“I doubt it,” a darker blonde said from her seat next to the other one. “His aim has never been very good. Have you seen how many times he’s tried to hit Marty’s balls out of the way? But you’re here to stay, aren’t you, Marty?”
Overweight, sunburned Marty was dressed for the game in white shorts and a white-and-red plaid sweater. He ignored the two girls completely and leaned on his mallet, the bulge of his stomach hanging out over his shorts. Marty’s wife, Ruby Hayworth, wore a simple ivory day dress. The actress was a dead ringer for Clara Bow, only with dark brown hair rather than red.
Ruby rolled her eyes. “Glitz, Glamour, lay off and let Forrest concentrate.”
She gave Forrest a warm smile and the playboy looked practically thunderstruck. She’d already bagged herself a rich husband—and now it looked like she had Forrest wrapped around her finger as well. Jerome wondered how Ruby managed to stay the center of attention with a firecracker like Gloria around. Sure, Ruby had charisma, but that was a given. You couldn’t get far in show business without it.
Gloria had more charisma in her little toe than ten Ruby Hayworths. She was the last match in a matchbook—the one that managed to spark while the others lay dull and useless on the ground.
Gloria—his Gloria.
Today she was wearing a sleeveless lavender blouse and a pale gray skirt with a matching gray cloche. When Forrest managed to hit his ball through the correct wicket for the first time since they’d started playing, Gloria burst into delighted, musical laughter. “I knew you had it in you,” she said to him.
“I’m actually a decent player on my good days,” Forrest replied. “But how can I keep my mind on the game with so many lovely distractions so close by?” He winked at Gloria, and from fifteen feet away Jerome could see her blush. What was that—was Forrest flirting with Gloria?
Jerome brushed the idea out of his mind. Last night Gloria had told him how supportive Forrest was of their relationship—more than any white man she’d ever met. Forrest was a friend.
Well, sort of.
“Waiter?” Glitz called, and almost startled him into dropping the tray of gin and tonics in his hand. “I think I could use another.”
“But your glass is still full!” Glamour remarked.
“Mmm, but my other hand is empty and not doing anything special. Why waste it when it could be doing something useful like holding my next drink?”
Waiter. The word pained him. Glitz took a drink from Jerome’s tray without saying thank you or even acknowledging his existence. Jerome walked back to his post beside the row of lawn chairs. He stood with his tray held high and a towel over his arm: just another piece of furniture.
He used to be a musician. What had happened to him?
Jerome looked back to the croquet game. Apparently Forrest had convinced Gloria that he was a good enough player to teach her how to shoot. She bent over the ball with her mallet, laughing, while Forrest laid his hands on her arm and shoulder.
Too close for comfort.
Then Forrest called to Jerome over his shoulder. “Waiter! I think this game is getting a little too sober for anyone’s liking.”
Jerome took a deep breath and marched over to the two teams on the lawn. Forrest took drinks for himself and Gloria. He leaned in close and clinked his glass against Gloria’s. “To mopping the floor with these two,” he said, his lips close to Gloria’s ear. Gloria’s face was bright red now.
Jerome trusted Gloria, and Gloria had said that Forrest only saw her as a pal. So what the hell was Forrest playing at, pawing at Gloria like this? Jerome clenched his fists and told himself to calm down. Hank had worked hard to get him here—he couldn’t risk blowing his cover. Thankfully, even if Forrest approved of him theoretically, the man had no idea what Jerome looked like—so Jerome was able to be at his estate without raising any suspicion.
Yet.
Before last night, Jerome hadn’t spoken to Gloria in weeks—even though he’d been so worried about her. He’d seen in the papers that she’d been released from prison and hated that he couldn’t go straight to her. But Hank had said he couldn’t. So Jerome just had to wait and hope that Gloria was thinking of him even a fraction as much as he was thinking of and longing for her.
Then last night had been such a blur of pure joy and relief. The waves of her autumn-fire hair, those brilliant, pale eyes that held more intelligence and strength than Jerome had ever thought a silver-spoon dame like her could possess. God, he’d missed her.
The sun was already rising outside Gloria’s window by the time they got to talking. Jerome lay on Gloria’s enormous bed with her head on his chest, her soft, beautiful hair tickling his nose. He’d been ready to fall asleep in the heaven he’d found in Gloria’s arms, but she’d pulled away and looked up at him with a mix of elation and concern on her face.
“I’m so happy to see you, Jerome. But what are you doing here?” she asked. “I’m working to get us both out of trouble. Hank said—”
Jerome had put two of his fingers to her lips. “Hank’s the one who sent me here.”
He told Gloria how her father had left him in Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey. She gripped the silk comforter hard as Jerome told the story. At one point she interrupted him. “Can you please stop calling that man my father?” A tear ran down her cheek, but her expression remained fierce. “He lost his right to being called that a long time ago.”
Jerome looked at his fiancée for a moment, lost in sadness and admiration for her. Jerome’s own father had never understood him, had done everything he could to tear Jerome away from music. He and Gloria had this in common. “Well, anyway, I woke up on a tiny cot in a ramshackle house. A real sweet old couple, the Walkers, had found me lying on the side of the road not long after I passed out.”
“Thank God,” Gloria said.
“They insisted I stay with them for a few days to get my strength back up, then they directed me to the nearest pay phone in Hoboken. From there I called Hank, and he promised to help me out with Lowell if I helped you with Forrest.” Jerome looked away, unsure how Gloria would react to this next part. “It took Hank a little bit of time, but soon he was able to get an investigation into your father’s business dealings going. Now … well, Lowell doesn’t have any time to worry about who you’re planning to marry.”
Gloria smiled in relief. “Good. One less problem for us.”
“So Hank set me up at a hotel in New York on the bureau’s dime and worked to plant me here as a servant. Hank appreciates that it’s probably been hard for you to get a chance to go through Forrest’s things, being his guest—a servant would have a lot more access. He said I couldn’t contact you. Otherwise, sweetheart, you know I would have.”
She nodded. “I know. I’m just happy you’re safe. And Hank’s right—I could use your help.” Gloria told him about Forrest’s inheritance from his late father. “So you see, he’s not a criminal at all. Hank probably just got bored with gin busts and decided to target Forrest. But Hank will never believe me without proof. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to search Forrest’s room so I can find his father’s will and we can leave the past where it belongs: in the past. And move on with our lives.”
Jerome peered at Gloria, skeptical. “What makes you think Forrest is telling the truth?”
“I know this mansion and the company he keeps might make you think differently, but Forrest really is a decent man,” Gloria said. “You’ll see.”
Jerome couldn’t bring himself to dash the hope in Gloria’s eyes. “All right. The first chance I get, I’ll search his room and find that will. Then we’ll get out of here and it’ll be just you and me.”
When Gloria fell asleep, he sneaked back to the servants’ quarters happier than he’d been in weeks.
But now the joy drained from him as he watched Forrest manhandle Gloria. Forrest’s hand had been on Gloria’s waist for what felt like hours. It was too much for Jerome to take, no matter how decent Gloria insisted Forrest was.
Jerome abruptly twisted the hand holding the silver tray so that all five remaining gin and tonics splashed all over Forrest’s navy-blue pin-striped jacket. Gloria squealed in surprise and Forrest jumped away from her.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Jerome said half a second too late.
There was a tense, sickly pause in the air as Forrest pulled a white handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, wiping his hands with it. Then he did the impossible: He laughed.
“Ah, that was refreshing,” he remarked. “I think a gin shower was exactly what I needed to up my game.” He glanced at Jerome without really looking at him. “Thank you, good sir.” He took off his jacket, folded it over, and handed it to Jerome. “I’m afraid I’ll need a new one of these, though.”
Damn. Maybe Gloria was right after all. “You’re not angry?” Jerome asked.
Forrest waved him off. “If even half the drinks that get poured around here survive, I count myself a lucky man. There’s a similar jacket on the far right side of my closet.” He pulled a heavy silver key ring out of his pocket, pulled a brass key free from the rest, and handed the key to Jerome. “I keep my bedroom locked, old boy.”
Jerome looked behind Forrest at Gloria, who eyed the keys in Jerome’s hand and looked as though she was trying to suppress a delighted laugh. Gloria probably thought Jerome had orchestrated this whole thing so he’d be able to get into Forrest’s room.
“Of course,” Jerome said to Forrest, “I’ll be right back with that for you, sir.”
Five minutes later, Jerome stood in the middle of what was easily the finest bedroom he’d ever seen.
The walls were paneled in soft mahogany, and a few tastefully abstract paintings hung in gilded frames. A four-poster bed sat in the middle of the room, and a few framed photos on the dresser and the desk by the window displayed Forrest next to gorgeous Follies dancers or famous actors.
Jerome crossed to the closet. It was full of fine silk shirts of every color and enough suits to clothe an army of gentlemen. Jerome removed the navy-blue coat Forrest had mentioned and hung it on the back of the desk chair. Then he moved to the desk and began shuffling through Forrest’s mail. He didn’t really know where Forrest would keep a copy of his father’s will—he was a musician, not a detective. But he did have an advantage in this investigation that Gloria didn’t: invisibility.
When Hank had first mentioned the possibility of Jerome’s working as a servant in Forrest’s home, Jerome had never thought it would work.
“We’ve paid off Forrest’s head housekeeper. She hires all his help for him,” Hank had explained. “You’ll show up with a few other new servants, and it’ll be your job to do your best to blend in. With any luck, Forrest won’t even notice you’re there.”
“But won’t he recognize me? My face has been plastered in at least half as many magazines as Gloria’s since everything that went down at the Opera House,” Jerome pointed out.
Hank had given him a pitying smile. “Jerome, you’re black. Put you in serving clothes and you’ll be practically invisible to wealthy white folks like Forrest and his crowd. Forrest is the sort of man who, if he did read any of those Manhattanite articles, never would’ve looked past the pretty girl on your arm in the photos. A guy like you? You’ve only ever been an invisible man to him.”
Jerome had spent his whole life avoiding this kind of serving-the-white-man work. But Hank had made it clear that if Jerome wanted to escape Lowell and see his beloved fiancée anytime soon, he was going to have to get over his pride and do what needed to be done.
Unable to find anything out of the ordinary on the mahogany desk, Jerome began opening the drawers on each side. In the middle drawer on the left, he found a thick beige envelope. He withdrew two steamship tickets to Paris. The boat was leaving in a week. He also found a folded slip of notebook paper in the envelope. It was a sort of list written in impeccably neat handwriting:
Height: 5′2″
Weight: 105 lb.?
To Bring Along:
7 day dresses
7 evening dresses
4 skirts
4 blouses
Shoes? Ask Marlene at Bloomingdale’s
Dial Madame Barbas/House of Patou as soon as we arrive
The handwriting looked masculine, but what was all this about skirts and blouses … unless … Forrest was planning to whisk a girl away to Paris!
Jerome felt his throat close up. From the way Forrest had been acting outside, it wasn’t too hard to guess who that girl might be.
Gloria had said she’d talked to Forrest about Jerome—it wasn’t like this man had no idea Gloria was no longer available. What, did Forrest think that because Gloria was engaged to a black man, it didn’t count as a real engagement? How dare Forrest try to steal his girl! It would serve the man right if Jerome ripped up these tickets right now.
But that was a big, stupid risk that Jerome knew he couldn’t take. Besides, he knew if Forrest offered Gloria a trip to Paris, she’d refuse him. He returned the tickets and list to the envelope and put them back where he’d found them.
Jerome moved to the dresser. He went through it drawer by drawer and found far less clothing in the last one than there should’ve been. He reached through the stacks of polo shirts to the bottom of the drawer and grinned when the wood lifted easily under his hands. He cleared out the drawer and lifted the false bottom.
His eyes were drawn first to a small black velvet box in the corner. Inside? A ring that made Gloria’s look like a child’s plaything. It had a white-gold band, and several tiny diamonds were grouped into the shape of a flower at the center. Maybe the ring was just a family heirloom—maybe it had nothing to do with Gloria—but the sight of it still made Jerome queasy.
Jerome glanced at the door and listened hard for footsteps or voices, but the coast was still clear. He turned his attention to a large leather-covered book that took up most of the space in the bottom of the drawer. Jerome flipped through the photo album and recognized a handsome young boy with dark, glinting eyes as a younger version of Forrest. In one picture, the boy looked about five or six. He stood at the edge of a pond, fishing rod in hand. A mustached man in a casual checkered shirt and trousers stood behind Forrest with a hand on his shoulder. Forrest was laughing, but the man’s expression was grave.
Jerome had to look at the picture for a few moments before he realized why the man seemed familiar. He hadn’t been bald back then—he’d had dark, silky hair just like Forrest’s, and it swept over his forehead in the exact same way. Though the man’s pale eyes were more sinister, they had the same appealing glimmer as Forrest’s—and like Forrest, the man was remarkably handsome.
This was before the man had gotten the scar that stretched across his face.
Without the scar, the resemblance between Forrest’s man Pembroke and Forrest was unmistakable. The clefts in their chins, their long, straight noses, their lips that would’ve looked too thin on anyone else.
Pembroke wasn’t Forrest’s manservant, or bodyguard, or goon. Pembroke was Forrest’s father.
But Gloria had told Jerome that Forrest said his father was dead. Why had he lied? And why was his father pretending to be a butler?
Jerome heard the grandfather clock in the foyer begin to chime. He’d been up here for half an hour already! Far too long to merely fetch a jacket. He reassembled the drawer as fast as he could and replaced the clothes.
He turned, ready to bolt out the door. And he met a pair of pale, bloodshot eyes. The same ones in the photograph.
Jerome gulped and dropped the jacket in his hands on the floor. He stumbled backward, bumping up against the cold metal handles of the dresser drawers. A framed photo of Forrest and some dancer fell on the floor, the glass shattering. Jerome looked quickly out the window, searching for some other escape. Then he stared into those eyes and they chilled him to the bone. What could he do now?
Pembroke stood in the doorway and chuckled, low and deep, at Jerome’s distress.
&nb
sp; His arms were crossed, but the doorframe still seemed too small to contain his bulk. Pembroke’s lips curved into a garish, crooked smile beneath his bushy gray mustache. Like his son, he was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit. But his pale blue eyes held none of Forrest’s good humor. They were flat and soulless—a killer’s eyes.
Pembroke clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “A floozy singer and a colored boy. They must not think much of my son over at the bureau if this is the cavalry they send after him.”
Pembroke continued to grin, making his jagged scar even more unsettling. He moved a few steps closer and Jerome backed away from the dresser and farther into the room, until he was against the wood-paneled wall. Then Pembroke pulled a hefty black pistol from his side holster. Jerome didn’t know much about guns, but he knew a gun that size at this range would take his head clean off.
Pembroke pointed the gun at Jerome’s temple. “So. Did you find what you were looking for, Detective?”
GLORIA
Gloria was beginning to understand why none of Forrest’s shows had done well.
“Hey, Gretchen!” Earl slurred, slumped on his piano bench. “You ready to run through ‘A Penny for Your Thoughts’?”
“It’s Gloria,” she replied, “and I’m not sure that’s—”
“Come on, Glo!” Glitz called from her cushioned golden chair at the other end of the salon. She and the others sat by the floor-to-ceiling arched windows in the informal audience area. “Keep going! It’s all been jake so far. Ain’t that right, Glam?”
Beside Glitz, Glamour clapped. “Encore, encore! These songs are just the rage, Forrest. Much better than the ones in your other shows.”
What are the songs from his other shows like? Gloria wondered. Maybe the actors just scratch their fingernails across a blackboard for ninety minutes.
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