by Shéa MacLeod
“Please,” Boss said, waving to the empty benches on either side of him, “be seated, ladies. Can I interest you in a beverage?”
“If it’s got alcohol, then yes,” Aunt Butty said, heaving herself into the booth.
I nodded, sliding in across from her. “Please.”
He lifted a hand in the air and snapped his fingers imperiously. Within seconds, a uniformed waiter had appeared, and cocktail glasses were slid in front of us. I eyed the pale greenish liquid with suspicion.
“Southside,” Boss informed us. “Simple, but refreshing, don’t you think?” He took a sip, and we followed.
It was, indeed, surprisingly delicious, and as he said, refreshing. Slightly sweet, with a tang of lime and just a hint of mint. I certainly would not be unhappy should this be added to my repertoire of favorite beverages.
“I’m not usually a gin person,” I told him, “but this is quite nice. Now who the devil are you?”
He lifted a single brow, and I noticed there was a white scar running through it. It made him look equal parts rakish and dangerous.
“Vincent Montano, but you can call me Vinnie.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Aunt Butty said dryly. “Now what is the meaning of this? Sending your goons after us. Positively shocking behavior.” She downed her cocktail in one go and held out her empty glass. Sure enough, the waiter appeared, whisked away the glass and replaced it with a new, icy cold cocktail. “I assure you, the British Embassy will hear about this. I’ll have you know I’m very close friends with Sir Ronald Lindsay.”
I had no idea if this was true or not. With Aunt Butty, anything was possible. She could have very easily met the Ambassador to the United States during her various travels and adventures. Then again, she could be lying through her teeth. It was impossible to tell. Either way, Vinnie appeared unconcerned.
“No need for that,” Vinnie assured her, spreading his hands. “We’re just having a conversation.”
“Sure. One in which we were bound and gagged and forced into a motorcar,” I said dryly.
“Yes. My men were... overzealous.”
Aunt Butty snorted and drained her second cocktail. At this rate she’d be potted before supper time.
“Listen,” Vinnie folded his hands and leaned forward as if wanting to impart some great secret, “I wanted to chat with you about Lola.”
I blinked. “Lola?”
“Lola Burns. You know, the actress. You’re staying with her.”
“And what do you have to do with Miss Burns?” Aunt Butty’s tone could have given a snowman frostbite.
“Nothin.’ Nothin.’ We’re just good pals, you see?” He leaned back and gave us a bland smile.
“No, I don’t see,” I said. “You don’t exactly strike me as the sort of person who cavorts with film stars.”
“Oh,” he said, propping his elbows on the table and leaning toward me. “Who do you see me cavorting with?”
Aunt Butty smacked him with her folding fan. Right across the back of the head. I didn’t even know she had a fan on her person. “That will be quite enough from you, young man.”
Vinnie held up a hand. “Apologies, ladies. Put that thing away, Willy.”
That’s when I realized Hatchet Face had pulled out a pistol. Good gosh. I swear I broke out in a cold sweat.
“Please, ladies, hear me out.” Vinnie held his hands up. “Truth is, I’m concerned.”
“About?” It was my turn to lift a brow.
“Lola doesn’t need her name being dragged through the mud, see?”
“Why would Lola’s name be dragged through the mud?” Aunt Butty asked.
“Well, you ladies are sort of stirring things up. Making waves. Asking uncomfortable questions.” He made a waffling motion with his hand.
“Uncomfortable for the murderer, maybe,” I muttered.
He thrust his index finger at me. “This is what I’m talking about. That husband of hers wasn’t murdered. It was suicide, see.”
“I don’t think so,” I insisted. “There is evidence that points directly to murder.”
“What evidence? Never mind. I don’t wanna know. What I want you to do is back off.”
Aunt Butty sucked in air. “Well, really! I never!”
“I have to agree with my aunt. That’s terribly cheeky of you.” I could think of a stronger word, but Vinnie Montano didn’t seem like the kind of person I wanted to cross.
“I’m just askin.’ As a favor. Back off. Let the police do their job.”
“Sure. We can do that,” I lied through my teeth.
“Good. Good.” He looked pleased with himself. “Now we’ve got that straight. Willy will drive you home.” He gave Willy the stink eye. “With all due deference. These here are elegant ladies.”
“Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.”
“By the way,” I said as we stood to leave. “What’s Lola to you?”
I thought he wasn’t going to answer at first, but then he said, “Let’s just say we were very close once and leave it at that.” His tone told me that further questions would be unwelcome. His cold eyes had me thinking of sleeping and fishes.
Chapter 14
“Good gosh, Lola dated a mobster,” Aunt Butty declared once we were safe back at the house and ensconced in the living room with restorative cocktails. As if Aunt Butty needed more cocktails to restore her. “Who’d have guessed it.”
I couldn’t say I was that surprised. Every now and then, something slipped into Lola’s speech patterns. Something that proved she wasn’t the wide-eyed innocent she wanted the world to see. Lola had a past, and it was darker than anyone suspected. “I guess I can tick ‘get kidnapped by gangsters’ off my to-do list,” I said.
“Don’t be flippant, Ophelia. They could have easily murdered us.”
“Could have but didn’t.” I was completely convinced Vinnie Montano was perfectly capable of murder when it suited him. I was also convinced he wasn’t the sort to murder people willy nilly for no good reason. I hoped.
“What are we going to do?” she asked.
“I suppose we must stop investigating.” I eyed her closely to see how she felt about it.
“Nonsense! I’m not having some two-bit mobster telling me what to do.” Clearly, she’d been watching American gangster films again. “No, we will continue with our inquiries. We’ll just have to be cautious about what we do, especially where Lola is involved. What’s next on the agenda?”
“I’d like to confront Lola about Vinnie Montano, but that will have to wait until she gets home.” When we’d arrived back at the house, we’d discovered Lola had taken off again. A party or some such. “And since I haven’t been able to question the butler, I suppose we could search his room for clues.”
“Excellent.” She heaved herself to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Carter’s room was off the back of the kitchen through the butler’s pantry. It was a small room, impeccable, nearly Spartan. There was a simple wood framed single bed, a matching nightstand and dresser, and plain white cotton curtains on the tiny window. A small door led into a doll-sized closet. The only item of excitement was a framed photograph next to the bedside table. I picked it up, expecting to see the photo of a woman. Or perhaps a family. Instead...
“Oh, crikey. Look at this.” I handed the photo to my aunt.
“What is the butler doing with a picture of Cyril?”
“I think maybe they were, er... close,” I said.
She gave me a look. “Don’t be such a prude, Ophelia.” She peered at the image. “Anything is possible, I suppose.”
“Likely, I’d say.” I took the photograph back and replaced it exactly as it had been. No sense broadcasting our visit. “Let’s check the closet.”
The closet was more as less as expected. A row of hangers marched neatly along a hanging rod. From each hung a meticulously pressed item of clothing: black trousers, black jackets, black waistcoats, white shirts. “No surprises here.”
“No casual clothin
g for his day off?” Aunt Butty asked.
“Maybe he’s wearing them.” I pointed to two empty hangers.
“Perhaps.” She propped her hands on her ample hips. “What is he up to, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.” I stretched to feel along the shelf at the top of the closet. Nothing. And then, at the very back I brushed a bit of cloth. Snagging a corner, I pulled it out and held it up.
It was a white evening wrap embroidered with gold and silver threads. Very feminine.
“That isn’t Carter’s,” Aunt Butty said dryly. “I’d put good money on it.”
“No, I think this is Lola’s missing wrap. The one she had to rush out to replace. And look.”
I held the wrap up to the window. It was peppered with holes, each one singed around the edges. Black stippling radiated from some of the holes and there was the distinct odor of smoke and cordite.
“Well, I never,” Aunt Butty gasped. “Those are bullet holes!”
“Actually, it’s probably a single bullet hole. Probably the wrap was wadded up when the bullet passed through it,” I said.
“What are the two of you doing here?”
We both whirled to find the butler glaring at us. He tried to snatch the wrap from my hands, but I yanked it away.
“This is Miss Burns’s. What are you doing with it?” He demanded.
That startled me. “I know it’s Lola’s. Why was it in your closet? And why are there bullet holes in it?”
“I have no idea why it’s here,” he said. “Or why there are bullet holes in it. As you well know, I don’t lock my room. Anyone could have put it in here. For all I know, you put it here.”
“Why ever would she do that?” Aunt Butty demanded.
“I don’t know. All you rich people are crazy. Now give me that wrap so I can return it to Miss Burns.”
I tucked it behind me. “No, thanks. I think I’m going to give it to Detective Aarons. I’m sure he’ll be very interested.”
At the mention of Aarons, he hesitated. “Do as you like,” he snarled. “Now get out of my room.”
We rushed from his room, not stopping until we were safely locked in my room. “I’m certain this wrap was used to muffle the gunshot that killed Cyril.”
“I believe you’re correct.”
“Carter’s right,” I admitted. “Anyone could have put this wrap in his room.”
“Could someone be trying to frame him?” Aunt Butty asked, dropping into the chair near the window. “Lola, for instance. It’s her wrap, after all.”
“Maybe.” I perched on the edge of the bed. “Although she seems smarter than to use her own clothing.”
Aunt Butty frowned. “I suppose Dorothea could have done it. She’d have had good reason to want to frame Lola.”
“Good point,” I agreed. “What we need is more evidence.”
“Or a confession,” Aunt Butty pointed out. “Although if Dorothea did it, that boat has sailed.”
“As if we’re going to get a confession out of either Lola or Carter.” I thought it over. “What we need is a motive.”
“Well, Lola’s motive is pretty obvious, don’t you think? She’ll inherit everything.”
“Not much to inherit,” I said. “While I was searching Cyril’s study, I found paperwork. Bank statements. That sort of thing. He’s dead broke. In fact, he owed her money.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? I had no idea.”
I nodded. “He hasn’t made a film in a while. And he’s been living well beyond his means for years. Looks like he’s been borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. Even borrowing from Lola. If anything, her motive was to get rid of someone who was sponging her dry. After all, she got what she wanted from him. A leg up in her career.”
Aunt Butty nodded thoughtfully. “She’s already well on her way to the top. Right. So Carter. What could his motive possibly be?”
“I think Carter was in love with Cyril,” I mused. “Whether it was mutual, it’s hard to say. But there is the photograph by his bed, and that argument I heard between the two of them. Although from what I overheard, it sounded like Cyril was angry with Carter for spending time with someone else. What if they were having a relationship that went wrong? Or maybe Carter wanted a relationship. Was jealous of Lola. And then there’s Dorothea. I suppose her motive could have been jealousy. That Cyril left her for Hollywood and then another woman.”
“It’s all speculation. We’re going to need more if we’re going to take this to that Detective Aarons.”
“I know.” I sighed, staring down at the twisted ball of fabric in my hands. “I’m just not sure how or where to find it.”
“The note. You said it came from a journal or a notebook. Maybe we could find the original book it was torn from. Then we’d have our proof.”
I nodded. “Yes, but it could easily have been destroyed by now. Still, it doesn’t hurt to look. Let’s scour the house top to bottom.”
“After supper, dear. I’m ravenous.”
Chapter 15
Over supper, we formulated a battle plan.
“We already searched the butler’s room, and you’ve covered the study,” Aunt Butty said, waving around a forkful of roast beef with horseradish sauce before popping it into her mouth. Once she’d chewed thoroughly she continued. “I suggest we continue with the main floor, then work our way upward.”
“And if someone wants to know what we’re doing?”
“We’re lost looking for the loo,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing. “Lola’s out again. Studio, probably. That woman spends more time at the studio. I swear she has a lover.”
“Which would give her an excellent motive for murder,” I murmured. And it would ensure we could safely search the house without her knowing. Mrs. Mendez was out. The chauffeur was busy doing whatever he did with the cars in the garage. Of course, there was still Carter to contend with, but I was fairly certain we could keep out of his way.
I nibbled at a lemon biscuit. The cook had called them “cookies.” Whatever they were, they were delicious. I helped myself to another.
“Hopefully we’ll find something in the house. If not, I suppose we’ll have to move to the grounds.”
Aunt Butty groaned. “We’ll never find anything in that jungle. Let’s cross our fingers and pray something pops up.” She dusted off her hands. “Right. I’ll start in the kitchen. Why don’t you start here in the dining room?”
With supper finished, Aunt Butty departed for the kitchen, while I took a slow turn around the dining room. Despite being almost crammed to the gills, there weren’t many places one could hide a book, even a small journal. The dining room was almost petite, with a table that sat twelve at most. On one side of the room was an antique sideboard. On the other, a matching china hutch. In each corner sat either a potted fern, or a velvet armchair. Oil paintings portraying medieval scenes hung from the walls. Other than the table and chairs, there were no other pieces of furniture, and the hutch was fronted in glass, which meant one couldn’t hide so much as a button in it. That left the sideboard.
It was one of those tall, Edwardian monstrosities, made of walnut with mirrors everywhere. There were but two small cupboard doors behind which one could conceal something. They opened easily to reveal what one might expect: extra cloth napkins, napkin rings, a neatly folded table cloth, and so on. I checked between the folds of cloth but found nothing concealed. The dining room was out.
I repeated my search in the living room, with almost equal results. Other than a playing card beneath the sofa and a couple of coins wedged behind the cushions, there was nothing of interest concealed anywhere in the room.
Aunt Butty popped her head through the door. “Any luck?”
“No. You?”
“Not unless you count the gossip magazines I found hidden in the pantry. Mrs. Mendez has a frivolous side I never expected.”
I sighed. “Bedrooms next, I suppose.”
We climbed the stairs slowly.
&
nbsp; “We already searched Cyril’s room,” Aunt Butty said. “So have the police.”
I nodded. “And we know there’s nothing in our rooms. That leaves Lola’s room and the spare room. I’ll take Lola’s.”
“If you insist.”
Aunt Butty disappeared into the spare room. Getting into Lola’s room proved more difficult. The door was locked. I smirked. As if that would ever keep me out.
Chaz had taught me the fine art of lock-picking. I’d no idea where he’d picked it up, but I found it came in handy. Within minutes, I was standing inside the purple-walled sanctuary that was Lola’s domain. It smelled so strongly of roses and French powder, I sneezed.
Where to start? I checked under the bed and between the mattress, not expecting to find much and not disappointed when I didn’t. Her closet and drawers also proved a bust. So I sat down at her vanity which was littered with pots of creams, vials of perfumes, tins of powder, and enough cosmetics to supply an entire chorus line of Parisian burlesque dancers.
I picked up a pot of cold cream and removed the lid, giving it a sniff. The smell was heavenly. Cocoa butter with just a touch of something woodsy and a hint of orange flower. Delightful. I made a mental note of the label and decided I would pick some up before I headed back to England. Or rather, to my villa in France.
Screwing the lid back on, I replaced the pot exactly as I found it, label out. There were also pots of rose pomade and vanishing cream, all with attractive labels neatly lined up.
The vanity had small drawers on either side. I slid out the one on the left. Inside were even more pots, tins, vials, and tubs. My word, the woman had a cosmetics addiction. A quick search proved there was nothing else to be found. Not that I’d expected much. Though it would have been interesting to find a pile of love letters, say from Sam the chauffeur. I smiled, remembering that he had a bit of a crush on “the Mrs,” though I doubted Lola would give him the time of day. I slid the drawer shut and turned my attention to the one on the right.
That drawer held handkerchiefs. A soft, fluffy pile of white cotton and linen squares edged in silk and lace or covered in neat little embroidery stitches. I ruffled through them until my fingers hit something solid and smooth. Nothing at all like the handkerchiefs. Pulling them aside, I lifted the rectangular object out.
