Queen of Hearts

by Rhys Bowen

  “Are you trying to be funny again?” The sheriff’s bulldog face flushed red.

  “Certainly not,” Stella said. “Mr. Goldman kept a menagerie of African animals. Just as exotic decorations, you understand. But I believe that a giraffe can easily kill a dog. Or a man, for that matter.”

  “Was the man completely mad? He builds a castle like something out of a horror movie, then he stocks the grounds with dangerous animals.”

  “He did it because he could,” Mrs. Goldman answered before Stella could. “He came up from nothing and when he became successful he was like a small boy in a candy store. He was always trying to see what his money could buy next—seaplane, racing car, Paris apartment . . . he’s tried them all. And look where it got him. I always warned him, but he never listened to anyone. Thirteen at dinner tonight, you know.”

  “I take it you’re the widow,” Sheriff Billings said.

  “I am.” She gave him a hostile stare. “I never thought I’d hear that word applied to myself. I believed he was immortal.”

  “And since my men aren’t here yet, I’d like to get started on the questions. I don’t suppose you want to be here all night any more than I do.” He pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair. “Now, you just said you were thirteen at dinner. I see twelve of you in the room right now so I guess you were all there. And Mr. Goldman was alive and well then?”

  “He was,” Mrs. Goldman said. “After dinner he wanted to smoke one of his disgusting cigars and I told him he’d have to do it where I couldn’t smell the smoke. So he said he’d go to the library and most of the men went with him.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “I didn’t,” Charlie said. “I’m not keen on cigars and I wanted to get to know this fascinating young lady better. It’s so rare to find someone regal and virginal in Hollywood. You can’t blame me for being intrigued.”

  “And your name, miss?” The sheriff licked his pencil.

  I thought this might be a good time to make the sheriff aware of my rank. “I’m Lady Georgiana Rannoch,” I said. “I’m here with my mother who was about to shoot a film with Mr. Goldman.”

  “What’s more she’s a cousin of the king of England,” my mother added.

  “English royalty, huh?” He looked rather impressed, which was gratifying. I decided to go on. “And this is my good friend Belinda Warburton-Stoke, and my young man, the honorable Darcy O’Mara. Both English aristocrats.”

  “And they came out here with you?”

  “They just popped in to see me,” I said sweetly. “But Mr. Goldman was rather struck with Mr. O’Mara’s looks and wanted to use him in his picture.”

  Even as I said the words they sank in. There wouldn’t be a picture now. Darcy was in no danger of becoming a film star. I felt terribly relieved.

  I watched the sheriff scrutinizing first Belinda and then Darcy. Then his gaze fell on Juan, who was still huddled in his blanket, looking miserable.

  “And you’re one of the hired help? What happened—did you fall in the pool?”

  Stella stood up, looking regal. “This is Senor Juan de Castillo from Spain—from a very old family. They used to own large estates near Seville. His aunt is mother superior of a convent.”

  The sheriff was now focusing on her. “You’re Stella Brightwell,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’d recognize you anywhere. I’ve seen all your movies, Miss Brightwell. And yours too, Mr. Hart. Two of my favorite stars. Maybe I could get your autograph when this nasty little business is over—for the kids, you know.”

  “Of course, Sheriff.” Stella gave him her most charming smile. “Happy to oblige your children.”

  “So Senor Castillo is over here visiting one of you? What’s the connection?”

  “Mr. Goldman discovered him in Spain on his recent trip to buy more antiques. We were planning to shoot a movie about King Philip of Spain so Mr. Goldman thought Juan would be perfect for the part.”

  “Only then he tells me I am no good enough because my Spanish accent is too strong,” Juan said peevishly. “So I come all this way and then he doesn’t want to make me movie star after all. Now all I want is to go home to my village and my people.”

  “Well, that seems to be everybody,” the sheriff said.

  “You’ve forgotten me, Sheriff,” Barbara Kindell said testily.

  “My apologies, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her then studied her hawkish middle-aged face. “Don’t tell me you’re Mary Pickford.”

  “Very droll,” Barbara said. “I am a dear friend of Mrs. Goldman.”

  “And your name, ma’am?”

  “Barbara Kindell.”

  His head jerked upright. “The Barbara Kindell?”

  “The very same,” she said.

  “But you write all those columns—secrets of the stars. My wife’s your biggest fan. So if I could get your autograph too, ma’am?”

  “The sooner you solve this crime, the sooner we can give you our autographs, Sheriff,” Charlie said. “We’re all dying to go to bed and poor Juan here is fighting hard to stay awake. So can we please get on with it?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Chaplin, sir. I’m working as fast as I can. These things can’t be rushed, you know. Too easy to overlook something.” He licked his pencil again. “Now you say that the men went off to smoke in the library. I take it that’s where the body is now lying?”

  “It is,” Ronnie said.

  “What happened then?”

  “We smoked cigars. We had a cognac,” Darcy said. “We discussed Mr. Goldman’s new antiques. He passed them around so I’m afraid our fingerprints will be on the candlesticks.”

  “You said ‘candlesticks’ in the plural?” Sheriff Billings asked. “I only saw one—lying on the floor beside him.”

  “There were a pair. The other is missing.”

  “So it was a robbery gone wrong, you think? Why didn’t the thief take the second candlestick?”

  “Presumably because it had blood and hair on it?” Darcy said, glancing across at me.

  “Criminals aren’t usually that squeamish,” the sheriff said. “He could have wiped it off. Instead he’s left us the murder weapon and if we tie in prints on the candlestick with that bloody print on the window frame, we’ll have us a murder conviction.”

  He looked around the group as if he wanted everyone to know he had just made a good point. “So those candlesticks were valuable, right?”

  “Extremely,” Ronnie said. “They were solid gold, decorated with real jewels.”

  The sheriff whistled. “I thought that would just be gold plating. Solid gold, huh? Must be worth a fortune.”

  “The strange thing is that an El Greco painting was also in the room and I presume it must be a lot more valuable than the candlesticks but that wasn’t touched.”

  The sheriff looked at him with pity. “Golden candlesticks can be melted down, boy,” he said. “It’s not as easy to fence a stolen painting.”

  He tilted back in his chair to a point that I thought he might topple over backward. “So let’s get back to where we were. You were smoking and drinking and examining these candlesticks. Then what?”

  “One by one we left the library,” Darcy said. “I think Ronnie went first, then Craig and I followed him and then Algie . . .”

  “Who?” the sheriff demanded. I realized we’d all overlooked Algie again. He had sat silent and unnoticed in the shadows.

  “Me,” Algie said in a squeak. “Algernon Broxley-Foggett. Another English aristocrat over here helping Mr. Goldman with the script of the picture. And a close friend of these other English people.”

  I looked at Darcy, who was about to open his mouth to deny this, but then he changed his mind.

  “So how come I missed you before when I was going around getting names?” the sheriff asked angrily.

  “Happens all th
e time, I’m afraid,” Algie said. “The trouble is I’m rather forgettable. Always been my misfortune to be overlooked. Just a likable, ordinary chap, I suppose. Easy to overlook me among all these glamorous types.”

  “So you were the last to leave the library?”

  “I wandered out behind O’Mara and Craig Hart,” Algie said. “Then I lingered on because I was interested in the suit of armor and it looked about my size. Unfortunately I got the helmet stuck on my head and knocked over the whole bally thing. Typical of me, I’m afraid.”

  “And what about Mr. Goldman? Did he stay in the library after you left?”

  “He did,” Craig said. “He told us to go ahead and he’d better put the candlesticks in the safe or there would be hell to pay from his wife. So we left him there and went to join the others in this room.”

  “So would you say you were the last to see Mr. Goldman alive?”

  “It looks that way,” Craig said. “Unless anyone else went into the library after us.”

  “They’d have had to pass this young fellow playing with the suit of armor, wouldn’t they?” the sheriff asked.

  “Ah, well,” Algie cleared his throat nervously. “I wasn’t there the whole time. You see I needed to spend a penny.”

  “Spend a penny?”

  “You know. Take a widdle. Visit the loo, old man.”

  “What’s a ‘loo, old man’?” the sheriff demanded.

  I looked at Belinda and we started to giggle. We couldn’t help ourselves. The sheriff was glowering.

  “He means he went to find a lavatory,” Darcy said, also trying hard not to smile.

  “Oh, you mean take a piss.” The sheriff nodded now. “So anyone could have snuck down that hallway while Mr. Goldman had his back turned, and struck him over the head.”

  “Yes, only we were all here together,” Stella said. “Except for Mrs. Goldman, who went up to bed right after coffee.”

  “But before her husband was killed?” the sheriff asked.

  “Probably,” Stella said, her face calm and sweet.

  “We have no idea when my husband was killed,” Mrs. Goldman said. “All I can tell you is that I was upset and tired and I went up to bed sometime during the evening.”

  “So everybody else is accounted for except Mrs. Goldman?”

  “Actually this young lady and I went for a swim together,” Craig said, managing to imbue that phrase with hidden implication.

  “You went for a swim—in the dark?”

  Craig gave that devastating smile. “The pool is lighted and heated, Sheriff. It was very pleasant—wasn’t it, Belinda?”

  “So you and the young lady were absent for a while?”

  “But together,” Craig pointed out. “And outside.”

  “And everyone else was in this room, apart from Mrs. Goldman, who had gone to bed?”

  “And Juan,” Algie pointed out.

  Juan shrugged. “I am sleeping in my bed, senor. After dinner the wine does not agree with me. They do not understand wine in America. Too many years of prohibition, I think. So my head hurts and I go straight to bed and fall asleep.”

  “We can vouch for that,” Algie said. “We had a devil of a time waking him.”

  “So it appears that you can all vouch for each other?” the sheriff said. “How convenient.”

  “If you’re trying to suggest that it was a conspiracy between us to kill Mr. Goldman, I think you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Stella said, coldly now. “We all owed everything to him. Without him our lives are in tatters.”

  The sheriff rocked uneasily in his chair. I wondered how many murder investigations he’d had to conduct before and decided he wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. “We can’t do much until the doctor ascertains the time of death,” he said.

  “We can tell you that, pretty accurately,” Darcy said. “It must have been within a fifteen-minute window from the time Craig and I left to the time when we heard the crash of that suit of armor. So between ten thirty and ten forty-five.”

  “That’s just your word for it, sir. We’ll have to see if the medical examiner agrees with you. They shouldn’t be too long now, I hope, although it’s quite a drive in the fog.”

  Almost on cue the telephone rang. Ronnie looked inquiringly at the sheriff, then went to answer it. “What?” I heard him say. “Yes, the sheriff is here. Of course, bring him up.” Then his eyebrows raised and he said, “Her? It’s a woman?”

  He came back to us. “That was one of our groundsmen, calling from the gatehouse. They caught someone.”

  “Trying to escape?”

  “No, trying to break in. They can’t quite understand her and she fought like a wildcat but they are bringing her up to the house right now.”

  The sheriff looked pleased. “The accomplice, mark my words,” he said. “She was probably waiting with the getaway car.”

  The tension in the room was palpable as we waited. It seemed to take forever but at last we heard the sound of a motor and the crunch of tires. Then there was a raised woman’s voice, some male grunting and a couple of curses as Ronnie went to open the front door.

  “Get yer bleeding ’ands off me,” said a strong Cockney accent. “This ain’t no way to treat someone what’s connected to your guests and royal people at that.”

  And a red-faced and very disheveled Queenie was shoved, struggling, into the foyer.

  Chapter 23

  I stood up as Queenie looked around, blinking like an owl in the electric light. “A fine welcome you give people in America, that’s all I can say,” she said.

  “We caught her trying to force her way through the gate,” the groundsman said. “We couldn’t quite understand what she was saying but she was clearly up to no good.”

  “I was trying to get in and the blooming gate wouldn’t open,” Queenie said angrily. “And then suddenly these men start shouting and grabbing me. I told them I’m with Lady Georgiana Rannoch what’s staying here as a guest of Mr. Goldman.” Her gaze fastened on me. “Oh, there you are, miss. Thank God. I’m so glad to see you. Tell these people who I am. They’ve been treating me like I’m some kind of criminal or something. Manhandling me something shocking.”

  “What are you doing here, Queenie?” I asked. “A social call at almost midnight? No wonder the gatekeeper was suspicious of you.”

  “It’s taken me this long to hitch a ride out from Beverly Hills,” Queenie said. “There ain’t no buses. I had no idea it was so far and hardly any motorcars come this way. And it’s bleeding cold too. Then the sodding gate wouldn’t open and I thought it was stuck and I was trying to push it when these two great gorillas came out and grabbed me. I told them who I was but they seemed not to understand me.”

  “That’s because they are Mexican and you speak with a Cockney accent,” I said. I wanted to smile but I was determined not to. For once I was going to play the indignant employer. “So what exactly are you doing here?”

  “Well, I should think that was ruddy obvious,” Queenie said. “I’ve come back to you. I decided I’d rather work for you for no money than the old cow who was paying me well.”

  “You got the sack, you mean? You set fire to her dress or broke her perfume bottle?”

  “I bloody well didn’t,” she said. “If you want to know I was doing quite well, apart from melting her undies when I ironed them. How was I to know about a stuff called rayon and what happens when you iron it? But the old cow had no idea how to treat servants. She wanted me to clean her toilets. ‘I can’t do that,’ I said. ‘I’m a lady’s maid.’ And do you know what she said then? She said, ‘I’m not paying servants to have them sit around doing nothing. I don’t need someone to dress me but I do need clean toilets. In America we work for our living.’ So I told her that I was used to working for quality and no amount of money was worth being treated like dirt and I walked out. I
went back to our bungalow at the hotel and they said you’d come up here. So here I am.”

  “You want to come back to work for me?” I said. “Isn’t that rather presumptuous? Didn’t it occur to you that I might have found a new maid?”

  “Gorn,” she said with a grin. “Where would you find a proper maid here? If they thought I was worth snapping up and paying in Beverly Hills there can’t be too many maids around.”

  I thought this was an insightful comment. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to stay now, Queenie,” I said, “because you would not be allowed to leave. There has been a murder and this policeman has just started his investigation.”

  “Blimey,” she said. “You don’t half get yourself involved in a lot of murders.”

  The sheriff was looking at me with interest.

  “What does she mean?” he asked.

  “I’ve just had the bad luck to have been staying in places where someone died. Nothing to do with me, I assure you. Just an innocent bystander.”

  “And this young woman is your maid?”

  I sighed. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

  “Well, keep an eye on her. I’m still not happy about someone trying to break in.”

  “Don’t worry. She’s quite harmless apart from damaging everything within reach,” I said.

  Craig had also risen from his seat and went over to the men who were lingering near the front door, looking uncomfortable at being inside the house. “You’re the groundsmen, right? So did you find any evidence of a break-in along the fence?”

  “No, senor,” one of them said. “The fence looks fine. We drove all the way around and didn’t see nothing unusual.”

  “And the man at the gate? Nobody has tried to get in or out apart from this young woman?”

  “No, sir. Jimmy says the only people he’s let in all day have been Mr. Goldman’s guests. People he knows.”

  Craig looked around at the rest of us. “Then we have to presume that the killer is among us here, don’t we? It simply can’t be an outsider.”

  “Unless the outsider is still hiding among the trees and rocks,” Mummy said in her usual bored way, stretching languidly on the sofa as if this were any cocktail party and not a murder inquiry. “It seems to me it would be quite easy to hit poor Cy over the head and then melt into that fog until an opportune moment came for someone to open the gate.”