Grace in the Wings

by Kari Bovee

  Mary raised an eyebrow.

  “I’m not accusing anyone, Miss Pickford, but that’s a simple fact. This is not real evidence. It sounds like a plotline for a motion picture: a convenient, typewritten suicide note discovered by a potential suspect.”

  “We have a typewriter downstairs,” Mary said, her voice matter-of-fact. “It’s for our secretary, but of course, Sophia had access to it and used it sometimes. I don’t find it implausible—”

  “Perhaps she threatened Jack,” Grace cut in, “threatened to tell everyone about his disease. Perhaps he got drunk and—”

  Anger and disbelief flared in Mary’s eyes. “You are not seriously accusing my brother of murder, are you?”

  “I’m sure the police suspected as much. Even if she did use the typewriter to say she’s sorry, it doesn’t mean she meant to kill herself. And I do not believe that she would have taken the poison by mistake.” Grace’s voice sounded shrill in her ears. She clutched her arms to her body.

  Mary pulled back, her eyes wide and her mouth hardening into a line. “Jack is many things, but he would never have killed Sophia. What would he gain? She and I were his only hopes of making anything of himself. And he loved her, Grace. I’m sure of that. Jack loved Sophia and has been absolutely heartbroken about her death.” She paused a moment. “Didn’t you hear about the postmortem? It proved she died of the mercury bichloride, the medicine intended for Jack.”

  A chill run through Grace.

  “I didn’t know there was a postmortem. Why wouldn’t Flo have told me about this?”

  Mary shook her head, exasperation on her face. Clearly, she did not like the insinuation that Jack could have been involved.

  Grace didn’t really believe Jack had killed Sophia, but she needed help to find out who did and why. She stood up and walked to the window, Mary’s words whirling around in her brain. “If this is true, why wouldn’t Flo tell me?” she asked again, turning toward Mary.

  Mary remained on the couch but adjusted her shoulders to face Grace head-on. “Knowing Flo and his shenanigans in the past, I’m sure he wanted to control what was revealed. After all, he’s busy making you a star, isn’t he? I’ve been seeing your name in Variety, along with each salacious detail that Flo decides to reveal. It’s him you should be questioning, not me and Jack.”

  Grace’s stomach muscles clenched as if someone had punched her. Flo had used Sophia’s death for his gain. He’d lied to her. He had done whatever it took to make her believe someone killed her sister. And what about the man who had tried to run her over, followed her to Beverly Hills? And Chet? He said he was investigating the murder, said he visited the police yesterday, and told her they were still investigating, that no final conclusions had been made. Was he bent on misleading her, too? Was he just a foil for Flo, following Flo’s misguided handling of her sister’s tragic death? Surely, he couldn’t—But if there had been an autopsy and the cause of death had been confirmed, presuming the police told him about it, he had clearly lied to her.

  “I’m so confused.” Grace walked unsteadily to the couch. She clutched its frame, trying not to succumb to the feeling her wobbly knees were about to collapse her body to the floor. “When was the party at John Barrymore’s? What night did Sophia die?” She couldn’t believe she did not know the exact day. But at the time, California had been a world away, and she’d been walking in a dream, a nightmare.

  “I believe it was April 15. I know because Doug and I couldn’t go to the party because we met with our accountants that evening.” Mary stood and faced her. “I think you should go. This conversation has clearly upset you, and we don’t have the answers you seek. As far as we’re concerned, Sophia drank the poison. Whether it was an accident or intentional, she alone caused her own death. And my brother was left to deal with the grief of his loss. Now, if you’ll have your driver come in, I have a trunk full of Sophia’s clothing and personal effects that I’d like you to remove from my home.”

  “I see.” Grace bristled at Mary’s abrupt dismissal of her.

  Mary walked over to a panel on the wall, pressed a button, and came back to the sofa. Within minutes, Lloyd arrived, followed by the butler.

  “Mason will escort you to Sophia’s room. Jack packed most of her belongings, but there may be some sundry items in the wardrobe,” Mary said, ushering them out of the room.

  Lloyd raised his eyebrows at Grace, as if shocked at the sudden tension in the room, as well.

  “I must run,” Mary said. “Please, Grace, no hard feelings. It’s just . . . I must make my brother a priority. There is no side to take here, but if there were, I’m afraid I’d side with him. He would never have hurt your sister.”

  Grace nodded, not sure what to say. Mason, the butler, extended his arm, indicating he wanted Grace and Lloyd to follow him. After climbing another spiral staircase, walking down a wide hallway, and then up two more short staircases with a landing in between, Mason opened a door and held out his arm again for Grace and Lloyd to enter.

  The room had a circular wall entirely comprised of windows and housed an enormous Victorian-style canopy bed, a gracious sitting area, and a large, finely carved wardrobe. The aforementioned large walnut trunk sat in the middle of the room. Grace rushed over to it, flung open the top, and looked inside. Dresses, hats, mementos, boxes, shoes, stoles, and lingerie had been thrown in haphazardly, as if the person who had packed it either didn’t know what they were doing or didn’t care. Based on what she’d seen of Jack a few minutes ago, either scenario could apply. The man was so wrapped up in his own grief, he couldn’t see beyond himself.

  Narcissism at its best.

  Grace picked up a silk scarf and held it to her face. Sophia’s signature scent still lingered. Grace breathed in, images of her sister rushing to her mind. Would she start to forget what Sophia looked like? Really looked like, not just a posed figure in a photograph? The way her brows would rise when amused, her pretty pout when she was angling to get something, the soft look her eyes would take on when she spoke of their mother?

  Grace draped the scarf around her neck. She walked over to a writing desk. She pulled out each drawer and looked through each little square compartment. Bits of paper, pencils, and a pair of spectacles rattled around inside the main drawer.

  “Nothing,” she said to Lloyd, who stood patiently, his hands behind his back. His large belly in its white vest protruded outward over his belt, making him look like a fat, white-breasted bird.

  “What about the wardrobe, Miss?” Lloyd reminded her.

  Grace closed the lid of the trunk and approached the massive wardrobe. She opened the double doors to find a few silk robes, several men’s hats, and a pair of high-heeled slippers with ostrich feathers covering the toes. Definitely Sophia’s. She reached in to pick them up when something the size of an almond caught her eye. She leaned her head into the wardrobe and extended her hand to pick it up. It was smooth as ice but faceted with sharp edges, blue and dark as the midnight sky. Grace sucked in her breath. A sapphire. Could it be from the jewel-studded ermine cape that Liane Held had mentioned? It couldn’t be. Sophia would never steal. Of course, that was just Liane’s story.

  “Everything all right, Miss?” Lloyd asked.

  “Yes,” Grace replied a bit too quickly. “Yes, I’ll just grab these slippers.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When Grace arrived back at the suite, she found Chet snoozing on the sofa. Lloyd entered behind her, transporting the trunk on a cart. Chet stirred and sat up, his hair disheveled and collar unbuttoned. His eyes followed Grace as she offered the driver a tip.

  “Thank you for helping me with Sophia’s trunk,” she said. He nodded and gave her a kind smile.

  As soon as the driver left, Chet blew out a breath. “Where’ve you been? I was beginning to worry. And what’s that trunk?”

  Grace removed her hat, set it on the hallway table, and stood at the mirror rearranging her tousled hair. “I’d like to know where you’ve been?�
�� She turned her head back and forth, looking at herself in the mirror and stalling for time, trying to act nonchalant, much the way she’d seen Sophia and Fanny do. She dabbed at the corner of her lip to wipe away a stray smudge of lipstick. Her eyes, while a bit swollen, glittered with anger.

  Chet yawned. “I went back to Los Angeles to speak with the police again. I left you a note.”

  She remembered the note. He had told her to stick close to Billie. It still didn’t make her any less angry with him.

  “But you left no message.” Chet rose to his feet. She could see he sensed her anger, and he was clearly trying to deflect. “How am I supposed to protect you when I don’t even know where you are? I was worried, Grace.”

  “You looked pretty comfortable for someone who claims to have been concerned.”

  Chet furrowed his brow. “I went to Billie, and she told me that one of her drivers had taken you to Mary Pickford’s house. That was a foolish thing to do, but I figured at least you’d be safe.”

  “Is it more foolish than lying to me?”

  Chet blinked and moved toward her. “What are you talking about?”

  Grace held up a hand, urging him to keep his distance. “First of all, you weren’t worried. Billie told you where I went—”

  “I wanted to see if you’d lie to me.”

  “Why would I do that? I’m not the liar.” Grace narrowed her eyes.

  “Grace, please . . . tell me what’s going on.”

  “Mary Pickford told me about the postmortem and that the police closed the case. She said Sophia committed suicide by poisoning.” Tears formed and lodged in the corner of her eyes. “But you already knew this, didn’t you?”

  Chet blinked several times and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Grace wouldn’t let him.

  “Flo fabricated a story of murder for publicity. For publicity, Chet! And you were on board, lying to me right along with him.”

  Chet stepped closer, his rumpled shirt and hair making him look like a guilty schoolboy. “Grace, I—”

  “You knew all along.”

  “No, not all along. Flo told me that he suspected murder and hired me to investigate. I swear it. I don’t think Flo knew anything for sure, and I’ve been furious watching him spin stories for the newspapers.”

  Grace brushed past him into the bedroom. He followed.

  She sat on the bed, suddenly feeling exhaustion, disappointment, and rage colliding in her brain. “Then when did you find out?”

  “Donovan Green told me just before I tossed the smarmy bastard off the train.” Chet propped his tall frame in the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

  Grace whipped her head around to face him. “You threw him off the train?”

  “Arse over head. He confessed that Flo had hired him to stir up publicity, make it look like you were in grave danger. I told you Donovan caused the horse accident, but you didn’t believe me. Once I found out he was Flo’s publicity puppet and that he had willingly risked your life, I got rid of him.”

  “Aren’t you Flo’s puppet, as well?” She narrowed her eyes at him again. How could he stand there so calm, so matter-of-fact, and tell her this?

  Chet looked down at the floor, then raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. Grace hoped he was experiencing terrible, inconsolable, emotional pain. “Grace, I have so much to tell you. There is so much you don’t know.”

  She turned away from him and stared at the closet, her mind full of things she wanted to say to him, scream at him, but she simply didn’t have the energy. “Get out, Chet.” A steely calmness washed over her, making her fingertips cold, her breath shallow, and her mind clear. “Get out and don’t come back. I don’t need you, and I don’t want your help.”

  Chet stood his ground. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, watching Grace bristle and her shoulders tighten. He felt the coolness washing over him like an ice storm. “There are some things you need to know . . . about me.”

  A knock on the door interrupted him. He ignored it.

  “Telegram for Miss Michelle,” a male voice announced.

  Grace stood up and strode past Chet, sidling through the doorway as if she couldn’t bear making any sort of contact with him. He heard her thank the deliveryman and tear into the envelope.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Flo,” she said, her eyes on the note. “He’s ordered us to return to New York. The show will start in two weeks, and I have to rehearse.” She folded the telegram and shoved it back in the envelope. She stayed near the door and crossed her arms in front of her.

  “Will you please listen to me?” Chet asked.

  She didn’t move but didn’t protest, either.

  “Like I told you before, I only agreed to work for Flo because I was desperate for money,” he began, “but here’s what you don’t know: Since returning from the war, my business has been slow to get back on its feet and my mother needed a lifesaving operation. I had the brilliant idea that I could gamble and win, but I lost miserably and lost what little money I had. I went to Marciano’s boys for a loan and then couldn’t pay up when they called the loan in. I went to Flo to find legitimate PI work, and then he—alone—concocted this plan to get Joe to finance the show and excuse my debt. That’s the conversation you walked in on back in New York. In return, Flo insisted I accompany you on this trip as your bodyguard. But I swear that I had no idea he wasn’t serious about a murder investigation or that he’d turn it into this.” It had all come out in a rush of words. He hated lying to her, even more so now that he’d fallen in love with her.

  Grace uncrossed her arms and moved closer to him, her fiery eyes boring into him.

  “As I explained to you, Grace, I thought a murder investigation was part of the deal and didn’t suspect otherwise until Donovan Green told me that he’d been following Flo’s directives to make it look like you were in real danger. I went to the police in good faith and was surprised when the detective told me they’d closed the case.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me that when you first found out?” Grace’s face crumpled in disappointment, nearly breaking his heart.

  Chet blew out an exasperated breath. “I work for Flo. He ordered me not to tell you. It was before we—”

  “You knew yesterday that the police had closed the investigation, and I don’t think you talked to Flo yesterday, so you could have told me that. You could have broken the news to me rather than Mary Pickford. It might have been easier coming from you.” She covered her face with her hands and shook her head.

  “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he admitted. “And if I told you just how much Flo was manipulating everything for his own benefit, I knew it would crush you.” He paused, watched her struggle to understand. “And you just lost your sister and got thrust into this crazy business of becoming Flo’s latest ingenue, which I know you don’t even want.” Chet spoke softly, dying to reach out to her, to console her. He’d been a fool to lie to her.

  Grace crossed the room and plopped down into a chair. “So if the case is closed, and everyone—except me—believes that Sophia killed herself on purpose, where did you go today?”

  “I know a PI in Los Angeles so I went to find him, to see if he could throw any work my way. My thinking was that finding a way to make some money while we’re here would give us both some leverage. I could get you out of this mess and take you far away from Flo. I know you’ll never be happy being Flo’s doll, his showpiece, particularly now.”

  Grace raised her eyes to his. They were no longer shimmering with anger. “It’s too late,” she said. “I am as financially beholden to Flo as you are, and now he’s commanding us to return.”

  “Yes. And we’ll have to, but Grace . . .” Chet strode over to her, knelt in front of her, and placed his hand gently on her arm. “Let’s go through with it. Let’s go back to New York. My debt to Marciano and Flo will be paid off, which will free me to work at building my business again. You can work this one show—Flo will take care o
f you as long as you‘re in the show—and then I’ll be able to take care of you after that.”

  Grace’s lovely, youthful face took on a determined hardness, something it broke Chet’s heart to see. Her green eyes drilled into his.

  “When I’m done with this one show, no one—not Flo, not you, not anyone—will take care of me again. I’ll take care of myself.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Once Chet had gone, Grace dug frantically through Sophia’s trunk, looking for something, anything, that could offer a clue. She’d hoped to find the ermine cape at the bottom of the container, but no luck. She had a nagging feeling that if Jack Pickford could get his hands on something that valuable, it would be long gone. Or did he sell it once she died—sort of like a life insurance policy? Which reminded her—had Flo claimed the life insurance policy on Sophia yet? Clearly, Flo’s interest in Sophia had been based on what she could do for him. Grace tried to ignore the ache in her heart at the fact that Flo felt the same way about her. She was merely a pawn in his scheme for publicity and fame.

  She searched through the trunk again, and this time, when she pulled out one of Sophia’s furs, she felt something in the pocket. It was a balled-up scrap of paper. She pulled it out and smoothed the crinkles. She squinted to read the hardly legible handwriting:

  My dearest Grace,

  I’m heartsick that we’re so far apart and that we left on such horrible terms. I never meant to hurt you. I have been out of my mind with worry. You see, darling, I had to leave to protect us both. Someone, someone whom I have wronged, a man I thought could bring me happiness, is after me. If I told you his identity, it would only put you in more danger, but now that I have left New York, I feel you are safe.

  The writing abruptly stopped and trailed off. It looked like Sophia’s handwriting, the letters slanting severely to the right, but Sophia had excellent penmanship; it had never been even slightly messy unless she had been rushing. Had someone come in and interrupted her? Was it then that she shoved the note into her coat pocket?