by Kari Bovee
“Sorry.” I waved a hand. “Just a twinge of a headache. Let’s get you out of those clothes and into something more comfortable,” I said to Lizzy, ignoring the furious staccato of my heart.
Chapter Six
After we had gotten Lizzy into some clean clothes, she crawled back onto the bed and resumed the fetal position. She was shaking from head to toe, so Felicity grabbed another quilt from the quilt rack and wrapped her up in it. Then we both sat down in the cushioned window seat facing each other.
Felicity pulled a gold cigarette case from her dress pocket and offered me one. Wrinkling my nose, I declined. I’d tried smoking a few times—tried in earnest—but kept forgetting where I’d last put my cigarette case. I supposed I wasn’t cut out for it.
We sat there in silence for a long time, the only sound in the room the crackle of Felicity’s cigarette as she inhaled, the tip glowing red. I wasn’t sure if we were quiet to keep from disturbing Lizzy or if we were both trying to reconcile ourselves with the horror that had happened that evening. I shuddered thinking about someone I knew, a colleague, being murdered in cold blood on my property. The place had become a refuge for me, for Chet, and for the children we were helping.
There was a soft knock at the door. I got up and opened it to find Chet. Behind him stood a portly man in an ill-fitting wool suit, holding a battered and misshapen fedora.
“This is Detective Walton,” Chet whispered. “He wants to speak with Lizzy.”
I opened the door. “Can I stay?”
Detective Walton made his way into the room. “We’d like to speak with Lizzy alone first.”
I turned to look at Lizzy who sat up, her arms wrapped around her knees, the extra quilt discarded in a puddle around her.
Chet ushered me out the door, and Felicity followed. The detective went inside.
“Why couldn’t I stay?” I asked, concerned about Lizzy’s fragile state of mind.
“He doesn’t want any other influences in the room. The detective has a certain way he likes to do things. We worked together on the Harper case. He’s a tough customer.”
“He won’t be too hard on her, will he?” I imagined her crumpling under interrogation.
“I don’t think so. He’s just not too fond of private investigators.”
“Oh no. Will your relationship with him impact Lizzy?” I asked, worry making my stomach flutter.
“It shouldn’t. He’s a good detective. Besides, I proved invaluable to him on the Harper case, so he got over his animosity toward me.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing Lizzy needed was a personal bias against her guardian.
We headed downstairs to see the few remaining party guests standing in small groups, clustered on the sofas, or sitting in chairs that had been pulled together, quietly talking. The appearance of the police at the party infused a degree of anxiety and nervousness into the air. Cigarette smoke filled the room, and I stifled a cough. A police officer stood near the front door, guarding it, and another one stood at the double doors to the back porch.
Seeing us reach the foot of the stairs, Timothy O’Malley, another film director and a dear friend, got up from where he sat with Clara Bow and came over to us. He and Chet shook hands. He raised his chin in the direction of the stairs. “What’s going on up there, lass? Why are the police here?” he asked in his thick Irish brogue.
“There’s been an incident,” Chet said vaguely before I could answer. More familiar with crime scenarios, he probably didn’t want to give too many details to avoid causing further alarm.
Felicity pulled Timothy close and whispered in his ear.
His eyes widened in surprise. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Keep it under your hat,” Chet warned. “We don’t want anyone to panic.”
“And how are you, lass?” Timothy addressed me. “You look a wee bit pale.”
I smiled at his concern. “I’m a little shaken, but I’m fine.”
“Bit of bad luck, I’d say,” he said. “I didn’t care for the bloke, but I wouldn’t wish this on him.”
I’d heard a rumor that Timothy had met with the studio heads at Ambassador around the same time they’d started hiring the cast and crew for The Queen of Whitehall. According to the rumor, Timothy had been the favored contender to direct the film, but they’d decided to hire Mr. Travis. Felicity had told me Timothy had been crushed by the news.
“I could use another smoke,” Felicity said with a sigh. “Need anything?” she asked me. I shook my head.
Timothy took her elbow, and they walked to the other side of the room. As they passed the sofa, my eyes were drawn to Helen Clark, who was sitting at the far end of the couch, crying into a handkerchief. Her hands shook as she dabbed at her eyes. Her husband, Charles Wilson, a tall, elegant man with a Rhett Butler–esque quality about him, stood on the other side of the room, staring at his wife with contempt in his eyes. Or was it disgust?
“What’s going on?” Clara Bow stood up, stealing my attention.
“Yeah.” Charles Wilson came over to us, Helen Clark behind him, still sniffling into her handkerchief. She looked positively distraught. “That policeman—” he pointed to the officer at the front door “—says we can’t leave. You can’t keep us here.”
All eyes were on me and Chet as another officer came in the room.
“And we don’t intend to,” the officer said, raising a placating hand. “But please leave your name, address, and telephone number with the officer at the door, and be prepared to be contacted for questioning. And no one is to leave town until we’ve spoken with you, understood?”
“But what’s happened?” Miss Bow said. “Was that man who went upstairs a detective? Why would a detective be here?”
Astonished murmurings filled the room.
“Please,” Chet said. “You’ll know in due time. Please just do as the officer says.”
“Let’s go, Helen.” Charles Wilson took his wife by the arm. Staring daggers at him, she shook him off. He grabbed her arm again and yanked her toward the door.
“Hey!” Chet stepped up to Mr. Wilson. “Take it easy, will ya?”
“Back off, pal,” Mr. Wilson warned.
Chet held his hands up in surrender. “Just give your information to the police officer and go on home.” He started ushering people toward the officer taking names at the door. I breathed another sigh of relief that Chet had returned home when he had.
The officer directed his gaze at me. “Hello, Mrs. Riker. I’m Officer Clayton. Your husband told me you found the body?” His youthful countenance made me think he was far too young for the job, but he had an efficient manner about him. He was tall and broad shouldered, with reddish hair and a freckled face.
“Yes. Yes, I did.” My voice hitched with emotion, and I pressed my fingers to my lips.
“Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone running away, anyone else in the barn?”
My eyes darted over to Robert Smith, who was sitting in one of the wingback chairs in the corner, his head resting in his palm, his eyes closed—passed out. “I saw him,” I said, directing my gaze at Mr. Smith. “He was out in the field vomiting.”
“His name?” the officer asked.
“Robert Smith.”
Officer Clayton caught the attention of the other officer and motioned him over. “That man there—” he pointed to Mr. Smith “—make sure he doesn’t leave before I talk to him.”
The officer nodded and returned to his post at the door.
Officer Clayton turned his attention back to me. “Did the deceased have someone here with him? A girlfriend? Spouse?” he asked, his voice hushed.
I refrained from saying both, just tilted my head toward Florence Thomas. “That’s his wife,” I said. “She doesn’t know what’s happened.”
The officer glanced at Florence. “Is there somewhere private I can speak with her?”
“Of course. Yes.”
Florence, unaware that we were talking about he
r, stood up from her chair and was about to walk past us when I stopped her, my heart in my throat. “Florence, this is Officer Clayton. He would like to speak to you.” I whispered.
“Me? Why does he want to speak to me?” she asked, not whispering back. “Where’s Edward?”
“Please come with me,” the officer said.
I ushered them to the sunroom on the west side of the house and turned on the lights. They cast a yellow glow in the room, darkening the floor-to-ceiling windows to an inky black. The smell of fresh greenery and dampened soil from the potted plants wafted in the air. I decided to stay with Florence for moral support, granted she didn’t ask me to leave. Officer Clayton didn’t seem to mind at least.
“Miss Thomas, I’m afraid your husband is dead.” He didn’t beat around the bush.
She blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“It looks like murder.”
I closed my eyes, the word murder echoing in my mind. It still didn’t seem possible.
Florence faltered, her knees giving way. I slipped my arm around her waist and led her to my favorite wicker chair, plush with floral cushions. She sat down and brought her hands to her face. I glanced up at Officer Clayton, whose face was pinched with discomfort. It must be terrible to have to give people this kind of news all the time.
She lowered her hands and looked up at us. “But who . . . ?”
“He was found with a young woman in the barn.” Again, the officer didn’t mince words.
She closed her eyes, biting her lip. Then her eyes flashed open. “Of course he was. Who is she? Did she do it? Did she kill him?”
I cringed at the accusation. “No! Lizzy wouldn’t do that.” My voice came out clipped and defensive.
The officer raised his hands in the air. “Ladies, please.” He turned to Florence again. “We aren’t sure of anything yet, ma’am.”
She stood up, wringing her hands. “Can I see him?”
“No.” The officer’s voice was flat. “We need to secure the scene. Ma’am, I need to ask you, is there anyone you can think of who might want to kill your husband?”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, and then her jaw clenched and her face hardened. “How much time do you have?”
I blinked in astonishment.
The officer raised his notepad and got his pencil poised and ready. “Why do you say that? Who are these people?”
A tremble started at Florence’s chin and moved to her mouth. She tensed the bottom part of her face, as if trying to collect herself. “I can’t name them all. Jealous husbands. Disgruntled actors. Discarded starlets. The list goes on.”
“I see,” he said, writing on the pad. “Is there anyone here who might want your husband dead?”
She harumphed. “Well, you can start with Charles Wilson, but he just left. His wife, Helen Clark, has been carrying on with my husband. And then there is Robert Smith. He despised Edward. Showed up at the mansion yesterday, demanding to see him, yelling and screaming in the yard. I’m not sure why. It was terrible.”
I bit my lip. So perhaps he had been fired.
“Thank you.” Officer Clayton wrote something on his pad. “You ladies have been most helpful. We may have more questions for you at a later time.” He slipped the notepad and pencil in his breast pocket and then turned to Florence.
“Miss Thomas, my condolences. Is there someone who can take you home?”
She stared at him, almost as if she didn’t hear the question.
“Miss Thomas?” he pressed.
She blinked. “Um. Yes. Yes, James can take me home.”
The officer tilted his head. “James?”
“James Johnson. He works for us at the house. He’s here working the party, too.”
I was surprised there were yet no tears from Florence. Although, on second thought, when I’d received the news of Sophia’s death, I had sat in a dry-eyed stupor for what seemed like hours. Perhaps the reality that her husband was dead—murdered—hadn’t quite sunk in yet.
“I’d like to go home now,” she said.
The officer glanced at me and gave me a nod. I led them both back out to the living room. Mr. Johnson was in conversation with Mr. Chaplin when we entered the room, but when he looked over and saw us, he hurried over, concern written across his face.
“What’s going on, Florence? Is it Edward?” he asked.
Her face crumpled and then came the tears. She went to him, and he folded her in his arms. I blinked in surprise at the familiar manner in which they interacted.
“Take me home. Please, James,” she cried.
“Florence,” I touched her arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
She wiped her eyes and gave me a brief nod.
Officer Clayton ushered them to the door and out they went. He then approached Robert Smith and roused him from his drunken sleep. As soon as Mr. Smith started grumbling as he woke, Lenora Lange drifted over to them. I couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but I assumed he was questioning Robert, who got to his feet a bit unsteadily. The officer patted him down and pulled a flask from his pocket. He then led him to the front door.
I walked over to Miss Lange, who had pulled a handkerchief from her bag and was blotting her eyes. “Miss Lange?”
She turned her luminous eyes to me and gave me a slight smile. “I’m fine, dear. Just concerned about Robert. He’s very ill.”
“Did the officer arrest him for something?”
She shook her head. “No, just taking him in for questioning. He also said Robert needed time to dry out. Poor man.”
I gave her a moment before asking my next question. “Miss Lange, was Mr. Smith upset with Mr. Travis? Did something happen between them?” I didn’t want her to know I was privy to his imminent firing.
She sniffed and placed her handkerchief back into her bag. “As you probably know, Robert was having difficulty on set—and yes, he and Mr. Travis were at odds. But Robert would never harm him. He had too much respect for the man. I know his behavior of late did not show it, but he did so admire Mr. Travis.”
No word about being fired, I mused. Perhaps Mr. Travis had wanted to wait until after the party to do the deed. Or perhaps he had fired him and Mr. Smith hadn’t told Miss Lange about it and had come to the party to save face. I couldn’t figure it out.
“I am sorry for his wife,” Miss Lange said, her composure completely returned. “She’s a terribly unhappy woman.”
“Do you know Miss Thomas?” I asked.
“Yes. I met her recently.” She reached into her handbag again. “The policeman said I could go.”
I was about to ask if she needed someone to take her home, but before I could open my mouth, she said, “My driver is waiting for me. I’ll be fine.” She pulled a card from her bag and handed it to me. It had her name and telephone number printed across it. “You’ll be needing this, my dear. Believe me. And she’ll need you.”
I was just about to ask what she meant when Detective Walton came downstairs. He had Lizzy by the elbow and escorted her to the officer at the front door.
“Wait! Lizzy!” I called out and rushed after them. Before I could reach them, the officer ushered her outside. Lizzy turned and gave me a look so pathetic and scared, I felt my heart break.
Detective Walton stepped in front of me. “She’s going to be all right, ma’am. We are just taking her in for questioning.”
“But I want to go with her,” I said, my heart hammering in my chest. Chet came over to us and put his arm around me.
“I still need to ask you some questions,” the detective said. He held his hand out, gesturing for me and Chet to go back to the living room. Chet started to steer me forward, but I didn’t move my feet. They were rooted to the floor. I wanted to turn and dash out of the house and jump into the police car with Lizzy.
“I want to go with her,” I told Chet.
“She’ll come to no harm,” Chet assured me.
My mouth had gone dry, and my hands tingled with cold. I let Chet lead me back to the living room. The detective pulled a notepad and pencil from his trench coat pocket. Chet gave my shoulders an assuring squeeze.
“You’re her guardians?” the detective asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“She ever been in trouble before?”
I looked up at Chet, wishing we didn’t have to tell him the truth.
Chet cleared his throat before answering. “She has. Aiding and abetting a robbery. But the judge let her go, with the condition that we take care of her here until she becomes of age.”
“Why you?” The detective pushed his coat open to place his hands on his hips, revealing a gun in a side holster. His belly pressed through his suspenders, protruding over his belt.
“I know the judge. He trusts me,” Chet said. “We were soldiers in the war together. Grace and I have made it our mission to help wayward kids and kids in need. We’re licensed by the state of California to provide foster care.”
Detective Walton pursed his lips, nodding. “Admirable. Does the girl have any kin?”
“She has a sister,” I said. “But they are estranged. They haven’t spoken since she dropped Lizzy off here three months ago.”
He nodded again. “We’ll need to speak with her. And we’ll need to ask you two a few more questions, but we can do that tomorrow. I’m sure you’d like to get these people out of your house. We’ll need everyone to stay clear of the barn, though, as it’s a crime scene.”
“How long will you have Lizzy?” I asked.
“That depends. We’re taking her to the Burbank station for questioning.”
“But can’t you do that tomorrow, too?” I implored. “She’s traumatized. Let her get some rest.”
He shook his head. “It’s best if we take her in tonight when her memory is freshest.”
I looked up at Chet, my heart squeezing with anxiety for Lizzy. I could see in his eyes he was worried, too, but he clearly wasn’t going to interfere with the investigation.
He turned to the detective. “I realize the barn is a crime scene and you don’t want it disturbed, but the horses will need tending to in the morning.”