by Kari Bovee
“No, but—”
“Then don’t.” His voice carried a weight to it that sounded like a threat.
I swallowed but didn’t want to back down. “You’ve been known to make mistakes, am I right, Detective?” I shot back. “You’ve botched criminal cases before? And this time, you need things wrapped up as soon as possible, correct?” My hands were shaking as I spoke. I was treading on dangerous ground, but his pompousness was completely infuriating.
His eyes narrowed at me, and his mouth tightened. “Look, Mrs. Riker, I don’t owe you any explanation here. The matter of Lizzy’s and Daniel’s arrests have been settled. It’s now in the hands of the courts. The DA has set Lizzy’s trial for a week from today.”
His words deflated my anger like a pin popping a balloon and replaced them with despair. I had to find evidence that Lizzy did not commit these crimes, and I had to find it fast.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I arrived home at 2:30 p.m. and walked into the house to find Rose writing something on a pad of paper by the telephone.
“There you are,” she said. “I was getting ready to go out to the garden and didn’t want to miss you, so I was writing you a note. The studio called.” She handed me the piece of paper. “Said they are having a meeting at three o’clock and you are expected to be there.”
“Oh no!” I gasped. “When did they call?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Rats!” I said, exasperated. I needed to freshen up and change my clothes. “Thank you, Rose. Any more word from Chet?”
“No.” She pointed to the basket. “Daniel didn’t want it?”
“It’s not that.” I handed it to her. “His cell mates stole the one I’d given him before. He thinks it best we don’t bring him any more food.”
I read Rose’s note again with the time of the meeting, just to make sure I’d heard her right. I thought it odd to call a meeting so late in the day, but it must be important. Perhaps we would resume production yet again. If so, that meant Florence’s demands had most likely been met somehow. I hoped they hadn’t decided to fire Helen Clark because, in my estimation, her performance carried the film. Not that the others weren’t talented, but she was outstanding. And were they really going to replace Marc Clemmons with Mr. Johnson?
If Edward Travis had wanted him in the picture, wouldn’t he have been in it already? Especially given his impressive dossier? Mr. Travis must have had his reasons not to hire him. Perhaps it was because Mr. Johnson had been a bit too chummy with his wife? Although, Mr. Travis did not strike me as the jealous type. He was prone to affairs himself.
I looked at my watch, and my heart went into spasms. I would have to choose between freshening up and changing clothes. The dress I had opted to wear to the jail was one I wore around the house, not one I wore to work. Yes, changing clothes was the best call.
I dashed upstairs, set my coat and purse on the bed, and then decided on one of my favorite suits. It was a double-breasted, navy, gaberdine number. The skirt had roomy pockets that were optimal for buttons or basting tape or whatever I might need on set. And since I didn’t know the purpose of this meeting, I thought it best to be prepared. I opened my wardrobe to find the skirt but not the jacket. What had I done with it?
Then I remembered I had placed it on one of the dress forms in my studio the last time I had worn it.
Grabbing my purse, I walked to that end of the house, and sure enough, there it was. I took it off the form, shoved my hands through the sleeves, and left my studio through the outside door. I made my way down the staircase, and when I reached the landing halfway down, something on the wooden planks caught my attention. It was a leather-covered button. It wasn’t one that I recognized, but I had dozens of buttons in my studio so it very well could have been mine. What was it doing on the stairs? I picked it up and put it in my pocket. I would check later to see if I had a match.
Once at the studio, I ran up the stairs to the business offices and hurried to the conference room. I entered to find everyone in the meeting getting up from their chairs. All heads swiveled to see me standing in the doorway.
“You’re late,” Mr. Steinberg said through clenched teeth.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, gasping for breath.
“I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes,” he said.
I gulped and nodded. I caught the eye of Mrs. Steinberg, who simply raised her brows at me as she headed out of the room. Following her was Florence Thomas, whose face looked like a thunder cloud; Mr. Johnson, who appeared equally displeased; and Timothy O’Malley, who gave me a tight-lipped smile. Helen Clark seemed mildly annoyed, as did her husband. A man I didn’t recognize nodded to me in greeting. Only Felicity gave me a smile.
“What happened?” she asked. “Why are you late?”
I shook my head. “I went to the jail to see Lizzy and Daniel. I had no idea there was a meeting until I got home at two thirty.”
“You look exhausted.”
I sighed. This picture was my big chance, and showing up late for a meeting—or missing it, rather—wouldn’t do at all, especially since this film was teetering in the balance already. I hoped Mr. Steinberg wasn’t going to fire me. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
“How’s it going with the kids?” Felicity asked, concern in her eyes.
I shook my head, not wanting to go into it or my infuriating conversation with the detective. “Don’t ask. So what did I miss?”
Felicity leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “Basically, it was a dressing down by Mr. Steinberg. Florence and Helen were adamant they wouldn’t work together, and he reminded them of their iron-clad contracts and made it clear that he would make the decisions as to who was in the film or not. Timothy made a concession and said he was going to rearrange the shooting schedule so they would not have to be together on set.”
I furrowed my brow. “But what about the scenes they have together?”
“The cinematographer said he can shoot them separately and make it look like they were together.”
“Nice trick.” At least that had been settled. “And Mr. Johnson? Is he in the film now?”
Felicity scoffed. “Not a chance. He and Florence were apoplectic about it. Florence created a bit of a scene, but Mr. Steinberg put her in her place. And how!” She laughed.
I nodded. “I didn’t think they’d hire him. Has he even been in a film before?”
Felicity shrugged. “Don’t think so. Hey.” She touched my arm. “I’m worried about you, Grace.”
I waved my hand in the air. “Don’t be. I’m fine. I’ll get it together.”
Felicity put her hands on her hips, emphasizing her tiny waist. “I think as far as Mr. Steinberg is concerned, you’d better.”
I looked at my watch. “Right. Don’t want to be late again.”
“Chet still out of town?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you come over for dinner? I’ll make my famous Chicken á la King.”
It would be nice to have the company, and quite honestly, I needed a bit of time for myself. Miss Meyers and Rose often went to their rooms after dinner, and Susie and Ida usually did homework.
“Sounds great.”
“We can leave from here, if you don’t have to go home first. I might even break out some booze and we can have a cocktail.”
I led the way out the door, and together we walked down the stairs toward the business offices. Felicity gave me a quick peck on the cheek and left. I took in a deep breath, collecting myself, and headed down the hallway toward Mr. Steinberg’s office. I walked into the reception area where his secretary was seated behind a desk. She was a birdlike woman with a long nose and sharp cheekbones.
She peered at me over her spectacles. “Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg are waiting for you in his office.”
“Thank you.” I walked past her to the double doors on her right, my heart in my throat. I knocked.
“Come!” came from behind the door, so I op
ened it.
Mr. Steinberg was seated at his desk going over some papers, and Mrs. Steinberg was standing next to him, leaning over his shoulder.
“Sit, Miss Michelle.” He indicated the chair opposite his desk.
I obeyed and placed my hands in my lap. They were moist with perspiration.
“Have you seen the dailies lately?” he asked.
“Not since we stopped filming, no. I haven’t seen the latest ones.”
“You need to see them. Helen’s dresses just aren’t working. They look flat on the screen.” He placed his hands in a steeple formation on his desk. “You really need to make some adjustments.”
I clenched my hands together. “Yes, sir. No problem.” But what kind of adjustments? I wanted to ask but didn’t. I would have to put my creative thinking cap on and figure it out.
His face went grim. “We took a chance on you, Miss Michelle.”
My eyes traveled to Mrs. Steinberg, who looked at me with what I could only determine was disappointment.
Mr. Steinberg continued, much to my chagrin, his voice stern, like a father scolding a child. “There aren’t many women who are lead designers in this business. You have a unique opportunity here. We resume shooting tomorrow. I don’t want to have to have this discussion again. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
He unfolded his hands and pointed a finger at me. “And tardiness will not be tolerated. Time is money.”
Pressing my lips together, I nodded. “It won’t happen again. I apologize. I’ll pay closer attention to the dailies.”
“No apology necessary.” Mrs. Steinberg finally spoke, her voice calm and soothing. “Just do your job, Grace.”
I thanked them and left. Once outside, I leaned against the wall of the building and tilted my head back against it. My eyes burned with fatigue, and my stomach rumbled with latent nerves. I took in a deep breath and was suddenly, blissfully aware of the warmth of the sun on my face. It radiated through me, melting the tension from the muscles in my forehead, around my mouth, and down my shoulders. I would never tire of the balm of the California sun. I longed to go to the beach and lie on the warm sand. Chet and I did that a lot when we had moved to Los Angeles, but work and the responsibilities of the kids and the ranch had robbed us of that kind of carefree time.
I pushed myself away from the wall and walked toward the set in search of Felicity. As I neared it, I spotted Mr. Johnson leaning up against a car talking with Marsha Christopher, a particularly sharklike gossip columnist. She had her notebook poised in front of her and was furiously writing on it, occasionally looking up at Mr. Johnson. Given his and Florence’s disappointment at him not being cast in the film, I hoped he wasn’t divulging something vicious or salacious about the picture.
As I walked past, he stopped talking. He raised his chin in greeting and gave me a slippery smile, as if he’d just rudely propositioned me. I felt his eyes on me as I walked out of earshot, and a chill snaked down my spine. What exactly did Florence see in that man?
I stood in Felicity’s cute little French Provincial kitchen cutting up the mushrooms for the Chicken á la King while she sauteed the chicken breasts in a pan over the stove.
We were both on our second lime rickey. It was not unheard of for me to have a drink now and then—and by drink, I meant one, with the exception of the other night when I’d had two glasses of wine. However, given the stress of the last two weeks, I’d opted to have a second. I sipped this one much more slowly as I told Felicity what Lizzy and Daniel had shared with me on my last visit to the jail.
“So her trial is late next week. Haven’t heard about Daniel’s yet.” I set the knife down and handed her the bowl of sliced mushrooms. She dumped them into another pan simmering with melted butter. I took my drink to the kitchen table and sat down while she kept an eye on the stove and continued to prepare the creamy mushroom sauce.
“That doesn’t give us much time to find the real killer, but I have to be honest, Grace. It doesn’t look good for her. Or for Daniel. Especially since in the case of Mr. Travis, Lizzy claims not to remember anything.”
“But indulge me here, Felicity. Assuming she’s not lying, which I don’t believe she is, why wouldn’t she be able to remember? Could she have had that much to drink? I only saw her with two different glasses in her hand. That doesn’t mean she had more somewhere along the line, of course,” I added. Then I remembered how difficult it had been to wake her and my earlier consideration that she’d been drugged.
I told Felicity about my theory, and the medicine vial I had found on the set. I’d also explained what happened when I’d gone to Robert Smith’s house to ask him about it.
“It didn’t go well,” I added, remembering his outrage.
“What did Helen Clark say when you talked to her?” she asked.
“She admitted to using drugs.”
Felicity raised a brow. “Did she admit the vial was hers?”
“No.” I thought back to the conversation. “But she didn’t say it wasn’t hers, either. You know, Lizzy said that Helen handed her a drink. I suppose she could have put something in it, either for herself or for Lizzy. But she said she wasn’t jealous of Mr. Travis talking to Lizzy and that she would never kill Mr. Travis because she loved him. She seemed sincere.”
Felicity gave me a dubious smile. “What was it you said about love, money, and revenge being the prime motives for murder? The woman is an actress, after all.”
I pinched my brows together. “You think she was lying?”
Felicity took the chicken off the stove and set the pan in the oven to keep the chicken warm while she worked on the mushroom sauce. “Somebody is.”
“Who else could it belong to?” I wondered out loud.
“Oh, honey.” She waved a hand in the air. “This is show business. Drugs come with the territory, you know that. It could belong to anyone.” Felicity rested her hip against the edge of the stove. “But, to your point, yes, Lizzy could have been drugged. Depending on the drug, it could cause memory loss when mixed with alcohol.”
“Exactly!” I said, setting my drink down.
She gave me a crooked smile. “You remember how we subdued the boys who were guarding you at the hotel when Marciano took you captive?”
The memory dawned in my mind. “You gave them laudanum.”
“Lots of it,” Felicity added. “I used to slip it to Joe when he was getting out of hand or out of control, remember?”
I did. She’d used it on him when he came after me, planning to do unspeakable things. He was rendered completely helpless and didn’t remember anything of the incident later.
I picked up my glass and sipped the cool liquid, the tang of the lime waking up the back of my mouth. “But if Lizzy was drugged, how can we prove it?”
“I’m not sure that we can. Maybe Lenora can help?” She raised a shoulder.
I took another sip of my drink. “I’m not sure how. Apparently, she only speaks to the dead.” Then my eyes widened. “You mean maybe Mr. Travis could tell her if Lizzy was drugged and by whom?”
“You never know.” Felicity placed an oven mitt–covered hand on her hip. “Hey, you didn’t tell me how it went with Lenora the other day. Did you have any luck?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure what to think of it,” I said honestly. I told her about Miss Lange channeling a woman who might have been my grandmother. I shuddered at the reminder of what my dreams had revealed that night—that my mother tried to kill me. I tried to shake the thought away. I didn’t want to talk about it. With anyone.
“Well did Sophia come through, too?” Felicity asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. Although, it was pretty eerie. Miss Lange took on the mannerisms of Sophia, and she referred to me as ‘Gracie,’ which no one else but my sister called me. Miss Lange said something else also that gave me pause. She said that what I sought was beyond the garden.”
“Hmm.” Felicity tapped a finger on her chin. “Do you have a garden?�
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I nodded. “I went out there the next morning, but nothing spoke to me.”
“Strange. Well, speaking of gardens, would you go out to the back of my house to the garden? I need you to get some lettuce and vegetables for the salad, and some carrots for the á la King. I’ll set the table.”
“Sure.” I stood up. “Point me in the right direction. Maybe I’ll find something enlightening,” I said, half joking.
She handed me a basket, and I followed her out her front door. She led me down a tree-lined path to an open expanse of lawn. A lovely vegetable garden with perfectly neat rows lay before us.
“Did you plant all this?” I asked, marveling. Rose would be green with envy.
“No.” She laughed. “The groundskeeper did. He’s also a master gardener.”
“I’ll say.” I admired the beautiful array of colorful vegetables.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I walked over to the tomatoes, their vines suspended by a net hanging from a wooden arbor. They were fat, red, and juicy looking. I plucked off two of them and put them in the basket. Some lush heads of lettuce caught my eye, and I made my way over to them. A squirrel darted out from beneath some of the lettuce leaves, making me jump, and I watched him scamper toward a wooden shed on the other side of the garden. It was old, the wood gray from sun and weather and the glass of the windows cloudy.
A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I knelt to put my hand on the ground to steady myself. I set the basket down.
What you seek is beyond the garden. I heard Sophia’s voice in my head, and my heart skipped a beat. I looked up at the shed. It was indeed beyond the garden. Had this been what Sophia had been trying to tell me?
When the dizziness passed, I slowly stood up again. I walked past the garden and over to the shed. The door hung slightly ajar, and the corner of it had sunk into the grass. It took some effort, but I pulled it open far enough for me to slip through.
Light filtered through the clouded windows, shining on the dust motes floating in the air. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed the neatness of the place. A table under the windows held various tools, pots, and gardening items. Underneath the table were shelves with pruning shears, more pots, and other sundry things. Opposite the table were additional shelves that held boxes and crates.