by Shéa MacLeod
“Too smart for his own good,” Aunt Butty said dryly.
“Rather. In any case, I’m certain he had started to say the time. One o’clock.”
Aunt Butty sat up straighter. “Two hours after Carter found the body.”
“Exactly. Why would he wait so long? He did say he was in shock, and that he called them once he’d calmed down, but that’s still a long time. What happened in those two hours? Because something did, and it wasn’t anything good.”
Aunt Butty frowned. “What do you think happened?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But this is what I think. Carter told me Cyril had been shot in the head, and the gun was near his hand. But based on rigor mortis at eleven this morning, Cyril had already been dead for several hours. Which means he would have had to shoot himself in the middle of the night.”
“I’d have heard the shot,” Aunt Butty insisted. “I’m not a heavy sleeper, as you know.”
“I’d have heard it, too,” I agreed. “There are only two ways I know for a shot to have occurred without us hearing it. The first is some other loud noise, which we know there wasn’t or that would have awoken us.”
“And the other?”
“A silencer.”
Aunt Butty frowned. “That seems a dashed odd thing to put on a gun if one is going to shoot oneself.”
“Exactly. And Carter didn’t mention seeing one, so I’m betting there wasn’t. I’ll have to ask him to make sure.”
She nodded. “Yes. Good plan. So if there wasn’t a silencer...”
“If there wasn’t a silencer, then he couldn’t have shot himself. Someone else had to have done it and then left the gun on the scene in order to make it look like suicide.”
“It makes more sense than Cyril offing himself.”
“But why would someone want to murder him?” I asked, remembering the argument between Cyril and Carter. But Cyril hadn’t fired the butler after all, therefore Carter had no reason to murder his boss.
“Who knows? These Hollywood types are volatile. Maybe someone didn’t like his choice of star for his latest picture.”
I sighed. “Right. So we’ve got a missing gunshot, a two-hour gap, and a note that doesn’t make sense, at least according to Carter. Plus there’s Lola insisting on going shopping with us at the last minute.”
“You think she had something to do with it?” Aunt Butty’s eyes were wide.
“There was certainly enough time for her to shoot him, then join us for shopping to give herself an alibi. She probably doesn’t know about rigor mortis like I do.”
“Then how does Carter know about it?”
Now that was a sticker. “Another thing I’ll have to ask him.”
She pursed her lips. “If it weren’t for the fact she’s in New York, I’d think it was Dorothea.”
“Who the deuce is Dorothea?”
“Cyril’s ex-wife.”
I sat bolt upright, nearly sloshing my Vieaux Carré all over myself. “You never mentioned Cyril had an ex-wife!”
“Well it simply didn’t cross my mind. It was such a long time ago really, and he hadn’t seen her in a number of years. She’s... well, she’s been unwell, so she hasn’t been out and about, if you know what I mean.”
“No, Aunt, I do not know what you mean. I think you’d better explain.”
“As you know, I met Cyril about twenty years ago. Give or take.” Which would have put Aunt Butty in her late thirties or early forties, and Cyril in his mid-twenties. “I lived in New York for a time after Husband One bit the dust.” Husband One being Henry Thorton the Third. Richer than Croesus and a bit of a dullard, if I recall. He’d keeled over from a heart attack after eating an entire pork pie.
“Right. Go on,” I prodded.
“We were both heavily involved in theater. Cyril was interested in writing and directing, and I trod the boards, as they say.”
That got me. “You were an actress?”
“Don’t sound so astonished. I was rather good.”
“You’ve certainly got the theatrics for it,” I muttered.
“What’s that dear?”
“Nothing. So you met Cyril on Broadway?”
“More like Broadway adjacent, but yes. In any case, I met his wife there, too. Dorothea Caron. Lovely girl. French. He married her after he broke it off with the other one...the one from the rooftop. We all used to get together at their apartment in Manhattan, run lines, drink wine, you know the sort of thing. They met there in New York. She was from France, he from Germany. There was, of course, the whole preferring other men thing, but I don’t think Cyril realized it at the time, though the rest of us did. Still, they seemed a delightful couple.”
“But?”
Aunty Butty shifted uncomfortably. “Dorothea was what one might call high-strung. Dreadful mood swings. Bright and cheerful one moment, darkly melancholy the next. Poor thing. And Cyril was distraught over it. Eventually she ended up in a sanitorium. It simply wasn’t safe for her to be on her own, you see. It got to the point, well... Cyril had an opportunity out in Hollywood, so he took it.”
“And left Dorothea locked up back in New York?”
“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. And the work out here allowed him to support her. Ensure she had the best care.”
“But they did divorce.”
Aunt Butty frowned. “Now there’s the thing. They were only ever common law according to the state of New York. Legal enough there, but not out here. So there was no divorce, per se—they simply parted ways. Though Cyril would visit her when he was in New York.”
“At the sanitorium?”
“Oh, no, she’s out now. Has been for years. All cured, according to Cyril, though I doubt that. That sort of thing doesn’t really get cured, does it.”
“So she could have come out here and killed him,” I mused.
“Doubtful. Why would she? He’s been supporting her for years. Very generously, too. Without him, she’d be in the poor house.”
“What does she look like?”
“Dark hair and eyes. Slender. About my height. Why?”
I told her about the woman in the bushes. “Sounds very like the woman you describe. But older.”
“If it were Dorothea, surely she’d have joined the party. As I said, she and Cyril may no longer be together, but they are on friendly terms.”
“But are she and Lola?”
My aunt’s eyes widened. “Fair point. I’ve no idea.”
“Exactly. And that’s something I need to ask Lola.” Because I couldn’t imagine Lola sharing the spotlight with another wife.
“You think Dorothea could be a viable suspect?”
“Possibly,” I said. “If she was the woman I saw. But I’d say Lola could be one, as well. After all, jealousy is a powerful motive for murder.”
WHEN I CAME DOWN TO breakfast the next morning, there was toast, jam, and coffee laid out in the dining room, but there was no one to be seen. I slathered a slice of toast with strawberry preserves, filled a cup with coffee dosed liberally with cream and sugar, and sauntered outside to enjoy my breakfast by the pool. I’d just polished off my toast when the chauffeur came around the corner of the house. He started when he saw me.
“Ah, Lady Rample. Sorry to disturb you. I was looking for Carter.”
“Haven’t seen him, I’m afraid. In fact, no one seems about.”
“Well, I drove Miss Burns to the studio early this morning,” Sam said by way of explanation.
I stared at him over the rim of my cup. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I admit that while I’d been sad over the loss of Felix, I hadn’t been devastated. But still, I’d had a decent mourning period. “She went to work?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “Kinda strange, if you ask me. Her husband just dyin’ and all.”
I set down my cup. “Very strange, indeed. How did she seem?”
He rubbed his jaw. “Determined.” His tone was one of admiration. “Like she was gonna g
rab the bull by the horns, if you get my meanin’.”
I did. “She’s either very brave or... Well. People handle grief differently, don’t they?”
“S’pose so, ma’am.” He scratched his chin which looked like t could use a shave. “I do feel sorry for her.”
“Of course you do. Any decent person would. By the by, the police say Mr. Brumble was killed very early Sunday morning. Did you happen to hear a gunshot sometime before dawn?”
“No, ma’am. But then my place is down the hill a way over the garage, and I sleep like a log. Probably wouldn’t have heard anything.” He gave me an assessing look. “Will tell you one thing, though.”
I leaned forward, eager to hear what promised to be a juicy bit of gossip. “What’s that?”
“Saturday night it was kinda late, and I got a bit hungry. So I went into the kitchen to sneak somethin’ from the larder, and I heard voices. Loud. Real loud.”
“Like an argument?” This was juicy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Could you tell who it was?” Perhaps it had been Cyril’s killer.
“Well, it was definitely Mr. Brumble. And he was fightin’ with some woman. They was just screamin’ and yellin’ and carryin’ on. So I grabbed somethin’ and lit out quick. I was halfway back to my place when the woman came runnin’ out of the house, jumped in a car, and drove away.”
“Lola drove away?”
“No, ma’am. Weren’t Lola. The woman I saw Mr. Brumble arguing with was a dark-haired woman. Older lady. Navy skirt and jacket. Looked real scared.”
The woman from the bushes. Had to be. “What time was this?”
“Just past midnight, I think.”
Which meant this woman, whoever she was, had probably been the last person to see Cyril Brumble alive!
Chapter 9
With breakfast out of the way, Lola out of the house, and Aunt Butty still abed, I decided it was time to track down the butler—Cyril’s “man,” as he’d referred to him. At this point, he was the most logical person to question as he’d discovered the body. I found him at the dining room table, polishing the silver, looking morose.
“Hello, Carter,” I said, taking a seat across from him and propping my elbows on the table in an unladylike fashion.
He hesitated, one hand clutching a rag and the other a silver gravy boat. “Madam?” He looked a bit nonplussed.
“I’m surprised to see you hard at work this morning.”
He blinked. “What else was I to do?”
“Well your employer just died, and you found him, so I half expected you to be out of commission. It would be entirely understandable.”
He firmed his jaw. “Never. The work doesn’t stop simply because... because Mr. Brumble has gone to be with his maker.”
That was a delicate way of putting it. “Very true. I suppose Lola was of the same opinion. I heard she went off to the studio this morning.”
This time his jaw took on a hard set as if he was trying to bite back some rather nasty words. “She has, perhaps, another agenda.”
“Oh?”
He ducked his head and went back to polishing with more vigor than necessary. “It’s not my place to say.”
“Really?” I said archly. “You were awfully chatty before.”
He sniffed. “That was before she was paying my salary.”
“I see.” So, Lola had told him to keep his mouth shut about her business now that she was in charge. Interesting.
Pushing him at the moment likely wouldn’t do any good, so I got to the meat of the matter. “The police told me that Cyril died very early Sunday morning. Hours before you, ah, found him. But... well, I didn’t hear the shot.”
“You were no doubt sleeping.”
“True. But my room is just across the hall from his, and I’m not a particularly heavy sleeper. I would have definitely heard a gunshot at three in the morning.” Actually, I tended to sleep like the dead, but I most definitely would have heard a shot.
He mulled that over. “Likely that’s true.”
“Did you hear one?”
“Alas, no. My room is off the butler’s pantry through the kitchen. Quite a way from Mr. Brumble. I wouldn’t have heard a thing.”
Right. “You said there was a gun near him when you found him.”
“That’s so. Lying just next to his hand as if it fell after he... well, you know.”
“What kind of gun was it?”
He stared up at me with a blank expression. “No idea. I’m not particularly familiar with guns. I’m sure the police would know. But I can say it wasn’t a particularly large one. Quite small, in fact.”
Likely a small caliber, then. Which would mean the shot would have been more like a cork popping. “Do you know what a silencer is?”
He looked offended. “Of course. I’ve seen films.”
“Did you notice one on the gun? Or anywhere in the room?”
He frowned. “No. Is it important?”
“Might be.” I sighed. “You also told me rigor mortis had set in by the time you found him. That’s how you knew he’d been dead awhile. I’m surprised you’d know about such things.”
“I served in the Great War,” he informed me haughtily. “I learned many things I wish I didn’t know.”
“Then how do you not know about guns?” I demanded.
“I was a conscientious objector. Raised Quaker. I couldn’t shoot, but I wanted to do my part. So I was with the ambulance corps.”
“The American Volunteer Motor Ambulance Corps?” I asked, impressed.
He nodded. “The same.”
“You people did important work. I was a nurse.”
“So you did, too.”
We were silent a moment, lost perhaps in our own memories. Finally, I asked, “Is that why you didn’t ring the police right away?”
He gave me a blank look. “What do you mean?”
“You told me you found Cyril at eleven, but Detective Aarons said the police weren’t called until after one in the afternoon.” Slight lie. Detective Aarons had started to tell me something but hadn’t finished. Still, Carter didn’t need to know that. “Is it because you knew he’d been dead awhile? That he’d killed himself?”
“Yes. Ah, yes. I was hoping Miss Burns would come back so she could contact them. Being the widow and all. But when she was still gone after several hours, I decided to call myself. I shouldn’t have waited, I know. But I was in shock. Not thinking straight. I told the detective that, too, after he asked.” He gave me a pointed look. Clearly Aarons had questioned him after I spilled the beans.
Carter’s explanation seemed plausible, I suppose, but somehow, I didn’t believe him. Not entirely. Something else had happened in those two hours between Carter finding the body and calling the police. I just had to figure out what.
THE REST OF THE DAY I felt rather at loose ends. I wanted to question Lola, but she hadn’t returned from the studio. Aunt Butty stayed in bed, claiming a headache. Based on the fact that she’d just lost an old friend, a bottle of very good scotch was missing from the liquor cabinet, and I knew she’d picked up three new books during our shopping trip, it was more likely she was using that as an excuse to stay in bed all day. As for the chauffeur and the butler, they’d given me all they could—or would—for the moment.
There was the cleaning woman, but she hadn’t been to the house either Sunday or Saturday, and according to Carter, Lola had ordered him to tell the woman not to come today. So I wouldn’t be able to talk to her until tomorrow at the latest. Mrs. Mendez, the woman who came to cook, had also been out from noon Saturday until this morning. And by the time I’d gotten up, she’d already been gone, having put together a few bits and pieces so Carter could make up meals the rest of the week. Which meant she was out for questioning.
Detective Aarons had ordered Aunt Butty and me to stay close. Though he’d not quite gone so far as to order us not to leave town. He’d claimed he might have further questions, but I wasn’
t holding my breath. He’d seemed pretty convinced it was murder. Which struck me as dashed odd based on the evidence at hand. Or rather, the strangeness of the evidence pointing to suicide.
I could go through Cyril’s study. Men kept things in their studies they didn’t want wives finding out about. Maybe he had a diary. A calendar. Something.
Fortunately for me, Cyril left his office door unlocked. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. It was warm and a little musty, but I snapped on the light and strode to the desk.
There was one long drawer, very shallow. It had no lock, so I pulled it open, and it slid out surprisingly easily. Inside, neatly arranged in precise little rows, were pencils, pens, a bowl of paperclips, and other accoutrements one would expect. In addition, there was a black leather-covered notebook with the year stamped on the front: 1932. I took it out and laid it on the desk, sliding the drawer shut.
Carefully opening the cover, I realized that this was not a notebook or journal. This was a weekly planner of sorts. Each page had a date along the top and hours marching in a column down the left-hand side. Here and there in loopy blue ink were notations for various appointments.
I flipped to the date Aunt Butty and I had arrived. Sure enough, along the top of the page was the notation, "Butty and Lady R arrive."
A notation for the following evening was simply "party." And on the day of his wedding to Lola was the notation "city hall."
"Now that's interesting," I murmured. I would have assumed he would write something like “wedding” or “marriage.” Perhaps some exclamation points. But "city hall?" It seemed so cold and impersonal. Then again, both Aunt Butty and myself had been suspicious of this marriage from day one.
I quickly flipped forward to Saturday, the day before Cyril died. The entire day was blank, no notations. No appointments. Not so much as a stray ink mark.
Frustration seethed inside me. Then again, what had I expected? That he'd leave the name of his killer neatly printed out across the page? I supposed I'd hoped that at the very least there might be an appointment. Or a notation that someone was in town. Like Dorothea.
