by Kari Bovee
Nothing.
“What was that? Can you repeat it? Was that an M? Rap once if there is an M in your name.”
There was a single rap on the wall. I closed my eye again and pressed my lips together, waiting. I could hear Felicity’s breath coming fast and shallow next to me.
“What is your message? Say again?” Miss Lange asked. “Swallow? Swallow what?”
More silence, more waiting.
“Beneath the swallows,” the young woman’s high-pitched voice spoke again.
“C’est absurd,” Pierre hissed, more loudly this time, and slapped his hand on the table.
The sound of someone gasping filled the room. Mr. Smith released my hand, and I could feel him moving his hands erratically over the table. The sound of a match being struck was followed by a soft glow as he lit the candle on the table. I scanned the faces and took in a sharp breath when I looked over at Miss Lange slumped in her chair.
“Lenora!” Mr. Smith shook her.
“Someone get the lights,” Miss Rambova demanded.
Mr. Valentino jumped up from his chair and turned on the lights. Miss Lange opened her eyes and blinked, righting herself in the chair. She hung her head and rested her forehead on her fingertips.
“What have you done, man?” Mr. Smith said to Pierre. “It’s dangerous for the medium if she is interrupted that way. It leaves her between two worlds.”
“Pierre!” Madame Delacroix slapped his arm.
“This is nonsense.” He stood up. “Maman, we are leaving.”
“But—”
“I said, we are leaving!”
Miss Lange raised her head. Her eyes were unfocused and glassy, and her skin was as white as her dress. “He wants you to forgive him.” Her words were directed at Pierre, whose jaw flexed with anger.
“Maman,” he said impatiently and took his mother by the elbow, forcing her to stand. He then proceeded to drag her from the room.
The rest of us sat there, looking helplessly at one another. Mr. Valentino pulled a cigarette case out of his coat pocket and opened it up, offering one to his wife and then one to me and Felicity. We both declined. He lit Miss Rambova’s and then his own, and leaned forward on his elbows studying Miss Lange. “Are you all right, signora?”
“Yes,” she said. The color had come back into her cheeks. “But I’m very tired. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
With Mr. Smith’s aid, she stood up and rested her fingertips on the table, as if orienting herself or trying to keep herself from falling over. He took her by the arm and led her away from the table. Before she reached the doorway leading to the other room, she stopped and fixed me with a stare. “The message about the swallows was for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rose met me at the door when I arrived home. It was late, nearly 11:00 p.m., and when I saw the look on her face, I was prepared to get a scolding. But on further inspection, it wasn’t anger she was projecting. It was anxiety.
“It’s Lizzy.” She took my coat and my handbag for me. “The jail called. She’s been taken to the infirmary.”
Pinpricks of adrenaline made my hands tingle. “What happened?”
“Said she’s refused to eat. She’s in quite a state.”
“Oh god. She’s supposed to stand trial in just one week.” I went to take my coat and handbag back from her. “I’m going down there.”
Rose held firm to my things. “It’s far too late, my dear. You’ll likely not be able to see her in the morning, either.” She drew them slowly away from me and pulled me into the house. “I asked if she could have visitors, and they said not until she is in a more stable condition. They said maybe tomorrow afternoon.”
I closed my eyes and put my hands over my face. If only we could have afforded the bail money, she wouldn’t be in such a state.
Rose led me to the sofa, and shakily, I sat down. “You look a fright, Grace. You really need to get some rest. You should go to bed,” she clucked.
“I know, I know,” I whispered. “I just can’t seem to get any sleep these days.”
“You stay here and let me bring you a plate of food. Have you had anything to eat today?”
I shook my head. I was moved by her concern for me. “No. I was late this morning, and I never did catch up.”
She nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
I sank onto the cushions and rested my head against the back of the sofa, grateful for Rose’s maternal ministrations. My nerves were fraying and at risk of snapping at any moment, and I needed some tender loving care. I missed Chet. He was scheduled to return tomorrow, and it would be nice to be relieved of some of this burden.
Rose came back into the living room with a bowlful of rabbit stew and a plate of freshly baked bread slathered in home-churned butter. My stomach groaned in anticipation. She set the bowl and plate down, and promised to return with a glass of milk. I grimaced. I was not much of a milk drinker, and she knew this.
“It will help you sleep,” she said, reading my mind. Or was it in my expression? Either way, I couldn’t argue with her logic.
When she returned with the milk, she sat down on one of the wingback chairs adjacent to the sofa and watched me eat. “It’s a pity the girl has no other family,” she said absently. “Someone who could help us with the bail money. We could bring her back here and get her fighting fit for her trial.”
I stopped mid-chew. Lizzy did have family. She just didn’t know it.
“Rose, you are a genius!”
She blinked at me, and her brows turned down in an expression indicating I had finally lost my mind.
I told her what I had discovered at Margaret’s house. “Don’t you see? Mr. Travis’s parents are her grandparents. Surely they would want to help their granddaughter.” And if I reached out to them, maybe I could find something out about Travis’s brother, discover if he was the one Margaret was so afraid of.”
Rose gave me a dubious look. “But the girl’s mother went to great lengths to conceal their identities. I don’t know if you should meddle, Grace.” She held the glass of milk out toward me.
I took it and forced down a mouthful. “I understand what you are saying. But, I’m running out of options, Rose. And time. Lizzy is giving up—falling apart, and she stands trial in a matter of days. I’ll send them a telegram in the morning,” I said with finality.
She gave a resigned sigh. “But, how? You don’t know where to reach them.”
“I could ask the estate lawyer.” My mind began to race with the possibilities. If I could get them to wire the bail money, we could get Lizzy home and prepare her for the ordeal ahead. We’d have a little less than a week, but it was better than nothing.
“I can see your mind is made up so I won’t say anymore on the subject. But tread cautiously, dear. It usually doesn’t pay to interfere in others’ family business. It can lead to disaster.”
I knew she spoke the truth, but desperate times and all. “I have to try. Lizzy needs all the help she can get, and we are responsible for her, Rose.”
Rose clicked her tongue and then pointed to the rest of my uneaten stew with a motherly sternness. Obediently, I took a few more bites, my appetite and energy returning with a vengeance. I took a piece of the bread and dipped it in the stew. The creaminess of the butter mixed with the savory broth was heaven.
Rose pulled something out from her pocket and held it in her palm. It was a white tablet. “Here’s a sleeping pill. I don’t take them often, but it does the trick.”
I stared at the pill. I had considered calling the doctor to get a prescription for myself but had refrained. I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I’d never taken one before and had been a firsthand witness to Sophia’s slow decline into addiction. “I’ll be fine.”
Rose leaned forward, pushing the pill closer to me. “You look like the walking dead, my girl. You need to get some sleep.”
With some food in my stomach, my limbs suddenly felt weighted down, but my mind was still
spinning. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 11:30 p.m. The thought of tossing and turning for the next few hours only to drift off into fractured sleep made my pulse quicken with anxiety. I took the pill from her outstretched palm.
She gave me a nod of approval. “Now wash that down with some milk, and then go wash your face. I wouldn’t advise a bath tonight.” With that, she took my empty plate, bowl, and glass into the kitchen.
I did as was told and made my way upstairs to my bedroom, then stripped off my clothes without even bothering to hang them up in the wardrobe. I slipped into my peach silk and ivory lace nightdress. I wrapped myself in Sophia’s dressing gown and padded into the bathroom.
Rose had been correct. I did look a fright.
I slathered some cold cream over my face and gently removed it with a wash cloth. As I gently wiped away the makeup and this very long day, a wooziness overtook me, and I had to steady myself against the sink. I quickly brushed my teeth and staggered over to the bed, climbed under the covers, and sank into a blissful oblivion.
The next morning I took my coffee in the sunroom. I had fallen asleep the night before in sheer exhaustion and had managed to sleep the entire night, but somehow, I woke feeling weighted down, as if a pall had settled over me and was threatening to smother me. I had hoped that the infusion of sunlight in the cheery room would help to alleviate the sense of despair.
I hadn’t dreamed of my mother but woke to memories of her and the realization that, as innocent children, Sophia and I had witnessed her slow decline into madness. Other memories came flooding back, too, particularly memories of my father—or rather, of his absence. It was so clear now. He rarely had been home. I remember him tucking me in to bed on occasion or me sitting on his knee while he read to me from the newspaper. But I didn’t have many memories of us as a family. No meals together, no birthday parties, no holiday celebrations. Only a void of parental affection. Abandonment. Neglect.
After our parents had died, Sophia and I had lived in the house for a while until the bank reclaimed it. One of the neighbors, Mrs. Collingsworth, had written to the authorities telling them we were underage and alone. She had come over one day to let us know we would be taken to a home, an orphanage, and that one day, we might have new parents. For some reason this idea sent so much fear into Sophia that she told me we were packing our bags and leaving the house forever.
I closed my eyes remembering that day. We had left early, at dawn. The sky had been pink, painting the city in hues of gray and lavender. Shopkeepers had been opening their stores, and the milkman had been carrying his wire crates of milk from one doorstep to the other while the horse that pulled his wagon hung his head in a half sleep. Sophia had said storm clouds were gathering so we had to find shelter quickly. She had sounded so sure of herself, I blindly followed along. As we walked down the street, I had looked up to the sky sandwiched between the buildings and watched a flock of birds fly overhead. Their wings curved downward, tapering to a fine point and giving them the look of a crossbow.
“Come on, Grace.” Sophia had pulled me along impatiently, but I had stopped, mesmerized by the birds.
One of the shopkeepers, who was sweeping the front stoop of his store saw us standing there. “Swallows,” he said. “Beautiful birds.”
I opened my eyes.
Beneath the swallows.
Isn’t that what Miss Lange had said last night? And that the message was for me? How strange that I had just recalled that particular memory from my childhood. Perhaps the seed had been planted at the séance. Much like the message from the reading about the garden. But was that really possible?
Then something else occurred to me. I had seen the image of a swallow recently. In the golden photo frame in Mr. Travis’s office. The scene depicted a swallow flying over . . . a garden.
I shook my head to clear it. In my exhaustion, my thoughts were running away with me. I had more pressing things to do, like sending a telegram to Edward Travis’s parents.
Perhaps, I could get their information from Felicity instead of going to the lawyer. Surely Mr. Travis had it somewhere.
Resolved as to my next move, I finished my coffee feeling much better. I was just about to get up from my chair to refresh my cup when Rose appeared in the doorway.
“I thought you might want to see this.” She held out the paper, and I went to her to retrieve it.
The headline read, Suicide or Homicide? The Mysterious Death of Pearl Davis, Wife of Late Hollywood Director, Edward Travis.
I scanned the story. While authorities previously had thought Miss Davis had committed suicide, it seemed a postmortem revealed bruising and puncture wounds, like those from a needle, in her buttocks. The coroner could no longer consider this purely suicide, and the police were now investigating the possibility of murder.
My heart started to race. Lizzy had felt a sting in her arm the night Mr. Travis was murdered. She’d had a small bruise there, too. Come to think of it, I remembered seeing a bruise on Margaret’s thigh, as well.
“Oh my goodness,” I said, staring at the words.
“The plot thickens.” Rose looked at me over her spectacles.
“I knew it wasn’t suicide! The murders are related!” Exhilaration coursed through my veins as I became more and more confident in my theory.
Rose tilted her head at me quizzically, and I explained.
When Rose still seemed uncertain of my excitement, I said, “Don’t you see? Lizzy was already in jail when Pearl Davis died. Someone is trying to frame her!”
Rose took the paper back. “It says here they are still investigating. This isn’t proof of either homicide or suicide.”
I took her by the shoulders. “It’s coming together, Rose. I can just feel it.”
She frowned. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, dear. How did you sleep? Did the sleeping pill help?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Have to run. I’ve got a lot to do today.”
Before I went upstairs to get dressed, I hurried to the telephone to call Felicity. By the sound of her voice, I could tell I had woken her up, but I prattled on with my request for her to see about finding an address for the elder Mr. and Mrs. Travis and bringing it with her to work. Groggily, she agreed and then said goodbye.
“Wait!” I said, hoping I’d caught her in time.
“What now?”
“Bring the picture frame with you—the one from Mr. Travis’s study with the photo of Florence on horseback.”
“Why?” she asked, impatience in her voice.
“Just do it, please. I have a hunch.”
Felicity and I didn’t have a chance to talk until Timothy had everyone break for lunch at around 1:00 p.m. Unfortunately, he was only giving everyone about thirty minutes to eat. He was on a mission to make up for lost time. He claimed the studio bosses were on a rampage, but I knew it was more likely he was worried about his reputation. Delivering in a timely, cost-effective manner was paramount for him.
Timothy had arranged for a local diner to bring in soup and sandwiches, and I had only been able to take a few bites of my turkey and rye before Helen tore the lace on the skirt of the Santa Maria while in the bathroom. That dress would be the death of me. And given the lack of time, we would have to fix it while she was wearing it. I sent Martha, the head seamstress to the wardrobe room to fetch more lace, and I set to work removing what had been ripped with the embroidery scissors I wore on a chain around my neck for just such purposes.
Felicity stood nearby, munching on her tuna salad sandwich.
“Did you find that thing you were looking for?” I asked her, intentionally being vague. I struggled with some of the threads holding the lace in place. One of the assistants was spoon-feeding Helen her soup while I worked on the skirt of the dress. A rush job would have to do. If I could just get the new lace tacked on, the camera would be none the wiser.
Felicity winked at me. “Sure did. And I also brought the other item you reques
ted. I left both of them in your office.”
Martha came back with the lace and measured a length of it for me.
“I’d love to sit down,” Helen said. “I’ve been on my feet since early this morning.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” I told her. “I really can’t do this with you sitting down.”
I took pins out of the pincushion at my wrist one by one and set the lace in place.
She issued a theatrical sigh, and then I felt her body stiffen. “Oh god. What are they doing here? They aren’t scheduled to shoot until tomorrow.”
Timothy got up from his chair and handed his half-eaten sandwich to a bewildered assistant director who took it between his fingers with a pinched look of disgust.
“Florence.” Timothy greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “What are you doing here, love?”
“I’ve come to see the dailies. I’d like to assess them from yesterday, to see how I am coming across on camera.”
“Like Attila the Hun,” Helen murmured under her breath. “And he has about as much presence on the screen as a gnat.” She lifted her chin toward Mr. Johnson. “Such an odious man.”
“That’s a strong term,” Felicity said.
“But so deserving.” Helen shifted back and forth on her feet. “So different from Edward. He couldn’t even hold a candle to him, as an actor, as a director, as a human being. I don’t know how Edward tolerated him—or why. But I suppose he had to.”
I stopped mid-stitch. “He had to?”
“Oh.” Helen pressed her hand to her mouth. “Nothing.”
“Why would Mr. Travis have to tolerate Mr. Johnson?” I asked, the wheels in my head turning. Had he been blackmailing Mr. Travis?
“Well, he— I really shouldn’t say, but . . .” She leaned her head closer to me and whispered, “I overheard them arguing once. Edward was upset at him, told him to straighten up or he’d be out on his ear, and—”
“Okay, you lot. Let’s get back to work.” Timothy clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “You done over there, lass?” he asked me.