by Kari Bovee
“How are you?”
“I have a few broken ribs and a split lip, but the doc says I’m going to make it.”
“You didn’t wear your chest plate?”
“The one day . . .” Felicity chuckled and then clutched her ribs again.
Grace turned back to Chet. “What about Marciano? Is he—?”
“Dead. Flat as a pancake at the bottom of the stairs. You girls did good.”
“I just wanted to get away, I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t,” Felicity said, her voice stronger this time. “I did it. I kicked and kicked until he fell down the stairs.” She smiled, then winced and put a hand up to her lower lip. “The son of a bitch had it coming.”
“I’m so glad we found you.” Chet leaned closer to Grace. “When I heard Marciano took you, I—Did he . . .”
“No, never. Thank goodness. I’m okay—and I have Felicity to thank for it.”
Flo came back into the room and approached the bed. The sight of him filled Grace with emotions she couldn’t quite understand: she loved him and she hated him. He’d saved her from the streets, but he had put her life in danger more than once. In many ways, she could blame him for Sophia’s downward spiral and ultimate demise. Still, he looked so broken that she couldn’t help pitying him.
“How are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked, his eyes soft and watery. He looked a hundred years old.
Grace nodded, afraid to say anything out loud, afraid she’d lash out at him. There would be plenty of time to sort things out later, and she’d had enough drama for today. For a lifetime, in fact.
Flo looked away from her, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, I, um . . . It looks as if everything here is in hand. I’ll just head on back to the theater. Got a lot of work to do.” He leaned down, planted a kiss on Grace’s forehead, and patted her cheek. She closed her eyes, unable to control the tears that surfaced. He started out of the room, but just as he reached the doorway, he turned to face her again.
“Any chance you’ll come back?” he asked.
Grace shook her head, giving him her silent answer.
“I see.” Flo looked to the floor. He clamped his hat on his head and walked out of the room.
“He does love you,” Felicity whispered, “in his own way.”
“I know. It’s just not the way I choose to be loved anymore.” She glanced at Chet and saw the familiar admiration in his eyes—the feelings she thought she’d never see, or experience again.
“I love you, too,” he said. “More than anything.”
“I know. And, I love you.” Grace reached out to brush her hand across his cheek.
Two police officers bustled into the room brandishing billy clubs and breaking the mood. “Afternoon,” the taller one said, tipping his helmet. “This one of the gang?” He pointed to the man in the brown suit.
“He’s your man.” Chet stood away from the bed.
They hoisted Lefty to his feet and struggled to get him to the door. His knees went slack. Grace couldn’t tell if he had gone limp on purpose, in protest, or if he had been rendered too weak to walk. Just as the police reached the threshold with him, Grace got out of bed.
“Wait, please.” She addressed the tall officer. “When Marciano attacked me, he admitted to killing my sister. In California, they called her death a suicide. There was a note—typewritten.”
Lefty found his legs and hoisted himself a bit straighter. The officer tightened his grip on his arm.
“You’re saying Joe Marciano confessed to the murder of your sister?” the officer repeated.
“Yes.”
“Obviously, the suicide note was faked,” Chet said.
Grace turned to Chet. “Sophia said she fled New York to escape someone. I think an ex-lover. I think Marciano.”
Lefty shook his head, coming out of his stupor. “She had it coming, that bitch! You both did.”
The officers slammed the man up against the wall. “Watch your mouth,” the tall officer said.
Grace approached Lefty. “You remember me?”
“Of course I remember you. The little twit hit me with a brick,” he said to the policeman. “She—they—tried to kill me. They are the murderers!”
“Shut up, you lousy mutt.” The officer slammed the man against the wall again.
“It was a long time ago.” Grace told the officer. “He attacked my sister, Sophia, in an alleyway. She was fighting him off, screaming, but he kept pawing at her, threatening to rape her. I scrounged around for whatever I could find and hit him over the head with a brick to get him off her. We ran away, thinking he was dead, but I recognized him on the train and I know he’s the one who tried to run me over in New York.”
The officer turned back to Lefty. “So that’s where you got that pretty scar. Sounds like self-defense to me.”
Chet stepped forward and got in Lefty’s face. “How’d he do it? How did Marciano kill Sophia in California?”
The man struggled against the officers holding him.
“He probably had someone do it,” Grace said. “But she didn’t die of the mercury bichloride. It had to be something else.”
“What makes you say that?” Chet said.
“There was no mention in the postmortem report of corrosion in her esophagus or stomach, which is typical if mercury is ingested. It had to be another type of poison.”
The tall officer tightened his grip around Lefty’s arm. “Listen, pal. You’re not going to see the outside of four walls for quite a while. Things might go better for you if you give us the information we need. Your boss is dead. You’ve got nothing to lose by telling us what you know. You’ll be safe and sound in a prison cell.”
Lefty fought against the officers’ grips, this time with a more concerted effort, but he still couldn’t break free. The tall officer reached for his billy club and pressed it against Lefty’s throat. “Or you may not make it to the prison cell and succumb to an accident like your buddy, Joe, downstairs.”
Lefty’s face turned bright crimson, and he nodded. The officer released the billy club, sending Lefty into a coughing fit. When he stopped coughing, he barked at the officer.
“All right, all right, he sent me. I did it. I spiked her drink with arsenic at a party. The bitch deserved it,” Lefty spit out.
The officer raised his billy club again, and Lefty flinched.
“I knew it,” Grace said. “But why didn’t the postmortem pick up on the arsenic?”
“It’s difficult to detect,” the police officer explained. “You might request another look-see to verify this clown’s confession. We’ll get in touch with the office in California. Where?”
“Los Angeles,” Chet said.
“We’ll give them our information, and they’ll take it from there.” He raised his chin to his fellow officer, and they hauled Lefty out of the room.
“I wonder how long Lefty worked for Marciano,” Grace said. Was he working for him when he attacked Sophia? How had Sophia gotten mixed up with Marciano? She said she got involved with him after Flo, but maybe she had known him before. “There is so much I don’t know. She kept so much from me.”
“And if she hadn’t, what would that have changed?” Chet wrapped his arms around her, and Grace nestled her cheek against his.
“I could have been more understanding. I could have gone with her to California. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost her if we had stayed together.”
Chet released her, looked into her eyes. “Or you could have been driven further apart. Sophia loved you, Grace. She wanted to protect you. Don’t tarnish her love by imagining what could have been. She made some poor choices, and you had no control over that.” He dropped his gaze from hers. “I’ve also made some poor choices.”
“You have. But I think I understand why. Your intentions were always good; you wanted to help your mother, just as you wanted to help me. You sacrificed yourself for someone you loved, and I suppose Sophia did, too.”
Chapter T
hirty-Four
JANUARY 5, 1921 - HOLLYWOOD, CA
Grace and Chet stood on the balcony off the living room of Timothy O’Malley’s grand home in California. The party roared with jazz and merriment.
“Are you sure we had to come?” Chet asked, sipping his cocktail. “Can’t we just slip out? I’m sure no one will notice.”
Grace gave her husband an indulgent smile. “Felicity will notice. We don’t have to stay long.”
“This tuxedo is strangling me.” Chet pulled at the collar of his dress shirt and then stretched out his arms.
“You’ll have to stop gorging on your mother’s fine cooking.”
Timothy O’Malley entered the patio holding a drink. His eyes twinkled when they settled on Grace. “Darlin’, you’re a fine sight!”
“Hello, Timothy. Your home is lovely.”
Timothy leaned in and pressed a dry kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, dear. It’s been a labor of love, but it’s finally finished.” He turned to Chet. “Mr. Riker. How are you, sir? How’s the PI business?”
Chet shook his hand. “It’s coming along.”
“Coming along?” Grace pressed her hand on O’Malley’s arm. “Surely, you heard he cracked the Salton Siers case wide open?”
“Now, Grace,” Chet said.
“He’s so modest.” Grace winked at O’Malley. “For now, he’s busy plowing fields and building fences at the ranch.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about the ranch. Taking in orphaned children and raising them? It’s a very noble endeavor. But you both really mustn’t work so hard.”
“Chet’s mother is helping us.” Grace slipped her arm through Chet’s and gave a squeeze. “They’ve reconnected.”
Chet smiled down at her. “Thanks to Grace.”
“My darlin’ Grace, I have to give you thanks, as well.” O’Malley’s eyes twinkled at her. “Thank you for Felicity. She’s an absolute sensation. Her face on-screen is a thing of beauty.”
“Who would have guessed she’d shine as a film actress? She didn’t care for the stage at all,” Grace pointed out. “Let’s go find her, Chet. We’ve yet to make the rounds.”
Chet rolled his eyes but pressed a warm hand over hers. She nodded to Timothy as they ventured back into the house. They saw Felicity immediately. She was surrounded by a throng of reporters, her red-sequined gown glowing against her butterscotch skin. A photographer clumsily moved his tripod around, trying to get the best shot of Hollywood’s newest sensation.
When Felicity saw Grace and Chet, she rushed toward them, leaving the press in her wake. She greeted them both, trying to escape the reporters and questions, but the group descended on them like vultures to prey. Grace and Chet stepped out of the fray.
But then the room stilled. Hedda Hopper had entered the room. Once she spotted Felicity, the reporter bulldozed her way through the melee until her eyes lit on Grace, causing her to change her course.
Grace drew a deep breath as the woman approached her.
“Miss Michelle, how good it is to see you.”
“Miss Hopper. Yes. And it’s Mrs. Riker now.” Grace gave her a radiant smile.
“So I’ve heard, darling.” She tilted her brunette head in Chet’s direction. “Congratulations, Mr. Riker. So the damsel married her prince. How lovely.”
Grace and Chet shared an annoyed glance.
“So is it true that you two have purchased a ranch and will be opening a home for orphaned children?”
“Yes. We hope to open next year,” Grace said.
“And you’re lead costume designer on O’Malley’s latest film?”
Grace nodded. “It’s been a wonderful experience.”
“And what’s this I hear about a new line of evening gowns? Are you really creating your own line? Do you really think you can rival Balenciaga, Miss Chanel, all the European designers?”
Grace blinked, flinching at the woman’s words. How had Hedda even found out? She had been working on the line in secret. She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s something I’m dabbling with. I really haven’t put much time into the project. It will be years before—”
“And what are you calling it, dear?” the reporter cut in.
Grace looked up at Chet, deciding if she should answer. He gave her a reassuring nod. “It’s called ‘Sophia.’”
Hedda’s eyebrows shot up. “How fitting. Now tell me, dear, did you really have her body exhumed so another autopsy could be performed?”
The hairs on Grace’s neck prickled. Chet held a hand up to signal to Hedda that she’d gone too far.
Grace reached out and touched his hand. “I did. It was assumed that she died of an accidental dose of mercury bichloride, but in fact, she had been poisoned with arsenic, which the second autopsy proved.”
“Such a lovely young woman—murdered. How tragic.” Hedda shook her head, clicking her tongue against her teeth.
“Yes. But it’s over and the truth of the matter has been proven.” Grace raised her chin, feeling glad that she’d finally had a chance to reveal the true nature of Sophia’s death.
Hedda pursed her lips. Could she finally be at a loss for words? Then her mouth softened and the ambitious glint in her eyes relaxed. “May I say something off-the-record, darling? You’ve come a long way from the shy little damsel in distress. I must say, I’m quite impressed. What’s your secret?”
“It’s no secret.” Grace smiled. “Sometimes in life you have to be the star of your own show. Take matters into your own hands. Save yourself when the chips are down.”
Suddenly, the crowd hushed and then began to buzz as someone entered the room. When Grace saw the reason for the awed faces and the reverent way in which the crowd moved aside, she smiled.
“Flo! What are you doing here?” Grace rushed toward him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. She stood back, her palms resting on the breadth of his shoulders. “You look wonderful!” The fullness in his cheeks had returned, and his face once more had its usual olive complexion with a touch of pink. His hair was neatly slicked back, and his eyes had that familiar twinkle she’d seen so often when he was excited about something.
“Hello, darling. I decided to join Billie here in California for a while. We’re taking some time off. Hunting, riding, golfing, playing tennis, sleeping—you know, living the good life. And I’ve decided to give film a try. I have a new financial backer. The starring role in the movie would be perfect for you.”
“Oh, Flo. My acting days are over. You know that.”
“Just thought I’d try. Oh! I almost forgot. Something came in the mail for you at the office. A letter.”
Grace took the letter as Flo was overtaken by the crowd, Miss Hopper’s voice louder than all the rest as she peppered Florenz Ziegfeld Jr., the greatest showman on Earth, with questions.
Grace looked at the envelope and then up at Chet. “It’s from New Mexico,” she said.
“Well, you better open it.”
She tore at the paper and slipped out the note. Her brows pressed downward as she read the disconcerting news. “Frank Deerhunter died.” She looked up at Chet.
He reached over and circled her shoulders with his arm. “That’s such a shame.”
Grace read further, her mouth slowly opening until it gaped. “He’s bequeathed his horse, Golden Ray of Light, to me. And the saddle. Both are on a train as we speak, headed for a farm just outside New York City. They arrive in three days. I can pick her up at my convenience.” She looked up at him again, eyes wide as saucers.
“Well, it’s a darn good thing we have the ranch, don’t you think?” Chet said with a chuckle.
Grace held the letter in front of her and looked up into her husband’s eyes.
“What in the world am I going to do with a horse?”
The End
Did You Enjoy Reading Grace in the Wings?
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About the Author
Empowered women in history, horses, unconventional characters, and real-life historical events fill the pages of Kari Bovée’s articles and historical mystery musings and manuscripts.
An award-winning author, Bovée was honored as a finalist in the Romantic Suspense category of the 2012 LERA Rebecca contest, the 2014 NTRWA Great Expectations contest, and the RWA 2016 Daphne du Maurier contest for her unpublished manuscript Grace in the Wings. She was also honored as a finalist in the NHRWA Lone Star Writer’s contest in 2012 with the unpublished manuscript of the first book in her Annie Oakley series, Girl with a Gun. In 2019, Bovée was honored as a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Awards Historical Fiction category for Girl with a Gun.
She and her husband, Kevin, spend their time between their horse property in the beautiful Land of Enchantment, New Mexico, and their condo on the sunny shores of Kailua-Kona, Hawaii.
Also by Kari Bovée
Girl with a Gun - An Annie Oakley Mystery (Book #1)
Shoot like a Girl - A Prequel Novella to Girl with a Gun
Peccadillo at the Palace - An Annie Oakley Mystery (Book #2)
Acknowledgments
To all of my readers and my awesome street team, you have my eternal gratitude. Your continued support and encouragement are what makes this endeavor worth all the effort!
I would also like to acknowledge my fabulous assistant, Natasha Gibson, who keeps the wheels on the bus while I am busy creating. Your talents and patience are greatly appreciated.