“It was easy.”
Cora blinked.
Cora had thought someone had moved the body, but she’d never have guessed Pop. But here he was again, interfering with her life.
“How did you even know the room had a dumbwaiter?”
Pop smiled. “I don’t like to speak about my age, but I’m old enough to know a room like that is bound to have a dumbwaiter.” He shrugged. “The second plan was just to carry it to the next apartment.”
“And break into that too presumably?” Cora asked.
Poor Bess.
“But surely if you’d truly thought I’d murdered him, you would have wanted some justice?”
Pop stared at her. “No, honey bunny. I would never want prison for you. And if you murdered him, you probably had good reason to do so.”
Cora blinked. Pop was never known for a strong sense of ethics. Moral fortitude was not what had propelled him to climb the ranks of the music industry, and it certainly had not been what made him remain strong, despite his ever-increasing age.
Still... Pop knew her. They might not be particularly close now, but that didn’t mean her own father should think her capable of such a thing.
Pop paced the floor of his bedroom. “So you’re saying I moved the body of a man whom you didn’t murder?”
“Yes, Pop.”
“No bad guy who was demanding money from you?”
“Where would I meet a guy like that? Besides, you and mother did quite a destructive bit on my finances.”
Pop didn’t even flush. “Honey bunny, we were providing for you. It’s important to keep up appearances in Hollywood. You know that. It wouldn’t do for your mother to wear a less than glamorous dress to a party.” He laughed, as if the very possibility of something off the rack for a child star’s daughter was ridiculous.
“I think I would have liked to make that decision myself.”
“You’ve been making decisions yourself, and you’ve landed yourself in a flat with a dead guy in an apartment building with a potential murderer. You don’t even have a job, and the ones you’re going for hardly pay.”
Cora looked down.
Pop was rarely right. Why did he have to be right now?
“This is a darn pain,” Pop declared.
“It’s more than a pain,” Cora said. “What if the police figure out you moved the body? They’ll think you killed the man.”
“Right.” Pop’s long legs wobbled, and he sat down rapidly into an armchair. “Well. Maybe the police will say he died of natural causes.”
“No.” Cora shook her head. “It was arsenic poisoning.”
He looked at her sharply. “How do you know?”
“I made some inquiries,” Cora said.
“Probably raised some suspicions,” Pop muttered. “I don’t want you messed up in this.” He stared at the window as the lights of London flickered before him. “I got an invitation to go to the Alps. Perhaps I should go there early.”
“You want to flee?”
“I wouldn’t frame it like that,” Pop said. “Just that tall mountains and a harsh terrain don’t seem that bad now.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Pop practically jumped, before he strolled to the door.
The stout looking man whom Cora had seen at the club was there. He chewed a toothpick, oblivious to unwritten rules others at this fine hotel followed. “Time to go.”
“Er—right.” Pop peeked warily into the corridor, as if to see whether there might be a constable to haul him off for questioning.
Vinny cleared his throat. “Better not do that.”
“Right.” Pop withdrew and stepped into the room.
Cora narrowed her eyes. Pop never acquiesced to other people’s suggestions, particularly not the suggestions of people whom he paid.
Something was going on with him.
She was certain.
Unfortunately they were no longer alone. Vinny cast accusatory glances at Cora, no doubt irritated she’d disturbed her father’s schedule.
“See that my daughter has a room booked for her here,” Pop told Vinny.
“I have a place already,” Cora said.
“There are issues with it.”
Cora felt her cheeks flush.
In truth, she wasn’t eager to return back, but she didn’t desire her father’s help. He’d already caused enough harm.
Pop proceeded to do some warming up vocal exercises which Cora suspected were more about avoiding having to enter a conversation that would keep him from having the last word than a need to truly warm up his voice.
The man sighed. “Fifteen minutes.”
Pop smiled as he continued to do vocal exercises. Once the door shut though, Cora narrowed her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling.”
Her father halted his vocal practice.
“Me?” Pop’s pitch grew higher, and he opened his palms, as if she’d asked him if he were stealing something.
For a moment Cora wasn’t entirely certain whether Pop had been more concerned for her future or his. “You were worried about yourself.”
Pop averted his gaze. “Nonsense.”
“You were!” Cora exclaimed.
“Well...” Pop shifted his legs and managed to appear guilty. “It wouldn’t look good for me to have a daughter who went about murdering people. It’s the sort of thing that might harm one’s career. Even gossip can be bad for careers, as I’m sure you know.”
“Except I don’t think you truly believed I would be convicted of murder. You knew I’d just moved in there.”
Pop looked down. “I guess I didn’t think about that.”
“No,” Cora said. “You thought about it. You’re intelligent.”
“You think so, honey bunny?” Pop beamed. “I didn’t go to college, but...”
“Don’t change the subject,” Cora said sternly.
Pop was silent, and his face seemed a trifle paler than before. Normally Pop was all confidence.
“You’ve never had so much security before,” Cora said. “It’s excessive.”
“I’m an important man,” Pop said quickly.
“Are you in trouble?” Cora asked. “Is that why you disposed of the body? Did you think someone might frame...you?”
There was another question that occurred to her, but she didn’t want to ask it. Not now. Not to her father. Still...
Was it possible Pop had killed the man?
Disposing of a body seemed a desperate act, even if it had been helped by Pop’s general impulsiveness and wariness of negative gossip.
The thought roared through her head, but it still didn’t make sense, and she dismissed it.
She now knew Mr. Tehrani had definitely been dead, had definitely been murdered, when he’d been in her apartment.
Someone else had killed Mr. Tehrani. Someone in my apartment building.
Her heart tightened.
She’d thought it unlikely that any of the neighbors were guilty. After all, would they have had time to remove the body in the short time when Cora and Veronica were greeting the police constable? But now it was entirely too possible that any of them could have done it, even Miss Greensbody, even, for that matter, Bess.
Suddenly Cora was no longer so happy that Archibald was alone in the apartment. What was rain when compared to a murderer on the loose?
“I have to go,” she said.
Pop nodded, still managing to look ashamed.
She hurried back to Bloomsbury. She tried to tell herself that just because a person had developed an interest in murdering somebody, didn’t mean they’d developed an interest in murdering pets, but Cora knew she would only be relieved when she saw Archibald again and assessed his wellbeing for herself. Her heartbeat ratcheted in her chest, and she stopped looking at the elaborate Georgian facades and concentrated only on maintaining a steady speed, even as people slowed, intent on avoiding puddles.
It was only later that she remembered she hadn’t asked Pop’s opi
nion on Mr. Tehrani’s business relationship with Miss Greensbody.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cora arrived at the building and removed her keys. Her hands shook, and it took several tries to enter correctly. She blinked into the dark light and ushered Archibald outside before she returned to prepare for the evening.
She dreaded going to Club Paradiso. Moving a dead body from a murder scene must be against the law. If it wasn’t, it was only because the law couldn’t anticipate her father’s actions.
It was perhaps sweet he’d done it to protect her. She wasn’t used to any signs of fatherly affection, and she would take what she could get.
Still.
Wouldn’t the police be able to at some point tie everything to Pop? This wasn’t her first murder, and she knew the swarm of police that accompanied any investigators. There were men whose whole jobs were dedicated to looking at practically invisible things, like fingerprints and collecting strands of hair.
And what would happen then?
Perhaps Pop was wrong, and Cora should march to the nearest police station and confess everything. Perhaps Pop would get in trouble, but wouldn’t confessing lead to a smaller charge than murder?
She shivered.
She despised that Pop had done this. Would the police ever figure out who killed the man now?
Perhaps they couldn’t determine it, but she knew the connection to this building in Bloomsbury. Perhaps she could discover the murderer’s identity. Pop’s freedom might depend on it.
It would be easier to pretend none of this had happened. Yet, even though she’d changed her bedding, and even though she’d rearranged her furniture, none of that changed the fact that someone, someone in this very building, had murdered Mr. Tehrani.
Fortunately, Mr. Tehrani and she had little in common. Perhaps that would quell any murderous instincts any of the residents had. A tiny part of her told her this was nonsense, and only certain serial killers took pains to ensure their victims resembled one another. A normal murderer would be far more likely to feel compelled to murder because of a particular situation. If they thought her a threat, they might feel inspired to have her meet a similar fate as the Persian, particularly if imbued by the belief they could get away with a second murder. Unfortunately, Cora had not found a correlation between being a murderer and a paucity of confidence.
Cora exited her flat and locked the door. At least she didn’t appear threatening. She tried to
“Hello,” Bess said.
Cora turned around sharply, surprised to see her neighbor. She hadn’t noticed her.
Bess laughed. “You look quite pale.”
“I’m a bit on edge,” Cora admitted.
“Rollo told me you’d thought you saw a man on your bed.” Bess’s eyes were slightly narrow.
Last time they’d met, they’d gotten along fine, but a new tension seemed between them that Cora instantly despised.
“I did see somebody,” Cora said, “though perhaps he was simply ill and wandered off. The constable said that was the most likely explanation.”
Cora despised that she’d lied, but at least Bess’s gaze seemed less stern. Her neighbor shrugged. “Better keep your window closed.”
Cora nodded. “London is a big city. I’m not used to it.”
Bess’s gaze softened. “I’m not from here either.”
“Where are you from?”
“The Cotswolds.”
Cora was vaguely aware of the idyllic rolling hills and honey-colored cottages famous in that region.
“You look nice,” Bess said, perhaps also anxious to rescue their conversation, now she no longer thought Cora was in the habit of conjuring up stories of dead people.
“Thank you,” Cora said.
She felt glum, but she wasn’t going to contradict Bess.
“Please tell me you’re going somewhere fun,” Bess said. “And then tell me I can come with you. It’s much too tiresome here.”
“I’m going to Soho,” Cora said. “And you are very welcome to join.”
If she was going to figure out the murderer, she needed to spend more time with her neighbors. And where better than in a place in public?
Bess grinned. “I’m so glad. I swear I thought I could hear Miss Greensbody cry last night. Obviously, it was her cats yowling. Miss Greensbody, is far too respectable to ever have emotions.”
Cora shifted her feet awkwardly. She had no desire to contradict Bess. Miss Greensbody had shared things with her in confidence. Bess didn’t need to know Miss Greensbody felt her career was in an unideal situation.
“Do you think Rollo and Lionel might want to come?” Cora asked.
Bess stared at her, somewhat incredulously. “I’m sure they would want to, but do you really want to invite them?”
“I thought you were close to them.”
Bess shrugged. “They’re all right. They’re just boys though. Have you seen their apartment?”
“Well, you don’t have to invite them,” Cora said. “I just want to be neighborly.”
“Hmph.”
“Invite us to what?” Rollo called from the downstairs landing.
“Now you’ve done it,” Bess murmured. “These walls are thin.” She inhaled. “Cora and I were planning to go into Soho. Would you like to join us?”
“Would we ever!” Rollo shouted. “I’ll tell Lionel.” The door slammed, and the sound of his feet pounding through his flat continued, as if he were an elephant escaped from the zoo and confronting steps for the first time.
Bess rolled her eyes. “So childish.”
“Not your type?” Cora asked.
Bess shook her head. “I want a real man, one who doesn’t need to count his money all the time. One who can buy me a drink and not have it matter.” She flushed. “I suppose you think I sound like an alcoholic. I’m really not.”
It occurred to Cora that Mr. Bijan Tehrani might fit those qualifications very well. His clothes had been tailored well, and he’d possessed a groomed appearance. How long had he been in London? Would Bess have had an opportunity to meet him?
“I’ll get dressed.” Bess ducked back into her apartment.
It didn’t take them long to prepare. Bess soon appeared, clothed in a black gown that made her look sophisticated despite its obvious simplicity.
Bess and Cora descended the steps and then waited for Rollo and Lionel.
“Golly,” Rollo said upon seeing her. “You’re stunning.”
“Thank you.” Bess appeared pleased.
They exited the building.
Rollo continued to speak with Bess, managing to compliment both her attire and her hair in a very short time, and Cora found herself walking with Lionel.
“So your young man isn’t coming tonight?” Lionel asked.
“No,” she said.
Lionel’s lips extended into something that too closely resembled a smirk.
“This really wasn’t intended to be a large event,” Cora said.
“You enjoy going to clubs on your own?” Lionel’s lips were definitely smirking now, and even his eyebrows were raised, as if eager to make a condescending gesture of their own.
“My father’s performing there,” Cora said. “He’s the singer.”
“Ah, a show business family,” Lionel said.
“I suppose.” She turned to him. “And you’re in the family business too.”
Lionel looked puzzled for a moment.
“Your mother is the landlady,” she prompted him.
“And I take care of matters here. It is a task with much responsibility.” His chest seemed a trifle broader than before, and his chin tilted upward.
“How splendid,” Cora said faintly.
She hadn’t taken him for someone to be overly pompous. Managing a single building didn’t seem cause for excessive praise.
“I know you think poorly of me,” Lionel said.
“Nonsense,” Cora said automatically.
“You needn’t prevaricate,” Lio
nel said. “It was clear from my conversation with your—er—significant other.”
Cora knew she should be focusing on Lionel, but the only words that rang through her head were significant other. Yes, that’s what she and Randolph were. No one had ever described it thus before, but surely that’s what they were.
She found herself smiling contentedly, and Lionel nodded, perhaps seeing her smile as an acknowledgment of his own correctness.
“I’m a student,” Lionel said. “My hours are odd, but they won’t always be.” He shrugged. “Actually, my hours will probably be just as odd when I’m a doctor.”
“A doctor?” She turned to him sharply. “You’re in medical school?”
He nodded. “Yes. It can be stressful at times. Lots of studying at odd hours. I sleep when I can, and I party when I can too.”
“Oh.” Cora found herself flushing.
She’d thought little of him, but he was obviously smarter than she’d imagined.
“I misjudged you,” she said.
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” He winked and opened the door for her as they headed outside.
“Do you enjoy your studies?” she asked.
“Enjoy is perhaps too strong of a word,” Lionel said. “But it’s fine. It’s certainly interesting at times.”
Cora tried to nod authoritatively, but she knew little about medicine. She’d barely learned any biology when she was being tutored on set, and her knowledge of the organs in her body was limited to only the most important. She knew her heart was on the left side of her chest, and she knew her brain was located in her head, but all the bones and muscles that made up the rest of her body were rather more mysterious.
If Lionel studied medicine, he might also know things about poisons.
He knew the house better than anyone. He would have known about the dumb waiter hidden behind the painting in Cora’s bedroom.
“Murder in Bloomsbury! Murder in Bloomsbury! Read all about it!” A newsboy paced the pavement.
Cora stiffened. They came to the same young boy whom she had seen before. She glanced at the paper, and her eyes widened when she saw a picture of Mr. Tehrani. Perhaps the newspaper men hadn’t desired to protect their audience’s sensibilities. Perhaps they simply hadn’t had an image of him yet, even when dead.
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