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CORA COULDN’T GO HOME.
Not now. Not when Miss Greensbody must have known she recognized the person.
She wished she had a way to contact Randolph.
There was somebody else who was closer. Someone else she was supposed to see anyway.
Pop. Maybe he wouldn’t know what to do, but he could distract her.
Cora waved hastily to Miss Greensbody and then hurried to Club Paradiso.
Cora entered the club. The same coat check girl was there.
“Hello, Miss Clarke.” The girl touched the phone. “Shall I call your father?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Cora said. “I’ll see myself in.”
“But no one is allowed—”
Cora pushed through the door and entered the club. Pop was still on the stage, just like last time. He was still dressed impeccably, though he now wore a black suit, not that the color managed to make him appear any more sober.
Pop halted singing. “Honey bunny!”
Cora continued toward him.
Pop’s ceased smiling, perhaps noticing the seriousness on her face, and his lips straightened. He glanced around the club, as if expecting other people in it, but there were only rows of empty round tables. It was later in the day than when she’d been here first, and garnet-colored tablecloths and vases filled with fresh flowers adorned the tables. He moved from the stage and toward her, keeping his eyes on the newspaper.
Cora widened her eyes.
Pop was acting distinctly suspicious. His face had whitened, and his gait was less graceful than she was accustomed to seeing.
“What brings you here?” Pop asked in a low voice. “Did you want me to run through my songs? Maybe you want to listen to the whole performance.” His voice seemed strained, and he spoke too quickly with a forced joviality that made her blink.
“No, Pop. I’ll see your show this evening.”
“Right.” Pop frowned.
She sighed. Why was Pop acting so strangely?
“Can we speak in private?” she whispered.
Relief shone over his face. “Good idea. Let’s go to my hotel.”
“I was thinking more your backstage space.”
“Can’t trust anyone here.” He leaned closer to her. “There could be...listening devices.”
“Listening devices?” She raised her eyebrows. “We would hear those machines.”
“You’re not a security expert,” Pop said. “Can’t be too careful.”
She blinked.
Pop was truly acting most extraordinary.
“I have more security at my hotel,” Pop explained. “It’s safer.”
He snapped his fingers, and a man whom Cora had not seen approached them from another room. He must have been observing Pop carefully, and Cora was beginning to understand why Pop had insisted they find a more private location.
An uneasy feeling filled Cora.
“I know the identity of the dead person in my room,” Cora said.
“Please!” Pop scolded her. “Be quiet.” His teeth were gritted together. “We’ll talk about it later. Soon.”
Pop turned to the other man. “We’re going back to the hotel for a while.”
The man nodded, and Cora allowed herself to be bustled from Club Paradiso. Soon they arrived at Pop’s hotel. It was stylish and magnificent, and for a while, Cora could only admire the chandeliers that dangled from tall ceilings.
Pop’s suite was similarly magnificent.
“You’re doing very well,” Cora said.
“Er—yes.” Pop scratched the back of his neck.
Well.
He could be rather less suave when not surrounded by dozens of fawning women.
“I made a good business deal,” Pop said. “Very good,” he repeated, as if trying to convince himself. “Er—sweetie, what was it you wanted to say?”
“Just that I know who was in the room. It was some Persian who was supposed to meet my neighbor.”
“Your neighbor?” Pop looked startled. “Or was it someone you knew? You can tell me anything.”
“You’re acting strangely.”
Pop laughed. “Nonsense.”
But his laugh did seem tighter than normal.
Pop had been in her room. Alone. A curious feeling invaded her chest.
“Pop, are you mixed up with this?” Cora asked sternly.
“Me, naturally not.” His voice was even, controlled, the epitome of someone not telling a lie.
The only thing was... Pop wasn’t looking at her. Normally, he would look at her when telling her something. Pop’s eyes though were drifting from his hands to even the furthest corners of the room.
“Pop, he was in my room. Dead. He was in my bedroom. My new flat.” Cora had thought she’d begun speaking calmly, but her voice wobbled. The room seemed too hot, as if someone had decided to set it afire. “I thought I was crazy. That Veronica was crazy. And now I know I’m not.”
“How could anyone have transported him from your room if he was dead?” Pop smirked.
“There’s a dumbwaiter in my room,” Cora said, smiling as she remembered discovering it with Randolph. “Someone could have put him in it, then transported him out downstairs.”
“That sounds far-fetched.”
“Pop! You are not being helpful,” Cora said. “You’re supposed to give me advice. Or at least sympathize with me.”
Pop’s face sobered. “You’re right. So—er—there’s nothing you want to confess?”
“Me? No.”
Pop appeared unsettled. “And you say this guy was some friend of your neighbor? Not one of your friends? Perhaps some bad man in your life?”
“I already told you I didn’t know him,” Cora said impatiently.
Pop’s face appeared whiter than normal. “Perhaps—um—someone did not know this, saw the body in your room, and thought you—er—may have—er—lost your temper? What then?”
“That’s a preposterous suggestion. Not what we’re discussing.”
Pop was silent.
Oh.
“Pop,” Cora asked finally, “please tell me you didn’t move the body.”
Pop remained silent.
Oh, no.
“Why would you move the body?” Cora asked.
“Maybe you murdered him.” Pop shrugged.
“I’m not a murderess!” Cora exclaimed.
Pop smiled. “Of course, honey bunny. But better safe than sorry, that’s what I always say.”
“That’s what you always say?” Cora sputtered.
“There wasn’t time to ask you, what with the constable coming up the stairs.”
It all made sense.
Well, it all made some sense.
Cora could never imagine an opportunity in which disposing a body would be desired, much less deemed necessary, but Pop’s sense of logic had always varied from her own.
“You shouldn’t have moved the body,” Cora said sternly. “You weren’t even supposed to be there.”
“I changed my mind,” Pop said. “It’s not every day I’m around you. Moving into a new apartment is a big deal.”
“So you entered through the window?” Cora frowned.
“I don’t like constables,” Pop said stiffly.
“And then you put the body in the dumbwaiter?”
“It was easy.”
Cora blinked.
Cora had thought someone had moved the body, but she’d never have guessed Pop. But here he was again, interfering with her life.
“How did you even know the room had a dumbwaiter?”
Pop smiled. “I don’t like to speak about my age, but I’m old enough to know a room like that is bound to have a dumbwaiter.” He shrugged. “The second plan was just to carry it to the next apartment.”
“And break into that too presumably?” Cora asked.
Poor Bess.
“But surely if you’d truly thought I’d murdered him, you would have wanted some justice?”
Pop stared at her. “No, honey bunny. I would never want prison for you. And if you murdered him, you probably had good reason to do so.”
Cora blinked. Pop was never known for a strong sense of ethics. Moral fortitude was not what had propelled him to climb the ranks of the music industry, and it certainly had not been what made him remain strong, despite his ever-increasing age.
Still... Pop knew her. They might not be particularly close now, but that didn’t mean her own father should think her capable of such a thing.
Pop paced the floor of his bedroom. “So you’re saying I moved the body of a man whom you didn’t murder?”
“Yes, Pop.”
“No bad guy who was demanding money from you?”
“Where would I meet a guy like that? Besides, you and mother did quite a destructive bit on my finances.”
Pop didn’t even flush. “Honey bunny, we were providing for you. It’s important to keep up appearances in Hollywood. You know that. It wouldn’t do for your mother to wear a less than glamorous dress to a party.” He laughed, as if the very possibility of something off the rack for a child star’s daughter was ridiculous.
“I think I would have liked to make that decision myself.”
“You’ve been making decisions yourself, and you’ve landed yourself in a flat with a dead guy in an apartment building with a potential murderer. You don’t even have a job, and the ones you’re going for hardly pay.”
Cora looked down.
Pop was rarely right. Why did he have to be right now?
“This is a darn pain,” Pop declared.
“It’s more than a pain,” Cora said. “What if the police figure out you moved the body? They’ll think you killed the man.”
“Right.” Pop’s long legs wobbled, and he sat down rapidly into an armchair. “Well. Maybe the police will say he died of natural causes.”
“No.” Cora shook her head. “It was arsenic poisoning.”
He looked at her sharply. “How do you know?”
“I made some inquiries,” Cora said.
“Probably raised some suspicions,” Pop muttered. “I don’t want you messed up in this.” He stared at the window as the lights of London flickered before him. “I got an invitation to go to the Alps. Perhaps I should go there early.”
“You want to flee?”
“I wouldn’t frame it like that,” Pop said. “Just that tall mountains and a harsh terrain don’t seem that bad now.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Pop practically jumped, before he strolled to the door.
The stout looking man whom Cora had seen at the club was there. He chewed a toothpick, oblivious to unwritten rules others at this fine hotel followed. “Time to go.”
“Er—right.” Pop peeked warily into the corridor, as if to see whether there might be a constable to haul him off for questioning.
Vinny cleared his throat. “Better not do that.”
“Right.” Pop withdrew and stepped into the room.
Cora narrowed her eyes. Pop never acquiesced to other people’s suggestions, particularly not the suggestions of people whom he paid.
Something was going on with him.
She was certain.
Unfortunately they were no longer alone. Vinny cast accusatory glances at Cora, no doubt irritated she’d disturbed her father’s schedule.
“See that my daughter has a room booked for her here,” Pop told Vinny.
“I have a place already,” Cora said.
“There are issues with it.”
Cora felt her cheeks flush.
In truth, she wasn’t eager to return, but she didn’t desire her father’s help. He’d already caused enough harm.
Pop proceeded to do some warming up vocal exercises which Cora suspected were more about avoiding having to enter a conversation that would keep him from having the last word than a need to truly warm up his voice.
The man sighed. “Fifteen minutes.”
Pop smiled as he continued to do vocal exercises. Once the door shut though, Cora narrowed her eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling.”
Her father halted his vocal practice.
“Me?” Pop’s pitch grew higher, and he opened his palms, as if she’d asked him if he were stealing something.
For a moment Cora wasn’t entirely certain whether Pop had been more concerned for her future or his. “You were worried about yourself.”
Pop averted his gaze. “Nonsense.”
“You were!” Cora exclaimed.
“Well...” Pop shifted his legs and managed to appear guilty. “It wouldn’t look good for me to have a daughter who went about murdering people. It’s the sort of thing that might harm one’s career. Even gossip can be bad for careers, as I’m sure you know.”
“Except I don’t think you truly believed I would be convicted of murder. You knew I’d just moved in there.”
Pop looked down. “I guess I didn’t think about that.”
“No,” Cora said. “You thought about it. You’re intelligent.”
“You think so, honey bunny?” Pop beamed. “I didn’t go to college, but...”
“Don’t change the subject,” Cora said sternly.
Pop was silent, and his face seemed a trifle paler than before. Normally Pop was all confidence.
“You’ve never had so much security before,” Cora said. “It’s excessive.”
“I’m an important man,” Pop said quickly.
“Are you in trouble?” Cora asked. “Is that why you disposed of the body? Did you think someone might frame...you?”
There was another question that occurred to her, but she didn’t want to ask it. Not now. Not to her father. Still...
Was it possible Pop had killed the man?
Disposing of a body seemed a desperate act, even if it had been helped by Pop’s general impulsiveness and wariness of negative gossip.
The thought roared through her head, but it still didn’t make sense, and she dismissed it.
She now knew Mr. Tehrani had definitely been dead, had definitely been murdered, when he’d been in her apartment.
Someone else had killed Mr. Tehrani. Someone in my apartment building.
Her heart tightened.
She’d thought it unlikely that any of the neighbors were guilty. After all, would they have had time to remove the body in the short time when Cora and Veronica were greeting the police constable? But now it was entirely too possible that any of them could have done it, even Miss Greensbody, even, for that matter, Bess.
Suddenly Cora was no longer so happy that Archibald was alone in the apartment. What was rain when compared to a murderer on the loose?
“I have to go,” she said.
Pop nodded, still managing to look ashamed.
She hurried back to Bloomsbury. She tried to tell herself that just because a person had developed an interest in murdering somebody, didn’t mean they’d developed an interest in murdering pets, but Cora knew she would only be relieved when she saw Archibald again and assessed his wellbeing for herself. Her heartbeat ratcheted in her chest, and she stopped looking at the elaborate Georgian facades and concentrated only on maintaining a steady speed, even as people slowed, intent on avoiding puddles.
It was only later that she remembered she hadn’t asked Pop’s opinion on Mr. Tehrani’s business relationship with Miss Greensbody.