Murder among the Stars

by Adam Shankman

  “No, it wasn’t him. He was here to propose to his girl. Suffice it to say I have ample evidence of his innocence.”

  “If you’re wrong, and I direct the police to arrest an innocent man . . .”

  “I’m sure of this, Mr. Hearst. As sure as can be. We’ve gone over every possibility, and Emerson is the only one who fits.”

  “You are aware what this will do to Anita Loos? Between the scandal, shame, and humiliation, she will be utterly devastated. I love my friend, and I would do anything to shield her from the pain she will experience once she finds out,” Hearst said darkly.

  “Mr. Hearst, you’re not responsible for the actions of a deranged murderer. I’m certain you will do everything you can to spare Anita, but right now the most important thing is to stop it from happening again.”

  At last Hearst agreed to bring in the police. Soon Emerson would be judging the competition in plain sight. When it was over Hearst would summon him and he could be quietly arrested.

  “What is it with writers?” Hearst asked as Freddie left to find Lulu. “They’re all just a bunch of arrogant drunks and nut jobs.”

  “Well, I don’t like to generalize, but I’d bet it’s a curse living with so many people in your head,” Freddie said, and went in search of Lulu.

  But he couldn’t find her, and no one he asked had seen her. Veronica was practically frantic. “She goes on in an hour, and it’s going to take nearly that long to lace her into her corset!”

  Paul stepped swiftly into his bedroom and locked the door. “You shouldn’t have done it, Lulu,” he admonished, clicking his tongue. “You’ve been a bad girl, poking through my things. I let you in on some of my secrets, but now you’re snooping without my permission. You’ll have to make it up to me in some way.” He stroked his chin. “Let’s see. What shall we do?”

  Lulu felt on the verge of panic. Her head swam, and the edges of her vision grew blurry. I can’t faint, she told herself. I can’t be one of those dumb girls who passes out at the first sign of danger! No. I just need to get out of this room. Now.

  “Why did you do it?” Lulu asked, feigning composure. How could she have been so wrong about Emerson, swayed by circumstantial evidence? Everything that had looked like proof before suddenly seemed flimsy and insubstantial. John Emerson might be a bit deranged, but it was Paul who had the truly sick mind of a killer.

  Paul took a step nearer. The desk was still between them, giving Lulu a small measure of comfort.

  “Why?” He cocked his head. “As my mother used to say, because ‘Y’ is a crooked letter.” He chuckled. “You beautiful, ignorant child. You think you can reach into the depths of your soul and drag out art, but your passions are infantile compared to mine! You don’t have the capacity to understand what I do. How I feel.”

  His voice was rising in a manic tone, and Lulu thought her best bet might be to appeal to his artistic vanity. If she could just slip past him and out the door . . .

  “I’ve always thought writers were something almost magical,” she began, but he surged toward her, slamming his palms on the desk between them.

  “Shut up, you lying tramp! You’re just a mimic, a pantomiming floozy. How can you possibly understand what I do—what I am!”

  To her horror, Paul picked up a letter opener that was lying on the desk. Her breath began to come faster as he pointed it at her.

  “Paul,” she said in a conciliatory voice, “I’m sure you didn’t mean to . . .”

  “You presume to judge me? You . . . you actress!” He spat the word as if it were the ultimate insult.

  He shook the letter opener toward her face, and she cringed back out of reach, but was afraid to run and leave the relative safety of the desk’s barrier. “Writers mean nothing to people like you. All you actresses are the same. I create beauty, power, passion, and you think your ridiculous little nattering can express the glory that I manifest from thin air? I make a world that is a thousand times more real than the one you know. You are nothing but shadows pantomiming the truth.”

  “Please, Paul,” Lulu said desperately as she stared into his crazed eyes. How had he kept it hidden before, all that demented rage? She grasped the heavy paperweight on the desk. It felt solid and substantial in her hands . . . but would it possibly keep him from stabbing her? If she was only brave enough, fast enough, to run for the door.

  Then, just as he started to move, there was a loud staccato knock, and someone pushed the door open.

  Mrs. Mortimer stepped inside and said, “Mr. Raleigh, the other judges are waiting for you.”

  “Look out. He has a knife!” Lulu shrieked.

  Paul whirled toward the housekeeper, the long, sharp letter opener in his hand. For some reason Lulu thought he looked almost confused. He looked down at the weapon as if he couldn’t believe he was holding it. “I’m not . . . ,” he stammered. “I wouldn’t . . .” But he was still pointing the knifelike letter opener at the housekeeper.

  Then Mrs. Mortimer snatched up the marble lamp and wielded it like a club, smashing Paul in the side of the head. He crumpled to the ground, his hair matted with blood.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Lulu cried as she ran around the desk and threw her arms around the housekeeper. She babbled in her relief. “I found his papers, the most horrible things . . . he’s the murderer . . . he was going to kill me . . . he’s crazy . . . you saved me!”

  Mrs. Mortimer stood stiffly in her embrace for a moment, then patted her on the back exactly twice.

  “Are you implying he killed those two girls?” the housekeeper asked with a tremor in her voice.

  “I thought it was John Emerson. I thought I had so much evidence against him. But when I found those horrible things Paul wrote, I realized it must be him.”

  “This is monstrous! He actually tried to kill you?” Mrs. Mortimer asked, looking down at Paul sprawled on the ground, bleeding onto the Persian carpet.

  “Well . . . ,” Lulu began. She certainly thought he had at first. “He yelled and came at me with that sharp letter opener.” Now that she thought about it, Paul had seemed to be gesticulating with it rather than threatening her.

  Mrs. Mortimer nodded coldly.

  “Shouldn’t I go and tell someone?”

  “He’s not going anywhere, and you need something to fortify you, poor girl.” It sounded a little strange to hear sympathy coming from the housekeeper. She was usually so brusque. “Drag him over to the chair and I’ll find something to tie him with.”

  Lulu was so flustered that she let herself be guided. It was much easier to let the competent housekeeper take charge than to try to think for herself in this dizzying moment. Gingerly, she grabbed Paul under the armpits, but when she tried to haul him toward the chair, she only managed to shift him a few inches. She didn’t like to think of herself as weak, but it was almost impossible to shift the dead weight. Not, she thought with some relief, that he was literally dead weight.

  Lulu tugged again and gave a grunt of frustration. Mrs. Mortimer looked up from rifling through the drawers for a bondage-suitable tie. “Oh, shove over, girl. Let me do that.” She caught Paul around the waist and manhandled him up into the chair. Lulu was amazed at her strength, and said so. “Those who work for a living are strong,” Mrs. Mortimer said in that way that people who frequently use the same life mottos do. Scripted and self-convinced.

  Lulu thought—but did not say—that her mother had worked for a living and was never that strong.

  Mrs. Mortimer didn’t give her time to think. “I’ll tie him so you don’t get blood on your clean clothes.” After she did so, she took Lulu’s arm and led her down to her private office off the kitchen. Everyone was ready for the talent show, and they didn’t even meet any of the staff en route. “Let’s make you a nice cup of tea. After you’ve calmed down, we can call the police.”

  Lulu sat down gratefully. It was over at last! The murderer was not only discovered, but captured, unconscious, and bound, and no more girls would be grue
somely murdered. She sighed with relief, and didn’t even notice when Mrs. Mortimer locked the door before she started boiling the water for tea.

  Freddie’s frantic first thought was that Lulu had decided to confront Emerson, or that the suspect had gotten wind of her investigation of him. With sickening dread Freddie sought Emerson out, only to find him already under unobtrusive guard by one of Hearst’s undercover men. Hearst was discreetly keeping an eye on him until the police could get the arrest warrant ready. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. So Lulu was safe. But where could she be?

  He decided to check one more time in case Lulu had gone back to her room. On the way through the grounds he found a quieter, rather pensive Patricia taking Charlie and Gandhi for a sunset walk. “Patricia, have you seen Lulu?” he asked.

  “Not since the big family reunion,” she replied in something of a daze.

  “You doing okay?”

  She shrugged. “Not much is going to change, I suppose. But any psychoanalyst will tell you that it’s best to get secrets out into the open.” Now that he knew her real age, he wondered how anyone had ever believed that the precocious girl was only ten. Well, he thought, people believe what they’re told. When a credible source tells you something is true, you accept it.

  “If you see her, let her know I’m looking for her.”

  Then, as if recharged by the notion that a mystery was afoot, she seemed to perk up. “Golly, the show’s just about to start, isn’t it? Does she have stage fright? We can help you look for her, can’t we, fellas?” She reached down to pat the dogs. “Charlie has been longing for her, as always, and wanders about whining like a disheveled sad sack whenever she’s not around. Charlie! Where’s Lulu? Find Lulu! Seek!”

  Freddie knew that Charlie couldn’t have any idea what Patricia was talking about, but the little dog became immediately excited at the mention of Lulu’s name, dancing on his hind paws as Patricia encouraged him. Freddie smiled indulgently at the endearing little terrier.

  “Go on! Where’s Lulu? Go find her! Good boy!” And Charlie was off and running, dragging the portly Gandhi along reluctantly in his wake. Freddie and Patricia ran after him. He headed back to the main house, yipping madly. Once inside he circled, sniffing the air and snuffling at the floor. Then, with a little growl, he ran for the stairs that led down toward the kitchen and the housekeeper’s and butler’s offices.

  Twenty-Six

  The heavy ring of keys rattled and clinked about Mrs. Mortimer’s waist as she made tea at the little stove and counter in one corner of her spacious office. Well, of course, Lulu thought absently. The housekeeper would have to get into every room in the house. She bet that big one was the key to the elaborate front door, which had been pulled from a Spanish church. Others were small and pedestrian, no doubt room keys. One brass key had a lion’s head on it. She tried to remember where she’d seen that before.

  Mrs. Mortimer bustled with things Lulu couldn’t see while the tea steeped. Lulu was anxious. Why were they wasting so much time here when they should be telling someone about Paul Raleigh? What if he regained consciousness and escaped?

  As she tapped her fingertips impatiently against her leg, Lulu began to replay the scene with Paul. He’d been emotional, verbally aggressive . . . but had he actually threatened her with that letter opener? “You know,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer, “the more I think about it, the more I think maybe Paul didn’t actually mean to harm anyone. Is that crazy? I was so scared at the time, but now that I’m calm I wonder if . . .”

  Mrs. Mortimer turned and looked at Lulu sharply. “Wondering will get you into trouble, girl.”

  “Yes, but what if he’s not the murderer? Maybe it really is John Emerson. Or someone else entirely. I always thought maybe a woman . . .”

  The housekeeper fixed Lulu with a long, strange look. Then she gave a little sigh. “You’re better than the others,” she said. “What a shame. Still . . .”

  To Lulu’s frustration, Mrs. Mortimer returned to her tea preparations. She scooped a heaping spoonful of pale crystals from a pink-flowered porcelain bowl and sprinkled it in one of the cups. Lulu opened her mouth to tell Mrs. Mortimer she didn’t care for any sugar but then reconsidered. The mandates of her nutrition coach shouldn’t matter at a time like this. So she didn’t say anything as the stoic housekeeper set down two matching teacups, the sugared one in front of Lulu, the other across the intimate round table.

  As she set the teacups down, Lulu noticed that the housekeeper’s large, square hands were shaking slightly.

  There was a soft knock, and a look of annoyance crossed the housekeeper’s face, but she unlocked the door and opened it a crack. Lulu heard her talking to one of the maids about whether she’d found the missing judge, Paul Raleigh.

  For whatever reason, most likely the nagging voice of Lulu’s nutrition coach relentlessly ringing in her ears, she used this opportunity to switch the identical flowered teacups. The vain, actress obsession with keeping her figure didn’t even dissipate in the face of mortal danger, she noted wryly. This seemed less fuss than asking the gravely shaken Mrs. Mortimer for a fresh cup. Lulu took a sip of the plain oolong, sighing as the soothing brew warmed and calmed her. The English have it right, she thought. A nice cup of tea can help almost any trouble.

  Mrs. Mortimer closed the door and sat down across from Lulu. “Drink up, my dear,” she said, and Lulu obliged. Mrs. Mortimer didn’t touch her own tea, but watched Lulu intensely. Probably expecting me to break into delayed hysterics at any moment, Lulu thought. But all the young actress felt was relief, and a strong desire to leave Hearst and his Ranch behind.

  “You really are an interesting girl, Lulu Kelly,” Mrs. Mortimer said. “I happen to know that Anita was quite gung ho in your favor. She thought you’d be ideal for the role.” Her breath made ripples on the surface of her tea as she lifted it to her thin lips. “You’d think, being a more mature woman, Anita would have the sense to see that pretty little chits like you will never have the experience, the passion to be great actresses.”

  Lulu frowned slightly and started to rise. “Shouldn’t we . . . ?”

  “Sit down!” Mrs. Mortimer snapped, and half rose herself. The ring of keys jingled, and suddenly Lulu remembered where she’d seen that lion-head key before. It was the key that opened all of the carnivore cages in Hearst’s menagerie. But the keeper said he had the only one.

  And then Lulu froze. No, it couldn’t be. She couldn’t have been wrong twice.

  The maid bringing in the shoes she’d just cleaned, saying she got off all the mud.

  The rip in the shoulder of the black dress, torn after great exertion.

  Ginnie looking for her supervisor after hearing the argument, but she was nowhere to be found . . . right at the time of the murder.

  Mrs. Mortimer had the keys to the tiger cage, keys to every locked door in the Ranch.

  She was big, powerful. Look how she’d hit Paul with that heavy marble lamp, how easily she’d dragged his limp body to the chair.

  It fit. But why would Mrs. Mortimer kill Juliette and Dolores? It couldn’t be possible. Unless . . .

  She remembered the snippet Freddie had told her about the housekeeper’s long connection with Marion. Lulu had been thinking the murders were crimes of passion, or insanity. What if the motivating factor was not just a combination of those two things, but above all, an act of loyalty?

  Lulu realized she’d been staring at the lion-head key, and tore her eyes away, but not, she thought, before Mrs. Mortimer noticed what she was looking at.

  I have to be calm, Lulu told herself. She can’t suspect I know. Right now she thinks I’m convinced Paul is the killer. And maybe he is. Probably he is. It can’t be Mrs. Mortimer. Can it?

  “I see you admiring my menagerie key. It’s quite beautiful, don’t you think?” She smiled and took a long sip of her tea.

  “Too clever for your own good,” the housekeeper murmured. “Smart enough to get into a fix but not quite smart enou
gh to get out of it again. I was so pleased when you put together all the clues that led to Emerson as your chief suspect. The police and Mr. Hearst’s own investigators should have done it long before you.” She gave a little chuckle that made shivers creep down Lulu’s spine. “After all, I set up the evidence so neatly for them.”

  That nonchalant confession made Lulu more frightened than Emerson’s paranoid ravings, more terrified even than the moment Paul brandished the deadly sharp letter opener. This woman killed two young actresses! And here she was, sitting calmly across from Lulu, brazenly admitting what she’d done.

  Lulu glanced desperately toward the door. Confessing in a locked room—a room with a row of knives, from fillet blades to heavy cleavers, hanging on the wall.

  But Mrs. Mortimer made no move.

  “Of course,” she went on calmly, “Emerson incriminated himself with his own foolish ties to Juliette. I just helped it along. Do you have the love letter I stole from Juliette’s room and hid on her body? When it wasn’t with the personal effects you gave me, I had high hopes that the police would close in on him fast. But those incompetent fools didn’t even find Emerson’s tiepin I left at the scene of Dolores’s death. That was you again. You were meddling so helpfully . . . for a while.”

  She held her teacup in both hands, warming them.

  “But I don’t understand,” Lulu said gently, once again relying on her acting experience. “Why did you kill them?”

  The housekeeper jumped to her feet, setting her teacup down so violently that half the contents sloshed out. Even in her fury, she scooped up a cloth from the counter and blotted up the spill. “Those little tramps were taking my lady’s place!”

  “You mean . . . Marion?”

  “Marion Davies is a great star. You little snot-nose pretenders can’t rightfully even breathe the same air as her. She is more than a legend, though. She is the noblest, kindest, most beautiful woman in the world. That role should have been hers! A custom creation from the great Anita Loos and some cute little nobody of an ingenue gets it? Over my dead body!” She chuckled. “Or theirs, I should say.”