“That’s right. I did,” Mrs. Goldman said. “I told him he was an idiot to have such valuable objects just sitting there on a table when the house was full of people. And what about the Mexican servants, I said. How do you know whether you can trust them or not? The candles could be over the border in no time at all and mean a lifetime of luxury for one of them.”

“Oh, come now,” Stella said angrily. “Maria and Francisco worshipped him and they have been with him for years.”

“Yes, but what about those guys who work on the grounds? How much do you know about them, huh?”

“That’s a good point, I suppose,” Darcy said. “The sheriff will want to interview all the outside employees, Ronnie.”

“So whoever took that candlestick had to take his chance before Cy locked it away.” Barbara gave Mrs. Goldman a knowing look. “And I agree. I’d like to take bets it was one of those Mexican gardeners. I have to keep a close eye on my Mexican maids. I know one of them has been helping herself to the sugar.”

She broke off as we heard the scrunch of tires on the gravel. Ronnie was on his way to the front door when there was thunderous knocking.

“Good evening, sir,” we heard him say. Then a rough gravelly voice responded. “This better be good, son. If I find out it’s you movie people’s idea of a joke and it’s some kind of dummy crime scene you’ve got in here, I’ll have you all locked up in the slammer.”

“No joke at all I’m afraid, Sheriff,” Ronnie said. “Mr. Cy Goldman, head of Golden Pictures, has been murdered.”

A big man, unshaven, with heavy jowls lumbered into view. He was wearing a Stetson hat and cowboy boots. To my outsider’s eyes he looked like a caricature of a Wild West sheriff. He was staring at us with contempt.

“Sheriff Billings,” he said. “Ventura County Sheriff’s Department. And who have we here?”

Ronnie cleared his throat nervously. “Well, we have Mrs. Goldman, Mr. Goldman’s widow. And then we have Stella Brightwell, Claire Daniels, Craig Hart, Charlie Chaplin . . .”

“You making fun of me, boy?” the sheriff demanded.

“I assure you he’s not,” Charlie said. “I’m Charlie Chaplin.”

“You mean to tell me that you’re really Mr. Chaplin?” the sheriff demanded. “You don’t look a bit like him.”