Calamity Under the Chandelier

by Camilla Blythe

  She was alive.

  Joy cascaded through her, even as she clutched hold of the woolen blanket she’d been given.

  How marvelous she had not succumbed in the moat.

  If Veronica hadn’t gone back to Hollywood to finalize things, if she’d stayed with her husband, would nothing have changed? If Edmund’s father had not despised her and hadn’t threatened Edmund with removing him from his will, would things have changed?

  Was Edmund evil? If he hadn’t killed the duke, would he have killed someone else later on—for example, Veronica?

  Or could all of this have been avoided?

  Cora hadn’t truly believed in evil. People had told her it existed, but it had seemed to be an abstract concept. Yet she had seen the duke’s murdered body and the maid.

  The thing was...Edmund did not seem like a murderer. He scowled at times, but he was not alone in that habit. He also could be charming and he talked pleasantly on a whole manner of subjects.

  And yet he’d murdered.

  Not once, but twice.

  Perhaps Veronica would always say that Lady Audrey had influenced him negatively, but at what point was the decision to murder simply in a person’s psyche?

  Was it something any person could be persuaded to do, given sufficient pressures and temptations?

  Edmund would be tried in court and in all likelihood hanged.

  Cora didn’t know if that would be a deterrent to keep other people from succumbing to their own peculiar combination of pressures and temptations that might lead them to such a dishonorable path, but at least he would not be able to harm anyone else.

  Cora would have to content herself with that.

  A knock sounded on her door, and she opened it.

  Randolph stood before her. He seemed comfortable amidst the grand furniture, now his hair was not slick with snow, and his suit was not speckled with dirt and hibiscus petals. He had evidently managed to take a bath as well, and he looked once again refreshed, as if he couldn’t possibly have spent the afternoon battling for her life and his.

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” Randolph said. “Shall we walk outside?”

  She nodded and followed him through the heavy doors after they put on the appropriate outerwear. The sun glinted over the snow, and the breeze felt cool against her face. “How did you rescue me?”

  “I heard your scream. You’d given me your Shakespeare volume, and I smashed it through the window. It made a good substitute for a brick.” He frowned. “It must be at the bottom of the moat now.”

  “So you’ve also saved me from finishing it.”

  “Two birds with one stone.”

  She laughed.

  “I could have escaped earlier,” he said, “but I didn’t like the idea of being on the run for the rest of my life.”

  “Shocking.”

  “You probably would have thought me even more suspicious if I’d broken from a tower and clambered down it like I was practicing for a role in some English pantomime.”

  “So instead you just lunged in.”

  “You seemed worth it.”

  His face was so near hers. Their conversation had somehow changed to become more serious, and the air seemed thicker, more magnificent.

  To think that she’d accused him of murder.

  She owed her life to him.

  “I should never have thought ill of you,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I was perhaps acting suspiciously when you first met me.”

  “Why were you hiding in the hibiscus plants? Were you really a private detective, scrounging up negative information on Veronica?”

  “Certain people wanted me to see what the duke’s plans were. They thought if I gained his confidence as a private investigator, I might gain access to his house. I was already in California for another matter when I received the assignment, and I thought some photos of Veronica’s house might make me seem more realistic.”

  “Oh.”

  “The original private investigator had already sent the duke information on Veronica.”

  “So you’re really not a photographer.”

  “No, lassie. And I didn’t need to be locked in that turret.” His eyes sparkled. “Though I intend to tease you about it.”

  “Oh?” Relief coursed through her, and she smiled at him.

  “Yes.” He nodded solemnly. “For a very long time.”

  She shivered under his gaze, and he grabbed hold of her hand. Thick woolen gloves might have separated their fingers, but the firmness of his grip could not be masked. Energy rushed through her body.

  He pulled her nearer to him. His lips brushed against hers, and then their lips danced together.

  Fire throttled through her, despite the icy chill.

  It didn’t matter that they were standing before a manor house where two people had been murdered. The killers were in prison, and Cora could concentrate on the feel of strong, supple lips against hers.

  Archibald barked, and Cora and Randolph parted.

  “May I speak with you, Miss Clarke?” Signor Palombi asked.

  “Certainly,” Cora said.

  “I’ll be inside,” Randolph said, and Cora nodded.

  “The police will soon be directing their questions to everyone,” Signor Palombi said. “And I would prefer not to be here. It looks like Hitler might attempt to control Czechoslovakia, and I will do my utmost to stop it.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Cora said.

  “You should have Archibald,” Signor Palombi said.

  “Me?” Cora widened her eyes. “But I’ve never had a dog. Or a cat. Or even a lizard.”

  “Archibald is quite unlike a lizard,” Signor Palombi said evenly. “He won’t mind in the least if your lizard caretaking skills are mediocre.”

  “Nonexistent,” Cora said.

  Signor Palombi assessed her, and she wondered if he might change his mind after all. But then he waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “No, you’ll do quite well.”

  “A dog is a large responsibility.”

  “You’ve managed to show that you are responsible. Besides, I wouldn’t give him to you if I suspected you wouldn’t get along.” His smile wobbled. “Actually, I might do just that. But with instructions on how to find another home for him. I can’t take care of him. Not anymore. I must make ze travel.”

  Cora nodded. Signor Palombi made no attempt at having an Italian accent now. He was Czech, and Czechoslovakia was in grave trouble. Its location and abundance of factories made it a good target for Germany, and Hitler had been speaking more and more about the supposed plight of those in the Sudetenland and the need to control it.

  “My—er—employers won’t let me have a dog. And as much as I would like to keep Archibald, if I had to choose—and I must—”

  “You would choose your country,” Cora finished. “I understand.”

  Signor Palombi nodded.

  “And you mustn’t worry,” she said. “I will take care of him.”

  “A dog is a wonderful companion,” Signor Palombi said. “But an Archibald—” He broke off, as if not knowing the English words that would most emphasize their relationship. “Why, an Archibald is spectacular.”

  Signor Palombi knelt on the ground.

  Archibald moved toward him. He tilted his head toward Cora, as if flummoxed by Signor Palombi’s position.

  Sadness inundated Cora. Signor Palombi shouldn’t have to give up his dog. Archibald shouldn’t have to be parted from the man he’d shared his life with.

  “Be a good boy.” Signor Palombi stroked Archibald’s coat, and the dog wagged his tail. “I would stay with you if I could, but I’m afraid I cannot.”

  Archibald seemed to assess him, as if attempting to interpret the seriousness of Signor Palombi’s voice.

  “Miss Clarke will take care of you now,” Signor Palombi said. “You’re going to belong to a starlet.”

  Archibald tilted his head up at Cora.

  “You’ve always been
a good boy,” Signor Palombi said softly, and murmured some words in Czech.

  The lump in Cora’s throat thickened. “It’s not fair.”

  “Perhaps not,” Signor Palombi said, standing up. “And I could choose to do nothing. But there will be more people harmed than Archibald and me. I wish a separation from a dog was the worst that will happen, but I very much fear it will not be. You’ll have to be brave too, Miss Clarke. War is brewing, and not just for Czechoslovakia.”

  Cora scooped Archibald into her arms. He gazed at her uncertainly, but he still wagged his tail.

  “Good,” Signor Palombi said. “You’ll get along fine. I was hoping you would agree. In fact—” He rustled through his coat and removed a piece of paper and unfolded it.

  He handed it to her, and Cora noted the small, carefully printed letters. “You’ll find everything you might need to know about Archibald there.”

  “Thank you.”

  Perhaps she’d never planned to have a dog, but everything had changed. She no longer was an actress in Hollywood, working sixteen-hour days. She could find a normal job. And she could care for Archibald.

  She pressed his warm body against her chest. It would be nice to have company. Even the four-legged variety.

  “Ah, Archibald’s always been suspicious of strangers. He had a premonition about you.”

  Cora smiled, but Signor Palombi’s face remained sober.

  “He’s very clever. He can be quite helpful. You’ll see.”

  Cora nodded, startled.

  A horn honked, and Signor Palombi sighed. “I suppose that’s my taxi. I should go now.”

  “Good bye” Cora said.

  “Good bye, young lady.” Signor Palombi shook Archibald’s paw solemnly and then departed.

  Cora watched Signor Palombi’s figure recede, and Archibald barked, perhaps realizing something might not be quite right.

  The taxi moved away from the manor house, and Archibald whimpered.

  “It will be fine,” Cora said, stroking the dog’s curly coat.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE NEXT DAY, SERVANTS whisked her trunk downstairs. Perhaps they’d seen the Americans’ arrival as bad luck, something the universe should never have allowed, and that it was not surprising their arrival had accompanied two deaths.

  Murdered dukes had a habit of making the news, and a reporter had learned she’d been thrust into the moat by the new duke.

  A shot of Cora’s figure was on every major newspaper.

  Cora didn’t want to think about how much Mr. Bellomo would despise the scandal.

  She hadn’t run off with some woman’s husband, and she hadn’t been arrested for drunk and disorderly behavior, but she had spent Christmas with a murderer.

  It hadn’t been the calm holiday Veronica had promised.

  It seemed outrageous that the flowers could still look pretty in their vases, the petals still intact. It seemed ludicrous that mistletoe still dangled from the doors. The marriages in this home had been tainted by evil. And yet aristocrats still smiled placidly from their portraits in gilt frames.

  The snow had halted, and no mist obscured the view.

  The phone rang.

  “The lines must be working again,” somebody called out joyously.

  “Excuse me,” the butler said.

  “Poor Wexley despises that invention,” the dowager duchess said. “Door answering has always been sufficient frustration for him.”

  “Oh,” Cora said.

  A smile stole over the dowager’s face. “You mustn’t appear so shocked. He’s quite gifted at other things, and I haven’t seen such a regal glower since my days in Czechoslovakia. And sadly, the aristocrats there will not be doing that anytime soon.”

  “It is horrible about Hitler,” Cora ventured.

  “Indeed,” said the dowager duchess. “And this country is not doing a single thing about it. Appeasement. Ha.”

  The butler appeared before Cora could respond to the dowager’s remark. She had so many questions.

  Back in Hollywood, war had seemed purely hypothetical, an excuse for stylists to put actors in uniforms, and on occasion, to smear their faces with dirt.

  War was far more present here, perhaps because they’d so clearly suffered under the Great War. Middle-aged men were often not in possession of all their limbs.

  People seemed alternatively eager to chide Chamberlain for not defending Europe’s smaller countries from Hitler’s greed to lauding Chamberlain’s restraint and maintaining that Hitler was not so bad.

  Cora hoped the latter was the case. That was Roosevelt’s opinion, and she was proud of her president.

  People might be so accustomed to viewing Germany negatively, given the number of people they’d killed for seemingly no reason in the last war, that it was natural for them to be suspicious of them now.

  Maybe Hitler was correct. Perhaps the people in the smaller countries that bordered Germany desired to be part of Germany. Certainly, their economy was doing relatively well. Czechoslovakia was a new country; it had only been formed at the end of the Great War. It made sense that a country with more experience at governing might take better care of its people.

  But the dowager duchess seemed to view Germany’s rule over Czechoslovakia with absolute disdain, despite the fact she’d not been part of that country for years.

  And more than one Jewish director and writer in Hollywood had fled Germany, speaking of such open discrimination that one wondered whether it could possibly be true...

  She wanted to ask the dowager more questions.

  The butler though cleared his throat. “Telephone for Miss Clarke.”

  “Me?” She’d expected it would be for the dowager, or possibly for Veronica.

  Cora frowned. “It’s not a reporter, is it?”

  “It does not appear to be, Miss Clarke. If it is one, it is a most unconventional one.”

  Cora frowned and followed Wexley to the phone. She picked up the glossy receiver.

  “Is that Cora?” An older woman’s voice sounded on the other side of the crackling line.

  “Yes.”

  “Susan’s child?”

  Cora’s heart squeezed. “Yes.”

  Was this her great aunt?

  It can’t be.

  But the woman’s accent seemed to have an Irish twang to it that made it very likely.

  Very, very likely.

  “Oh, my!” the woman cooed in obvious excitement. “I’m your Great Aunt Maggie.”

  “Hello,” Cora said.

  The word did not seem adequate to convey the emotion Cora felt, and Cora was glad that her great aunt could not see her rapidly warming cheeks.

  “My sweet child,” her great aunt said. “This makes me so very happy.”

  “You found me,” Cora said.

  “Hmph. You’ve got yourself into a mishap,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “I read about it over my toast. Even managed to burn my tongue on the tea when I saw your picture. You’re the spitting image of Susan.”

  “Really?” Cora smiled.

  Her mother’s current hair color was a vibrant Rita Haywoodesque red, and before that she’d had a tightly curled platinum bob à la Ginger Rogers.

  Not that Mother was very likely to break out singing and dancing, like both those women were prone to doing on the silver screen.

  “I didn’t know that,” Cora said.

  “Do tell me that Susan is alive,” Great Aunt Maggie said.

  “She is!” Cora hastened to reassure her.

  “Good,” Cora’s great aunt said. “Haven’t heard from her in years. Now, what’s all this about a murder?”

  Cora shifted from foot to foot. “I suppose it sounds ridiculous.”

  “Perhaps. You did make all those Gal Detective movies. I saw every one of them.”

  “You did?”

  “You were excellent,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “And if you really did spend the holidays snowed-in at a manor house with two murderers—”


  “I did,” Cora said.

  “Well, then I’m very sorry. It’s certainly an imperfect introduction to England.”

  “I’m quite fine now.”

  “Brave girl.” Great Aunt Maggie was silent for a while, but then she said, “You should visit me in Sussex.”

  “Truly?”

  “Sunniest part of England,” Great Aunt Maggie declared. “It probably doesn’t compare to California, but I would like to see you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Cora said quickly.

  “Really?” The voice sounded almost surprised, but Cora repeated it again.

  She was serious.

  It would be nice to meet her very oldest relative.

  She wasn’t quite ready to go back to California yet. They chatted a while, but when she finally hung up, Wexley handed her a telegram.

  “For me?” Cora raised her eyebrows, but then realized everyone in the world clearly knew her location.

  Randolph removed the telegram from her hand. “Come back to Hollywood. Stop.”

  “Probably some joke,” Cora said. “Anyone can send a telegram. I’m not going all the way back there to find—”

  The phone rang again, and the butler disappeared.

  He was soon back. “Miss Clarke? There is a phone call for you.”

  The butler gave her a curious look, as if to indicate his disapproval that she’d somehow managed to get so many messages at once.

  She took the phone receiver. “Yes?”

  “Darling!” A deep voice exclaimed.

  “Father?” A wave of relief rushed through her.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  “M-merry Christmas,” she stammered.

  He’d been so disappointed in her the last time he’d seen her, but now she found herself beaming into the phone from his exuberant tone.

  “Palm Springs isn’t the same without you,” he declared.

  “Oh?”

  She didn’t remind him that she hadn’t spent Christmas in Palm Springs since she was twelve, and even that had been accompanied with many photo shoots.

  “Hello, darling!” another voice said.