The house smelled delicious. Kate stood still, breathed in, and decided it was pot roast. Every light seemed to be on, and the high notes of an operatic soprano drifted from the living room, with a scratchy quality that suggested a record player.
She moved to the arched opening.
Hugo sat sideways in the wingback chair, wearing a dark blue beret, his head bent over a National Geographic magazine, his legs draped over the arm of the chair. His calves were bare, and for a second, she thought he was wearing green, plaid shorts, then she realized it was a kilt.
“Do ya cool them jumping jacks?” he called over the opera without looking up from the magazine. “Me dog could do better.”
“Your dog can’t even … climb the stairs,” Ollie huffed from a few feet away, his outstretched arms rising and falling in lazy jumping jacks, his feet rooted to the floor. Today’s hat was a wreath of laurel leaves—which explained the white sheet draped over his shoulder, belted at his waist.
“Aye, but me dog ain’t seekin’ fame and glory. So move yer legs, ya lazy cur, or I’ll be addin’ a dozen moor.”
Ollie noticed Kate in the doorway and smiled brightly, his arms still pumping. “Kate! You’re home!”
Hugo’s eyes darted up from the magazine. Their gazes held as she walked closer, full of everything that had passed between them the night before, but all he said was, “Aye, the bonnie lass hay returned.” The kilt looked strangely at home on him, with his Celtic pallor and brooding good looks.
She stopped when she reached the dog at the foot of the chair. “I’m guessing you pulled that beret out of the wheelbarrow.”
“Tisn’t some Frenchie beret, ya daft lassie, tis me Scottish tam.” He pulled it off his head, releasing dark, tousled hair. “Only, I’m a fearin’ I sound a wee bit Irish.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t know.” The green kilt had slid up, revealing nice thighs shaped by muscle.
Hugo smiled dangerously, pulling down the hem. “Mind yer wicked eyes.”
Kate returned his smile, as the soprano’s song peaked in a final high note.
“Twenty,” Ollie huffed, lowering his arms. His state of half-dress wasn’t nearly as intriguing as Hugo’s. “I’m in training, Kate. I decided you were right—I need more exercise. Every hour, Hugo blows the horn, and I walk up and down the staircase twice and do twenty jumping jacks.” He patted his belly. “Two weeks and I’ll be back in my old clothes.”
“Two months if you stop sneaking crackers.” Hugo spun the dark blue tam on one hand.
“I’m going to act again!” Ollie declared. “I quit because the big studios took over, and I refused to work for the likes of Jack Warner and Clive Falcon. But you’ve brought me back to life, Kate! I want to work again!”
“That’s wonderful, Ollie.” It was just the fire she’d hoped to ignite in him.
“I always wanted your mother to get into the business, but she wasn’t interested. Now you’re here and we can work together. Isn’t it marvelous?”
“Marvelous,” she agreed, smiling.
“Hugo thinks I should start on the stage, where I can show my full range of expression. You know—move around a little.” He spread his arms, and she caught a glimpse of swim shorts underneath the toga, which was a relief. “I always loved stage more than film, connecting with real people, not a camera. I could start at the Pasadena Playhouse, right here in town, then move on to Broadway. What do you think, Kate? Would you like living in New York City for a while? It’s glorious in the fall.”
She would be at Cal Berkeley in the fall but said, “Sounds fun. I’ve never been to New York.”
“Can you imagine the hoopla when word gets out that I’ve returned to acting? But I’m going to be very selective. I don’t want to work as much as I used to.”
Kate glanced at Hugo but couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
Reuben’s voice shouted from the depths of the house. “Ollie! Get in here and tell me what this is!”
Ollie sighed. “He’s had me sorting papers all day like a damn bookkeeper. And this one’s got me jumping around like a lunatic. I should throw you all out.” He patted Kate’s shoulder on his way from the room. “Not you, my dear.”
She waited until he’d disappeared before asking Hugo in a lowered voice, “Do you think he’ll actually go through with it?”
Hugo shrugged, closing his National Geographic. “A week ago, I would have said no. But with you here, yeah, I think he actually might.”
“But … will anyone hire him? What if he gets his hopes up, and nobody wants him?”
“Better to have dashed hopes than no hopes at all, don’t you think?”
Kate wasn’t so sure.
“He’s already famous, at least,” Hugo said. “That goes a long way in this town. He just needs to figure out that he won’t be playing Romeo anymore, he’ll be old Friar Laurence.”
She gave a short laugh. “I’ll let you tell him.”
Hugo’s gaze shifted to the ornate coffee table. “He, uh, saw you in the paper this morning.”
“This morning?” Kate hadn’t seen it. She picked up the newspaper—and drew a quick breath at the sight of her and Tad holding hands, surrounded by reporters and cameras. Kate was a step ahead, glancing back at Tad, who looked at her with concern. The photo had probably been taken as she was yanking her hand from his, eager to get away, but it looked like she was reaching back to make sure they stayed connected. The caption read: Kitty Hildebrand working hand in hand with studio heir Tad Falcon.
She read the first few lines of the article—a gossip column.
No grass growing under the feet of Kitty Hildebrand. She only moved in with her movie star grandfather, Oliver Banks, a few days ago but has already become the talk of Tinseltown. First, she discovered her grandfather’s accountant murdered in the kitchen. Now, she has snatched the enviable spot of right-hand girl to one of Hollywood’s most eligible young producers.
She lifted her eyes to find Hugo watching her. She tossed the paper on the coffee table. “It’s rubbish.”
“Right,” he said carefully. “Because Lemmy wasn’t Ollie’s accountant.”
“Tad was just helping me get through the reporters in front of the house.” Which didn’t make sense, since she was leading the way.
“Very chivalrous. I didn’t know he was here last night.”
“He … drove me home.”
“Ah.”
Ollie whooped in the distance, then appeared in the doorway a moment later, his toga drooping off his shoulder. “Come—come at once! Reuben has found George Washington!” He darted away.
Kate and Hugo exchanged a confused look and followed.
Reuben stood behind Ollie’s desk. “I almost threw them out,” he said in a dazed voice, looking down at the desk. “Buried under a bunch of fan mail from old ladies.”
“What is it?” Kate asked, going around the desk on one side, while Hugo went around on the other. They all stared down at three old letters spread across an open leather portfolio—three papers of various sizes and shades of beige.
“George Washington,” Ollie said happily, pressing in behind them. He pushed an arm between Kate and Reuben, pointing to the letter in the middle. “And that’s Abraham Lincoln. I forget the other one.” He reached for the letter on the right.
Reuben slapped his hand. “Jefferson, and don’t touch. They belong in a museum.”
Kate stared down, astonished. The writing on the left was hard to read, but the signature was clearly G. Washington; the middle letter was more neatly penned, signed A. Lincoln; and the letter on the right had an impatient scrawl at the bottom—Th. Jefferson. “Are these real?”
“Of course they’re real. I bought them at an auction. Well, Frank Fairchild bought them for me, back when I had more money than I knew what to do with. Frank was smart about money. Said I needed to—” Ollie wiggled his fingers. “There’s a word for it—when you buy different things—”
“Diversify,” Reuben said.
“That’s it. Frank had me buying all sorts of strange things—cattle ranches and orange groves, houses I never saw. We bought land together out on Signal Hill when the oil boom happened. Craziest thing you ever saw—hundreds of tall rigs right next to one another. The hill looked like a porcupine.”
Reuben turned to look at Ollie. “Are you telling me you own an oil well?”
“Oh, mine was a duster. Frank struck black gold and I lost my shirt.” Ollie laughed easily. “But you’d be surprised how much money you can make off oranges.”
Kate hardly dared to hope. “Do you still own any of these investments?”
“No, no—had to sell it all when the stock market crashed, pennies on the dollar. Those were sad days, everyone dumping their possessions as fast as they could. Made everything worthless overnight. Frank managed to hold on to his oil company, so he rebounded faster than most of us.”
“You still have these letters,” Hugo said. “Do you think they’re worth anything?”
“I should think so. Frank said he had to keep bidding higher and higher. Ended up three or four thousand dollars, I think.”
Reuben huffed a breath of disgust. “And you stuck them in a cardboard box.” He picked up a business card poking out from behind Abraham Lincoln. The card had a sketch of an auctioneer’s gavel on it, with the name Bleeker & Sons and an address in Beverly Hills. “This must be the place where he bought them. I’ll drive there tomorrow and see what you can sell them for.”
“If Ollie wants you to,” Hugo said. “He never sells his stuff.”
“Oh, I don’t care about these,” Ollie said. “No sentimental value. Might as well get some money out of them.” He patted Kate’s shoulder. “We’ll buy you some pretty dresses.”
She was touched, but said, “I have plenty of dresses, Ollie, but thank you.”
“How about a finder’s fee?” Reuben asked. “I could use a new suit.”
“Goodness, yes—ten percent!”
“You don’t have to pay Reuben,” Hugo said. “They’re your letters.”
“And I’m the one who found them, cleaning up his junky office.”
“Fine, but you have to go to the auction house and handle everything.”
“No problem.” Reuben stacked the letters inside the portfolio. “I’m going to keep this in my room before it gets lost again.” He made his way to the door.
Ollie trailed him. “I’m famished. Let’s eat.”
“Stay away from that roast,” Hugo said, following them. “I need to check it.”
Kate remained alone behind the desk.
The stuffed black cat watched her with its amber eyes, looking eerily alive. “Hello, Boots,” she murmured, understanding why Ollie talked to it. Probably an old pet he couldn’t bear to part with.
She looked up at his other old friends around her. The snarling tiger. The mummy and suit of armor. The tables were crowded, the floor a mess, the bookcase crammed with more than books.
Was any of it actually valuable?
Detective Bassett thought she’d snuck home to rob Ollie, which was absurd, but she wondered, suddenly, if that’s exactly why the killer had been in the house. They hadn’t come to kill Lemmy, but to steal things, and when Lemmy had come home unexpectedly, they’d grabbed the sword on impulse. Kate looked at the sword case on the wall and was startled to see it wasn’t there. Two nails remained, but it looked like a couple of pictures had been removed—no indication that it had been a sword case.
“Well done, Hugo,” Kate murmured. She didn’t mind deceiving Detective Bassett so much, now that he’d accused her of murder.
Captain Powell stared out from the deck of his ship, handsome and brave, his sword raised. He didn’t really look like Ollie, other than the dimples, the face too angular, the eyes too fierce. She wondered if the painting was worth anything beyond sentimental value. Probably not.
But the killer had stood right there, close enough to grab the sword.
Kate’s heart beat faster as she walked toward the painting. The sword case wasn’t near the door. To reach it, the killer had to enter Ollie’s office, walk past the snarling tiger, step over piles of magazines and costumes—all with the goal of reaching a murder weapon that looked like a fake Hollywood prop.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless the killer was already standing near the sword when Lemmy surprised him.
Her gaze darted over the items on the table below the painting, wondering what was worth stealing. Up close, Captain Powell’s pistol and dagger were clearly fake. His captain’s hat, just a ratty costume. There were a few framed photos, and some scrapbooks and photo albums stacked at the end of the table—the ones Ollie had been looking at on Monday.
Photos. A thought nudged at the back of her mind, just out of sight. The photo albums felt important, somehow, but she couldn’t think why. Out of everything in this room, they were least likely to draw a thief.
“The roast needs ten more minutes,” Hugo said from the doorway.
Kate looked up but barely saw him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, coming closer.
“I’m trying to figure out why the killer would be standing right here.”
“How do you know they were? Lemmy was killed in the kitchen.”
“They used the sword. I don’t think someone would do that unless they grabbed it on impulse.” She glanced at the empty spot on the wall. “Good job on hiding the display case, by the way.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d approve, but Reuben said that detective called, asking about a sword, so I thought we should get it out of sight. We put it in the trunk of Reuben’s car, and that detective showed up an hour later.”
“I saw him outside, and I’m his new prime suspect. He thinks I’m greedy enough to steal from my grandfather and I killed Lemmy because he caught me in the act.”
“He’s just fishing around. He accused Reuben and me too.”
“But it made me think,” Kate said. “Maybe the killer was a thief. Why else would they be in this house when nobody was home? Unless Lemmy brought a friend home with him.”
“Lemmy didn’t have any friends. He didn’t even sleep here, half the time. I think Moe Kravitz told him to live here for a while to spy on Reuben and make sure he didn’t plan to squeal, but then Lemmy overheard us talking about Ollie’s loan and stuck around, looking for some way to take advantage.”
“So,” Kate said, her thoughts turning. “The killer wasn’t a friendly visitor, and they didn’t come here to kill Lemmy.”
“How do you know that?”
“They didn’t bring a weapon. They used Ollie’s sword—nobody’s first choice.”
“Oh, right.”
“They came here to rob Ollie, and Lemmy walked in. Knowing Lemmy, he probably said something nasty that made the killer angry.” Kate’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Maybe the killer was defending himself.”
“Could be. Lemmy was a nasty piece of work.”
“The killer was standing in this very spot, close enough to notice the sword and use it. But why? Is something here worth stealing?” Kate looked back at the stack of photo albums, unable to shake the feeling they were important somehow.
“Now, this is interesting.” Hugo walked around her, bent, and picked something up.
“What?” Kate turned.
He kept his back to her, studying whatever he held. “So … it’s your theory that the killer was standing right here at some point?”
“They had to be.”
“Then I know who killed Lemmy.” Hugo turned slowly, holding up his find. “The person who left this behind.”