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FINALLY, THEY REACHED Club Paradiso.
Lionel raised his eyebrows. “This is where your father works?”
“Yes,” she said. “Have you been here?”
“Lionel’s been to every club in Soho,” Rollo said.
Lionel grinned. “I’m still searching for my favorite cocktail.”
“And when you find it, you can tell us all about it,” Bess said. “I do appreciate a good drink.”
“This place specializes more in wine,” Lionel said. “Though they do serve limoncello if you can abide it. I can’t.”
“Then we won’t order it,” Bess said impatiently. She turned around. “Now how do I look? I don’t want to wait long to enter. These heels are beginning to hurt.”
“You look beautiful.” Rollo’s voice sounded somewhat hoarse, and his eyes seemed brighter than before.
Bess flushed, but Cora caught Lionel rolling his eyes.
Perhaps Rollo had a longstanding appreciation for Bess’s beauty and Lionel was tired of hearing him praise it.
Never mind.
That had nothing to do with the murder. Bess was pretty, though no great beauty, and it was charming to see how much Rollo appreciated her. She rather wished Bess would appreciate him more. He seemed much more humble than Lionel.
“Are you on the list?” A swarthy looking man with a bald head asked.
“No.” Bess smoothed her dress.
“My name is Cora Clarke,” Cora broke in. “And these are my friends.”
“Miss Clarke.” The man’s expression changed instantly. “Go right in. I do apologize. The performance is quite full. We’re expecting a large crowd tonight, and you can never be too careful.”
Everyone seemed to say that.
She nodded and entered, pleased the others seemed suitably impressed. A woman soon led them to the inside of the club and sat them at a round table near the stage.
They settled around the table, and Rollo smoothed his hands over the tablecloth. “Quite posh.”
“It’s a tablecloth,” Lionel said, and Rollo’s ears turned a ruddy color.
Cora suspected that Rollo’s parents might have been poorer than Lionel’s. Perhaps the two cousins weren’t simply living together out of familial affection.
“Well, I think it’s lovely as well.” Bess turned to Cora. “I’m so excited to hear your father sing. To think you’re related to Nick Valenti. The Nick Valenti. Do you think he’ll come over to say hello?”
“Er—he may be busy.” Cora shifted in her seat. Coming over to say hello was something her father might do, but she hoped he could restrain himself. It was possible one of her neighbors might recognize him. She hadn’t actually asked him how he’d managed to get into the building. The last thing she needed when police were sniffing about was a connection between Pop and the building where Mr. Tehrani had been murdered.
“I say, is that Veronica James?” Rollo put his hand over his forehead, as if to protect his eyes from the sparkling lights of the club.
The others turned.
There she was, dressed in a dazzling evening gown that glimmered. The hostess who led Veronica toward them kept on turning her head back toward Veronica. Her mouth gaped open, as if she could not quite believe her fortune.
“Who do you suppose she’s coming to see?” Bess asked.
“Our dear new neighbor,” Rollo said, and Bess looked suitably impressed.
“Darling!” Veronica soon appeared and tore off her gloves. “Have you already sat down? Please tell me I’m not late.”
“He hasn’t begun singing,” Cora said. “You’re fine.”
“Oh, good!” Veronica beamed and turned her attention to the others at the table. “I see you’ve managed to make some friends.”
“You remember Lionel and Rollo, Veronica?”
“How could I not? I am so grateful to you for letting us use your phone.”
Bess’s eyes widened slightly, but Lionel and Rollo were all smiles.
“You look so much more handsome without your bathrobe,” Veronica said to Lionel. “Quite a difference.”
Lionel shifted his gaze, as if unsure how to respond, and doing his best to think of responses.
He missed his chance, for Veronica turned her attention to Bess. “I have not met you.”
“No, this is another neighbor,” Cora said. “She lives on the third floor, opposite me.”
“Ah.” Veronica narrowed. “And are you by any chance missing a tall, dark and handsome man?”
Bess looked confused, and Cora shot Veronica a warning glance.
Veronica put on an innocent smile, thankfully seeming to grasp Cora’s distress, and sat down. She arranged her dress, as if to find the position that would most illuminate its sparkles.
The pianist changed songs, and Cora recognized one of her father’s most favorite melodies. He was going to come on stage now.
She surveyed the surrounding people. They quieted, recognizing that the performance would soon commence. A man in a tuxedo strode onto the stage first, announcing with a great deal of pomposity and flourish the utter brilliance of the upcoming performance. Then, Pop stepped on stage.
It was always amusing to see just how much people seemed to sigh in his presence. He had star power. He probably would have found a place in the entertainment industry even if he didn’t know how to sing, but the thing was, he did know how to sing.
He was brilliant.
Cora relaxed into her seat and sipped the martini somebody had ordered for the table. Evidently, Club Paradiso didn’t solely serve limoncello, and she savored the gin and vermouth.
For a moment it was possible to forget she might be sitting at the same table as a murderer.
For a moment there was only music.
The song ended, and applause erupted. Cora surveyed the other visitors. They were well dressed, enjoying their night out.
Well, most of the people seemed well-dressed. Some seemed rather scruffier. They didn’t drink, even though it was easy to imagine them imbibing tankards of ale, and they were scattered around the room.
Were these Pop’s...security? What on earth was he doing with so many people watching him? What was he afraid might happen?
She frowned, remembering something Lionel had said and turned to him. “What made you surprised we were visiting Club Paradiso?”
He paused, drawing into the condensation of his cocktail glass. For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. After all, they weren’t particularly close, and unlike the others, they couldn’t claim even complete neighborliness. He’d been unfriendly when he saw Randolph, seeming to take glee in his position as the landlady’s son.
“I didn’t take you as someone who attended places known for their connections to certain—er—negative facets of Italian society.”
She blinked, unsure for a moment what he meant. Pop was Italian, but he’d lived in America most of his life. Besides the limoncello, this place didn’t seem particularly Italian.
But then she got it.
“You mean organized crime,” she asked, conscious that her voice wobbled.
“Naturally,” he said. There was a faint sound of amusement in his voice. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the only club in West London with them, even though they do seem to prefer greyhounds.”
Cora stiffened.
“I find your father vastly more entertaining, even if he hasn’t displayed his racing skills.”
Her heart seemed to speed faster. She wanted to ask Lionel more questions, but the music was restarting, and soon Pop would start singing again.
She swallowed hard.
Pop was Italian. He was proud of it. Proud of having come from Sicily, which he declared sunnier and lovelier than anything in the stodgy north which he said had an abundance of cathedrals instead of sunshine, a sign more of punishing weather sent down from the heavens than of spirituality and piousness.
“Hey, you’ve gone pale,” Lionel said. “If I thought I would scare you—”
“I’m not scared,” she said sharply.
Pop had always surrounded himself with groups of men with Italian heritage. It made sense. They had something in common, and there always seemed to be a plethora of these men at the Las Vegas casinos and California nightclubs Pop frequented.
Even the producer who’d discovered her had been Italian. Had it been more than her ability to recite lines that had got her hired? She frowned. Perhaps she’d been naïve the whole time.