by Kari Bovee
“That’s a wonderful idea, Chet. But how will this impact my decision about the party?”
“We have to go get him tomorrow night. I’ll try to get back as soon as possible, but it may be rather late.”
“I see.” Although Chet didn’t care for extravagant affairs, he did surprisingly well socially with his outgoing personality. I didn’t like to admit it, but I depended on him to fly cover for me. The prospect of facing the partygoers without him only increased my anxiety.
“I’m sorry, darling. This is all rather last minute.” He squeezed my hand again. “Joe just told me about it this morning, and it looks like we are this horse’s only hope.”
Well how could I argue with that? I only wished I could rid myself of this niggling feeling of doom.
Chapter Four
The lower floor of the house was bursting at the seams with all the people Mr. Travis invited to the party, despite the fact that we owned a rather large house. Farmhouse style with a wraparound porch, it had a bevy of bedrooms upstairs—seven, in fact—including a room I had converted into a studio. Miss Meyers and Rose resided downstairs in the generous maid’s quarters. There were also spacious living areas downstairs, including a formal dining room adjacent to the kitchen and a grand formal living area, both positioned at the front of the house. At the back of the house were a sunroom and a large den. We also had a bunkhouse out near the barn where Ned and some of the other farmhands lived.
Mr. Travis was true to his word, though, and I didn’t have to lift a finger for the party. As Chet had predicted, Rose was beside herself with irritation at having to share her kitchen with the caterers and the staff they employed. I did my best to ignore her grumblings.
Lizzy, Ida, and Daniel were keen to see all the movie stars so I let them attend, providing they would be on their best behavior. As I had been so aptly reminded by my incident with Goldie, the kids were prone to roughhousing and mischief. Daniel and Ida had given me their word that they wouldn’t cause any trouble.
Lizzy, however, had been affronted by my entreaty, as she felt herself above the age of such nonsense. “I’m almost seventeen,” she’d said.
“I know, Lizzy. You’re becoming a mature young woman. I just want you to be aware that the Hollywood set is a fast crowd. Just be cautious. And no drinking. It’s illegal.”
She had crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. “If it’s illegal to have booze here, then why are you doing it?”
“I meant it’s illegal for you to drink. You’re a minor. And it’s not illegal to have alcohol in a private home if you are of age. It’s illegal to make it or sell it. I’m sure Mr. Travis will have plenty on hand for the party, but it is not for you or the other kids. Understand?”
She had sighed but had given me a nod of acquiescence. We usually did not have any kind of liquor or spirits in the house, but since Prohibition had started four years ago, I had not been to a party where it wasn’t served.
I scanned the living room full of beautiful people. The starlets all wore glamorous variations of the popular flapper dress, and the men wore dapper tailcoats and white ties, or the more modern tuxedo jacket with black bow tie. Among the esteemed guests were actress Clara Bow, surrounded by a bevy of young men, as well as Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, and Douglas Fairbanks, who stood in a tight knot, probably talking business. The latter three were co-owners of Ambassador’s rival studio, United Artists. I wondered where their fourth partner, the famed political film director D.W. Griffith, was tonight. Probably at home reading a script. I’d heard he did not often mix business with pleasure.
I spied Lizzy talking with Robert Smith, which was concerning enough, and she had a champagne glass in her hand. Why was Robert Smith here anyway? Apparently, he hadn’t been fired yet. My stomach clenched at the sight of him with Lizzy, and with her drinking. I still didn’t like the uncharacteristic behavior I’d witnessed from him on the set, and seeing him here was a little unsettling. Had he and Mr. Travis made up?
Lizzy was animated and vivacious, looking much older than her sixteen years. She had asked to borrow one of my dresses from the Sophia line, which I happily had complied with at the time, but now seeing her wearing it, I had second thoughts. Mr. Smith’s eyes were pinned to her. The dress was one of my favorites. It was a deep-green satin that brought out the paleness of Lizzy’s skin and the deep tones of her auburn hair. I had adhered a large rhinestone clip at the apex of the gathered, dropped waistline, and the chiffon skirt, cut in the popular hanky hem, graced her slender calves midway.
I hastily made my way over to them.
“Hi, Grace.” Lizzy flashed a dazzling smile at me, her cheeks pink from the champagne. I wondered how much she’d had to drink.
I took the glass from her hand. “What did we talk about?” I whispered.
“Oh, you’re such a killjoy,” she said, her lips pressing into a pout.
“Are you having a nice time?” I asked Mr. Smith, giving him a pointed look, hoping to convey that Lizzy was my charge and he needed to take care.
A waiter approached us with a gleaming silver tray of champagne coupes. Mr. Smith deposited his empty glass and took two more.
“I hope that isn’t for Lizzy,” I said. I knew I was embarrassing her, but we’d had a deal.
Mr. Smith gave me a discerning look. “Oh, never fear, Miss Michelle. I don’t share.”
As the waiter turned to go, he bumped Mr. Smith with his shoulder, spilling the champagne. He quickly turned back around, his hand raised apologetically in the air. “I beg your pardon,” he said with a hint of a British accent and then hurried off.
“That was rude,” Lizzy said.
“The man is beyond the pale.” Mr. Smith’s words came out slow and thick. “Works for Travis. His valet or butler—some kind of indentured servant. I think his name is Johnson. Light in the loafers from what I’ve heard.”
“Robert, darling, there you are!” An incredibly tall, willowy woman approached us. Her hair was almost the same bright silver as her gown. She was striking, probably at one time beautiful but well past her prime. The lilt in her voice gave the hint of a Scandinavian accent. Swedish or Danish, I ventured to guess.
She laid a gloved hand on Mr. Smith’s shoulder, and her eyes met mine.
“This is Miss Lenora Lange. A friend of mine,” Mr. Smith said. “Lenora, this is Grace Michelle, owner of this beautiful home.”
She extended her hand, and I took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lange. Welcome.” Before I could turn to Lizzy to introduce her, she scooted away from us and opened the French doors to go onto the back porch.
Miss Lange’s lips turned up in a half smile, and she tilted her head, her eyes narrowing a bit. “You are an old soul,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I thought it a strange greeting. No, it was a strange greeting. She hadn’t yet released my hand.
“You haven’t heard of Lenora?” Mr. Smith asked, chuckling. He swallowed down the rest of his second glass of champagne.
“No, I’m sorry. Should I have?” I wanted to pull back my hand but knew I wouldn’t be able to do so without jerking it away.
“Lenora is a famous spiritualist,” he went on.
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Miss Lange pulled me closer to her, released her other hand from Mr. Smith’s shoulder, and placed it on top of our linked palms. “She is well. She is at peace,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
A wave of dizziness slammed into me, and my hands and scalp tingled, causing an icy chill to zip down my spine. “Uh . . . Um . . . I’m sorry, I—” I looked to Mr. Smith for assistance.
“Lenora is a medium,” Mr. Smith tried to explain again. “She communicates with those who’ve passed to the other side.”
“Your sister,” Miss Lange said. “She’s passed?”
A pain deep in my chest nearly took my breath away. I stared up at her and actually did it—I jerked my hand away from hers as if they’d been po
ker hot. “Yes.”
“Gracie. That is what she called you?” The woman’s pale-blue eyes regarded me with tenderness.
I felt the blood drain from my face, and my knees shook with weakness. The only two people in the world who’d called me Gracie were Sophia and Flo. Suddenly, I felt the presence of all the people in the house pressing in on me. I had to get some air.
“Excuse me. I need to find Lizzy.” I was just about to make my way to the double doors that led to the back porch when Miss Lange touched my shoulder.
“She’s going to need you.” Her gaze was so penetrating it made me want to flinch. I wasn’t sure who she was talking about—Sophia or Lizzy. And what did it mean?
Flustered, I pulled myself away and stepped out into the cool night air. I took in a breath so sharp it sounded like a gasp.
Several of the guests were also on the porch chatting and laughing, probably feeling the crush inside, as well. Daniel and Ida were standing under one of the trees in the yard, talking quietly with a man and a woman. I was glad to see them interacting with the guests, and in such a mature manner.
Lizzy was talking with another one of the actors. I didn’t know him but had seen him around the set. She was laughing at something he’d said. I was relieved she wasn’t holding a drink this time. Standing nearby were Mr. Travis and his wife, Florence Thomas. From their body language, I could tell they were in an argument.
“Grace.” I heard a familiar voice from behind me, and I turned to see my dear friend, the Southern beauty, Felicity Jones coming through the French doors. She looked lovely, as usual, in her trademark burgundy. She wore the color often, as it brought out the gold tones in her dark skin and contrasted with the blue of her eyes. Her anomalous looks were captivating, and people gravitated to her like moths to a flame, which was ironic because she really was quite shy and introverted.
I breathed a sigh of relief at seeing her. “I was hoping you’d come.”
She shrugged. “Of course. I haven’t seen much of you lately, and I’ve missed you. I hitched a ride with Edward and Florence.”
“Oh right. You are still living in their guest house.”
Felicity had been renting a little bungalow in Santa Monica, but a tree branch had fallen through the roof.
“Yes. It was kind of them to allow me to stay there,” she said. “And convenient.”
Once a reluctant Broadway star, then a reluctant screen star, Felicity had finally made her break from show business and had settled on a career in interior design. Deeply entrenched with the Hollywood set, she’d become the designer to the stars and was currently working for Mr. Travis.
“How are the renovations going?” I asked. “Aside from the plumbing problems, that is.”
“Mostly well. She’s quite a challenge to work with.” Felicity tilted her head in Florence’s direction. The woman was leaning forward, her face taut as she was delivering what looked like a hushed verbal tirade at her husband, who was nervously looking around. He took her by the elbow and ushered her out of earshot.
Felicity heaved a sigh. “Looks like trouble in paradise. Again. They are always arguing. It has to be exhausting.”
“Uh-huh.” I was only half paying attention. My eyes drifted to a small group of people surrounding Miss Lange in the house. Their gazes were glued to her, as if hanging on her every word. Our unsettling conversation came back to mind, and a flush of heat traveled up my torso.
“Grace, are you feeling okay? You look a little shaken.” Felicity knew me so well.
I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead, then turned toward the open fields. “Just a little warm. It’s pretty crowded in there.” I set my hands on the railing and closed my eyes, a delicious, soft breeze giving me instant relief.
“What’s the matter, sugar?” Felicity laid a hand on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes and faced her. “What do you know about Lenora Lange?”
Felicity frowned and gave a shrug of her shoulder. “She’s a psychic or a medium or something. So I’ve heard . . . Did she come with Robert Smith?”
“As far as I know.”
“He’s quite the devotee. I’ve heard rumors they are living together.” Felicity raised an eyebrow. “He claims she’s been able to speak with some of the soldiers in his unit who were killed in France. Poor guy is shell-shocked from the war. That’s why he drinks so much. He’s really a mess.”
“Yes. So I’ve gathered,” I said absently, my mind still on Miss Lange. “Do you think she can really speak to the dead?” My voice came out weak, like a child’s.
Felicity shrugged again. “Who knows? Whatever she does, she’s making a good living at it. I’ve heard she’s quite famous in Europe.”
I turned fully around, leaned my backside against the railing, and crossed my arms at my waist. “She said something to me about Sophia. She wanted me to know Sophia is at peace. It really caught me off guard.”
Felicity’s brows pressed down over her eyes. “It does seem a strange thing to say to someone when first meeting them. But whether or not she’s been in contact with your sister, the news of your sister’s death was all over the papers. Maybe she was just trying to give you some comfort.”
Sophia’s death had only been four years ago, but it seemed like ages. I was never comfortable with the press so rarely read anything printed in the papers about me or my sister. Yes, Sophia’s death had been a big story, but like everything in show business, it was literally yesterday’s news the day after the headline had been printed. The public was fickle and forgetful. And it had been quite some time since anyone had brought her death up to me. I took in a deep breath and squeezed Felicity’s hand.
She squeezed mine back. “She was probably just being kind. Wanting to put any fears you might have had to rest.”
“You are probably right.”
But what if it was something more? What if she had been in contact with Sophia? The thought sent another icy chill across my shoulders.
I guess the dreams I’d been having about Sophia and my parents lately were getting to me, not to mention causing me insufferable sleep deprivation.
Felicity was right. Miss Lange probably had read about Sophia and probably knew about me as her replacement, but how did she know Sophia’s pet name for me? And who was it that needed my help?
Chapter Five
Once back in the house, my thoughts of Sophia lifted as the noise of the party distracted me more and more. The party was going full tilt. Someone had turned on the phonograph, and Eddie Cantor’s “Charley My Boy” drifted on the air, competing with the loud conversations and laughter of the guests. Behind me, Florence Thomas burst in through the double doors, her mouth set in a hard line. She headed directly for the punch bowl.
Helen Clark sauntered over to me wearing a beautiful indigo beaded gown, a champagne coupe held aloft in her bejeweled hand with its perfectly manicured, vibrant red nails. “She’s in a mood.”
I had seen her come in earlier, noticing her gown trimmed in ostrich feathers. It was dyed the same rich blue at the sleeves and neckline, and trailed down the deep V at the back. She was stunning. “Hello, Helen,” I said.
She leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek. She smelled of booze and jasmine, and her luminous green eyes were glassy. “Nice place you have here,” she said, her eyes roaming the room and the furnishings. “It’s real cozy-like,” she whispered and then giggled. Clearly, she had started her party much earlier. I wondered if she’d had something more than alcohol.
“Thank you,” I said.
“When Edward said we were going to a farm for the party, I didn’t know what to expect. But this is real sweet.” She batted her eyes at me.
Helen reminded me of a fragile bird with that voice and her way of flitting about. Her gaze traveled across the room and stopped over my right shoulder. She lifted her chin and took a deep breath through flared nostrils. I turned to see what she was looking at. It was the same man who’d bumped into Robert Smith—M
r. Johnson, Mr. Smith had said—and he was talking to Lizzy.
He was nice-looking, with Romanesque features and looked to be in his early thirties. I thought he’d make a perfect Marc Antony in a film. He leaned against one of his hands, which was resting on the wall to the left of Lizzy’s head. His other hand held her wrist. He turned her wrist over and then, releasing his other hand from the wall, caressed the heart-shaped birthmark on the inner part of her forearm. I supposed it was a feature of interest, so perfectly shaped, as if it had been tattooed there. Still, my stomach tightened at watching them. She was far too young for him.
Lizzy rested her back against the wall, a flirtatious smile plastered on her face. I thought I heard her say something about the horses, and then she let out an uproarious burst of laughter. I could tell she’d had more to drink, despite our agreement. It was time to intervene and get her to bed.
But before I got there, Mr. Travis stepped up to them. He pointed to the doors, saying something to Mr. Johnson. With a scowl on his face, Mr. Johnson picked up his silver tray from the side table and went out the double doors.
“Grace, I need you in the kitchen.” Rose appeared at my left shoulder. Her plump face was pinched, and she glared up at me through her round-rimmed spectacles. “Now!”
“Oh.” I was surprised to see she’d ventured out of the kitchen still in her apron. “Will you excuse me?” I said to Helen, who was transfixed on Lizzy and Edward. My breath quickened. I hoped this wouldn’t take too long. I wanted to get back to Lizzy.
Rose abruptly made her way to the kitchen, nearly knocking into the bemused guests as she passed. I tried not to roll my eyes with embarrassment as I carefully threaded my way through with polite excuse-me’s and pardon-me’s. When I reached the kitchen, I was confronted by Rose, hands on plump hips and thunder in her face. Behind her, a chef in a crisp white uniform commandeered the gas range and another stood at the wooden table in the center of the kitchen, furiously chopping vegetables. They were silent and intent on their work.