by Shéa MacLeod
Varant gave a quick nod. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 10
The next morning found myself, Varant, and Dr. Eliot sitting in front of Detective Inspector North’s banged up pinewood desk while the detective glowered at us over his pipe. The sweet smoke drifted through the air leaving behind a bluish haze that tickled my nose. The sun glimmered through a small window, lighting up dust motes that danced in its rays. The detective clearly didn’t find this nearly as magical as I did.
There were squint lines around his eyes as if he needed glasses, and his nose was slightly bulbous. Beneath it was a ridiculously tiny moustache the same medium brown as his hair.
“The Yard thanks you for your assistance, Lady Rample, but I really don’t see—”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” I snapped, thoroughly exasperated. We’d already been at this a good ten minutes at the least. “You don’t see what is plainly in front of your face.”
Varant laid his hand over mine in an attempt to still my runaway mouth. “What Lady Rample means—”
“Lady Rample can speak for herself, thank you.” My tone was arch. I was beginning to wonder why I’d brought him along in the first place. Oh, yes. He knew the police commissioner which was the only reason North was entertaining me at all. I drew in a steadying breath. “Detective Inspector North, I feel duty bound to bring to your attention a couple of items which I’m sure you noticed yourself, but which I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I didn’t ensure I passed them along to you.”
North rubbed his forehead as though he wished for headache powders. “Go on.”
I cleared my throat, giving Varant a smug look. “Yesterday I spoke with Doctor Eliot, here.” I gave the doctor a nod. He smiled back nervously. I don’t think he liked being in the presence of the acerbic detective.
North glared at me, teeth clenching the stem of his pipe. “Why would you bother the good doctor?”
“I wanted to make sure I had all the facts, of course.”
He grimaced. “What facts are those?”
“Well, I understand that the saxophonist has admitted to murdering Mr. Musgrave.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
I shook my head. “Actually, it isn’t.”
North eyeballed me in restrained amusement. Clearly, he assumed I was a rich aristocrat with nothing better to do bet meddle in his affairs. Which was only partially true. I hadn’t been born rich or an aristocrat, and I could probably find something else to do if I set my mind to it. “Come again?”
“I happened to notice at the, er, crime scene that Mr. Musgrave’s pocket watch was smashed, alerting you to the exact time of death.” I eyed him carefully. He didn’t blink.
“Yes. Twenty minutes past one o’clock.”
“But I spoke to the dresser at the club. Mabel. She says that—”
“Really, Lady Rample. You should leave such matters to the police.”
“It’s only that—”
“I really haven’t time for this, Lady Rample. I appreciate that your friend here,” North shot a glare at Varant, “knows the Commissioner, but I’m in the middle of an investigation.”
“Sir! She’s confessed, sir!” A ruddy-cheeked young uniformed police man with a moon face and a head of wild, strawberry curls popped his head in the door and beamed excitedly at North.
“What’s the meaning of this, Higgins?” North barked.
“The singer down at the jazz club, sir. She’s only gone and confessed to the murder.”
“Coco Starr?” I asked in astonishment. Had Coco confessed to protect her husband?
“No, ma’am. Josette something,” Higgins said.
“That’s impossible. The sax player did it.” North was scowling hard enough I thought his face might break. Which would have been no great pity. “She’s lying to cover for him. I’ll bet my last farthing.”
No doubt he was right. Josette was probably trying to protect her lover. Which was unnecessary since he hadn’t done anything.
“Maybe Lady Rample should ask her,” Varant suggested.
North looked affronted. “Lady Rample?”
“This singer may not talk to a man, but women like to share gossip and whatnot,” Varant said languidly before winking at me. If it hadn’t been for the wink, I might have boshed him over the head for maligning my sex.
“It’s true,” I joined in. “I’m sure she’ll be much more likely to talk to another woman.”
“Other than confessing, she wouldn’t say another word, sir. The lady may be right,” Higgins supplied helpfully, which earned him a glare from North.
“Very well,” the DI said at last. “Lady Rample, you may help me question the... suspect.” He said the last word almost as if it should be in quotes. Clearly, he didn’t think Josette was any more guilty than I did.
The small room was painted a dull greenish-gray suitable for military installations and insane asylums. A narrow window high in the wall let in the tiniest amount of light. A single, scarred wooden table sat in the middle of the room. Josette Margaux perched ramrod straight in her chair, her red lips pressed into a firm line as if to keep them from trembling. She wore a simple linen day dress the color of pale cream which offset her dusky, golden skin and smooth, black hair. She glanced up, dark eyes wide, as I entered behind the Detective Inspector.
He held out one of the two chairs across from Josette, so I could sit before taking the other. I barely heard DI North as he cautioned her. Instead, I watched her face closely. She looked a little ashen and pinched. Beneath her carefully powdered face there were dark circles under her eyes. She looked a decade older than when I’d last seen her.
“Please repeat again what you told my Sergeant, Miss Margeaux.” DI North’s voice interrupted my perusal.
She lifted her chin slightly. “I killed him.”
“Alfred Musgrave?” North clarified.
“Yes.” Her hands clenched tightly, the knuckles whitening. “I shot him. In the head.” Her voice was light and bright with a slight French accent. Charming. Not at all suited to the grisly matter at hand.
North’s expression didn’t change. “At what time was this?”
“One o’clock in the morning,” she said without hesitation. “After I finished singing, I walked backstage and shot him.”
“Impossible,” North said. “Musgrave’s pocket watch was smashed at twenty minutes past one. That’s when he died.”
Josette’s eyes widened a little, her breaths coming in quick, panicked gasps. “I-I don’t know why it said that. But I shot him. I did. It’s true!”
Interesting. In my experience, when someone insists with great alacrity that a thing is true, it rarely is.
“Where was the gun?” Again, North’s expression was bland.
“I... had it with me.”
“No, you didn’t,” I said.
Josette glanced at me, her mouth a tiny “o” as if she’d forgotten I was there. “But I did. I had it with me.”
“On stage?” I shook my head. “Ludicrous. Where would you have kept it? Everyone was watching you.”
She licked her perfectly carnelian red lips. “Under my dress.”
I would have snorted, but that wouldn’t have been ladylike. “Nonsense. I remember exactly what you were wearing, and believe me, you couldn’t have hidden so much as a paperclip beneath that gown.”
For the first time North looked amused. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Detective Inspector. It was very... form fitting. Not to mention daringly low cut, even for today’s fashion.”
“None the less, I killed him,” Josette insisted, as if repeating it enough would make it so.
“Really?” North leaned back and crossed his arms. “What was your motive?”
“He was harassing me. Wanting me to... you know.” She pressed her lips together until they formed a thin line. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. So I shot him.”
“Interesting,” North said. “Because I
think you had nothing to do with it. I think your lover shot him and you’re trying to save him from hanging by muddying the waters.”
“No!” She glanced at me, eyes wide and wild. “I did it. I did! It was me.”
“Sorry, Josette,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “You didn’t. You couldn’t have. You didn’t have a gun.” I recalled something. “Besides, you’d already returned to the stage when I heard the shot.”
North glanced at me, startled. “We’ll pick this up later. Lady Rample, with me, please?” He strode from the room with me hot on his tail. In the hall he hissed, “You didn’t tell me about hearing a shot.”
“If you recall, I did try,” I said languidly, if perhaps a little smugly. I did rather enjoy shoving it in his face. Nasty man. “However, I seem to recall you saying something insulting about meddling females.” I gave him a pointed look.
He had the grace to blush. “If you would be so kind as to bring me up to speed?” The words were gritted out between clenched teeth.
“Darling, you had only to ask.” I fluttered my lashes and he growled something about meddling females again, which I chose to ignore. Instead, I gave him a quick rundown of events. “I didn’t realize at the time that was what it was—Chaz, that’s Charles Raynott, insisted it was a champagne cork—but it had to be the shot that killed Musgrave.”
“And you’re sure that was after Josette returned from the dressing rooms?”
“Positive. She was sitting at the bar, drinking a glass of wine.”
He nodded. “That does it. It was as I thought. The musician did it.”
I shook my head. “Couldn’t have.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he wasn’t backstage, either. He’d come up front to talk to someone or other.”
“You saw him up front when the shot was fired?”
I mulled it over. “No,” I finally admitted. “But he wasn’t backstage. He’d gone up the stairs. I lost sight of him after that. Probably went outside for a smoke.”
“Damn. Oh, sorry, Lady Rample.” He had the grace to look embarrassed.
I shrugged it off. “So, you see, neither one of them could possibly have done it, regardless of what they claim.”
He gripped the hair on either side of his head as if he wanted to pull it out. “Then why would they confess?”
“Likely to protect each other. They’re in love, you know.”
“Argh! Be that as it may, I still want words with the musician.”
“Can I sit in?” I asked eagerly. “After all, I’m your best witness.”
He rolled his eyes. “If you must.”
The saxophonist was as I remembered him: tall, thin, with skin the color of rich earth. He was probably closer to forty than thirty, but there wasn’t a trace of silver in his dark hair, and while handsome, he wasn’t anywhere on par with my pianist, Hale Davis. The pianist, I corrected myself sternly. He wasn’t my anything.
“Beauford Parks,” Detective Inspector North intoned as we took our seats across from the prisoner in a room identical to the one where we’d met Josette, “to remind you, you’re still under caution. I have a few questions for you.”
Parks gazed at us. His right eyelid twitched slightly. A nervous tick he couldn’t hide. “I told you I killed that man. Ain’t nothin’ more to say.” His accent was a heavy drawl. A muscle flexed in his jaw.
“Well, now, that’s interesting, because Lady Rample here says you couldn’t have done it,” North said.
Parks glanced at me, eyes wide. “She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about.”
“If it makes you feel better, Josette didn’t do it, either,” I said.
North glared at me, but I ignored him. Parks wilted with relief. “Sh-she didn’t? How do you know?”
I told him how I’d seen Josette go back stage. How she couldn’t have had a gun on her. And how she’d been at the bar when the shot was fired. “And I know you were out front at the time of the gunshot. You couldn’t have shot him either.”
“But... my gun... it was missing.”
North lifted a brow. “You carry a gun?”
“Sure. Can’t be too careful on the road.”
“Surely you don’t take it on stage with you,” I pointed out.
“No, ma’am. I keep it in my dressing room.”
“Locked up?” North asked.
Parks scrunched his forehead. “If there’s a place for it. Ain’t no place for it at the Astoria Club. I stick it in the drawer of the dressing table. Nobody messes with it there. Usually.”
North leaned forward, his chair creaking slightly beneath him. “So anyone could have grabbed the gun at any time?”
“Sure. Most everyone knew it was there. Made no secret of it.”
Probably liked to show it off. I’d known many men who’d served in the Great War. They came in two types. The ones who wanted to forget and never discussed anything about their experiences, and those that bragged about the littlest things, showed off their weapons like they were points of pride. I was guessing Beau was the later. At least among the ladies.
North leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Great. Now we start at square one.”
“You mean, you’re letting me go? What about Josette?”
“Her, too,” North growled. “No more lying to the police, got it?”
“Sure thing.” Parks beamed a wide, white smile, filled with relief.
Back in the first interrogation room, North confronted Josette with the truth about her lies and Parks’s innocence. She broke down sobbing. “I was so afraid...” she didn’t finish the sentence, but neither North nor I were dummies. She’d thought her lover, Parks, had done it.
“Why did you go back stage, Josette?” I asked gently.
“Before the first set, I found a note on my dressing table. It was unsigned. It said to meet the writer back stage between sets or else he or she would tell Musgrave about Beauford Parks and me.”
“So?” North asked bluntly.
“So, if Alfred found out about Beau and me, he’d have killed us both.”
“You were having an affair with Musgrave,” I stated, wondering how much I could get her to reveal.
“If you could call it that.” Her tone was bitter. “He forced me into it. You see, I met him in Paris. He promised me the moon and stars if I came with him to London and sang in his club. The sex...” she gave a very Gallic shrug. “It just sort of happened. The price to pay, I suppose. And then he brought the band over from America and I met Beau. We fell in love, but I didn’t dare break it off with Musgrave. He’d kill Beau! When I got that note... if he found out, it would have destroyed everything.”
“So, you went backstage to meet the letter writer,” I prompted.
She nodded. “Only, when I got there, I found Alfred dead. I thought Beau had done it. He was the only one I told about the note.”
North and I exchanged glances. We both clearly had the same idea. If Josette only told Beau about the letter, there was only one other person who knew about it: the writer. And since neither Josette nor Beau killed Alfred Musgrave, naturally, the letter writer must be the killer.
“How’d things go?” Varant asked as I rejoined him in the lobby.
“Better than expected. And also, somehow worse.”
“What does that mean?”
I grimaced. “We’re back to square one.” North would love that I included myself. “Where’s the doctor?”
“He had patients. And I think he wanted to get out of here before North returned.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Now what?”
Varant eyed me. “Fancy a drink?”
“At this time of day? Yes, please.”
Chapter 11
“So, they both confessed falsely?” Varant blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. Long, tapered fingers rolled the cigarette back and forth. Mesmerizing.
I managed to pull my attention back to the matter at hand. “Yes. Quite. You see, Beau—t
hat’s the saxophonist—and Josette have been having an affair ever since Musgrave brought her over from Paris. Unfortunately, there’s a wrench in the works. Musgrave wants Josette to pay him in kind, if you get my meaning. And he doesn’t want competition.”
Varant made an expression of distaste. “Appalling behavior.”
“Indeed. Not the least bit gentlemanly. Then again, Musgrave was no gentleman. In any case, after she got that mysterious note, Josette was afraid Musgrave would find out about them and kill Beau.”
“She warned him.”
“Naturally.” I took a sip of my highball. A little on the spicy side. Still, I soldiered on. “When she found Musgrave dead backstage, she assumed Beau had done it. And when he confessed, she was sure of it. So she confessed in an attempt to save him.”
“I’m assuming Beau confessed in the first place because he thought she’d done it.”
“Exactly. He was going to confront Musgrave between sets, but apparently couldn’t find him.” I frowned. “Which is baffling, seeing as how Musgrave wasn’t exactly hiding. He was merely in Helena’s office. But whatever. The point is, the two idiots confessed in order to save each other, but it’s clear that neither of them could have shot Musgrave. I heard the shot at twenty minutes past one, and Josette was already back on stage and Beau was out front.” A sudden thought occurred. “You know what’s odd?”
“Aside from what you’ve just told me, I’ve no idea,” Varant said languidly, dangling a martini from one hand. “Do tell.” He gave me that smoldering look of which he was so infamous. I ignored him, although I couldn’t help the heady buzz that zinged through my body.
“Helena. She wouldn’t have been late.”
He blinked slowly. “Sorry. Don’t follow.”
“The note Musgrave wrote. He said he couldn’t wait any longer, but according to his watch—which was smashed at the time of death—she was only late by perhaps five minutes. That’s not that long.”
Varant grew thoughtful. “No. It’s not. I would have certainly waited five minutes. Longer, if it were important.”
