by Shéa MacLeod
It was a small notebook, not much bigger than the length of my hand, bound in leather. I opened the cover and on the inner page was written “C. Brumble.”
“Crikey,” I mumbled. “It’s Cyril’s notebook.” Sure enough, as I flipped through, I found page after page of intimate thoughts and feelings in Cyril’s neat handwriting. He never named names, but there were effusive protestations of love and devotion side-by-side with long, despairing rants against the cruelty of the world and of love. And right in the middle of the book were the ragged remains of a missing page.
I slammed the drawer shut and bolted from the room, yelling for Aunt Butty. She popped her head out of the spare room. “Whatever is the matter? Did you find another body?”
“No! Even better.” I brandished the book. “I found Cyril’s journal. The one the killer used to fake the suicide note.”
“Huzzah!” Aunt Butty cried. “We should ring Aarons up straight away. He’s going to want to know about this and the wrap with the bullet hole.”
She was right. We went straight to Cyril’s study and the telephone. Within moments we were put through to Aarons.
Once I was finished with my explanations, I waited for him to say something. When he remained silent, I prodded. “Well? You know what this means, right?”
He sighed heavily. “It means that Cyril Brumble was murdered.”
“Yes!” Finally.
“I’m going to send a man around to collect the evidence from you. He’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Of course not,” I assured him. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go down to the movie studio and arrest Lola Burns for murdering her husband.”
Chapter 16
“Oh, this is awful, just awful,” I said, pacing back and forth across the study carpet.
“Isn’t this what we wanted? For Aarons to admit it was murder and arrest someone?” Aunt Butty asked.
“Of course, but I wanted him to arrest the right person.”
“And you don’t think Lola is the right person?”
I sighed and dropped into the desk chair. “I don’t know. I can’t be sure.”
“Let’s look at the facts.” It was Aunt Butty’s turn to pace as she ticked off each item on her fingers. “One. As dubiously effective as it may have been, Lola’s wrap was used in an attempt to muffle the shot that killed Cyril.”
I nodded. There was no arguing that. “Correct. Although it probably wasn’t needed since the gun was a small caliber and wouldn’t have made much noise.”
“Possibly an inexperience gunman, then?”
“Possibly,” I agreed.
“Two. The journal from which the killer tore a page to use as a fake suicide note was found in Lola’s vanity table in her locked bedroom.”
“Yes.” No arguing that, either.
“Three. Lola had more than one motive to murder her husband. He was likely having an affair with another man, and he was broke, likely sponging off her.”
“Also true.”
“Finally, while she may have claimed to be asleep at the time of death, in reality, she has no alibi for the time of the murder, and her behavior afterward was highly suspicious.”
I groaned. “All true.”
“So why do you doubt Lola is the killer? Who else do you think did it?”
“Honestly?” I said. “I think the butler did it.”
Her eyes widened. “A bit cliché but go on.”
“We found Lola’s wrap in his room.”
“His unlocked room,” she reminded me. “As he pointed out, anyone could have planted the wrap in his room any time after the murder.”
“Yes, but that could equally be said about the journal in Lola’s room.”
“Except her door is locked.”
“Right,” I admitted. “But I was able to pick the lock. And he’s the butler. He’s probably got a skeleton key.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” She sat down in the other chair and tapped her cheek. “What about motive?”
“Well, if he was having an affair with Cyril, then jealousy?”
She frowned. “Not sure that’s good enough. After all, they could easily continue having an affair right under Lola’s nose. I mean, he works here for heaven’s sake. And I’m not sure Lola would have even cared as long as they were discreet about it.”
“Well, what about the argument I overheard?” I said. “It could be that Carter was cheating on Cyril. Cyril threatened to fire him and even though he didn’t in the end, Carter could have been worried it was only a matter of time.”
“Except that killing Cyril was a good way to murder himself out of a job,” Aunt Butty pointed out. “There was no way he could be sure Lola would keep him on.”
Male voices suddenly echoed in from the entry hall. I couldn’t quite hear what was being said, so I got up and slipped over to the study door, cracking it open, I put one eye to the crack. Sam and Carter were standing in the middle of the hall arguing.
“No can do, man,” Sam said. “I’ve got to pick up Miss Burns in an hour. Don’t have time to be running your ass around. Why don’t you call a taxi?”
Obviously, they hadn’t yet heard Lola was being arrested.
“I don’t have time to call a taxi. I need to get into town immediately,” Carter snapped.
“Don’t know what to tell you.” The chauffeur held up his hands.
“Very well. I shall take the Roadster.” Carter marched purposefully toward the garage.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Sam started after him, but I grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Let him go,” I whispered. “We need to follow him.”
“I can’t let him drive the Roadster. Lola’ll have my head. And we can’t follow him. I need to pick her up.”
“The police are arresting Lola for murder as we speak,” Aunt Butty informed him.
“Is that true?” He turned to me with wide eyes.
“Yes, it is.” I was quite sure he had a crush on Lola, which played into my plans perfectly. “So if you value her life, you will do exactly what I say. Let Carter go, and then we’ll follow him.”
He hesitated only a moment before giving a brief nod. “The Rolls is out front.”
We dashed down the hall and out onto the drive. Sure enough, the Rolls stood gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. Sam slid behind the steering wheel, while Aunt Butty and I crammed into the back yelling, “Go! Go!”
“Uh, there’s no point in going,” Sam pointed out. “He’s just barely pulling out of the garage. See?”
I leaned forward to peer through the windscreen—windshield, since we were in America. Sure enough, through the trees I caught sight of the garage, a glimmer of red slowly moving from it.
“For a man in a hurry, he sure drives like a slowpoke,” Aunt Butty said.
Which was rich, coming from her. She never ceased to complain about the speediness of my driving. I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver. I just like to get places in a hurry.
We waited with a great deal of impatience as Carter slowly backed the Roadster out of the garage and inched up the drive. Once the Roadster was out of sight around a curve, Sam gunned the Rolls’s engine and took off after him. As we rounded the bend, the Roadster was just pulling out onto Easton Drive.
Sam sped up to catch him, only to discover that Carter was moving at a snail’s pace along the narrow street. Not that I blamed him. Hedges and high stone walls crowded the sides of the road, making it almost impossible avoid a head-on collision with anyone coming from the opposite direction.
“Don’t let him see us,” Aunt Butty ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam replied with a cheeky grin, angling his cap over one eye. He was kind enough not to point out he was already doing a bang-up job.
At last we turned left onto Benedict Canyon Drive. I admit to giving a sigh of relief as the road widened and the traffic picked up, making it easier to follow Carter and less like
ly we’d end up in someone’s front garden.
We wound down through the hills until finally arriving at Santa Monica Boulevard which we then followed straight into Hollywood. Carter never looked back once, clearly intent on reaching wherever he was going.
“I think he’s headed to that hotel up there,” Sam said, pointing to the large, art deco structure glowing in the sun. Lush palm trees and jacarandas—those strange trees with the gorgeous purple flowers—surrounded the hotel, lending it a sense of exotic elegance.
Sure enough, Carter pulled into the drive, got out of the Roadster, grabbed his case, and handed his keys to the valet before slipping inside. Once he was out of sight, Sam pulled up behind him.
“I’ll go in with you,” he offered.
“No, no. You stay with the vehicle,” I said. “We can handle this, can’t we, Aunt Butty?”
“If you say so,” she said somewhat doubtfully.
“We’re just going to spy on him, nothing more,” I insisted, marching into the lobby.
It was a lovely lobby, luxurious and new with a fountain full of cherubs smack dab in the middle. Carter was nowhere to be seen. So I marched straight up to the register and gave the uniformed man my most imperious look. “A gentleman just came through here. Black suit. Carrying a brown case. Which room is he in?”
He gave me an equally imperious look. “We at the St. John Hotel are not in the habit of giving out information on our guests.”
Aunt Butty snorted. “He’s no guest. He couldn’t afford this place. He’s a butler.”
The man’s eyes widened. “A-a what?”
“Butler,” I confirmed. “Nothing wrong with it, of course. Honest profession and all that, but certainly not one that allows him to pay your fees. Unless he’s not a guest. Maybe he’s visiting someone?”
He seemed to recover, puffing out his chest. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”
Bingo. “Tell us which room, or I start screaming.”
“Go ahead,” said Mr. Smug, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’ll just make a fool of yourself.”
Clearly, he didn’t know me. I could give two figs for what anyone thought. I opened my mouth, only to have Aunt Butty interrupt.
“Listen, young man. I know people. People in Hollywood. People who can crush you like a bug. Or...” she leaned over the desk, catching his eye. As if against his will, he swayed toward her, almost hypnotized.
“Or?” he asked.
“Or they can give you exactly what you want. A shot at the silver screen.”
I stared from my aunt to the scrawny hotel employee with the bug-eyes and protruding Adam’s apple. No way was he silver screen material. But, of course, my aunt had only a passing acquaintance with the truth when it suited her, and she’d a way of making people believe whatever she was telling them. Clearly, he did.
“Room 182,” he said, eyes wide, almost hypnotized. “Second floor.”
“Very good. Key?” she held out her gloved hand, into which he placed a brass key. “Thank you, dear. What’s your name?”
“Vernon.”
“Vernon. Very good. My people will call your people. Come, Ophelia!” And she sailed from the lobby, Vernon staring after us, shell-shocked.
I followed her, feeling a bit shell-shocked, myself. She took no notice, heading up the wide staircase toward what the Americans oddly referred to as the second floor.
She didn’t bother knocking but used the key to unlock the door before flinging it open, announcing, “A-ha!”
A-ha, indeed. For beyond the door we found Carter in an amorous embrace.
“Crikey,” I muttered. “Is that?”
“Wayne Palmer?” Aunt Butty said in stentorian tones. “I believe it is.”
“Good lord.” I couldn’t stop staring. I’d seen Wayne Palmer on many a movie screen back home. He was one of the hottest young stars out there. Known far and wide as a ladies’ man. Certainly not who I’d expect to see lip-locked with Cyril’s butler.
“Who are you?” Wayne Palmer demanded. His face was dead white, and he looked like he might keel over.
“Ophelia, Lady Rample,” I said, striding forward with outstretched hand, “and my aunt, Lady Lucas. We’re guests of Cyril Brumble and Lola Burns. We’ve met. At the pool party.”
Wayne went whiter, if that were possible, and without another word, he bolted past us, out the door. I didn’t bother following him. He wasn’t important.
“So cheating on Cyril, were you Carter?” I asked, turning to the other man. His face was positively persimmon with anger. I took a stab in the dark. “Is that why he fired you?”
“You and your nosy aunt need to butt out,” he snarled.
“Or?”
“Or I’ll make you.” He rushed toward me, knocking Aunt Butty aside, and grabbing me around the throat.
At first, I was so startled, I couldn’t move. But then breathing became an issue, so I clawed at his face, digging my nails in and dragging bloody furrows down his cheek. He smacked me across the face hard enough to make my ears ring. So I kneed him in the soft bits. Except he moved at just the right moment and I hit his thigh instead.
Somewhere in the background, I could hear Aunt Butty shouting. I wished she’d do something more... productive. It was getting rather hard to breathe.
I went for his eyes—those angry, piggy eyes—but he jerked away before I could cause any real harm. I stomped on his insole and he howled in rage and pain before smacking me again.
And then there was a godawful clanging crash, Carter’s eyes went wide, then they rolled back in his head as he slid to the floor. Aunt Butty stood over him with a triumphant smile, clutching a telephone to her ample bosom. “Never let it be said these things aren’t good for something.”
I touched my throat which felt sore and raw. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that.” My voice was hardly more than a croak.
Before she could answer, the room was suddenly swarmed with policemen. They stopped in the middle of the room and stared about them in confusion, muttering to each other about who they should or should not arrest.
And then in strode Detective Aarons. “What the devil is going on?”
“That man tried to kill my niece,” Aunt Butty declared, pointing an accusing finger at Carter’s unconscious form.
“Worse,” I croaked. “This man murdered Cyril Brumble and Dorothea Caron.”
He rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. “I don’t suppose you can prove this.”
I grinned. “Yes, actually. I can.”
Chapter 17
It was some time before all the players were gathered together in Cyril’s former living room. Lola’s now, I supposed. First, Aunt Butty had insisted I go to the hospital to ensure Carter hadn’t done any permanent damage. I’d refused to step foot in the place, so Lola had rung up her personal doctor who’d given me the all-clear.
Following police protocol, Aarons had Carter taken to the hospital to get checked out. He had a concussion, thanks to Aunt Butty, and was kept for observation under police guard. Then the police had to round up Wayne Powers and question him to assure themselves he wasn’t involved.
Naturally, while all that was going on I called Chaz and urged him to join us. I knew he wouldn’t want to miss out on the excitement. “It’ll help me get over my disappointment,” he said.
“You didn’t get the part?” I asked.
“Oh, I did, but Archie quit the film. Something better came along. And there’s no way I’m doing this without him. Besides, I rather miss England, don’t you?”
Finally, Detective Aarons arrived at the house along with a newly freed Lola. “She’d better be as innocent as you say,” he warned me. There was a distinct “or else” in his tone. What was with everyone threatening me lately?
“Don’t worry. She is,” I said, as much to assure him as myself.
While everyone gathered in the living room, I sent Maddie away with instructions to start packing. Frankly, I co
uldn’t wait to be shut of this place and on my way East.
Detective Aarons took up a position standing near the fireplace, his eagle eyes taking us all in. Two uniformed officers sat casually at the back of the room, occasionally sneaking a snack from the extra tea trays. Chaz sat near the French doors to the terrace, ready to pounce on anyone who might try to flee. The rest of us—Aunt Butty, myself, Lola, and Sam—sat comfortably on the sofa and chairs. Lola had been aghast when I suggested inviting Sam, but I convinced her he was part of the reason she was a free woman. She looked at him with a great deal more interest after that.
“All right, Lady R,” Aarons said at last, “give us what you’ve got.”
I cleared my throat. “Very well.” My voice was still a little hoarse. “Here’s what happened.”
Everyone leaned forward expectantly. I smiled to myself. I did enjoy the spotlight on occasion. Can’t imagine where I got that little character trait.
“Right. It was clear to me from the beginning, that despite appearances to the contrary, Cyril Brumble did not commit suicide. It was easy to see how a person might jump to that conclusion,” I shot Aarons a look, “but I simply did not believe it. The problem was, of course, how to prove it.”
“And did you?” Lola asked. “Prove it, I mean. For sure.”
I gave her a patient smile. “Yes. I did. You see, there was no way that Cyril could have shot himself that night without anyone hearing it. The shot had to be muffled. And if that was the case, then it had to be murder. Eventually, the police came to agree with me.”
Detective Aarons grimaced, but nodded in agreement.
“So, if it was murder, the question to answer next was why? Why would someone want to murder Cyril Brumble? What I found was that there were a lot of reasons. From a lot of people. First of all, there was his wife. Or rather, his ex-wife.” I held up the newspaper with Dorothea Caron’s face plastered on it. “She was a troubled woman, Dorothea. And although Cyril continued to help her financially, he left her for Hollywood, and eventually another woman. Did she kill him out of anger or as revenge and then throw herself from a bridge? After all, Sam heard him arguing with a woman who wasn’t Lola the night he died. So was she the killer? Possible, but unlikely. You see, I saw Dorothea at the pool party. She seemed more sad than angry. So why were they arguing? Perhaps it was because he couldn’t afford to pay for her anymore now that he was about to remarry. That his new wife insisted he cut the old wife off. Isn’t that right, Lola?” I whirled to face Lola.
