Murder among the Stars

by Adam Shankman

  “Of course! We wouldn’t want that, now, would we?” Lulu said, and he headed back to his cruiser and skidded down the hill.

  Lulu looked down at the scrawled label on the brown paper wrapping. Juliette Claire, personal effects. Deliver to next of kin.

  “Oh,” she breathed softly. It was such a small package, and that struck Lulu as so terribly sad, as if all Juliette’s life could be wrapped up in paper, tied up with string.

  But why was it delivered here? Shouldn’t the police have tracked down Juliette’s family? Maybe she didn’t have a family or, like so many girls who came to Hollywood, had cut them out of her life. So many had run to Hollywood, pursuing something and fleeing something at the same time, and never looked back. Lulu supposed she should deliver the package to Mrs. Mortimer, who seemed to have all the household affairs in perfect running order. She’d certainly know what to do. But . . . Lulu squeezed the package gently. There was something soft, probably the clothes Juliette had been wearing.

  Then something crunched inside the package. Paper? There were harder things, too. Perhaps jewelry.

  It’s not mine, Lulu thought. I have no right.

  On the other hand . . . what if there was something important inside, a clue to solving the murder? The police thought Zing did it, so they would probably discount anything they found. Lulu clutched the package tightly and raced up to her room. Once the door was shut and locked, she stood there for a long while considering her next move. I shouldn’t. But there are lives at stake. It’s irresponsible to not do everything I can to find Juliette’s killer and bring him or her to justice! Lulu Kelly, you’re going to do it, so just get on with it.

  She carefully untied and unwrapped the package and opened it reverently on her bed. There was the chartreuse dress with the diamante spangles Juliette had worn the night she was killed. Lulu took a deep breath and looked through the rest of the things. There was a jeweled hair clip and a sparkling bracelet, both set with huge rhinestones.

  And there, folded into a tiny square, was a piece of worn paper. It was creamy white with the slight variations in color and the faint embedded threads that marked the most expensive handmade stationery. She could see that it had been folded, opened, and refolded many times. The creased edges were wearing thin. Even before she read it, Lulu thought she knew what it would be.

  My beloved Juliette,

  I love you. There, I write it plainly. I am yours, if you will be mine. A. is nothing more to me than a burden, a necessity, but I will be tied to my millstone, my ball and chain no longer. I swear it. I will leave her . . . if you will prove to me that you will be my comfort and consolation for all that I am giving up. If only you will give yourself to me completely, I will give myself to you in kind. I swear to you, I’ll divorce A. the very next morning, as long as you are mine, body and soul, as I am yours.

  We will be together at the Ranch very soon. Just give me a sign that you will come to me, and I will envelop you in my arms and dedicate to you my life, never to be parted.

  Until that time when you will be made flesh of my flesh, I remain your devoted,

  John

  Lulu narrowed her eyes and tapped her finger to her lips, considering the text carefully. Any foolish romantic would succumb happily to Emerson’s heartfelt oath to end his marriage for the sake of true love. But what Lulu read between the love-soaked lines was something entirely different. He was declaring his intention to leave his wife, true, but there were conditions. The letter was an exercise in calculation and manipulation. Sleep with me, he was saying, and then I’ll leave my wife.

  Whispering promises in the darkness was one thing. Whispers don’t hold up in divorce court. But Emerson had put it in writing, which Lulu knew from scanning the scandal sheets was the worst thing to do. He’d been an idiot to write such a letter, much less send it.

  And here, thought Lulu, was a motive for murder.

  Juliette had a letter from Emerson where he swore his love and offered to leave his wife. That would be powerful ammunition for blackmail. Juliette was just the type to threaten to show it to Anita. Of course, she didn’t know that Anita knew all about it. Did Emerson himself know she was aware of the letter already? Would he be afraid of his wife finding out?

  But Lulu knew full well that in the very public and publicized world of Hollywood, a wife’s ire wasn’t nearly as important as the world’s opinion. If Juliette had threatened to give the letter to the press, the ensuing scandal could have meant unmitigated public humiliation for Emerson.

  Once he realized what a mistake he’d made giving Juliette that letter, he’d probably do anything to get it back. Had he searched her room? Someone had, but Lulu needed proof it was him. After having her theories repeatedly shot down, she was afraid to commit herself without irrefutable evidence.

  Lulu wrapped up Juliette’s things and shoved them under the bed. It was getting late, so she decided to change for dinner. She took care to find just the right dress: demure, but satin, for a little added glamour tonight.

  She found Paul a few minutes later in the Assembly Room. A few guests were scattered about in the vast chamber, and for just a minute they were virtually alone. She hastily approached him, eyes alight, eager to share her discovery. But just when she’d almost reached him, her hands outstretched to take his arms in her excitement, Freddie walked in the door.

  He stopped abruptly when he saw them in that almost-compromising position, then regained his nonchalance.

  Lulu decided right then that there was nothing that irritated her more than this put-on coolness Freddie had reverted to. It was time to burst that icy bubble he was hiding in. In fact, she suspected that a huge screaming fight would set everything straight between them. Given their surroundings, though, a good old-fashioned covert confrontation would have to do.

  However, now was apparently not the time for it. Freddie sat down on the immense leather couch at the exact calculated distance that showed that Lulu was more his than Paul’s, but not so close that he seemed to be marking his territory. He then proceeded to make polite, even entertaining conversation with them both, until other people joined them.

  It was infuriating. Lulu wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him.

  But instead, being an actress, she kept a smile on her face and met him cool for cool, chatting as if there wasn’t some ludicrous chilly wall between them.

  It irritated her that she had to act normal—and that everyone was acting normal. Of course, they’d been told one murder was solved and the other wasn’t a murder at all. But even if they accepted all that, two girls were dead in particularly brutal ways, and surely she wasn’t the only one who knew they were all being held prisoner. Were they all too grotesquely ambitious to care?

  Soon she was directed to her same old seat near the head of the table. Her legs were sore from riding and she stretched them out as she sat down . . . then remembered what was discovered the last time she did that and jerked them in tightly back under her chair. Freddie was still seated across from her. She caught his eye, and he smiled at her, making her heart tremble. But the smile was brief, and he gave the same one a moment later to Jean Harlow when she sat down. Lulu pressed her lips together and cracked her delicate knuckles. She was determined to fix this.

  He wasn’t there yet, but she could see from the place card that John Emerson would again be sitting to one side of her, which made goose pimples rise on her arms. But what could he do to her in the middle of dinner? She eyeballed the sharp, serrated steak knife at the side of the plate. Well, actually, a madman could do plenty, she acknowledged gravely. But a calculating killer would wait for a more opportune moment. She was probably safe.

  Probably.

  The look on Emerson’s face when he entered could only be described as controlled mania. His eyes seemed to burn. They were glassy and bloodshot, open unnaturally wide. The rest of his usually handsome face was stiff and pale, as if it had been coated in plaster and left to dry.

  He mad
e Lulu an exaggerated theatrical bow, adjusted his trousers, pulled at his suit jacket, and sat down.

  “How are you?” Lulu asked, the only conversational opener she could manage at the moment.

  “Terrific, thanks!” he said, trying to manage a half-cocked smile as his eyes slid around the room. “They’re watching, you know.” He lowered his voice. “They all think they’re onto me . . . but they have no idea. Not really.”

  Lulu’s hands clenched in her lap. Did he mean the murders? Was he about to confess? There was something odd and otherworldly about his voice, as if he wasn’t really there. She remembered that Anita had mentioned her husband’s “little problems.” The voices, the rage. He was mentally ill.

  And then it occurred to her: This was probably the safest place for an interrogation, and he might be driven to incriminate himself.

  “How could they be onto you?” she asked carefully. “Have you been careless?”

  “Oh, never!” he bellowed loudly with a brazen guffaw and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The diners who were just settling themselves looked over in curiosity. Then, bringing his voice down, he said, “I made sure to cover my tracks expertly. A trick I learned from a Bushman in the Kalahari. Walk backward everywhere, don’t you see?”

  “And . . . no one knows what you did?” Lulu ventured carefully. She glanced over at Freddie, but he, frustratingly, wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “No one has a clue.” Emerson patted her hand too swiftly for her to jerk it away. “Except you, my dear. I can see you are a young woman of the most profound perspicacity.” He gave her a little wink. “What do you say we do it together, after dinner, eh? Just you and me? The only sensible people in this madhouse?”

  “Er . . . ,” Lulu began, looking frantically at Freddie, who seemed to be still lost in Jean Harlow’s undeniable charms.

  Emerson leaned toward her and whispered, “We’ll discuss it later. It’s snouts to the trough now.”

  At that moment Paul swooped into the seat next to her. She’d never been so happy to see anyone in her life. She tried to telegraph everything that was happening with her eyes and thought that, with his sensitivity, Paul certainly understood some of it. She felt in the midst of uncertain terrain, not sure whether Emerson’s statements were those of a murderer or madman or both. Did he know she suspected him?

  But then dinner was served, and Emerson seemed abruptly and unnervingly normal again. He was clear-eyed and hungry, the color returning to his cheeks, shouting political opinions down the table to Hearst, flirting boldly with any female who caught his eye. Just before dessert, Hearst announced which actresses were being eliminated. One took her dismissal with what looked to Lulu like relieved serenity. I don’t blame her, Lulu thought, half wishing she’d been sent home herself. She should have thought of that when formulating her escape plan.

  The other, a pale waiflike girl named Audrey whom Lulu hadn’t spent much time with, broke down completely and had to be carried out by a member of the staff. Under normal circumstances, Lulu would have felt intense pity for her and might have even excused herself from the table to comfort her. But now her mind was on other things: John Emerson was incessantly tugging at his suit.

  At first she thought it was just a sign of nerves, or a tic perhaps, caused by his rather obvious instability. It was only at the end of the meal that it occurred to her that it was the same suit he’d worn on the night of Juliette’s murder. She could still see the faint smear of fuchsia lipstick on the collar.

  All at once the housemaid Ginnie’s words came back to her. She hadn’t tried to wash the entire jacket, because that material would shrink. The other night, the suit had fit to perfection. Tonight, though, it pulled under the arms, the trousers seemed to bind him, and the sleeves were a bit short. The suit had evidently gotten a thorough soaking.

  And then it struck her: the girls’ prank! When Eleanor, Toshia, and Boots had set the water-bucket trap, someone had sprung it. Someone who ransacked Juliette’s room, probably looking for the love letter, and had taken the scarf that was later used to kill her.

  She remembered now that when Emerson appeared later that night, Anita commented that he’d changed his suit! Later, when it had dried, he must have given it to Ginnie to clean.

  Lulu felt a surge of triumph course through her and smiled down into her dish of raspberry trifle. This was the last piece of evidence she needed, she was sure. The tiepin in the tiger cage. The overheard argument in the garden. And now irrefutable proof that he had snuck into Juliette’s room just before her murder.

  She had to tell Freddie. Standing abruptly, she murmured, “I feel unwell. Please excuse me.” Instantly three men were standing at her side: Paul, looking sweetly concerned. Emerson, manic and a bit wobbly. And . . . a footman, politely pulling back her chair.

  Lulu glared hard at Freddie, who didn’t break from conversation with Jean Harlow for an instant. How dare he! He was her beau. Even if they were momentarily on the outs, it was his job to rush to her aid. She opened her mouth to call him, then snapped it shut, thinking better of making a scene.

  With a sigh of indignation, she left the dining hall, not looking back to see which man was following her.

  Twenty-One

  She was so irate with Freddie that she didn’t notice the footsteps behind her until Emerson grabbed her hand and pulled her into the spacious coatroom. She squealed, and he clamped a hand hard over her mouth.

  “Hush. They’ll hear you!” he hissed. Slowly, he uncupped his hand from her lips.

  She stared into his frantic eyes, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Well, that would be the point, now, wouldn’t it?” she said evenly, ice in her voice. Lulu Kelly, born Lucille O’Malley in the slums of New York, was never going to be a girl who shrank in the face of danger.

  “No! Please don’t! The Communists will hear you! Either them or the Bureau of Investigation. The BOI knows things, you know. About the aliens, but they don’t want us to know. And the Communists are working with them. They’re all watching us. All of them! Did you know that the president himself . . .”

  Even through her fear, Lulu felt saddened for the delusional man as he ranted about a bizarre array of impossible conspiracies. Sometimes he talked directly to Lulu, foam gathering in the corners of his mouth, sweat beading on his brow as he shifted back and forth, shaking. Other times he seemed to address unseen companions.

  She began to edge sideways, moving to the door. At any moment Emerson might switch from his verbal ranting to something more violent. Lulu was completely sure she was alone in a coatroom with the murderer, and if she didn’t play her cards right, she might be his next victim.

  It was with profound relief that she heard the door open, and Paul was standing there, casual as a spring breeze. “Mind if I borrow Lulu for a while, old fellow?” he asked, seeming to ignore the pale and utterly unhinged man before him, and calmly stepped in and took her arm. In an instant he had her out in the now empty Assembly Hall.

  “Rather a questionable place for an interrogation, don’t you think?” Paul quipped.

  “Oh, Paul, be serious. He’s mad as a hatter!” Lulu said, breathless. “He was going on and on in the most insane way, and I was sure at any moment . . .”

  He patted her hand reassuringly, though Lulu couldn’t help but feel there was a hint of condescension to the action.

  “Paul, listen to me. I’ve found other evidence. There’s a letter, and I know for a fact now that Emerson was in Juliette’s room before she was murdered. We have to tell the police.”

  Paul stopped her rapid flow of words with a raised hand. “Not here,” he said earnestly. “I have something important to tell you, too. Let’s go to the stables. They’ll be deserted at this hour. We can be completely alone.”

  Without question, Lulu took his arm and went with him. She was shaken from her jarring encounter with Emerson and upset that Freddie hadn’t picked up on her cue and followed her. Why couldn’t he see how ridiculous
he was acting? There was nothing between her and any other man, so why hadn’t he run after her and taken her in his arms? She took a deep breath and shook off these nagging thoughts. For now she needed to focus. She’d confide everything to Paul, and together they’d convince the police who the real murderer was.

  Paul was right; the building was deserted. Drowsy horses quietly nickered in the shadows of the darkened stables. A row of overhead bulbs cast dim yellowish pools of hazy light on the dusty floor. “In here,” Paul said, and drew her toward the tack room, where the equestrian supplies were kept. He held the door open and stood aside gallantly to let her in. As she entered, Lulu saw the array of leather and metal equipment neatly arranged inside—burnished bridles, iron bits, riding crops, and coach whips. She felt Paul’s hand against the small of her back, the most intimate he’d ever been, guiding her gently inside the deserted room.

  “Lulu!” a voice called out just as Paul was closing the door.

  Sal shoved his foot into the doorway. He was smiling, a cocky, confident twist of a grin, but his stance made it clear that door would close only over his dead body.

  “Doin’ okay, Lu?” Sal asked as Paul reluctantly opened the door. “You looked a little queasy at dinner, and one of the butlers said they saw you two headed down this way.”

  “I’m fine, Sal,” Lulu said with forced patience. “Go back to the dining hall.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” he said flatly. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” He shifted his gaze to Paul, who took a deliberate step back.

  “Are you okay with this?” Paul asked her softly.

  She wasn’t, really, but it occurred to her that Sal might have more information about Dolores’s death, or maybe even Juliette’s, so she nodded. Paul brushed her hand softly with his as he left, and the lightness of the touch made her shiver. He looked over his shoulder at Lulu, slowing as he strolled away, and she perceived deep regret in his eyes. She watched him as he went.