“Here’s to damned civility,” said Barker, raising a glass, then downing the rest of his drink before motioning to a waiter to have it refilled.
Kurt raised his own glass. “I’d like to raise a glass to our host. I ain’t had much of a chance to get away from Hollywood and I sure do appreciate this party. So, thank you, Mr. Remington!”
Everyone raised a glass, then drank.
Kurt continued. “I should also thank Tanner, here, for gettin’ me invited.” He drank to his publicity man.
Tanner nodded to Kurt, then to their host. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my camera, hoping to get a few pictures for the fan magazines.” He held up his black Graflex Century camera, with the accordion-style expandable lens.
“That’s quite a camera you have there, Tanner,” said Lawrence. “I believe I’ve seen the press waving those things around outside the theaters.”
“That’s exactly where I got it,” said Tanner. “One of the studio photographers lent it to me, hoping I could get some good publicity shots.” He took a photo of the guests at the table.
Mikey looked murderous. “I never said you could take my picture!”
“I don’t want mine taken in this company, either,” said Farnsworth, eyeing Mikey.
“I’m not too wild about it, either,” said Barker.
“Give me that film!” said Mikey in a tone which suggested it was best to comply.
“But, it’s for the magazines!” said Tanner, looking worried. “What if I promised not to use that shot?”
“What if I took your camera and smashed it into a million bits on your head?” asked Mikey.
“Here,” said Constance, as she rose and went to Tanner. “Perhaps, it’d be best if I took this for now.” She took the camera without asking permission but smiled as she did so. “I’m certain Mr. Tanner will only take pictures of Mr. Franklin from this moment forward.” She turned to place the camera on the hutch, but then stumbled and dropped it.
“Watch it!” said Tanner as he rushed over to pick up his camera from the floor. The latch on the back had come undone, exposing the roll of film.
“I’m so sorry!” said Constance. “How clumsy of me. I hope it isn’t broken!”
Tanner examined his camera. “I don’t think it’s broken. But the film is exposed.” He held up the now ruined roll of film, before snapping the latch shut again.
“I’m terribly sorry!” said Constance. “I believe you need another drink.” She motioned to a maid before turning back to the table with a slight smile on her face and a wink for Mikey.
He grinned in return.
David cleared his throat to hide his own grin. “Lawrence, I hear you’re working on a new play.”
“I am, indeed, working on a new play. Unfortunately, I’ve been working on it for the better part of two years, but hope to finish within the next six months or sometime in the next century.”
“It’s marvelous,” said Dora.
“You’ve read it?” asked Lydia.
“No, but it has to be marvelous. It’s a Lawrence Henry play.”
“I agree with Miss Barnes,” said David.
“If only either of you were the critic for the New York Times,” said Lawrence.
“All this talk is making me thirsty,” said Lucy, who’d been trying to calm Mikey. “How about some gin and jazz?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” said David, rising from his seat, then motioning for the staff to clear the table. “I also believe everyone’s drunk enough that we can bring out the lousy liquor.”
“Might as well,” said Lucy. “The swill I usually drink could be used for cleaning pipes.”
“Since when did you ever clean anything?” asked Mikey.
“Not since you made me your girl,” said Lucy, as she kissed him before crossing to the Victrola in the corner of the adjacent ballroom. “These records are the bee’s knees – and rouged ones at that. We could be dancing all night with these. Mind if I put one on?”
“Please do,” said David.
Lucy put a record on the turntable, then wound the Victrola. As the turntable began to spin, she carefully placed the needle on the record, then a two-step began to play. She grabbed Mikey and began to dance.
Lawrence swept Dora onto the floor, followed by David and Constance. Even Farnsworth and Lydia danced, though they’d said little to each other at dinner. Kurt and Barker stood back for lack of partners, while Tanner worked on his camera.
“That was an interesting evening,” said Constance quietly, as she and David made their way through the dance. “I can only imagine what the rest of the party will be like.”
“Lively, if tonight was any indication.” David looked over to where Mikey was studying all the other guests as he danced by them with Lucy. “Did you share the guest list with anyone?”
“I told Miss Melrose, of course,” said Constance, as she thought about it. “I told the butcher and baker that we were entertaining, though I didn’t tell them who would be here.”
“Anyone else?”
“The servants knew the guest list – the people who were invited, at least. I didn’t know Mr. Franklin would bring that tiresome man with the camera and, of course, the Farnsworths were a last-minute addition. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing.” David didn’t want to disclose what Mikey had told him in private.
“If you’re wondering if word could have gotten out, you might want to check with Tanner. I’m sure he’s always looking for ways to get publicity for his client. I suppose I shouldn’t have ruined that film, but I believe the man is much too forward. Mr. Corrigan certainly didn’t seem pleased with him for taking his picture.”
“He most assuredly wasn’t. I’m glad you did what you did.”
Two hours later, most of the guests were fairly drunk and all the couples had switched partners, though Lydia and Grant never danced together. It was after midnight and the air was humid with a coming storm. Distant thunder rumbled repeatedly throughout the house, all the time getting closer and closer. David had grown dizzy from drinking and was just about to call it a night when his eyes began to play tricks on him.
As he and Constance danced in a circle around the room, something appeared in the middle. It was a blur, similar to what he thought he’d seen earlier, but it looked even more like a person, a woman.
Then it became as sharp as possible. It was a woman in a beaded gown, looking at everyone in surprise. And David wasn’t the only person to have noticed her. One by one everyone stopped dancing to stare at her.
As a flash of lightning illuminated the room and rain began to pour, the woman’s features were clearly lit in the ballroom. She was beautiful, with dark hair and a dress which hugged her curves. David had to catch his breath as much from her striking appearance as the shock of having her suddenly appear. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, then he realized she was frightened.
He moved forward to reassure her, just as she tried to flee. She ran right into him, then bounced off. He instinctively reached out to catch her, as if his very life depended on it. But he was just a bit too late and could only watch her fall, even as he still tried to catch her. She had a look on her face like she recognized him, but he knew he’d never seen her before. He would remember this woman, he just knew it.
Then her head hit the floor with a resounding crack and all David could think about was his vision of a woman was dead.
All conversation drew to a halt. The only sounds in the room were the music and the rain. Then the silence was broken.
“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat!” said Barker. “Did you see that? How the hell did she get here?”
“Get a room ready for her,” David said to his butler, as he knelt by the woman and carefully felt the back of her head. Fortunately, he couldn’t find any cuts, though she might have a slight concussion. He carefully picked her up.
“Shall we call Doctor Lang?” asked Constance.
“He’s hiking in the back country,” said
David. “We’ll just have to watch her ourselves to make sure she’s all right.”
David carried her upstairs, reassured by her warmth and that her breathing was strong. He was followed by half a dozen of his guests, all talking about what they’d just seen. By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his staff had readied the room just off the landing.
“I’ll get one of my nightgowns,” said Constance, hurrying to her room.
David laid the woman on the bed, gently placing a pillow behind her head. Dora checked her pulse.
“It’s strong and not thready.” Dora gently opened both of the woman’s eyes. “Her pupils don’t look dilated and are about the same size, so I don’t think it’s a concussion.”
“When did you get to be an expert on medicine?” asked Lawrence, who’d crowded into the room behind them.
“I dated a doctor one weekend. He talked endlessly, so I took the time to learn a bit about medicine.”
Constance breezed into the room, holding one of her nightgowns. “Dora and I will get her changed. Why don’t you men give the poor girl some privacy?”
“Let me know when you’re done and I’ll stay with her,” said David.
“And scare her to death when she wakes up in the middle of the night to find a strange man in her room? I don’t think so,” said Constance, who then paused. “She is a stranger, correct? You don’t know her, do you?”
David didn’t say anything because his real answer would have sounded crazy. He’d never been introduced to her, but was quite certain he somehow knew her. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “Thank you for staying with her. If you need anything, please let me know.”
“Of course,” said Constance. “You can kiss me goodnight.”
David obliged, then left the room feeling more unsettled than he had in quite some time. Hopefully things would be better in the morning.
They would almost have to be.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When Josie awoke, she could tell it was day. Her eyes were still closed, but she knew sunlight was streaming into her bedroom. And she was in her bed. She was sure of that. Whatever had happened the previous night hadn’t been real. And she should take this as a sign to cut back on her drinking, which had never been a problem until her divorce, which reminded her of her conversation with Gary the previous day. Then she wondered how close to lunch she was so she could have a glass of wine.
Her head truly ached, another bad side effect of drinking too much red wine. She carefully opened her eyes, not wanting the sunlight to make her headache worse. Her room looked much as it usually did, though the wallpaper didn’t look quite as faded today and the wood around the windows looked much shinier. Had she gone into a drunken fit of cleaning the previous night?
Josie continued her slow perusal of the room until she saw a woman reading a magazine in the corner. Josie sat bolt upright in bed, then immediately regretted it because of her pounding headache. She didn’t know how she’d fight this intruder when she could barely move. A part of her wondered if it might be better if the woman simply knocked her out so Josie could go back to sleep.
But the woman didn’t look like an intruder. She was much too calm. And then she smiled.
“Good,” she said. “You’re awake.”
The woman looked vaguely familiar, but was wearing a dropped-waist linen dress, stockings and kitten-heel shoes. Her strawberry blonde hair was in a stylish bob. And she was reading what appeared to be a brand-new copy of the Saturday Evening Post with a Norman Rockwell cover.
“Who are you?” asked Josie, reaching beneath the bed and still not finding the fireplace poker.
The woman approached the bed in as non-threatening of a way as possible for someone Josie didn’t know and who was dressed for some type of costume party. “You fell and hit your head last night. You must have a terrible headache.” She poured Josie a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table.
Josie took the water and sipped, mostly to give herself time to think. As she looked at the rest of the room, she realized that it both did and didn’t look like her bedroom. She recognized the view outside the window as the same one from her room, but this one had more furniture in it and Josie’s personal effects were missing. “Where’s my phone?”
“There’s a phone downstairs,” said the woman.
“Not ‘a phone,’ but ‘my phone.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“My cell phone.”
“Your what?”
“My phone.” Josie moved her hands apart to indicate size, then held the imaginary phone to her aching head, which only made the woman more confused.
“I don’t see how you could have a phone here. This is David Remington’s house.”
“This is my house.”
The woman frowned slightly, somehow making herself even more beautiful. “Oh, dear, you must have really hit your head hard. You appeared last night in the ballroom, fell, then David carried you up here. Don’t you remember any of this?”
It did sound vaguely familiar, though it didn’t make any sense. Fortunately, the woman didn’t seem like an intruder who wanted to hurt her. If anything, the woman might be trying to gaslight her – who had a perfectly-preserved copy of the Saturday Evening Post, then sat around reading it? Josie didn’t think this was a dream, but it didn’t seem like reality, either. Then she realized her dress was gone and she was wearing a white cotton nightgown. “Where’s my dress?”
“I hung it up,” said Constance, pointing to the dress hanging outside the wardrobe which Josie recognized as hers, but in considerably better shape than the old piece of furniture she’d had to strip and re-stain. “I lent you my nightgown.”
Josie felt the heavy cotton and realized it had been ironed. This definitely wasn’t a modern-day woman. Who ironed nightgowns?
“You don’t remember anything?” the woman asked with some disappointment.
Josie didn’t remember much and felt inadequate because of it. She thought hard about what she did remember and tried to make some sense of it. “I remember...the ballroom, and falling. My head hurts, so I guess I remember hitting it.”
“You poor thing. Perhaps it would help if we introduced ourselves. I’m Constance Andrews.”
Constance Andrews. The only Constance Andrews Josie knew was the one in the newspaper stories about the Tycoon Murderer. How could that be possible? This had to be a dream, even though she was certain she was awake. There were a great many questions Josie wanted to ask, so many things she needed to know to make any sense of this. But just now, she couldn’t quite figure out what to say or what to do. The best she could come up with was a rather lame, “My name is Josie Matthews.”
The woman – Constance Andrews? – looked hopeful.
Josie decided to repeat it, to make the woman even happier. “My name is Josie Matthews and this is my house.”
Now the hope was dashed and Constance Andrews’s confused look was back, along with, if Josie didn’t miss the mark entirely, some irritation. Constance patted Josie’s arm. “Don’t worry too much if you can’t remember everything. They say getting hit on the head can really change a person, though occasionally the effects are short-lived. I don’t think you should worry overly much right now that you’ll never recover and suffer serious side effects. I’d try to get some sleep and see if you feel better later.”
“But I am Josie Matthews and this really is my house.”
Constance drew the shades, reducing the room to a tempting darkness. “Try to sleep. Perhaps you’ll remember more when you wake up again.”
“But I live here.” Josie suddenly realized just how tired she was. Perhaps this was all a dream and she simply needed to let her mind let go of it. Her head ached and the darkness felt so much better. So, she lay back down, closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.
* * *
Constance Andrews! David Remington! Constance Andrews was the Tycoon Murderer’s girlfriend! Josie sat up in bed. The room was
dark, but she could glimpse daylight outside through the curtains. Now she knew why those names were familiar. David Remington was the Tycoon Murderer and Constance Andrews was his distraught girlfriend from the news photos. Josie couldn’t explain what was happening, though she knew now this wasn’t a dream.
She got out of bed and felt the strange white nightgown, still impressively wrinkle-free, billow around her. She went to the window, then carefully peeked out from behind the shade. There were a dozen people on the front lawn and it looked to be mid-afternoon. A few were dressed in black uniforms and were passing out drinks. But the rest were in summer clothes from the 1920s. She knew she was awake but had no idea what was going on.
Then she saw the magazine Constance had been reading. There was a cover of a grandfather and grandson fishing, called Catching the Big One, by Norman Rockwell. The date was August 3, 1929. This made no sense. She’d seen enough magazine props in Hollywood to recognize when something had been mocked up to look real. This wasn’t that. This seemed like the real Saturday Evening Post from almost ninety years earlier – she couldn’t tell the exact time difference since her head hurt too much for math.
She needed to find out what the hell was going on, but she couldn’t go downstairs in Constance Andrews’s nightgown. She eyed her sequined gown, but it seemed too formal for the afternoon.
Hoping to find some sign of her life, she opened the wardrobe, only to find it empty. Same thing with the dresser. That’s when she noticed a dress and stockings laid out on a chair. It was a light blue cap-sleeved, drop-waisted linen dress which looked like it’d hit just above her ankles. She wondered if it had come from Constance. It seemed to be about the same size as the nightgown, and just as well pressed. It felt odd to wear someone else’s clothes, but she didn’t have much choice.
The dress fit well enough, though she had to wear her own shoes from the night before. She tied her hair back in what she hoped was an approximation of a bob, then quietly set out to discover what the hell was going on.
As she ventured into the hall, there was every indication this was Remington Mansion, but of a much-earlier era. It was in excellent shape and she’d give anything to have her house look like this one, though there were some differences. The sconces on the wall were gas, and even if she had her phone, there’d be no place to plug it in because there weren’t any outlets. That was alarming. If the impossible had truly happened and she was in the 1920s, she couldn’t imagine being without the internet.
The Tycoon Murderer Page 6