by Kari Bovee
“I see,” she said, biting her lip. “Did you see them talking? At the party?”
I took in a deep breath, feeling extremely guilty at not having taken better care of my charge. “Yes, I did.”
“How did he seem with her?”
I thought it a strange question. “Do you mean, was he acting inappropriate with her?”
“Um, yes.”
“I didn’t see anything inappropriate going on aside from . . .”
She furrowed her brow. “Aside from what?”
“Well, there was another man who was talking with Lizzy, and Mr. Travis intervened in their conversation. I almost got the sense he was being protective of her. And if that were the case, why would Lizzy harm him?”
“Right.” Margaret chewed on a hangnail.
Guilt pressed in on my chest, making it cave in on itself. “I’m sorry I didn’t keep a closer eye on her.”
A tear streamed down her cheek. “Lizzy is a willful child. Always was. If I had been more . . . I don’t know. It’s my fault she’s here, that she got into trouble.”
“How can you say that?” Although I didn’t believe her statement, I could relate to it. I, too, felt at fault for Lizzy’s current predicament. She didn’t answer, only shook her head, blinking back more tears. I sighed and reached for her hand. “You can’t look back. The best way to help Lizzy is to move forward. Be there for her. Even if she doesn’t seem to want your support, she does. You are her family. She’ll come around.”
Margaret sniffed and wiped at her cheek. “You are right, of course. I’ll stand by Lizzy no matter what.”
Chapter Nine
The following morning I didn’t wake until 9:00 a.m. It was unheard of for me, and bound to mess up my entire day, as it always did on the rare occasion I overslept. I’d had trouble falling asleep, and staring at the clock at 3:30 a.m., I had finally dozed off to its ticking and the sound of Chet’s soft snoring.
I had woken with a start, my heart and head pounding. With a shaking hand, I reached over to the glass of water on the nightstand and drained it. I then made my way to the medicine cabinet to take some aspirin. After washing it down and splashing cold water on my face, I closed the mirrored cabinet door, and my heart stopped. I was staring straight on into a face that was not my own. It was Sophia’s. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
What is happening? This can’t be real. Am I still asleep?
I closed my eyes, shutting out the image. The rush of blood pulsating through my ears was like a deafening roar, and my head spun. When I opened my eyes, there I was. I looked like hell. The curls of my blond hair, recently cut into a bob, stuck out at all angles. Dark-purple moons hung below my eyes, and my skin, typically my finest feature, looked sallow. Still shaking, I rested my weight on my hands as I pressed my palms against the edges of the sink until I could collect myself.
I took in a deep breath and then splashed more cold water on my face. I reached for a towel and pressed it against my eyes. Am I going crazy?
I firmly decided no and chocked it up to a lack of sleep. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept through the night or even for more than two or three hours at a stretch before being awakened by disturbing dreams. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
Downstairs, the phone rang, and I pulled on my dressing gown—or rather, Sophia’s dressing gown. I had worn it every morning since the day she’d died four years earlier. It was growing threadbare, but I didn’t mind. It always brought me a sense of comfort.
Desperate for some coffee, I made my way to the bedroom door and opened it to find Ida standing there, her hand poised to knock. “Oh! Good morning,” she said. “Telephone for you.”
“Morning. Thank you, Ida.”
I followed her downstairs and went to the hallway to the telephone niche where the receiver was lying on its side. “Hello, this is Grace Michelle.”
It was Mr. Comb’s secretary informing me the studio heads were calling a meeting, and I needed to be there by 11:15 a.m. I agreed and hung up the phone.
“Morning!” I greeted the children cheerily when I walked in the kitchen, hoping to lift the tension. I wondered if Lizzy had done her early-morning chores. She looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed, too. I wasn’t about to chastise her if that were the case, but it would be best for her to get back to her regular routine as soon as possible.
They all murmured hello. Daniel got up from the table with his empty plate and took it to the sink. He poured himself more coffee and sipped it while standing there. His eyes were fastened to Lizzy, who sat staring at her plate of untouched food.
I caught Miss Meyers’s eye, and she tilted her head toward the morning paper sitting on the counter. I went over and picked it up to read the headline, Hollywood Director Found Dead at Burbank Ranch, Foul Play Suspected.
Oh no. I read on. I was relieved to see that although the story mentioned there was also a young girl at the scene, Lizzy’s name had been omitted.
“What’s everyone so sad about?” Susie asked. “No one has talked since we came in from chores.”
Apparently no one had filled her in thus far. I didn’t know if that was a blessing or not.
“Let’s get ready for school,” Miss Meyers said, probably in an attempt to bypass her question.
Ida leaned toward Susie, her eyes on Lizzy, who scowled at her. Apparently, the two had resumed their difficult relationship. “A man was killed in the barn on Saturday night, and the police think Lizzy did it,” Ida whispered loudly.
“Ida!” I folded the paper as if to shield Susie from the news, which was idealistic, I realized. Kids would talk.
Susie’s face blanched, and her gaze searched the group, landing on Lizzy.
“You shut up!” Lizzy yelled at Ida.
Ida’s brows pressed together, and she lifted her chin in defiance. “I didn’t say you did it. I said the police think you did it. Why else would they have taken you to jail?”
Lizzy narrowed her eyes at Ida. “I didn’t do it!”
“Okay, you two,” I intervened. “We aren’t sure what happened, and neither are the police. So until we know, I don’t want any of you talking about it to anyone outside this house, understood? I don’t believe Lizzy did this horrible thing, and I am going to support her through this. I expect you all to do the same.”
“I believe you, Lizzy, ” Daniel said. They were the first words he’d spoken since Detective Walton had been here. While he wasn’t the talkative sort, he’d been even quieter than usual. I knew he was concerned about Lizzy.
Miss Meyers stood up and took her plate and coffee cup to the sink. Ida did the same. Lizzy sat holding her head in her hands, her palms pressing into her eye sockets. Susie got up from the table and wrapped her arms around Lizzy’s shoulders. She hugged her for a moment and then took Miss Meyers’s hand, and she and the others left for the schoolroom.
I sat down next to Lizzy. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Lizzy. I’m here to help. Really.”
She put down her hands, leaving red splotches around her eyes. She sniffed loudly. “I didn’t do it, Grace.”
I rubbed her back. “Can you remember anything, anything at all, leading up to when I found you in the barn?”
She sighed and swiped at her tear-filled eyes. “I was standing in the living room by the double doors to the back porch talking to that Mr. Johnson. At first I thought he was rude, you know, how he bumped into Mr. Smith, but he was actually pretty nice. He gave me some champagne. I didn’t really want to drink it, but I thought I would look—”
“What, Lizzy?”
“Foolish. Like a child.” Her eyes flicked up at me, and then her gaze dropped to the table. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.” I understood how she had felt. Sixteen was such a confusing age. She wasn’t quite a woman, yet she wasn’t a child, either—just a girl trying to find how she fit into the world.
She looked over at me an
d continued. “It was such a lovely party, and there were so many movie stars there, I wanted to fit in, so I drank the champagne. I’m sorry—I know you told me not to . . . I guess I was a little too giggly, so Mr. Johnson brought me a glass of water. There were so many people around—someone bumped into me, and I remember my arm hurting, almost like I’d been stung by a bee. The door to the back porch was open so maybe I was stung by a bee. I can’t remember.”
I recalled the bruise on her upper arm. I had assumed she’d gotten it from a tussle in the barn, but at her mentioning it felt like a beesting got me thinking. Perhaps she had been drugged. It would explain why I’d had so much trouble rousing her. But who would drug her? And why?
“Anyway, then Mr. Travis came over and told Mr. Johnson to stop socializing and get back to work. Said he wasn’t paying him to stand around or something like that. They argued, and Mr. Johnson—James, I think that was his name—he left.” Lizzy paused for a beat, clearly trying to remember what happened next. “Then Helen Clark came over and said she wanted to talk to Mr. Travis alone. She handed me her drink, and they went outside.”
Come to think of it, it was strange that Mr. Johnson had been fraternizing with the guests. None of the other staff had been.
“After a few minutes, Mr. Travis came back and started talking to me again. He asked me what kinds of things I liked to do here at the farm,” Lizzy went on. “I told him I liked the horses. He asked to see them so we went out to the barn. I wasn’t feeling very well after all that champagne, and I thought the fresh air would make me feel better, but I just kept feeling more and more sick to my stomach. Everything is blurry after that. The next thing I remember is you and that other lady cleaning me up.” She looked down at her palm, which was still bandaged. “I don’t know how this happened.”
If Lizzy couldn’t remember anything after going into the barn, and I’d found her unconscious, how could she have stabbed someone? And with what? There had been no murder weapon found. Detective Walton had said something about a knife, but why would Lizzy be carrying a knife? Someone else had to have been in that barn with them and then took the murder weapon with them after killing Mr. Travis. But who?
“We will get to the bottom of this, Lizzy. I promise.” I gently squeezed her forearm.
She nodded and wiped her eyes again.
“I have to go to the studio this morning for a meeting. How about after school you ride Goldie for me? She could use the exercise.”
She turned to me with wide eyes. “Really? You’d let me ride her?”
I smiled, glad to see her excited about something. “I trust you. And maybe this evening, if you are up to it, you can help me with some drawings for the Sophia daywear line.”
“Gosh, that would be swell.”
“Okay. Off you go now,” I said, feeling like I may have lifted her mood, even if just a little.
I arrived at the studio at 11:00 a.m., about fifteen minutes before the meeting.
Once in the wardrobe room, I laid my handbag on the table and set to work organizing things in there. I collected my sketch pads, pencils, my favorite pincushion, and a couple of other items to take into my office, but I couldn’t find my tape measure. It had been a gift from Lady Duff Gordon, and I was never without it at work. It was housed in a beautiful, etched, sterling-silver case. What had I done with it?
Worried about the time, I looked at my watch. The meeting would be starting any second. I’d have to come back to look for it later.
I walked into the conference room to find that I was the last to arrive. I looked at my watch again and then at the clock on the wall. My heart sank when I realized my watch was five minutes slow. Why hadn’t I checked it? It was probably on account of all the commotion at the house.
“I am so sorry,” I said, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“It’s all right, Grace. We were just getting started. I was late myself,” Mr. Steinberg said. He was an arresting figure, with jet-black hair and dark, deep-set eyes. He had the air of a great intellectual, but an intellectual who rarely smiled.
I scanned the people seated around the table. Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg and Mr. Combs, of course, then Helen Clark and her husband—though I couldn’t fathom why he was there—and an actress named Milly Tankersley, who was in a supporting role. Bill Havers and Mark Clemmons, two actors I’d seen around the set, were there, as well as Nathan Brand, a screenwriter. To my surprise, Timothy O’Malley and Felicity sat at the far end of the table. Felicity crooked her finger at me. She’d apparently saved me a seat next to hers.
I sat down and raised my eyebrows at her, wondering what in the world she was doing there. She gave me a “you’ll see” look and sipped her coffee.
“Well let’s get started, then,” Mr. Combs said and lit a cigarette. A small man with boyish, athletic good looks, he effused charm. His secretary sat in the corner with her notepad and a pencil in hand. “The death of Edward Travis is a loss to all of us,” Mr. Combs continued, his brow set with a gravity appropriate for the situation.
I scanned the room, looking to see the expressions on other people’s faces. Helen Clark sniffed loudly and reached into her handbag for a handkerchief. Her husband heaved a disgusted sigh, rolling his eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg looked fittingly doleful, while Bill Havers bit at a fingernail, nonplussed. Mark Clemmons and Milly Tankersley were whispering to each other, and Nathan Brand, who was notoriously broody, looked as he always did—broody.
“I want you to know that we are cooperating with the police in every way we can to help with the case,” Mr. Combs said. “We’ve also decided the best way to deal with this tragic reality is to push forward with The Queen of Whitehall. We’ve invested a lot of time and money on this film, and as you may or may not know, Mr. Travis and Mr. Brand here co-wrote the screenplay. This film meant a lot to Mr. Travis, and we’d like to honor his memory by making it the finest film we can make. As they say, the show must go on.”
I blinked. There hadn’t even been a funeral yet, and the studio was going to go ahead with production of the film? I was certainly no stranger to show business, having been raised in the theater in New York, and I knew that it could be a shallow and often callous industry, but I was continually surprised by the lack of sensitivity that was often shown to the very people who made these works of art possible.
Mr. Steinberg spoke next. “Please join us in welcoming Timothy O’Malley as the replacement for Edward Travis. I know you all know one another, but I don’t believe you’ve all worked together before. Bill Havers will be replacing Robert Smith as the lead, and Mark Clemmons has been brought on in a supporting role.
So they had fired Robert Smith. I wondered if it had been before or after the party. We all had seen it coming, but I had hoped he would get himself together and that they would give him another chance. I was happy for Timothy in that he would at last get a chance at this film, though I certainly didn’t like the reason why.
Mr. Steinberg continued. “Florence is absent today for obvious reasons, but she has expressed a wish to continue on in the role of Dorothea. We have decided to shoot her scenes at a later date. She didn’t want to delay the schedule, but we felt that given the circumstances, it would be better for everyone if she gave it some time.”
“As for Miss Felicity Jones, here—” Mr. Combs gestured toward her “—she is a talented designer, and Mr. O’Malley has asked that she come aboard to offer some consulting advice on the set. Dick Perkins, our original set designer, did a marvelous job, but he took another assignment at United Artists at the news of Edward’s death. The sets are complete but may need some adjustments depending on Mr. O’Malley’s vision for the film. He and Miss Jones have had a long working relationship and make a great team. So, welcome.”
We all offered a quiet round of applause.
“All right,” Mr. Steinberg said. “Are there any questions?”
Helen Clark raised her hand. I hadn’t really looked at her in earnest until then and was su
rprised at her appearance. Usually bubbling over with effusive charm and sensuality, she seemed withdrawn. She was wearing a lot of makeup, too, which I thought strange because her skin was like fine porcelain. On closer scrutiny, there was a faint dark spot on her right cheekbone. Could it be a bruise?
“Yes, Helen?” Mrs. Steinberg asked. It was the first she’d spoken during the meeting. She often let the men do the talking while she worked her magic behind the scenes.
“Has anyone heard when there will be a funeral?”
“We’ve not heard from Florence in that regard,” said Mr. Combs. “But once we do, we will make sure to give people time off to attend, don’t you worry. So go home, rest tonight, and be ready to get back to work tomorrow.”
Charles Wilson, Helen’s husband, cleared his throat. “Just keep your focus on the film, darling.” He reached over and laid a hand on hers. She quickly slipped it out from under his touch and set it in her lap. Again, I wondered why he was here. I’d seen him on set from time to time but to have him here at the meeting was strange.
Since there were no further questions, Mr. Steinberg ended the meeting. Everyone got up and left, except me, Mrs. Steinberg, and Felicity. Mrs. Steinberg approached me. She was an attractive woman, though I would not call her pretty. She had an air of importance that made people take notice of her. Today she wore a lavender-and-white cuffed long-sleeved dress with a flattering turned-back collar and tiered skirt gathered with a belt at her hips. Her matching cloche hat sported a bow at her left ear and set off the deep ebony of her hair. Her red lips popped.
“Listen.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure everyone had gone. “Helen is in a fragile state. She has not taken the death of Edward well at all, and as you can see, there is tension between her and her husband. And I can’t be sure, but I think she may be back on dope.”
I had assumed the same but didn’t comment. “Why was her husband here at all?” I asked.
“He’s decided to be her manager. I presume it’s to keep a closer eye on her. It was no secret she and Edward were having an affair.”