by Shéa MacLeod
“Mrs. Brumble?” Gray Suit asked. He was a tall, thin man with a large Adam’s apple and watery blue eyes. If he had any hair, it was completely covered by a brown fedora which clashed hideously with his suit.
“Miss Burns,” Lola corrected. “I’m not changing my name. For obvious reasons. What the devil is going on here?”
“Detective Aarons, ma’am,” Gray Suit said half-apologetically, touching the brim of his hat. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Would you...” He glanced around with a frown. “Maybe you’d like to sit down somewhere?”
“I’m perfectly capable of standing,” Lola snapped. “Now what is going on?”
Aarons cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that your husband has, well, passed on.”
Lola stared at him with a hard expression. “What do you mean?”
“We got a call this morning, ma’am. From your man, Carter. Cyril Brumble is dead.”
“Dead.” She repeated it, her wide eyes blinking rapidly as if she couldn’t quite take it in. “You must be mistaken. Cyril was in perfect health this morning.”
“It wasn’t his health, Miss Burns,” Aarons said cautiously.
Lola stamped her foot. “Stop dithering, Detective.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid your husband was murdered.”
Chapter 7
After assuring us the police would be done soon, that he’d need to speak with us later, and to please stay out of the house for now, Aarons returned to the crime scene, leaving the uniformed officers with us. To guard us, perhaps. Or to eavesdrop. Either way, their presence certainly put a damper on things.
“Perhaps you ladies would like to sit in the summer house while the police finish up. I can get Carter to bring some refreshments,” Sam suggested. He spoke to all of us, but his gaze was on Lola.
Lola blinked at him as if his words hadn’t quite registered, but Aunt Butty patted his arm. “Wonderful idea, dear boy. You go arrange things. Where is this summer house?”
He pointed down a narrow path and then took off for the house at a lope. Aunt Butty put her arm around Lola’s thin shoulders. “Come, my girl. Let’s have a bit of a sit down, shall we? I think a spot of tea and a bit of a rest are just what we need to help us manage this shock, don’t you think?”
The path wound down the hill, through thick, lush foliage until it came to an end in front of a small building that looked like a Swiss chalet, only much smaller. French doors opened onto a single room, just large enough for a settee, coffee table, and a couple of chairs. It was the perfect place for relaxing on a warm summer day.
Lola sank onto the settee while Aunt Butty and I took up residence in the chairs. The police officers stood guard outside without a word or glance. It was unfortunately easy to forget they were there. I kept having to remind myself that anything we discussed would likely be reported to the detective in charge.
“I’m so sorry, Lola,” I said. “What a terrible thing. I understand what you’re going through, so if you want to talk, I’m here for you.” I did, indeed, know. While my Felix hadn’t been murdered, he had died rather abruptly, leaving me a young widow without a clue. I had been in quite a bit of shock. At least for a while. I’d been inordinately fond of Felix, although not passionately in love. So while I’d been shaken, I hadn’t been devastated. I had a feeling Lola was much the same. Hers and Cyril’s had clearly not been a grand passion. How could it be?
Lola gave me a wan smile. A single tear slid dramatically down her cheek, and yet her eyes remained unreddened. In fact, she looked more angelic and serene than like a grieving widow. “You’re very kind. I don’t know how—”
The butler chose that moment to arrive. I noticed his eyes were red rimmed as if he’d been crying. I supposed that he’d worked for Cyril for some time and was probably fond of him. Well, more than fond, perhaps, based on what I’d overheard at the party. Also, he was no doubt worried about future employment. Would Lola keep him on now her husband was dead?
Carter placed the tray—loaded with tea, alcohol in an icy shaker, and piles of cheese and crackers, fresh fruit, and cookies—onto the low table in front of the settee. My stomach gave a rumble, but I had something more pressing on my mind.
“Carter,” I said, “I don’t suppose the police would let me in the house to use the necessary?”
He looked blank for a moment, then his expression cleared. “Ah, yes, my lady. I’m certain that can be arranged. If you will follow me?”
“Back in a tick,” I assured Aunt Butty and Lola. But Aunt Butty was already elbow deep in the food and Lola was pouring herself a rather large cocktail from the shaker.
Carter murmured something to the police officers, then turned and wended his way down the path toward the house. I followed close behind. The police had better let me through or there would be a disaster! In the meantime, I figured I could do some—what was it those American detectives called it? —fishing.
“It’s terrible what happened to Cyril,” I said to Carter’s back.
“Yes. It is,” he said stoically without turning around. Though I was certain I saw his black clad shoulders tense just ever so slightly.
“Do you know what happened?” I stepped over an uneven paver, managing somehow not to trip in my high-wedged espadrilles.
“I’m afraid I found the master in his bedroom this morning. Once I had recovered from the shock, I called the police.” His voice held absolutely no expression whatsoever. He could give any English butler a run for his money.
“Oh, dear. That’s ghastly. How terrible for you.” I meant it. Having seen a few dead bodies in my time, it was not something I relished. I couldn’t imagine what it must be like for someone not used to it. Heavens, was I used to it? That was a terrifying thought.
“It was rather shocking,” he admitted finally.
“What time did you, ah, find him?”
“Shortly after eleven. However, I believe he’d been dead for some time.”
“Geez.” I suddenly remembered Lola’s rush to get us out of the house. How she’d been the one to instigate the shopping trip but had arrived flushed and distracted. Could she have offed her husband, then used the shopping trip, and Aunt Butty and myself, as an alibi? “I don’t suppose you, ah, know how he died?”
“I’m afraid he shot himself.”
I blinked. Shot himself? “As in suicide?”
“Yes, my lady. There was a note.”
I rolled that around in my brain. Surely not. Cyril hadn’t at all struck me as the sort to do such a thing. How ghastly for everyone concerned. I grabbed Carter’s arm and spun him around to face me, suddenly forgetting the urging of my bladder.
“Tell me exactly what happened.”
His expression was grim, and I half expected him to tell me to shove off, but he didn’t. “He was meant to be at a meeting this afternoon, so I went to wake him. Instead, I found him dead on the floor with a wound to the head and a gun near his hand. I was quite stunned, you understand.”
I nodded. “Of course, you were.” I gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze before letting go.
“I checked to... to make sure he was... you know.”
Dead. “Of course.”
“No pulse. And he was quite cold and stiff.”
Rigor mortis. I’d learned all about that after my previous experiences with dead bodies. It meant he’d been dead for probably at least six hours. Maybe more. Likely he’d died early in the morning when we’d all been home. But a gunshot would have woken me, surely. And I hadn’t heard one.
“And the note?” I asked.
“On his dressing table.”
“What did it say?”
He frowned. “It was very odd. Rambling. Didn’t make much sense. In it he apologized to Miss Burns. Claimed this was the only way to right the wrong he’d done her.”
“How bizarre.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “It did seem most strange.”
“And you’re certain he wrote it?”
I frowned. If Lola had been in the room, surely, she would have noticed her husband offing himself. “Lola and Cyril didn’t sleep in the same room?”
He cleared his throat. “She has her own bedroom. They have a unique arrangement.”
I’ll say. “Right. Well, lead on. Matters are pressing, I’m afraid.”
The facts swirled around and around in my head. A wound to the head. A gun beside the body. A suicide note that made no sense. And a gunshot in the middle of the night that no one heard, even in a house full of guests.
As Alice would say: Curiouser and curiouser.
CARTER MANAGED TO SMOOTH things over with the detectives so I could use the cloakroom. Refreshed, I exited, intent on rejoining Lola and Aunt Butty. But as I passed through the living room, I was stopped by Detective Aarons.
“Mrs. Rample!” He strode across the room, his cheap, scuffed shoes thumping lightly against the carpet.
“That’s Lady Rample,” I said in my haughtiest tone. Long experience told me that the best way to deal with certain types of individuals—policemen being one of those—was to play lady of the manor to the hilt. It was the only way to avoid getting plowed under.
“Oh, sorry. Lady Rample then.” He gave me a wry grin, which sat surprisingly well on his rugged face. It was not a handsome face. His nose was far too big and his lips far too thin, but it was a surprisingly nice face. Comforting. I’d just bet it helped a lot getting suspects to spill the goods. “I know it’s been a shock, but I’ve got a few questions for you if you feel able. It would really help us.”
I gave an inner smirk. If I felt able. Never let it be said that murder swayed me from my civic duty. Still, it wouldn’t do to let on. Leave a few cards up the sleeve and all that. “If it’s necessary. Fire away.” I winced a little at my word choice. He didn’t seem to notice, although if he was any sort of detective, I’d bet my last farthing he did.
He waved for me to sit and I took up residence in a comfortable arm chair. He perched on the edge of the couch. “Carter informs me that you’re a guest here. All the way from England. Come for Mr. Brumble’s wedding to Miss Burns.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
“How do you know the deceased?” He pulled out a stubby pencil and a notebook and flipped it open.
“Well, I don’t. Or rather, I didn’t. Not before arriving. My aunt, Lady Lucas, knows him from her days in New York. He invited her, and she brought me along.”
Aarons nodded. “And you’ve been here how long?”
“We arrived here in Hollywood five days ago.”
“Carter also informed me that you left the house this morning at ten o’clock along with your aunt and Miss Burns.”
“That’s right.”
He jotted something in his notebook. “Where did you go?”
“To a place called Bullock’s Wilshire for some shopping. Then their tearoom for a late luncheon.”
“And you returned to the house at three.” It wasn’t a question. He clearly knew exactly when we arrived.
“Yes. I’m surprised you’re still here, actually.”
He glanced up from his notebook, clearly startled. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, Carter told me he found the body at eleven, and if he called the police straight away—”
“Eleven?”
I was surprised by his surprise. “That’s what he told me.”
He tugged on his lower lip and muttered, “But the call didn’t come through until almost o—” He broke off as if remembering he was speaking to a civilian. “Go on.”
He was obviously going to say one. Why would Carter have waited so long. He did say he was in shock... I shook off the thought, determined to return to it later. “We arrived back, what, four hours later? And you’re still here. Seems a long time for a suicide.”
He frowned, a glimmer of suspicion lighting his eyes. “And why do you think it was a suicide?”
“I heard about the note.” I didn’t mention it was Carter who told me. I didn’t want to get him into trouble with the authorities. Beside which, it’s always a good idea to play things close to the vest, as they say.
“Ah.” He eyed me closely. “Who told you?”
I gave him a bland smile. “Oh, you know. A little bird.”
“The butler, no doubt. Something tells me you don’t buy it.”
I gave him a small smile. “Astute.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, for one, Cyril wasn’t the sort to... how do you say?... off himself. I’m quite certain if you speak to my aunt, she’ll agree. And she’s known him ever such a long time. Secondly, he’d just got married. And he commits suicide two days later? Seems a dashed odd time to do it. Then there was the note. According to Carter it made no sense. Rambling and so forth. Not the usual thing, is it? And then there’s the woman in the bushes.”
Aarons blinked. “The woman in the bushes?”
“Yes. During the engagement party. The one with Gary Cooper.”
He blinked again. “Gary Cooper.”
“Mm. Yes, you see my aunt is quite the fan.”
“Of Cooper?”
“Indeed. Thinks he’s marvelous.” I didn’t mention my own feelings about the movie star. I didn’t want him to think I was simply another star-struck, approaching-middle-age woman. “She wanted to meet him, but alas! He left the party before we could make an introduction. So she ran after him.” Aunt Butty would kill me for telling on her.
“Your aunt ran after Gary Cooper.” He appeared amused.
“Yes. Well, only because she wanted to say hello. As you do. And maybe get an autograph, you know.”
“Right.”
“I followed along to make sure she didn’t twist an ankle. The steps are rather uneven, don’t you think?”
He coughed. “Er, yes. Very.”
“But when we got to the top, he was already getting into his car.”
“Such a shame.”
“Oh, my aunt was very disappointed.” I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick.
He touched his lips with his fingertips as if holding back a smirk. “I’m sure.”
“In any case, I turned to go back to the party and there she was.”
“There who was?”
“The woman in the bushes, of course. She was hiding out and just sort of staring down at the party as if she was spying on someone. Then she saw me and ran away.”
“Did you, ah, get a good look at her?”
“Of course. She was wearing this terribly ill-fitting suit. Cheap. Navy blue. Her hair was brown with a bit of gray in it. Not a lot. Just a few strands. Rather pretty, but very wan looking.”
He scribbled in his notebook. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I should probably have brought up the fact that Cyril and Carter had an argument that night. That Cyril was on the verge of firing Carter. Or even that Palmer was nearby during their argument and had likely overheard it all. Somehow, I just couldn’t do it. I very much doubted Wayne Palmer was involved in Cyril’s death, and Carter seemed to care too much for Cyril to harm him. Beside which, regardless of what I thought, Aarons was convinced it was a suicide. No sense muddying the waters until I had something concrete to go on.
“And you think this could be related to Mr. Brumble’s death?”
“That’s not for me to say,” I said tartly. “You’re the policeman.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to rejoin my aunt. I’m sure she’s overwrought.” As if Aunt Butty was ever overwrought by anything. She was more likely the one to be causing someone to be overwrought.
“The aunt that chased Gary Cooper.” Was that sarcasm in his tone?
“She didn’t chase him. She merely followed him. With a great deal of eagerness.” And with a huff, I stood and strode from the room. I could have sworn I heard Aarons stifling a laugh.
Chapter 8
“I’m
telling you, it’s utter poppycock,” Aunt Butty insisted. “There is no way Cyril killed himself. I refuse to believe it.”
It was after supper that night. Lola had excused herself and gone to bed, leaving us to our own devices. We’d meandered out to the pool where Carter had brought us nightcaps. Naturally, Cyril’s death was on our minds. It was quite a shock. More so for Aunt Butty than for me since she’d actually known the man. Still, it felt very surreal and I was having a difficult time coming to grips with the fact that the lively little man whose wedding I’d just attended was now dead.
“You’re certain?” I asked. “Could he have been depressed or... you know how hard it is to be...different.” Preferring the company of men was not an easy life, seeing as how it was still illegal. At least in England. I’d no idea about America.
“Don’t be daft. Cyril wasn’t bothered by such nonsense. He was a powerful man here in Hollywood. No one would have turned him in.”
“So why ever would he marry Lola?”
She shrugged. “He cared about her. Probably felt marrying her was a good way to protect himself from wagging tongues, just in case. Plus he probably felt protective of her, being alone in the world as she is and in need of guidance for her career. But it’s not like he was forced into this. He told me himself they enjoyed each other’s company. Most of the time, anyway. And no doubt both of them planned to take lovers on the side. He’d have no reason to be depressed about it. Besides, the man wasn’t prone to melancholy.”
“Alright, so I’m inclined to agree with you about it not being suicide. It's just... something is fishy.”
She turned gimlet eyes on me. “What do you know, Ophelia?” Her tone assured me prevarication would not be tolerated.
“Right, so Carter told me he found the body around eleven this morning, but the police were still here at three. Why would they be here that long if it was a suicide?”
“I doubt they would,” Aunt Butty agreed.
“So I mentioned that to Detective Aarons and he seemed surprised to hear that Carter found the body so early. He started to tell me what time the police were called, but then he stopped as if he remembered who he was talking to.”
