A Continental Murder: Sleuthing Starlet, #4

By Camilla Blythe

One grand hotel. Many glamorous guests. And a missing person.

When Cora learns her father is missing on the continent, there's only one thing she can do: find him herself. Armed with her best friend Veronica, she heads to Italy. Never mind that it's 1938, and the continent doesn't seem the best place to be.

The magnificent, imposing Grand Hotel seems the sort of place her father would enjoy. But when a murder occurs, Cora realizes the hotel is not as peaceful as it appears... Can she solve the murder before the murderer pins the crime on Cora and her father?

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NB: This book was previously published under the name Bianca Blythe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Camilla Blythe
• Release date: Feb 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393192527

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

CORA FINISHED HER ACT, curtsied to her audience, and sauntered from the stage. The now-familiar applause rang through the club.

Magnificent. The stage manager rushed to her, and his black hair gleamed under the multitude of chandeliers. Absolutely magnificent.

Thank you.

You have a guest in your dressing room, the manager said. "A male guest. He’s been waiting for the past hour."

Cora smiled. Most likely it was Randolph. Though they’d met under unideal circumstances—Randolph had been occupied with spying on her dear friend Veronica, and Cora had been occupied with trying to get him to leave—they had been seeing each other steadily since then.

Cora moved through the hallway to her dressing room.

The stage manager was correct: a man was sitting in her dressing room, clutching a bouquet.

Unfortunately, he was not Randolph.

The stranger wore a suit, though the pinstripes and coarse material denoted daywear, as if he’d come straight to the performance from his office. Most of the men in the club wore crisp black suits and bow ties, differentiated only by whether they’d chosen white or black.

The man lurched up and bowed. Miss Clarke, I presume?

Yes. She frowned. Evidently, he hadn’t seen any of her performance. No one else in the club had been clothed in pink taffeta.

G-good. He yanked his head up and down.

Was there a particular reason you desired to see me?

Ah. These are for you. He shoved the flowers toward her, and water smeared across the glass table.

Cora picked up the bouquet politely. Thank you.

I’m an—er—fan of Nick Valenti. Your father.

Indeed? The man’s statement wasn’t unusual. Pop was a star. He’d been a singer her whole life.

He’s not here, she said. I took over his act.

The man nodded rapidly. Right. Right. I know that. He went to the Grand Hotel on Lake Bella.

She stilled. You seem familiar with his schedule.

I make it my job to know his schedule. As I said, I’m a huge fan. I love to listen to singing. Nothing like it in the world.

How odd then that you did not desire to hear my voice.

The man flushed and brushed his fingers over the knot of his tie. It shone, its intensity magnified by the cheap fabric. Forgive me. I—er—just arrived.

The lie was obvious, and she narrowed her eyes. What had compelled him to prevaricate?

The stranger coughed, as if the sound could compel her mind to not linger on the strangeness of his presence. Cora was accustomed to meeting her father’s fans. Most were younger women and had starry eyes when they approached him. His ardent enthusiasts generally had some curiosity about Cora’s capabilities. After all, she was his daughter. In fact, she’d been a child actress and was, in some circles, even more famous than her father.

Which of my father’s songs is your favorite? Cora asked abruptly. 

The man’s face whitened. There are so many... He swallowed hard. But I don’t want to speak about me. I want to know if you know where I can find him. To watch his performances, of course.

She stared at him. You know the place. You just said it. He’s performing at the Grand Hotel on Lake Bella.

The man’s face hardened, as if he were bracing himself for an unpleasant task. He’s not there.

Cora frowned. Excuse me?

Pop might be charming and charismatic, but nobody marveled at his sense of responsibility. Still, it wasn’t like Pop to abandon a tour. He’d arrived there recently from a similarly magnificent hotel in Austria.

He’s not at the hotel, the man said. And I’m saddened.

Cora blinked.

Apparently, the unpleasant task the man had was to inform her of the news.

She sat down and surveyed the man. He shifted his legs, as if uncomfortable with her attention, then pushed his glasses further up his nose. Dirty glass glinted, even in the soft light of the dressing room. He patted his beard, as if unaccustomed to it, but Cora supposed even the most unstylish men couldn’t be accustomed to such a horrendous shape. 

Pop didn’t leave performances mid-run, not unless he had someone of similar stature to carry on for him. He wouldn’t leave someone in the lurch. Pop might have taken his marriage vows lightly, a trait Cora’s mother shared, but he’d never taken his career obligations lightly. Reputation was everything, he’d often told her. In fact, he’d gone to elaborate lengths to protect both their reputations earlier this year.

Cora rose. Thank you for that information. I appreciate it.

But you haven’t answered me!

I don’t know his location, she said. Perhaps he’ll be back soon. Hopefully. Now, you really must go.

So, you’ll try to find him? You’ll go there? His voice was oddly hopeful.

That’s not your concern.

The man didn’t budge from his chair, but Cora didn’t care. She’d rather not go through the niceties of hand shaking either.

Cora marched from the dressing room. The feathers on her bodice flew up, and she adjusted them hastily, not slowing her pace.

Pop was missing.

On the continent.

And she had to find him.

CHAPTER TWO

CORA RETURNED TO THE main section of the club, conscious of the familiar bright smiles and applause. Too late, she remembered she was still decked in her finery, and not the black-colored clothes that matched her hair and a majority of everyone else’s attire that she favored.

Darling! Veronica’s voice rang through the club, and Cora was soon clasped into a deep hug. You did a spectacular job.

Veronica! I-I didn’t expect you.

I wouldn’t miss your last performance, honey. Come. Veronica dragged her toward a table, and her curls bounced with the sudden movement. Veronica was a top Hollywood actress, and her hairstyle had not been selected for any practicality.

A handsome man Cora didn’t recognize rose. He had the flaxen hair and sturdy shoulders honed from tackling people on the football field during high school common in Midwesterners.

This is Mr. Thompson, Veronica announced.

Cora extended her hand. You’re the significant other. 

I prefer the term lover, Veronica drawled. It’s so much more descriptive.

Cora gave a wobbly smile as Mr. Thompson expressed enthusiasm at meeting her.

Do have a seat. Veronica pulled out a chair. You must celebrate.

Perhaps Miss Clarke would like to change from her costume first, Mr. Thompson said.

Nonsense! Veronica shook her head. Please ignore him, my dear. I think you should always wear feathers.

I have a phone call to make first, Cora said.

Tension eased from Mr. Thompson’s shoulders. Perhaps he was nervous at meeting Cora. Though strangers found her utterly unintimidating, Cora was Veronica’s dearest friend, and her opinion of him might matter.

Veronica, Cora said. I must speak with you.

Veronica lifted her martini glass and grinned. Spill it, honey.

Cora glanced around the room, but no one looked in her direction.

The orchestra played one of Cole Porter’s more amorous melodies, and couples leaned toward each other, as if eager to continue enumerating their similarities and marvel at their differences. Romances burgeoned at the club. The owners had long recognized that people in the grips of unusual heart fluttering were unlikely to examine menu prices with their customary scrutiny.

Cora failed to locate Pop’s unusual fan, though the view to the door that led backstage was obscured by the guests who strutted and swayed on the dance floor. On another night, Cora might have wanted to dance as well. Tonight her hands trembled, and not in time to the music.

Are you quite well, Miss Clarke? Mr. Thompson asked.

Veronica turned to her sharply but then laughed. Cora is always quiet.

Cora flushed. She remembered she should be asking Mr. Thompson questions about himself. Men seemed to expect that, especially men who could afford expensive suits. A large platinum watch, decked with diamonds, gleamed from Mr. Thompson’s wrist. It sparkled, as if to equal what a necklace, earrings, and bracelet might do for women. 

That’s a beautiful watch, Cora observed.

Mr. Thompson’s chest expanded. Clearly, she’d happened upon a favorable topic.

My watch is from Milan, Mr. Thompson said.

Near Lake Bella?

His lips twitched. Most people would say Lake Bella is near Milan, but yes.

Mr. Thompson just got back from a business trip there, Veronica announced. He wants to import products.

What do you import, Mr. Thompson? Cora asked.

Potatoes! Veronica interjected. Can you imagine? Potatoes from Idaho! How very American!

How interesting, Cora said politely, wondering whether she might tell Veronica about her unusual encounter in the dressing room.

Cora wasn’t certain Veronica had ever eaten a potato. Potatoes were not conducive to figure watching, and Veronica’s figure was magnificent. Her slender waist rendered the images of even the most novice photographer superb. Cora imagined Veronica’s interest in Mr. Thompson’s business had less to do with the merits of potatoes, than with the merits of his appearance.

Mr. Thompson might not be a Hollywood actor, but with his strong jaw, sturdy shoulders, and glimmering eyes, he would not look amiss on the silver screen.

Veronica’s last husband may have made her a duchess, but he’d been unideal in every other manner.

Mr. Thompson cast a nervous glance about the room, despite the fact his position and appearance should make nervousness unnecessary.

A waiter arrived with a phone.

That must be for Mr. Thompson, Veronica declared. Mr. Thompson is most important in the business world.

Mr. Thompson remained silent, but he kissed Veronica’s hand, and she beamed.

The waiter placed the phone on the table. For you, Miss Clarke. It’s a long-distance call.

Trepidation thrummed through Cora, and she viewed the telephone suspiciously. Would it be someone with bad news about Pop? She reached for the receiver.

Oh, you do look pale, honey. Veronica tilted her head up at the waiter. Bring a strong drink over.

Cora held the receiver against her ear, hoping the sound of her heartbeat would not mask the caller’s voice. Hello?

Darling! Randolph’s voice came through on the other end, and Cora relaxed into the familiar whirl of delicious emotions that Randolph’s mere voice always ushered.

Sweetheart, Cora said breathlessly, and Veronica rolled her eyes.

Congratulations on your last show, Randolph said. I wish I’d been there. But work—

I know, Cora said.

Randolph had never told her what his precise job was, but she knew he worked for the government, and she knew his work was important and secretive. The man often traveled abroad, and she’d met him on one of his assignments.

Pop is in trouble, Cora said bluntly.

Your father is always in a bit of trouble, Randolph reminded her.

He’s gone missing.

There was silence on the other end. Veronica jerked her head toward Cora, and Cora’s chest panged.

This wasn’t Cora’s preferred method for telling Veronica. This wasn’t Cora’s preferred method for telling Randolph either.

He disappeared while playing at the Grand Hotel on Lake Bella, Cora said hurriedly. "And he was looking forward to playing there. It’s so uncharacteristic. I’m