She could have easily slipped back in the house later that night and shot him. Then killed herself out of remorse or despair. That is, after all, what we were supposed to think. If, that is, we didn’t buy the suicide story. Isn’t that right, Detective?” I asked, turning to Aarons.
He nodded. “Appears that way.”
“Except there was a bit of a problem,” I continued. “It was clear that the sheet of paper on which the supposed suicide note was written had been torn from a journal. Why would a suicide note be written in a journal and then torn out? Cyril was such a precise man. Very neat. He’d have written such a thing on proper stationary. So the only answer was that someone who knew him well, knew where he kept his private journal, had used that to create the impression of a suicide note. Would an ex-wife who hadn’t seen her husband in years know where he kept his private journal? Likely not. Nor would she likely know where the new wife kept her clothing so as to use it to muffle the shot that killed her ex-husband.
“No, it was more likely to my mind that poor Dorothea was framed. Which left truly one person with the intimate knowledge of Cyril Brumble and his life to pull off this murder. Carter, his valet and butler.”
“But why would he do that?” Lola demanded.
“Cyril and Carter had been having an affair for years,” Aunt Butty supplied. “He wrote about it in his journal. Although not so specifically. Still, it was clear to the trained eye.” She winked, clearly indicating her own was such an eye.
“Indeed, once you realized what he was talking about in his journals, it was pretty clear that Cyril and his valet cum butler had been very close for several years,” I agreed. “But then Cyril’s star began to fade, and his extravagant tastes outstretched his income. He decided to marry a woman much younger than himself. One that could support his lifestyle and hide his truth from the rest of the world.”
“So what? They coulda carried on,” Lola said. “I couldn’t care less. As you well know, I had my own interests.” She slid a look at Sam.
“True,” I said. “And so they would have. Except Cyril discovered Carter’s little secret. For the last several months, he’s been meeting up with a much younger man. A rising star in Hollywood. Cyril considered that a betrayal. That was what the argument I overheard between them was about. Cyril had discovered the truth and fired Carter in a fit of jealous anger. He was a good man, though, and immediately retracted it, but he did threaten Carter should he carry on the affair. Probably as much to protect himself as anything.”
“Wow,” Sam muttered. “That’s... wow.”
“Indeed,” I agreed. “Tangled webs and whatnot. Carter decided the only way out was murder. So when he overheard the argument between Dorothea and Cyril, he saw his chance. Knowing Lola was with Sam, he took her wrap and used it as a make-shift silencer, planning to leave it out where it could be found should he need to. Then he staged the scene. Put the gun in Cyril’s hand, ripped a page from the journal, and so on. Finally, he hid the journal in Lola’s room where she would be unlikely to look, just in case he needed a patsy.”
“That’s why there was a gap between his so-called discovery of the body and his phone call to the police,” Aarons said.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “He needed to set the stage.”
“And Dorothea?” Aarons asked. There was a sparkle in his eye that told me he had a good idea where I was going with this.
“Initially, he thought he’d got away with it. The police assumed suicide. But then I had to stir things up,” I admitted wryly. “Realizing Lola could, if she wanted, come up with an air tight alibi, he knew he had to frame someone else. Someone less... stable. Someone the police would never believe.”
“Dorothea,” Aarons said.
I nodded. “He rang her up at her hotel and asked her to meet him on the bridge. Told her that Cyril had given him some money to give to her.”
“She met him, and he pushed her in the river,” Aarons speculated.
“That’s my guess.” I smiled sadly. “Poor woman never stood a chance. He decided that if the suicide story fell flat, and Lola admitted to her alibi, there was still Dorothea.”
“What a rotter that Carter is,” Aunt Butty said. “Not a proper sort of butler at all. I hope they lock him up and throw away the key.”
“Oh, we will,” Aarons assured her.
“Jolly good show!” Chaz declared from his perch. “Better than anything on the silver screen.”
Aarons eyed him narrowly. “This is real life, young man. Not some make believe story.”
Chaz grinned. “Haven’t you heard? All the world’s a stage.”
Chapter 18
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?” Lola asked. She stood to the side of the Rolls while Maddie supervised Sam loading our luggage into the back of a taxi. The way he was huffing and puffing and sweating, I half feared he’d keel over from heat exhaustion.
“That’s very kind of you,” Aunt Butty said, patting her hand. “But we’re meeting Chaz at the train station and we’ve an ocean liner to catch in New York. Ophelia’s very keen on a trip to her villa in the south of France.” She gave me a knowing wink which I ignored. I did not want to discuss my involvement with Hale in front of Lola.
I walked over to the car to see if I could help, but Sam had everything under control.
“Will
you stay on here?” I asked Sam softly, out of Lola’s hearing.
He gave me a one shoulder shrug as he glanced over at the woman in question. “For now.”
“You know she’ll ditch you for the next man that comes along who can get her the right part or the top billing?” That was Lola’s way. My guess was she’d been with Vinnie because he had connections. I knew she’d been with Cyril for the same reason. It had worked for her then, and it would no doubt work for her in the future.
“Yeah, I know,” he admitted. “But for now, well, I’ll take what I can get.”
I nodded. Silly man. Still, he knew what he was getting into.
As we drove down the drive, following the taxi carrying Maddie and the luggage, Aunt Butty and I waved to Lola until she was out of sight. Then we settled in comfortably for the trip to the train station.
“That was... more adventurous than expected,” I said finally.
“One for the memoirs, I suppose,” Aunt Butty mused. “Though I doubt anyone who wasn’t there will ever believe it.”
“What do you suppose will happen to Lola?”
“As you said, no doubt she’ll find another man to hitch her star to. One that will help her rise further. Overcome her great loss.” Her tone was just this side of sarcastic at that last bit. “I’ve known women like her my whole life. Can’t stand on their own two feet, so they rope in whatever man to do it for them. Cyril was a miscalculation on her part. No doubt one she won’t repeat. But at least she has promised to get Vernon a role as an extra on her next movie,” Aunt Butty said smugly.
“The kid from the hotel? How’d you manage that?” I asked.
“Oh, I have my ways. Never let it be said I went back on my word.”
“Never, indeed.”
Aunt Butty folded her hands neatly in her lap. “Now for some real relaxation. No more adventures for the time being.”
“No more adventures,” I agreed. “My villa will be perfect. Nothing ever happens there.” A green Duesenberg suddenly passed us on the left, and I leaned forward. “Wait! Is that Gary Cooper?”
“I believe it is,” Sam called from the front.
I sighed. “That man is so handsome it should be illegal.”
Aunt Butty pressed her face against the glass. “And I never even got his autograph!”
KEEP READING FOR A sample of Lady Rample’s next adventure: Lady Rample Sits In
Lady Rample Sits In
Lady Rample Mysteries – Book Four
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
Cover Art and Design by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs
Editing by Alin Silverwood
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Chapter 1
“We’re all going to die.”
The words were spoken with such grim finality that one might find oneself believing them if not for the fact they were spoken by my maid, Maddie. While not prone to histrionics generally, she did tend to look on the not-so-bright side of things. And as the sea was currently calm as glass, one could be fairly certain she was exaggerating.
“We’re not going to die, Maddie,” my Aunt Butty said bracingly.
“We are so, M’lady,” Maddie insisted with great stubbornness. “People weren’t meant to travel like this. We’ll sink to the bottom for sure.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “You had no problems on the outbound journey.” She hadn’t even gotten seasick, which was more than I could say for myself.
“That were on a bigger boat,” Maddie pointed out.
“This is a perfectly sound vessel. Not the fastest, but quite glamorous. And we’ll be in Le Havre in seven days. I, for one, look forward to the voyage.” She adjusted her hat—a bright orange monstrosity festooned garish yellow ribbons and peacock feathers dyed vermillion. More than a few passengers stared, but Aunt Butty ignored them utterly. In another time, she might have been called An Original.
“Come, Ophelia,” she called to me. “Let’s take a turn about the deck. Maddie, don’t dawdle.”
I followed in Aunt Butty’s wake, Maddie bringing up the rear clutching a massive carpet bag to her chest. Within it were all the accoutrements Aunt Butty insisted on having with her at all times. I’d no idea what was in there, but I felt sorry for Maddie. It looked heavy.
We’d left Hollywood eleven days earlier and none too soon for my tastes. Yes, it was glamorous, but it was also exhausting and rather...well, fake, if I were honest. And then there was that ghastly murder business and being kidnapped by gangsters...I’d be very glad to get my feet back on English soil.
Except, I reminded myself, we weren’t headed to England, but to Le Havre, France where we would then catch a train to Nice and my villa. And I would finally be able to see Hale Davis—my paramour, for lack of a better word—again. Too bad Aunt Butty had insisted on taking opulence over speed or I could have seen him a few days earlier. Alas, Aunt Butty had a way of getting what she wanted. And so, we set sail from New York on the Ile de France with all the pomp and circumstance due our station.
My name is Ophelia, Lady Rample, widow of the late Lord Rample. Thanks to his generosity I’m richer than a person has any right to be and absolutely free to do as I pleased, when I pleased. A fact which stirred up the upper crust into a veritable tizzy. They did not approve, and yet there wasn’t a thing they could do about it. Which amused me no end. Sometimes I was more like my aunt than I might want to admit.
She was my mother’s sister and had done very well herself in the marriage department. More than once, if I’m honest. She lived exactly how she pleased with no care as to what anyone else thought. Quite Bohemian, really. Also, she had ghastly taste in hats.
“We’re dining at the Captain’s table tonight,” Aunt Butty announced out of nowhere.
“Yes, Aunt, I’m aware.” It was apparently a great honor to dine at the Captain’s table. Frankly, I doubted there would be anyone interesting there. Just a lot of stuffy people with too much money and not enough sense. Which was a little like the pot and the kettle except that I certainly had some sense. I had, after all, not been born wealthy and had instead been raised by a vicar. So, maybe not so much sense after all.
“What do you plan to wear? I thought I’d wear that pink number I picked up in New York.”
I managed to hold back a horrified gasp. The “pink number” was a rather lovely bias-cut gown in a satin fabric that was absolutely destroyed by being flamingo pink and having layers of ruffled tiers flowing from the waistline, making my aunt’s hips and backside look even more voluptuous than they already were. Worse, she’d the habit of pairing it with a equally pink bolero jacket trimmed in black ostrich feathers.
“The Coco,” I replied quickly. The stunning blue gown had only been worn once in Hollywood. I doubted there would be anyone here to see that I wore it again. Beside which, it was too delicious to leave lying in a steamer trunk.
“Excellent choice,” Aunt Butty approved. “Oh, look. There are the Whatsits. I must go say hello. I’ll see you at dinner, Ophelia.” And she sailed off without a backward glance, leaving poor Maddie looking confused.
“You better go after her,” I said. “Just in case she needs anything.”
Maddie rolled her eyes. “Miss Butty—”
“Lady Lucas,” I correct.
She sighed heavily. “Lady Lucas probably forgot I was even here.”
No doubt she was right, but I shooed her off anyway. I could use a bit of time to myself.
It had been a long and tiring journey from the West Coast of the States and a nap soun
ded just the thing. There was plenty of time before dinner, and I wanted to feel my best.
As I made my way toward my stateroom, I took a corner a little too sharply and barreled into someone. I careened backward into a bulkhead and barely caught myself.
“Oh, I say!”
“So sorry,” I said, glancing down. It wasn’t often I was forced to glance down, but the man whom I had crashed into was barely shoulder height, round as a billiard ball, and cherubic of face, though he must be long past sixty. He looked like a very scowly Father Christmas.
He let out a huff, straightened his jacket, and marched off without a word. Dashed rude if you ask me.
Recovering my wits, I continued on to my room, but the memory of that angry Father Christmas face stayed with me.
THE FIRST-CLASS DINING room was a massive, rectangular space well-lit by dozens of small, square lighting fixtures set flush in the ceiling and decorated in gray marble and gold accents. All very art deco. At one end a mural of a water fall stretched nearly three decks high. On the other end, an elegant staircase. In the middle of the room stood a sculptural fountain of light spires shooting up from a wide chrome bowl.
“This is the largest dining room afloat, did you know?” Aunt Butty said, leading the way in.
“Er, no, I didn’t.”
“Ladies.” The black-garbed maître d' stepped forward. “If you will please follow me to the Captain’s table.”
“Lead on,” Aunt Butty ordered airily. I held back a smirk.