Kate let out a breath of exasperation. “For a second, I thought you were serious.”
“I am. Don’t you recognize it?”
It was Bonnie’s scarf, black with white polka dots—the one she’d tied around her hair on Monday when Kate had rolled down the car window. “Yes, but Bonnie didn’t kill Lemmy.”
Hugo’s lips curved in a wicked smile. “How do you know?”
“Bonnie” was all she needed to say.
“It’s a clue.” He opened the scarf between his two hands. “Proof she was here.”
“A million women have scarves like that.” But it was actually rather unique, Kate realized, with a white chain pattern around the border. She tilted the corner and saw a Chanel label—which meant expensive. She couldn’t imagine there’d been many rich, stylish women strolling through Ollie’s office recently. “It’s probably been here for years.”
“I know.” Hugo grinned. “But it’s kind of fun to picture Bonnie stabbing Lemmy with a sword.”
“Not so fun, actually.”
“It’s just a red herring. Every good mystery needs them.”
Kate frowned. “A fish?”
“Misleading clue. But Bonnie doesn’t make a good suspect because she didn’t have a motive. She never even met Lemmy.”
All at once, Kate knew why the photo albums had felt important: they’d reminded her of some other photos, burned by Reuben in the fireplace. Lemmy had taken dirty photos of Bonnie through her bedroom window. Maybe he’d already shown them to her and demanded blackmail money, just as her career was taking off. And now Lemmy was dead. And Bonnie’s scarf was here. And her yellow car had been moved during the timeframe when Lemmy was killed.
Kate felt light-headed. She walked to one of the armchairs in front of Ollie’s desk, pushed a stack of newspapers to the floor, and sat.
Hugo followed. “You all right? You went pale, all of the sudden.”
She rested her elbows on the armrests and pressed her fingers to her temples. “Hugo, I think Bonnie may have done it.”
He laughed. “Sorry, I was just joking around. There’s no way that girl killed someone.” He leaned back against the front of the desk, and the sight of him wearing a kilt calmed her somehow. “It’s only a scarf, Kate, probably from some old costume.” He dropped it on the desk.
But she wasn’t convinced. “Did you notice that her car was moved at the studio? She could have driven here while we were all separated, and nobody would know.”
“Why would she? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Because there was something in this house she needed to find and destroy, but Lemmy walked in, and she panicked and grabbed the sword.” The more Kate thought about it, the more it made sense.
But Hugo only looked amused. “Okay … exciting action scene … but what in this house would Bonnie need to find and destroy?”
Kate wasn’t sure if she should tell him.
“What? I can see that big brain of yours working.” He folded his arms, making his biceps stand out. Somehow, wearing a skirt only accentuated his masculinity.
“Lemmy took pictures of Bonnie through her bedroom window. Pictures of her … undressing.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “Okay. I didn’t expect your imagination to go that direction, but I like the unexpected plot twist.”
Her face warmed. “I didn’t make it up. I watched Reuben burn the photos. You can ask him yourself.”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly. Reuben didn’t think Bonnie knew about the pictures, but what if she did? What if Lemmy had already threatened to sell them to a gossip magazine unless she paid him off? Image is everything in showbiz, and hers is supposed to be sweet and wholesome, not—”
“Slow down. This is Bonnie we’re talking about. She wouldn’t kill someone over dirty pictures. She would—I don’t know—tell her mom or something.”
“She didn’t plan to kill him. She came to find the photos but doesn’t know this house. She saw those photo albums”—Kate pointed at the table below Captain Powell—“and came in here. She would have figured out they were Ollie’s old photos and moved on, but Lemmy walked in. He probably said something horrible and scared her, and she panicked and grabbed the sword.”
Hugo frowned, mulling it over. “It’s surprisingly logical. But then, how did Lemmy end up in the kitchen?”
“I don’t know. He … he staggered in there and died.”
“Why not stagger to the telephone and call for help? That’s the other direction.”
“The phone wasn’t working on Monday.” Kate tapped her fingers on the armrest. “Is there a first aid kit in the kitchen?”
Hugo laughed. “No, but maybe he thought a dishrag could save his life, so I’ll give you that. But how did the sword end up in the kitchen?”
She tugged at a loose thread on the armrest. “He grabbed it from her.”
“After she stabbed him? So … Lemmy grabbed the sword and then staggered to the kitchen without dropping any blood along the way? There’s no blood trail.”
Kate frowned, annoyed that she hadn’t thought of that.
“He was stabbed in the kitchen,” Hugo said. “So—either Bonnie stalked him there like a cold-blooded killer, sword in hand. Or—he was killed by someone else.”
She wrapped the thread around her finger, knowing she should be relieved that Bonnie seemed innocent, but she wasn’t convinced. The thread dug into her skin.
“Kate,” Hugo said gently. “I was only making up a funny story about the scarf. I don’t think Bonnie killed Lemmy and then came back to the studio like nothing was wrong. Remember the way she danced with Aurelio at auditions? She was singing in the car on the way home.”
“She’s an actress.”
“Nobody’s that good. Not her, that’s for sure.”
Kate tugged at the loose thread, snapping it free. He was right. Bonnie couldn’t kill Lemmy in such a horrific, bloody way, and then return to the studio to dance and laugh. She wasn’t the killer—and it wasn’t Kate’s job to solve this crime. She sighed and stretched out her legs in front of the chair. “Hugo, we shouldn’t have hidden that sword. What a stupid thing to do.”
He shrugged. “I still think it was brilliant.”
Her gaze slid to his kilt and bare legs—rather nice legs, now that she looked at them. He would think hiding a murder weapon was brilliant. “It’s Detective Bassett’s job to solve this crime, and he can’t do that without the most important piece of evidence. The killer’s fingerprints are probably on that sword.”
“I’m not sure that guy could solve it with the sword, fingerprints, and a signed confession.”
“I think he’s more clever than he lets on.” Kate’s fingertips rubbed against the rough armrest. She’d been in a spell last night, agreeing to hide a murder weapon while a killer walked free, but it was time to be sensible. “We have to give it to him, Hugo, and we have to tell him it was in the kitchen, because that’s part of the puzzle.”
Hugo spoke slowly. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Kate.”
“We can explain why we hid it—so he wouldn’t suspect Ollie.”
“He will suspect Ollie. He’ll suspect all of us.”
“I’m his biggest suspect right now, but that’s his job, and he’ll get to the truth eventually. But not without that sword.” Her fingers found another loose thread. “I should tell him about Bonnie’s scarf too, I guess, and the car being moved. They might be important clues.”
“And Bonnie’s dirty pictures? Some cop will leak that story to a reporter for fifty bucks, and it’ll end up in the papers.”
Kate frowned, not liking the thought of Bonnie being taken in for questioning. The movie would be delayed—maybe canceled altogether, and Aurelio would lose his lead role. All for nothing, if Bonnie didn’t do it.
“We’ll give him the sword, Kate, but not until he’s done suspecting the people in this house and focused his attention on the real killer.”
She considered that. “Reuben burned more photos besides Bonnie’s. He said most of them were movie stars misbehaving at the club. Maybe one of them came to the house to pay off Lemmy, and things got out of hand.”
“That makes sense. I’ll talk to Reuben tomorrow. He might remember who was in the photos. And I’ll search the house for more clues. There might be a blood trail we didn’t notice.”
Kate looked at the terra cotta floor beyond the Persian rug, the same color as dried blood. “I don’t know, Hugo. We should tell the police what we know.”
“Let’s investigate on our own first. You’re smart, and I know a lot about murder.”
She flashed a wry smile. “I wouldn’t brag about that.”
“I’ll hide my notebook on how to commit the perfect crime.” He was enjoying this.
And so was she, she realized, despite the grisly circumstance.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “We’ll be like those amateur sleuths in the books. They always outwit the police. You can be Nancy Drew and I’ll be Ned Nickerson. You even have the right hair color.”
“Nancy Drew is a redhead?”
“Titian. I had to look it up. It’s that reddish-brown color, like yours.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “First of all, my aunt’s the only person who calls red hair titian. For another thing—you read Nancy Drew? I thought you were a Dashiell Hammett man.”
Hugo shrugged. “Esther may have left a few around the house. Surprisingly hard to put down.”
“I have a whole new respect.”
“So … what do you say, Kate? Want to play detective together?” His eyes locked on hers, daring her to play his game.
She was tempted.
But shook her head. “This is a real murder, Hugo, and if things go wrong, we could both end up in prison for concealing evidence.”
The playful light in his eyes dimmed. “You’re probably right.”
She hated seeing his disappointment—disappointment in her, really. She dropped her eyes from his—and saw the green plaid kilt, a reminder of how different they were. He spent his days pulling hats from a wheelbarrow and playacting with an old man in striped pajamas. Last night, he’d pulled her into his spell for a while—a nice spell—but that hadn’t been the real her.
Her gaze crossed the rug to her own Italian calfskin loafers. Neatly creased slacks. Cashmere sweater, tucked in. A simple gold chain. Everything expensive but tasteful. A Hildebrand to the core.
She was disappointed in herself too.
I am not afraid.
She lifted her eyes to his. “Hugo.”
“Yes, Kate?”
“I want to be Nancy Drew.”
He smiled.
Dinner was all wrong.
For one thing, no one was properly dressed. Ollie’s toga kept sliding off his shoulder, so he looked naked across the table. Hugo sat at the end, barefoot and bare-legged. Reuben sat next to Kate, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, exposing a dingy undershirt. Even Kate had it wrong, wearing slacks; Aunt Lorna had always insisted on a dress for dinner.
Hugo’s pot roast, carrots, and potatoes were delicious but served straight from the pot on the table. Kate asked for a napkin and was handed a dishrag.
Reuben dominated the conversation with rants about politics and religion—something about Stalin and a civil war in Spain. Mentions of Hitler and a few quotes about class consciousness that sounded vaguely Marxist.
Aurelio arrived mid-meal to cheers of welcome. He had large sweat marks under his arms and shoveled food into his mouth, pulling his beef apart with his fingers. Ollie stood and recited a poem in a booming voice—something about dining with friends—and Aurelio sang a little ditty with dirty lyrics.
It was the best dinner party Kate had ever attended.
She was overly aware of Hugo sitting nearby and sensed his matching awareness, their careful glances just missing each other. He seemed to be making an effort to use good table manners, and she made an effort to relax hers.
“Oh!” Aurelio cried suddenly. “You’re all invited to Bonnie’s birthday party Friday night. You too, Ollie. I saw Mrs. Fairchild at rehearsal, and she said to invite you special.”
Ollie’s face froze for a few seconds before he managed a polite smile. “Unfortunately, I have other plans that evening, but you must thank her for me.”
Kate remembered how eager Mrs. Fairchild had seemed to repair their friendship. “Maybe you should go, Ollie, just for five minutes. We can go together.”
He pretended not to hear, bending to feed the dog.
Aurelio licked gravy from his thumb. “I’m borrowing a suit from the studio.” He had a new, stylish haircut, and his face had been groomed to masculine perfection. Kate had seen other men getting worked over in the makeup department: face creams rubbed, nails filed, hairs between eyes plucked.
She said, “Maybe I can borrow suits for the rest of you too.”
Reuben barked a laugh. “Thanks, but I’ll skip the kiddie party.”
“Bonnie said it’ll be her mom’s friends mostly,” Aurelio said. “Directors and producers, so I better look sharp and make a good impression. Guess that’s a high bar for you, Reuben.”
“Hey,” Reuben griped, wiping a greasy finger on his undershirt.
Kate wondered if she should tell Reuben the music department needed musicians but decided against it—not until she knew if she could get him an audition. She looked at Hugo. “You’ll go to Bonnie’s party, won’t you?”
“Can’t. Have to work every night except Sunday.” He glanced at the clock and pushed back his chair. “I’m late now. Someone else clean up.”
“I’ll do it,” Kate said, earning her a private smile from Hugo. He held her gaze as he walked to the door, nearly running into the wall. He laughed as he disappeared.
Reuben leaned his shoulder toward her. “Careful now,” he said in a low voice. “That boy isn’t as tough as he looks. You’re going to break his heart when you decide to move on.”
Kate’s gaze darted to the others, but they were too busy dividing up the last of the roast to have heard. She wasn’t sure if she should deny any feelings between her and Hugo or insist she would never break his heart. She settled for “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Reuben huffed a laugh. “The way you’re blushing, maybe you’re the one whose heart is in danger.”
“Whose heart is in danger?” Ollie asked from across the table.
“Everybody’s heart is fine,” Kate snapped.
Reuben laughed as he stood. He leaned down to give her a final, quiet warning. “Don’t play games with my friend. You and I both know you’re way out of his league, but he’s a dreamer.”