Grace in Hollywood: A Grace Michelle Mystery

by Kari Bovee

  One of the crates jutted out from the rest, throwing off the perfect symmetry of the rows. The impulse to straighten it overwhelmed me, and I shoved it back into place. My eyes roamed over the contents of the crates. Some of them contained glass jars and bottles, others picture frames and candles, and still others with household items and books. There was even one box filled with old files. I pulled out one of the crates of books and perused the neatly stacked spines. I smiled when I saw some of Agatha Christie’s titles and pulled out her first published novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. I hadn’t read it yet, but it was on my list of books to read. I opened it to read the jacket cover when something fell out of it. It was a piece of paper.

  I knelt down and picked it up, surprised to feel the thickness of it. Someone had scrawled something across it in ink. It read, Central Park, 1910. I turned it over. It was a photograph of a man, a woman, and a young child, a girl, probably around the age of two. I moved closer to the window to see it better. The trio was standing near a picnic blanket with various items on it. The man was holding the child, and the woman looked adoringly up at both of them. The little girl had her arm outstretched, pointing at something.

  Then I saw it—something unusual on the inside of the girl’s arm. I peered closer and my breath caught in my throat. It was a mark in the shape of a heart. I looked more intently at the man, whose blond waves hinted at a young Edward Travis. My eyes traveled to the woman, and I gasped.

  It was Margaret Moore.

  “Grace?” Felicity’s voice came from outside the shed. “Grace, where are you?”

  Holding the photograph, I left the shed.

  Felicity was standing at the garden. “There you are. What were you doing in the outbuilding?”

  I walked toward her, holding out the picture. She took it from me and examined it, then looked up at me with a furrowed brow. “Wow. You found this in there?”

  “Yes, there are loads of boxes and crates. This fell out of a book.”

  She looked at it again. “This must be the mysterious heir and her mother.”

  I nodded. “Elsa and Greta Mayfield.”

  Felicity shook her head. “Yeah. So?”

  “Look at the little girl’s arm.”

  She studied the photograph, and her mouth dropped open. A zing of excitement coursed through my body like electricity. She looked up at me. “Lizzy.”

  “Yes. I knew it!” I cried.

  She raised her fingers to cover her opened mouth. “Oh god. Do you think she knew Edward Travis was her father?”

  “She told me her father was dead. Or at least that’s what Margaret—or Greta—told her. So, no, I don’t think she knows. But it explains why Margaret was at the reading of the will—in disguise and lurking at the back of the room.”

  “She knew she was a beneficiary,” Felicity said, nodding with understanding.

  “But the lawyer hadn’t been able to find her,” I added. “She must have known the stipulations of the will—that Edward wanted the beneficiaries gathered. Maybe she kept an eye on the mansion to see when they would meet.” I mused. “I wish I had been able to talk with her about this. Do you think she knew that her daughter would inherit virtually everything?” I studied the photo again. “They look so happy. I wonder what happened between them. And why did Margaret feel the need to change their names?”

  Felicity shrugged. “People break up for a variety of reasons. During the reading of the will, the lawyer never referred to Greta as Travis’s wife. Only Florence and— What was her name?”

  “Pearl Davis.” I tapped the photo against my chin. “Who recently committed suicide. Or so the authorities say. . . So we have Edward Travis murdered, Margaret Moore aka Greta Mayfield murdered, and Pearl Davis also dead in a somewhat suspicious fashion.

  “Who else stood to inherit, other than Pearl Davis, if Elsa wasn’t found?”

  “I think it was Florence—but she was only getting the house, not the fortune—Edward’s parents, and his brother. But they didn’t show up to the reading of the will. Mr. Johnson alluded to the fact that the parents were too ill to travel. Do you know if the brother has been here at the mansion?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s been pretty quiet here.”

  “So who would have motive to kill these people?”

  I caught Felicity’s gaze, and she gave me a look of pity. “Think about it, Grace.”

  My stomach curdled. “You’re thinking Lizzy did it.” I shook my head. “But if she knew she was the heir, why would she kill him?”

  “Maybe she wanted to speed up the process. Travis was only in his early forties. He could have lived to be in his seventies, even eighties.”

  I shook my head. “But if she knew she was the heir and wanted to kill her father, why would she be passed out at the scene of the crime?”

  Felicity pressed her lips together. “She could have staged it, to make herself look innocent. And she could have had help. Someone who would dispose of the murder weapon for her. Like Daniel.”

  I considered her reasoning. “So you think she lied about Margaret telling her that her father was dead? That she also lied when I asked her if the names Greta and Elsa Mayfield meant anything to her? That she’s lied about everything? But why wouldn’t she come right out and say her name was Elsa Mayfield if she knew she stood to inherit?” My voice came out sounding shrill and defensive, but didn’t Felicity remember the state Lizzy had been in that night? That couldn’t have been an act.

  Felicity’s gaze softened. “Because she knew it would make her look guilty.”

  I didn’t want to accept this argument. “But if she was the murderer and she was found not guilty, what then?”

  “She changes her appearance—I don’t know, dyes her hair, gains or loses some weight—and comes out as Elsa Mayfield before the six-month period is up.”

  I stared at her in stunned silence. What a devious mind she had. Although, I shouldn’t have been surprised after learning how she’d dealt with Marciano all those years.

  Had I been such a fool? Had Lizzy been playing me all along, hoping upon hope that I would find her a scapegoat?

  Felicity came closer and laid an arm across my shoulders. “Grace, I’m not saying this is what I believe. But when it comes out she is the heir to Mr. Travis’s vast fortune, it’s not going to look good for her.”

  “Who says anyone needs to know about this right now?” I had no intention of telling anyone. “I just need more time to figure this out. You won’t say anything, will you?”

  Felicity raised her hands. “I’m not going to say anything, but these things have a way of coming out, especially in such a high-profile case.”

  I shook my head. “No. If she had planned this murder, there are so many other ways she could have gone about it. Why would she put herself at the scene of the crime? I mean, would you do that? And if you were going to have help, why not pay someone else to do it? No, it has to be someone else. I just have to figure out who.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I walked into the house later that night to find it quiet, for which I was grateful. I needed to think about what I’d just discovered.

  I made my way into the kitchen to put the teakettle on. As I waited for the water to boil, I rummaged around the refrigerator in the hope of finding an errant piece of pie, but alas, the troops had devoured Rose’s latest delectable creation as they usually did.

  When the teakettle whistled, I quickly took it off the burner, afraid I would wake someone. I grabbed the tea tin from the shelf above the stove and scooped some chamomile into the tea strainer and poured the water over the tea leaves and blossoms. With my cup in hand, I then went into the living room to settle myself on the sofa. I kept the lights off, not wanting any distractions.

  The question remained: had Lizzy told me everything when she’d told me that Margaret was her mother? Did she know Mr. Travis was her father? Or maybe he wasn’t her father. Just because they were in the photo together didn’t
mean that he had fathered the child, although it certainly looked that way. If only I could find actual proof.

  I remembered what I’d learned from Barnaby Maxwell at the Art Students League. He’d mentioned a ne’er-do-well brother of one of Margaret’s boyfriends. Could that boyfriend have been Edward Travis? It was well-known he’d gotten his start in show business in New York City as a stage actor so it stood to reason that he and Margaret could’ve met while there.

  Loud ringing startled me, and I spilled the scalding hot tea on my leg. After setting my cup down on the coffee table, I ran to get the phone.

  “Hello, darling,” Chet said on the other end of the line. “Did I wake you?”

  I smiled, glad to hear his voice. “No. I actually just got in.”

  “Work?”

  “No. I went to Felicity’s for dinner.” I started to tell him about what I’d learned that day when he said something at the same time.

  “You go ahead,” he offered.

  I stated what Lizzy had shared with me, how Margaret was actually her mother and her father was dead. “But I think I may know who her father is—or was.” Then I told him about the photograph I’d found on Mr. Travis’s property. “What if Lizzy is really Elsa Mayfield? Margaret left New York City because of a past boyfriend whose brother threatened her. Mr. Travis’s lawyer said that if Elsa Mayfield and all the other beneficiaries could not inherit, the estate would go to Mr. Travis’s parents and his brother, so clearly he has a brother.” I paused. Chet was quiet on the other end of the line. I continued my thought. “So maybe she changed their names when they moved to Lake Tahoe.”

  Chet took a deep breath. “It’s possible. Him being Lizzy’s father would explain why Margaret was at the reading of the will—but, the lawyer obviously didn’t know who she was.”

  “Right. So, somehow she found out about the gathering of beneficiaries,” I added.

  “But the photo isn’t proof that Lizzy was Travis’s daughter. He and Margaret could have met after she was born.”

  “Agreed ,” I said. “But, it does prove that Mr. Travis and Margaret knew each other.

  “I found something else that links them,” Chet said. “Do you remember me telling you I’d found receipts for repairs to a house in Lake Tahoe?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “I went to that house, and I spoke with the owner. I asked him if he knew Edward Travis.”

  I waited patiently for him to continue, but he hesitated. “And, did he?” I asked.

  “No. But, when I asked him who he’d purchased the house from he said it was none other than Margaret Moore.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” I said. “That was her boarding house. The one she inherited from Mrs. Hillson.”

  “Right. After hearing that, I went through the box again, and I found something really interesting.” He paused once more. My heart was racing.

  “What? What was it?” I could barely contain my excitement.

  “It was a contract between Edward Travis and Mrs. Hillson stipulating that he would help her make needed repairs to her house and pay her—an exorbitant sum by the way—if she left the house to Margaret Moore upon her passing.”

  I gasped, suddenly feeling not-so-sleepy anymore. “I wonder if Margaret knew about this?” I shook my head. There were so many questions I wished I could ask her. “Well, this is further proof that Edward Travis and Margaret Moore had some kind of relationship. Either in the past, and/or even more recently. But why didn’t Margaret say anything about this relationship when Mr. Travis died? When Lizzy was accused of killing him?”

  Chet clucked his tongue. “But the more pressing question is, why was she murdered?”

  My alarm clock went off at 5:30 a.m., but I was already awake. I had been awake since 3:00 a.m. It seemed I was in a never-ending pattern of two to four hours of sleep per night, complete with haunting nightmares. This time, my parents had retreated into the background of my dream. Was it because I had confronted the horrifying memory of my mother? It had finally come into the light so maybe it had less power over me.

  Yet, my dreams were still plagued by Sophia trying to impart some kind of message to me. This time she was standing in a white, lattice gazebo in a beautiful flower garden pointing to a flock of birds. Her last cryptic message through Lenora Lange about a garden and then what I’d actually found “beyond the garden” seemed to be more than sheer coincidence. Or perhaps I was merely going mad. I wondered if I should see a doctor, but with Lizzy facing trial next week, I didn’t have time for such things. If I could just ease the nagging sense that Detective Walton did not have all the answers, or that he hadn’t even fully explored them, I might be able to rest. But some force was driving me onward.

  My conversation with Chet last night had left me feeling as if there were still a number of stones unturned at Margaret’s house. There had to be something the police had missed in regard to the connection between Mr. Travis and Margaret—and now Lizzy.

  Giving up all hope of further sleep, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and my hair, determined to go to Margaret’s before heading to work. I just hoped I would be able to get into the house. When I looked into the mirror, I was startled at my appearance. Whereas before I had looked merely tired, the woman staring back at me had aged by several years. I dabbed on some makeup to disguise the dark moons under my eyes with little consequence. I skipped the mascara, reasoning that to use it would only draw attention to those hollow windows into my tortured soul. I put on some lipstick and decided that would just have to be good enough.

  After a quick cup of coffee, I was out the door.

  I arrived at Margaret’s house just as the paper boy rode by on his bike. I got out of the car and made my way to the front porch, where several newspapers were strewn about. The door was locked, as I had suspected. Gathering up the newspapers, I walked around the back of the house to try the door to the screened-in porch, prepared to crawl in a window if need be. But when I got to the back door, I immediately noticed that the handle to the door had been broken off.

  I pushed on the door, and it creaked open. I walked in to find everything in disarray. Furniture had been moved, cushions upturned, tubes of paint had fallen to the floor. I moved into the living room to find it much the same. Rugs had been folded over, chairs moved, and sofa cushions stood at odd angles on the couch. I passed by the kitchen to see cupboards open, as well. Then I peered into the other room Margaret had used as an office. Papers were everywhere, files were strewn across the floor, and her desk drawers had been left open.

  The police wouldn’t have been this careless, would they? Someone else must have been here looking for something.

  I walked in and sat down in her desk chair. I set my handbag and gloves on the corner of the desk, trying to determine what the police could have missed—or what they hadn’t thought important. I picked up the loose-leaf papers on the desk one by one. There were receipts, ledgers, sketches, and notes. If there had been any kind of significant correspondence, I imagined the police, or whomever else had been in here, would have taken it.

  I gathered the papers and stacked them in a pile on the desk, then picked up a pencil box and set the scattered pencils back inside. I skimmed notebooks, but finding only sketches and artist’s notes within them, I set them on the bookshelves along with novels and books on art.

  There was a door at the back of the room, which I assumed was some kind of storage area or closet. I opened it to find coats, clothing, hats, and shoes. If she had been anything like me, her wardrobe would have required more than one closet so it made sense for this to be her “overflow” unit. Amazingly, this space had been left intact. I rifled through the coat pockets and found only a lipstick tube and a handkerchief. My eyes settled on the suit she’d been wearing at the reading of the will. I inspected the fabric. It was not of the finest quality but not the worst, either. The sewing had been fairly uniform.

  I closed the closet door and turned to face the room with a sigh.
“This was a bad idea,” I said aloud. “What was I thinking? Of course the police would go over everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

  I supposed I’d just needed to see it for myself. Had they really left things such a mess, though? I couldn’t shake the idea that someone else was looking for the same proof I was.

  I returned to the desk and picked up my gloves and hat. As I passed by her bedroom on my way out, I stopped. It was in the same condition as the living room and office, with her bedclothes rumpled and piled into a ball at the foot of the bed. A corner of the mattress had been pulled away from the bedframe, as well. I walked in and surveyed the mess more closely. I opened the closet door and found more of her wardrobe neatly hung on hangers, but her hatboxes had been opened and lay in a pile on the floor. I picked up a crimson felt cloche with a charming bow on the side. I tossed it back into a box and surveyed the room again, looking for some kind of clue.

  My eyes were drawn to a painting hanging next to the door. It looked like one of Margaret’s, if the style were any indication. On the wall at the corner of the painting, though, were marks, as if the frame had scratched the wall. But how would that have happened?

  Unless it repeatedly had been taken on and off the wall . . .

  I walked over to it and lifted it from its hanger. The painting concealed a panel in the wall, approximately twenty-four inches by twenty-four inches, that was hinged on one side and closed with a metal hook and eye.

  Curious, I opened it. Inside lay a baby bonnet, some old wooden toys, and a wooden box with a rusted metal clasp. I pulled it out and wiped the dust off the top before taking it over to the bed and sitting down. I opened it to find papers, a sterling-silver rattle, and a roll of cash secured with a blue ribbon.