by Kari Bovee
Grace snorted and quickly put her hand to her face. She’d heard people talk about the time Fanny and Lillian had gotten in a fight backstage and Fanny had literally dragged Lillian by the hair across the stage to uproarious applause.
“I can’t believe you did that. Onstage, no less! You should be ashamed.”
“She took my man!” she explained. “Poor Freddy. They had the world’s shortest marriage. Ten days. I should be over the louse by now. It was a long time ago, but. . . .”
“I think she just said something about Sophia.” Grace strained to hear the conversation. She and Fanny both quieted to listen.
Lillian dramatically placed her cigarette holder between her lips and took a drag. She blew the stream of smoke over Mr. Fields’s head.
“Yes, I know! Jack is quite the cad. Never was faithful to the poor girl. Left a string of harlots in his wake.”
“Oh my goodness,” Grace gasped.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised, Grace. You know Jack’s a scoundrel.” Fanny leaned closer to Lillian and Mr. Fields’s conversation.
“I think his sister, Mary, gave up trying to support him, so on to greener pastures,” Lillian went on. “Too bad for Sophia, but better for me.” She propped her elbow on her velvet-clad hipbone, her cigarette propped between slender fingers and nearly touching the brim of her enormous hat. Smoke drifted upward in an elegant line above her head.
Mr. Fields said something Grace couldn’t hear. Then Lillian’s voice raised an octave. “Flo? Oh no, he’d never come to a memorial, or a wake, or a funeral. The man is terrified of death. Didn’t even go to poor Anna’s funeral.”
“That’s because he was too busy with you, you tart!” Fanny said a little too loudly.
“Fanny, shh. I can’t hear.”
Lillian took another drag of her cigarette, Mr. Fields hanging on her every gesture, her every word. “Although, I must say, he did a fabulous job with this send-off. I’m not sure how much the girl deserved it. . . .”
Grace took in a sharp breath. “Fanny, it sounds as if Lillian wanted Sophia dead!”
“Don’t listen to that garbage. Lillian was always jealous of Sophia.”
Before Grace could let out her breath, Lillian approached their table. Her eyes narrowed at Fanny. “I’d like a word with Miss Michelle.”
“Well, I’m not leaving, so you’ll have to have your word with me sitting here,” Fanny countered.
Lillian’s mouth curled up in a smirk. “Very well, Brice.” She focused her attention on Grace, her cherry lips protruding in a pout. “Condolences.”
“Condolences?” repeated Fanny. “Bravo! You must add sympathy and graciousness to your acting repertoire. Award-winning stuff, darling.”
Grace could see Lillian’s jaw tense beneath her flawless porcelain skin. With a toss of her head, she turned toward a group of gentlemen, strolling away from Grace and Fanny like a sleek cat. The men’s conversation came to a halt, and a lascivious smile crossed each and every one of their faces.
“Witch,” Fanny said.
Grace felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “How could someone be so hateful?”
Fanny patted Grace’s arm. “This is show business, darling.”
Chapter Four
Chet Riker sat ramrod straight in the red velvet booth across from famed mobster Joe Marciano and two of his men. One of them gave Chet a raise of his chin and a wink. Usually, he wouldn’t see that as a threat, but considering that this particular man looked like a beer keg on legs, the gesture didn’t indicate warm friendlies. The other man, equally burly, had hands so hairy Chet wondered if the guy had just escaped from the zoo. Their hats rested on a hat stand behind the table with silver toothpicks—Marciano’s signature—tucked into the hatbands.
Sitting in Delmonico’s, one of New York City’s swankiest restaurants, with the known criminal and his thugs did nothing to help Chet’s standing in the community, but since he owed Marciano money, declining the invitation had seemed foolish.
Around him, waiters in black coats and ties held silver trays of food high above their heads as they hurried to serve their waiting customers. In the booth next to them, a group of women wearing ornate hats and silk gloves chatted in whispers.
Chet bounced his heel up and down beneath the table. With his reputation as a private investigator teetering on marginal, he hoped any past or potential clients—if present—didn’t recognize him.
The noises around him seemed to grow louder and more extreme. Every clink of sterling that touched china and every ice cube that clicked against a crystal goblet sounded like gunfire, reminding him of the trenches in France with dirt walls and death cascading down around him. Then, like now, he wanted to get out and fast.
“Still working for Flo?” Marciano reached into his coat pocket to pull out a silver cigarette case, his beefy, ring-clad fingers dwarfing the delicate box.
“Here and there. Been awhile.” Chet kept his voice casual, trying to swallow the anxiety that threatened to strangle him.
The rotund mobster plucked a cigarette from the case, and one of his henchmen lit it for him. Marciano, a formidable businessman who carried much social and fiscal weight in the city of New York, dressed like a king, ate at the finest restaurants, ran gambling houses, and killed anyone who crossed his path at the wrong moment—or owed him money for any length of time. Chet fell into the latter category, and the reality made him want to vomit.
“Like being around all those girls?” Marciano grinned, his fat lips curving into a repugnant smirk. He took a long drag on the cigarette, so long that the tip immediately turned to a snake of ash. Marciano blew the smoke out of his mouth in a violent stream and then crushed the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray.
“Of course. Who wouldn’t?” Chet gave a halfhearted smile.
Money and power can buy tailored suits and elegant silk shirts, but they certainly can’t buy good looks, Chet thought. Marciano’s face looked like it had been run through a cotton gin. Pockmarked and red, his skin had an oily, white sheen, and his jet-black hair hung in greasy strings over coal-black eyes. He also ate like a pig: food stuck to his teeth as he shoveled it in, openmouthed and grinning. Chet’s stomach turned as he envisioned Marciano at a crude wooden trough, snout floundering in muck and rings on each cloven hoof.
Marciano stopped eating and eyed Chet’s untouched plate. He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. The waiter flinched to attention, like a soldier being summoned by a general.
“My guest, Mr. Riker, apparently finds his meal undesirable,” he said to the waiter.
“The food’s fine,” Chet said.
It’s the company that makes me want to retch.
The waiter turned again toward Marciano, awaiting approval to leave. He waved him away. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Marciano laughed. “Not hungry.” He looked from one of his thugs to the other. They both gave an obligatory chuckle. “Riker here’s not hungry,” Marciano repeated, leveling a malevolent stare at Chet. “I’m always hungry.” He curled his lip. “Especially for what’s mine.”
Chet returned the glare, refusing to betray any sign of intimidation to this loathsome man. Marciano used a napkin to wipe the remnants of oily roast duck from his lips. The attempt failed; he only succeeded in smearing the bits around on his face. Apparently, money didn’t buy manners, either.
“I understand you have a . . . proclivity for gambling,” Marciano said.
“I’ve gambled in the past, yes.”
“It seems that you are quite indebted at one of my establishments and have been for some time. Now, you have a couple of choices.” Marciano threw the napkin down next to his plate. “You can either pay off your debt and you’ll never see me again, or I can employ you on a little venture. Your investigative know-how would be of great service. So what’ll it be, Riker?”
Chet studied the thugs across from him and then bent forward. “I won’t
work for you, but I will pay off my debt.”
Marciano leaned over the table and strained his neck toward Chet until his face loomed over Chet’s plate. A piece of duck hung precariously from the corner of his mouth, threatening to drop.
“You don’t wanna work for me? I’m gonna try not to take that personally, but let me tell you something, Riker. My boys are gonna be hounding you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, ’til you pay up. I’m giving you one month to come up with the cash, or you’re gonna end up sorry. Do you understand me?”
Never taking his eyes away from Marciano’s, Chet let out an exasperated rush of air, hoping the bits of duck wouldn’t land on his plate. “Got it.”
“Now,” Marciano said, fiddling with the chunky rings on his fingers. “Are you gonna eat your meal, there?”
Chet pushed his plate away. He couldn’t believe he was in this mess. All for his mother, a woman who’d given him away at birth, sent him to an orphanage where life was more than hard and less than pleasant, and drilled home the fact that love only caused pain.
After he had returned from the war still in one piece, he’d wanted to know the woman who’d given him life. When he finally found her, sick and wasting away, he learned she’d been diagnosed with cancer and needed an operation. She’d die if he didn’t come up with the money. He couldn’t be responsible for his own mother’s death.
“Vito,” Marciano said, taking the plate from Chet. “It’s yours. Enjoy.” He set the plate in front of the beer keg on legs. “Ciao, Riker.”
Chet tossed his napkin on the table, grabbed his hat off the back of the booth, and got up to leave. The voluptuous woman in the neighboring booth gave him a dazzling smile, catching him off guard. He smiled back, and she gave him a wave of her fingers. He hadn’t eaten, but his stomach wanted to come up anyway at the thought of ending up as fish food in the Hudson. He swallowed down the bile.
Outside, on the street, Chet pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. One month. He shook his head. Business had been slow—no missing persons, no cheating husbands, no wayward kids. Or at least not any thrown in his direction. Word had gotten out about his time at the tables, and it had hurt his reputation. Who wanted to hire a PI with a gambling habit? Hopefully, he could find something and find it quick.
He looked down the street and saw a brightly lit marquee. The theater business might need his services. It was time to make a visit to Florenz Ziegfeld Jr.
Chapter Five
After the memorial service, Grace returned home to her suite at the Ansonia Hotel, a place that she and Sophia once shared. Exhausted but too wound up to sleep, she lay on the bed and stared at the moiré taffeta-covered canopy, letting her eyes roam over the pink swirls and folds of the fabric that had been molded to form a giant rose petal above her head.
Several vases of flowers filled the room with a sweet fragrance—almost too sweet. Grace knew that this aroma would forever remind her of death, and she fought to not let her senses overwhelm her.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but a knock at the door the next morning woke her. With legs weighed down by exhaustion, she dragged herself from her bed and opened the door a crack, peeking through. Flo, wearing a velvet dressing gown over silk pajamas and holding a copy of Variety in one hand and a cigar in the other, stood at the door. Grace couldn’t bear to look into his grave face.
“You need to see this.” He held up the newspaper. “Put your robe on and come to my suite. Immediately.”
He left her at the door and walked down the hall, tapping the paper lightly against his thigh.
Grace didn’t like the scowl on his face. She didn’t really like anything about Flo right now. For weeks she’d entertained the notion of leaving the theater, leaving Flo. It made her sick each time she thought of Flo and Sophia as lovers. But where would she go? Back to the streets? The very idea left her even more nauseated. What did he want?
Grace moved to the vanity to re-braid her hair. She spotted one of Sophia’s dressing gowns hanging in the wardrobe and slipped into it, wrapping it tightly around her body, longing for the comfort of her sister. The scent of Sophia’s favorite perfume still lingered in the Oriental silk. Grace breathed in the aroma and took solace in the good memories it produced. Memories of them laughing together and whispering in the dark, pillow fights and long conversations about what their lives would be when they were older.
Grace left her room and made her way toward the double doors of Flo’s suite. She knocked. Flo’s valet, Harold, a stocky, balding man who always bore a grim expression, opened it and showed her in.
Decorated in shades of deep brown, burgundy, and taupe, Flo’s suite displayed masculine elegance. Flo’s wife, Billie, didn’t share these lodgings, and the lack of a feminine touch confirmed it. The double doors of the entry opened into a small, parquet floor hallway leading to the dining room. A long mahogany table with a set of stately armchairs dominated the space. Dark, metal candelabras hung over the table, giving the room an intimidating air.
Harold led her around the corner to the parlor. Grace peered in to see Flo sitting in a high-backed, silk-covered chair that resembled a throne. Harold motioned to a smaller replica of the chair, signaling for her to sit, and she obeyed. A knot of anxiety balled up in her chest. She’d never been nervous around Flo before, not like this, but things were different now. Would he expect her to replace Sophia as his mistress? The thought made her palms sweat.
Flo stared at the paper, seemingly unaware of her presence.
Harold brought them tea service and rested it on Flo’s recently purchased, fashionable, mahogany coffee table in front of them. Seconds passed into minutes. Finally, Flo set the paper down and greeted Grace with a thin-lipped smile. He waved Harold away and poured each of them a cup of steaming tea.
Before reaching for his saucer, Flo handed Grace the newspaper. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just let you see for yourself.”
Grace’s gaze moved to the page. The headline read, Ziegfeld Actress Sophia Michelle’s mysterious death—Spanish Flu, Suicide, or Foul Play? She lowered the paper to her lap, stunned at the last two words, their image burning into her mind.
Grace stared at the tea service, letting the information sink in. Despair rested so heavy on her heart she could scarcely breathe. She felt her head drain of blood, and her mouth went sticky, her tongue dry.
Flo leaned forward, his fingertips alighting on her knee. “Darling, I’m so sorry. For everything.”
Grace offered a faint nod. She must collect herself, be strong.
“This has been a terrible shock, my dear.” He took the paper from her lap and handed her a teacup and saucer. “I’m afraid I’ve neglected you during all this. Here, drink your tea.”
Despite her shaking fingers, Grace raised the cup to her lips and sipped. She put the cup down on the saucer with a click.
“Sophia would never kill herself,” she said. “The idea is preposterous. Could it have been Spanish flu?”
“It seemed a real possibility, but the pandemic was two years ago. Still, something is going around. People are dropping like flies. A few dancers have come down with it.” Flo rubbed a hand over the stubble of his unshaven face. “But I don’t think it’s that simple.” He paused a moment, staring at the ceiling. “I received a report from the Los Angeles Police Department. They say the circumstances of Sophia’s death could have been consistent with poisoning. Either by her own hand or that of someone else.”
Grace shook her head. “That can’t be. It’s not possible. I know she was drinking more than usual, but Sophia would never. . . .” She paused to draw in a breath. “What does Jack have to say about this? Have you spoken with him?”
“Hardly,” Flo snorted. “Vermin. He’s responsible for this, didn’t know how to take care of her. Hell, he can barely take care of himself, the damned drunk. It wouldn’t surprise me if he . . . well, never mind.”
Grace blanched at his insinuation and swallowed hard. “F
lo, I don’t care for Jack any more than you do, but I certainly don’t think he would—” Their eyes met for a brief moment. “No, he wouldn’t hurt Sophia. If anything, he wanted to ride her coattails.”
“Need I remind you that Jack’s sister is Mary Pickford? Sophia was following him to a career in motion pictures.” He pursed his lips and tapped his long, narrow nose. “I don’t like the way this smells. No, I don’t like any of it.”
Grace slumped back into the chair, feeling lost, helpless. She remembered Lillian’s words at the memorial and the way she had nearly gushed at the fact Sophia was gone, out of her way. Could she have been responsible in some way?
“Darling.” Flo leaned forward. “We will get to the bottom of this, no matter how long it takes. We’ll find out what happened.”
Grace pulled her upper lip between her teeth, trying to wrap her head around this new information.
“Did you love her?” The words tumbled out of her mouth.
“You must think less of me after all this . . .”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I did love Sophia.”
“Did you make those promises? Did you tell her you’d marry her?”
“No, darling, I assure you I did not. She was too young. It would have ruined both of our careers.” He paused, met her eyes. “Billie’s not only my wife but one of my most important investors . . . I have to do whatever keeps her happy, so I broke it off with Sophia two years ago. That’s when Sophia’s drinking began in earnest.”
“Yes, I did notice a change. Sophia used to tell me Billie hated her. Guess now I know why.”
If Flo truly loved Sophia, someone who also made him a lot of money, would he really have let her go to California?
No wonder Billie traveled so much.
“Why didn’t she tell me about you two?” Grace asked, thinking out loud. “I could have been there for her, comforted her when you broke it off.”
