Kate sat alone on the green velvet sofa, her spine straight, her hands squeezed together. Night had fallen, and she’d turned on the lamp beside her—a brass sculpture of a half-naked goddess holding up a glowing world.
Her gaze shifted to the wheelbarrow of hats. Maybe Hugo understood her grandfather, but she didn’t, and she couldn’t stay in a house where people were murdered.
She heard hushed voices and looked to the foyer to see Hugo, Aurelio, and Reuben huddled at the base of the stairs. Hugo had said he would stay with the body, but she’d seen him carrying a plate upstairs a short time ago—probably food for Ollie—and now he whispered with Reuben and Aurelio. She craned her ears but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Aurelio left through the front door, and Hugo walked back toward the kitchen.
Reuben entered the living room, short and stocky, his arms loaded with papers. He crossed to the fireplace, dumped the papers inside, then crouched and struck a match.
“Burning evidence before the police get here?” Kate asked, in no mood to be careful.
Reuben gave her a sideways glance. “This has nothing to do with Lemmy getting stabbed.”
“How do you know? Unless you know who killed him—and why.”
He blew on the embers, then plucked a photograph from the edge of the pile and handed it to Kate. The photo showed a blond girl inside a distant second-floor window, wearing only a bra and panties, stepping into a dress, seemingly unaware of the camera outside. The girl’s image was grainy, but it was definitely Bonnie.
“Who took this?” she demanded, horrified. Bonnie had mentioned spying on Ollie’s house from her bedroom window; she didn’t know they were spying back.
“Not me.” Reuben snatched the photo and tossed it back in the fireplace. “I found them under Lemmy’s mattress. My guess, he took them in case she got famous. Studios will pay big money to keep photos like that from seeing the light of day.” He picked up a different photo and held it toward Kate for her to see—a man with a woman in an evening dress on his lap, both of them laughing. “Most of the photos he took are from the club. Drunk actors misbehaving.” He tossed the photo onto the flames. “Some of those movie star marriages aren’t as perfect as the studios want you to think.”
Kate watched the flames lick around the edges of the pile, her stomach tight with disgust. “Did you know he took pictures like that?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me.” Reuben picked up the poker and jabbed at the smoldering pile. “Lemmy Berman was a snake, through and through, and I’m glad he’s dead.”
“And Ollie let him live here.”
“Your granddad lives in fairy-tale land, in case you haven’t noticed.” Reuben glanced her way and shrugged. “I didn’t know Lemmy was like that either, at first, and by the time I did, it was too late. I couldn’t get rid of him.”
Kate frowned, remembering Lemmy in the kitchen that morning as they’d eaten pancakes. He’d made a few snide remarks about telling Moe Kravitz what Reuben had been up to lately. Reuben had looked angry, but also a little afraid, biting back his temper. And now it made sense. “Was Lemmy blackmailing you too?”
“None of your business.”
Her own temper sparked. “I just found him dead a few feet from my bedroom, and now I’m watching you burn evidence. I think it’s my business.” She added, feeling reckless, “And I know your real name—Reuben Feigenbaum.”
He turned, holding the poker, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
Her heart raced, but Hugo and her grandfather were only a scream away. “Are you in some of those photos?”
His mouth twisted. “Nobody wants to see me in my BVDs.” He lifted the poker and pointed to a wide, flat book in the fire, its edges catching fire. “It’s that ledger that keeps me up at night, and I’m not burning it to protect myself, I’m burning it to protect your sweet old granddad.”
Kate stared at the book—a business ledger, not embarrassing photos—trying to make sense of it. “My grandfather works for Moe Kravitz too?”
Reuben gave a short laugh. “You kidding? Moe eats actors like him for breakfast.”
“What do you mean?”
“Big shot movie stars. They come into the club, throwing their money around like it’ll never run out. But it always does. And then their good buddy Moe offers to give them a loan. And when their next picture tanks, they borrow more. And when they can’t make the interest payments, he takes their mansions and their fancy cars, and then Mr. Big Shot Movie Star is broke and homeless, and Moe Kravitz is richer and laughing.”
It sounded like some B-grade gangster movie. “Ollie borrowed money from Moe Kravitz?”
“Plenty, starting five or six years ago, when the studios stopped hiring him.”
“Stopped hiring him? He stopped taking roles. He told me about it on the phone once, how he got tired of dealing with the big studios.”
Reuben grunted. “Believe that if you want, but that’s not what Hugo told me.”
Kate hesitated, then asked, “What did Hugo tell you?”
“That movies got sound, and silent film stars went out of style. You know, all the big eyes and dramatic poses. Nobody wants that anymore. He did three talking pictures, and they all tanked. Some critic called him a cloak-and-dagger clown, and then no one would touch him.”
Kate felt a bit hollow. She’d imagined a more mutual lack of interest, not Ollie reading humiliating reviews and nobody wanting him.
Reuben fed a couple of loose photographs to the flames. “He was only a name on the books for me. Six months ago, I was getting papers ready to have him kicked out of this house, when Moe got arrested and I needed a place to hide. So I came here.” He cast her a sideways look, almost embarrassed. “And a funny thing happened.”
“You liked him,” Kate guessed.
“I felt sorry for him. He had no clue how much trouble he was in. I organized his bank papers and tried to show him how bad it was. Told him to sell his old movie stuff, and he might make enough to save the house. But he thinks Moe is some nice friend from the good old days who only wants the best for him.”
Kate looked at the ledger, which was starting to blacken and curl. “That book shows Ollie’s loan?”
“The end of it. July 1938.” Reuben touched it with the poker. “After I’d been here a few months, I snuck into the club and brought it back here. Copied the whole thing, fudging numbers so it looked like Ollie paid back the money. Moe doesn’t pay attention to details like that. He’d never know. Then I took the fake book back to the club and kept the real one here.”
“You erased Ollie’s loan.” Kate thought it through. “But Lemmy was the new bookkeeper and figured it out.”
Reuben snorted. “He was too lazy to dig that deep. But he overheard me talking about it with Hugo, and then I was his patsy and we both knew it. If he told Moe what I’d done, I’d be dead, slow and painful. And Ollie wouldn’t smell so sweet either, even though he knew nothing about it.”
“Ollie doesn’t know? He thinks he still owes the money?”
“I told him I found some old bank account and paid it back. He kept asking me when my unpleasant friend was going to move out. But Lemmy was having too much fun to go anywhere. A cat playing with a bunch of half-dead mice.”
Kate frowned. “But if Lemmy told Moe Kravitz, wouldn’t the fake ledger prove him wrong?”
“Only on the surface. Any decent accountant could figure it out once they knew what to look for. That fake ledger proved I fudged the numbers.”
“But—” Kate looked at the fire. “That’s the real ledger, right? So, you kept it. After Lemmy heard you talking to Hugo, you could have returned it to the club and destroyed the fake. Then Lemmy’s story would have looked invented and you would look innocent.”
Reuben grunted. “You’re too smart for your own good.” He turned his back to her and stared into the fire.
It dawned on her. “If you’d done that, Ollie would still owe the money and lose the house. You let Lemmy push you around to protect Ollie.”
Reuben stabbed a stray photograph with the poker and pushed it deeper. “I’m no saint. I kept this real ledger just in case. But now Lemmy’s dead, and I’m done with it. Ollie’s loan is gone for good.”
“So…” She saw the obvious. “You killed Lemmy for Ollie’s sake.”
He gave a smirking laugh. “Now you’re talking stupid. I was at the studio with you.”
Which left only one conclusion. “Then Ollie must have killed him. He and Lemmy were home alone, Lemmy told him you lied about paying back the loan, that he was going to lose the house—gloated about it—and Ollie snapped.”
“If he did, I owe him one.” Reuben turned slowly to face her. “But I can’t see it. It’s not so easy, killing a man when you’re looking him in the eye. Ollie doesn’t have it in him.”
Kate didn’t want to know how Reuben knew that. “How could you work at a place like that?”
His scarred cheek sagged, making him look sad and sorry. “I didn’t know at first. Thought it was just a little crooked gambling. Taking money from folks who had plenty and threw it around. And by the time I knew the whole racket, I was in too deep. That’s how Moe operates—makes sure everyone’s hands get a little bit dirty, so they can never leave. Like I said, I’m no saint.”
The ledger was now fully engulfed in flames, Ollie’s loan destroyed. He’d been a fool to borrow money from a man who ran an illegal gambling club, and an even bigger fool not to pay it back.
But Kate had no right to judge. She’d made a horrible mistake of her own once. A mistake that couldn’t be erased in a fire. “Thank you, Reuben. My grandfather will never know what you did for him, but I do.”
“It’s over now,” he muttered, sliding the poker back into its holder. “Time to face the coppers, I guess.”
Outside, sirens wailed.
Reuben opened the door to two uniformed police officers. They talked in the foyer a moment, glancing at Kate in the living room, then a detective in a suit and hat arrived, and they all walked toward the back of the house.
Kate remained where she was, not wanting to see Lemmy again.
The dog entered the living room, shuffled to the empty wingback chair, and dropped to the floor with a weary exhalation. “I know just how you feel,” Kate muttered.
Outside, tires squealed, a car door slammed, and men’s voices called out. Kate expected a knock on the door, but it didn’t come, so she stood and peered around the drapes, and saw several reporters setting up camera tripods in the front yard. Two argued over the best location, as more hurried toward the house, carrying equipment.
Her stomach dropped. Of course it would be on the front page—a man murdered in Oliver Banks’s kitchen.
A flashbulb popped and flared in front of her, making her squint. “It’s the granddaughter!” The other reporters scurried to face the window, more flashbulbs flaring, someone shouting her name.
Kate dropped the drape and stumbled back, her head flooding with a four-year-old memory—her first morning after leaving the hospital, naively opening Aunt Lorna’s drapes to find the world staring back, scrambling into motion at the sight of her. The first time she’d really understood that she was famous.
And now it was happening again.
“Kitty! Is your grandfather home?”
“Can you tell us who’s been killed, Kitty?”
“Miss Hildebrand?” This voice came from behind her, and she whirled, her heart in her throat, to see a detective in a suit and hat entering the living room. He nodded toward the window. “Sorry about them. Always quick to smell blood, especially at a movie star’s house.”
She opened her mouth, but her head felt drained of words and blood. Outside, voices still shouted her name.
“Maybe you better sit down. You look kind of pale.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” But she sat on the green sofa.
“I’m Detective Bassett.” He stopped on the other side of the gilded coffee table and pulled out a notebook. “Mr. Kensington says you’re the one who found him?”
It took her a moment to realize he meant Charles Kensington—Reuben. “Yes, that’s correct.” She smoothed her dress over her knees.
“He says you all just got back from Falcon Pictures.” He rummaged in his pockets and found a pencil. “That must have been exciting, visiting a real motion picture studio. Are you an actor, like your grandfather?”
“No, I only went because…” She wasn’t sure how to explain. “The girl next door invited us. Aurelio got a part—he lives here—and I was hired as a production assistant.”
Detective Bassett wrote in his notebook. His brown suit didn’t fit very well, as if he’d ordered it from a Sears catalog. “And your grandfather? I understand he came home before the rest of you.”
“Yes, he…” Kate glanced toward the staircase, where they’d found him crying. “He took a bus home earlier. But not much earlier. I mean, he wasn’t here very long before we arrived.”
The pencil paused, the detective looking up at Kate. “But he didn’t find Mr. Berman’s body?”
“No, he … he didn’t go to the kitchen. He was upstairs in bed, I think.” Her heart beat faster at the blatant lie.
The last lie she’d told the police had haunted her for four years.
Detective Bassett pushed up the brim of his hat, revealing tufts of gray hair. “Now, that’s funny. First thing I always do when I get home is head to the kitchen to see what’s good to eat. But that’s just me, I guess.”
Kate swallowed. “I think he had a headache. That’s … that’s why he left the studio before we did.” She hoped her story matched Hugo’s and Ollie’s.
“One of the officers tells me he was called here last night in a very similar situation, only Mr. Berman wasn’t dead, just playing a prank on you.”
“Not a prank. They were rehearsing Hugo’s play. But I thought it was real.” The pencil scratched. It was unnerving to have everything she said written down.
Outside, the rumble of activity had increased. A reporter shouted something and another man laughed.
“You live here with your grandfather?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. She couldn’t live in a house where people were murdered, but she didn’t live anywhere else either. “I arrived last night to live with him. I didn’t know he had boarders, so it surprised me when I found them rehearsing. That’s why I thought it was real.”
Detective Bassett scratched his forehead. “Seems a funny coincidence, the way he was lying in the exact same spot. Makes me wonder if the person who killed him was here last night.”
“Well … he wasn’t in the exact same spot. But yes, I guess it is a strange coincidence. But we were at the studio when it happened.” She added, “So none of us could have killed him.”
“Except your grandfather, who came home early.”
“But not very early.”
The detective puckered his lips. He had a large nose that looked like it had been broken at some point. “I’m sort of wondering—if you all went to the studio together, why didn’t Mr. Berman go with you?”
“Lemmy? He wasn’t home. He was—” She probably shouldn’t mention Moe Kravitz in prison, associating her grandfather’s household with a gangster. “I don’t know where he went.” Another blatant lie. She squeezed her hands on her lap.
“Miss Hildebrand, I know it’s not very pleasant, but can you tell me how you came to find him? What you did after entering the house?”
“Well. Hugo and I entered first.” Her gaze skittered toward the staircase. “I walked to the back of the house—because that’s where my room is—and saw the back door open. Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Maybe the killer ran out that way.”
“Could be.” Detective Bassett wrote it down.
“I went to close the door and noticed the moon, so I went outside.”
“Yeah, nice full moon tonight.”
It was no longer full, but she let it slide. “I returned and found him in the kitchen. I thought he was pretending again, then I saw the blood and screamed.” Her thoughts darted over Hugo inspecting the body, and Reuben emptying the pockets, and waiting fifteen minutes while Reuben burned dirty pictures and evidence of his real name and Ollie’s crooked loan. But all she said was, “Then we called the police.”
Somehow, she’d become part of their scheming.
Detective Bassett closed his notebook. “I think that’s it for now, but I might have more questions tomorrow.”
Kate watched him leave the room, wondering if she should warn him she might not be here tomorrow. She could probably catch an overnight train to San Francisco. Knock on a friend’s door and sleep in a guest room until Mr. Norton sent money for a hotel. No one could expect her to stay here now.
Ironically, Lemmy’s death was exactly what she’d needed.
But she’d been excited at the prospect of working at a movie studio. And getting to know her grandfather better. And even getting to know Hugo better. A few weeks of fun while she earned enough money to get back to her real life.
At least her trunks were still packed. She would wait for the police to leave, then go next door and call a taxi. She rose and made her way to the staircase, knowing she needed to tell her grandfather she was leaving.