Stella stood up, looking regal. “This is Senor Juan de Castillo from Spain—from a very old family. They used to own large estates near Seville. His aunt is mother superior of a convent.”

The sheriff was now focusing on her. “You’re Stella Brightwell,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’d recognize you anywhere. I’ve seen all your movies, Miss Brightwell. And yours too, Mr. Hart. Two of my favorite stars. Maybe I could get your autograph when this nasty little business is over—for the kids, you know.”

“Of course, Sheriff.” Stella gave him her most charming smile. “Happy to oblige your children.”

“So Senor Castillo is over here visiting one of you? What’s the connection?”

“Mr. Goldman discovered him in Spain on his recent trip to buy more antiques. We were planning to shoot a movie about King Philip of Spain so Mr. Goldman thought Juan would be perfect for the part.”

“Only then he tells me I am no good enough because my Spanish accent is too strong,” Juan said peevishly. “So I come all this way and then he doesn’t want to make me movie star after all. Now all I want is to go home to my village and my people.”

“Well, that seems to be everybody,” the sheriff said.

“You’ve forgotten me, Sheriff,” Barbara Kindell said testily.

“My apologies, ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her then studied her hawkish middle-aged face. “Don’t tell me you’re Mary Pickford.”

“Very droll,” Barbara said. “I am a dear friend of Mrs. Goldman.”

“And your name, ma’am?”

“Barbara Kindell.”

His head jerked upright. “The Barbara Kindell?”

“The very same,” she said.

“But you write all those columns—secrets of the stars. My wife’s your biggest fan. So if I could get your autograph too, ma’am?”

“The sooner you solve this crime, the sooner we can give you our autographs, Sheriff,” Charlie said. “We’re all dying to go to bed and poor Juan here is fighting hard to stay awake. So can we please get on with it?”

“Certainly, Mr. Chaplin, sir. I’m working as fast as I can. These things can’t be rushed, you know. Too easy to overlook something.” He licked his pencil again. “Now you say that the men went off to smoke in the library. I take it that’s where the body is now lying?”

“It is,” Ronnie said.

“What happened then?”

“We smoked cigars. We had a cognac,” Darcy said. “We discussed Mr. Goldman’s new antiques. He passed them around so I’m afraid our fingerprints will be on the candlesticks.”

“You said ‘candlesticks’ in the plural?” Sheriff Billings asked. “I only saw one—lying on the floor beside him.”

“There were a pair. The other is missing.”

“So it was a robbery gone wrong, you think? Why didn’t the thief take the second candlestick?”