by Kari Bovee
How could her sister have hidden such a huge secret?
“Sophia felt responsible for you,” Flo said. “She wanted to take care of you, not burden you as to how she would fulfill that responsibility.”
“If you broke it off two years ago, why did you keep us around?”
“I care about you. I cared about her. And, I’d made an investment—in you both.” Flo folded his hands in his lap. “Voice lessons, acting lessons, dance lessons. I received a return on that investment through Sophia. She made money for the theater.”
Grace blinked. “You are admitting that you used her. Just like she said.” She drew the words out slowly, trying to read his face.
“And did you both not profit from the arrangement? I fed you, clothed you—in grand style, I might add. Do you know how many girls are out there right now who would do anything to live the life you lead? I think it’s been a fair trade, darling.”
Flo had saved them from a horrible existence. Grace searched his eyes. “And what about me. Am I to be turned out?”
“Of course not, Grace. You’ll continue to be provided for, your every need met. You have nothing to fear.”
If only she could believe him.
“There is no need to fret, darling. I would never turn you out. I know I’ll get a return on my investment in you, too.”
“But, I—”
“Mr. Ziegfeld.” Harold stood in the doorway, interrupting. “There is an urgent matter at the theater. Something about one of those contraptions on the stage floor.”
“I must get dressed.” Flo set down his teacup and leaned toward Grace. “Please stay and finish your tea. And please don’t worry. I’ll see you at the theater for the costume check, yes?”
Grace nodded. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Good.”
Flo stood, pulling down the waist of his smoking jacket, and left the room, his shoulders thrust back, his posture perfect, his gait as elegant and relaxed as a lion’s. Always the showman, always in control.
Grace sipped her tea alone in the opulent room, her heart crushed at the thought that someone would want to hurt Sophia, or that she would want to hurt herself. Which was it? Flo had said something about a police report. If only she could see it, maybe she could make sense of the unbelievable, senseless death of her only sister.
Her eyes scanned the room, and her gaze fell on Flo’s large walnut desk strewn with papers. Could he have left the police report out? Or had he filed it away somewhere? A sinking feeling hit her stomach. Had there really been a police report, or did he just tell her he’d received one? Never, in all the years she’d known Flo, had she ever doubted his word, but now . . . .
She stood, teacup and saucer in hand, and meandered toward the desk, aware of the swish of her silken robe against her bare legs and the prickle shooting down her spine at her own audacity to snoop through Flo’s things.
Pulling her robe tighter around her body, she walked over to the desk and set down the cup and saucer. She strained to hear if anyone was approaching. The only noise in the room came from the deep tonal ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Grace picked through some of the papers—bills, scripts, envelopes, drawings of sets, and scads of notes in Flo’s erratic scrawl. Nothing that remotely resembled a police report.
The pungent, spicy odor of cigars drew her eyes to the crystal ashtray. It was filled with browned cigar butts adorned with teeth marks and squished completely lifeless. She slid open the drawer to her right, revealing neatly lined rows of files.
Files with girls names on the tabs.
Lots of files.
Grace sat in the chair and leaned over the drawer to read the names: Billie Burke, Fanny Brice, Lillian Lorraine, Sophie Tucker, Felicity Jones, and Ann Pennington. She fingered through more to one labeled Liane Held Carrera. She pulled out the folder and opened it up. Inside lay a photo of the voluptuous Anna Held, Flo’s former common-law wife, in a shawl-collared wool coat and a jaunty cloche hat trimmed with a wide ribbon. She was holding the hand of a small child, who was dressed identically. The child looked to be about four years old. She must have been Anna’s daughter with Maximo Carerra, wealthy playboy, and her first husband. Grace flipped through the pages of the folder and saw something titled Adoption. She looked to the bottom of the last page and saw the printed names Anna Held and Florenz Ziegfeld Jr. with lines above for signatures. Anna had signed; Flo had not.
Grace set the folder in her lap, thinking. She’d never seen Liane before—not that she could remember, anyway. She straightened the papers and tucked the folder back into the drawer. She perused the other files and froze when her gaze landed on a folder labeled Sophia Michelle. The one behind it was labeled Grace Michelle.
Grace listened for any noise that might mean Harold or Flo would come in and catch her snooping. Satisfied at the silence, she pulled out Sophia’s folder. She opened it to find a few publicity photos and some letters. Love letters. To Flo. Dozens of them.
Her stomach twisted as she skimmed over the words written in Sophia’s hand. Grace swallowed as her mouth dried, leaving her tongue feeling thick and sticking to the roof of her mouth. Unable to read any more, she flipped past the letters until her eyes rested on a very official-looking document with the words Metropolitan Life scrolled across the top. She scanned the document and clamped her hand over her mouth, her stomach threatening to heave. Before her was a life insurance policy taken out on Sophia a year ago—in the amount of twenty thousand dollars.
Chapter Six
With trembling fingers, Grace quickly opened the file folder with her name on it. It contained a photo of her and Sophia when they were young, probably when they first came to the theater; a doctor’s bill and some correspondence with the doctor in regard to the time Grace had suffered from a cold; a picture of Sophia Grace had drawn for Flo some years ago; and some sketches of gowns she had made. She hadn’t seen them in so long, she’d entirely forgotten about them. But there were no letters, no life insurance policy.
A loud knock at the door sent Grace’s heart straight to her throat. She fumbled with the folders, jammed them back in the drawer, and then slammed the drawer shut with a loud bang. Jumping out of the chair, she grabbed for her teacup on the desk and accidentally knocked it to the ground. The porcelain cup landed on the Persian rug, the remnants of liquid seeping into the inky blackness of the bold pattern. She grabbed the saucer from the desk, scooped the cup off the floor and hurried over to the chair she’d previously occupied.
Someone knocked again. Louder.
“Harold?” Grace called out. “Flo?”
Setting the teacup and saucer down on the coffee table, she stood up. Was anyone going to answer the door?
More knocking. Urgent knocking.
With shaky legs, Grace made her way to the doorway and readjusted her robe. She opened the door. Lillian Lorraine, in a white fox stole stood staring at Grace, her red mouth slightly opened, her large brown eyes glittering with surprise.
“Miss . . . Lillian. . . .” Grace stammered.
“I see Flo is entertaining.” Lillian’s eyes raked over Grace, and her mouth took on a determined sneer.
“No, it’s not like that.” Grace pulled at the collar of her robe.
“Your sister’s not dead two weeks, and here you are filling the void in that poor man’s life. Good for you, dear.”
Grace felt her face flush crimson. She couldn’t look the woman in the eye, but she couldn’t help staring at the tiny head of the dead fox wrapped around Lillian’s neck, its beady black eyes boring into her. She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t gain the momentum to lash back at the absurdity of Lillian’s comment.
“You don’t understand,” Grace finally choked out. “I was just here because Flo wanted to tell me. . . .”
“He’s got plans for you?” Her red lips spread into a confident, eerie smile. “Don’t doubt it, sweetie. You’re in his clutches. We all are. Is he here?” Her eyes widened, and her lips pursed
to a crimson heart, her face the epitome of innocence.
Graced grabbed the side of the door for support.
“I resent your insinuation, Miss Lorraine. There is nothing untoward going on here. Flo is like a father to me, and I a daughter to him.”
She scoffed. “I’ve heard that one before.”
Grace’s fingers gripped the side of the door so hard they hurt.
Lillian folded her arms across her chest, forcing the fox’s nose to burrow into her ample, partially exposed bosom. She sniffed. “Flo here?”
Grace swallowed down her rage and embarrassment. She wanted nothing more than to get out of the woman’s presence.
“Yes, he’s . . . he’s getting dressed. Harold’s helping him. I was just . . . I was just . . . going.”
“Don’t let me keep you.” Lillian stepped a few inches away from the door and held her arm toward the hallway.
Clutching the robe tighter to her chest, Grace slipped through the small space between the woman and the slightly open doorway. Accidentally, Grace’s shoulder slammed into Lillian’s, knocking her backward a step.
“I’m—” Instinctively, Grace wanted to apologize. But the look of smug satisfaction on Lillian’s face instead made Grace want to slap those bright red lips to a pulpy cherry mess.
That afternoon, Grace busied herself repairing costumes. She pulled one of the pink, jeweled shifts from the hanger and inspected it for missing beads, torn seams, and bedraggled feather plumes.
The memory of her recent encounter with Lillian plucked at her nerves. As did the life insurance policy on Sophia she’d found. Did all theater companies take out life insurance on their employees? She wished she’d had more time to look through the other girls’ folders. She couldn’t think of whom to ask about it. It seemed like a rather personal question.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Charles entered the room. “Why aren’t you at dance class?”
“I’d rather be here.”
“You know Flo gets apoplectic when you miss it.”
“I have no plans to be an actress.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like singing and dancing.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll take care of the headpieces while you finish with the dresses.” He cocked his wrist under his chin. “So. . . .”
Grace pressed her lips together, knowing what would come next. Everyone must be talking about Sophia’s death.
“How are you holding up?” He took a headpiece down from the shelf.
Grace shrugged.
Lucile entered the room, interrupting them. Fanny trailed a few feet behind her. Lucile, always elegant, always dressed in a suit of rich velvet or lustrous linen and adorned in pearls, sauntered into the room commanding the authority of a grand-dame. She was stern faced with an aquiline nose, square jaw, and thin lips, and only in the glimmer of her eyes could one see the complete warmth and benevolence this matronly woman possessed.
“Hallo, hallo, hallo!” sang Fanny. “Charles, you dream! How are ya, kid?” The bangles on Fanny’s overly jeweled wrists clanked as she set her hands firmly on her hips.
“Just fine, Fanny. You?” Charles asked.
“Absooooolutely miserable. Hallo, Grace.”
Grace smiled, thinking the whole atmosphere of a room changed for the better when Fanny entered. Dim lights glowed, dingy floors sparkled, heavy hearts were lifted, and the stage came alive.
“Love that dress you designed for me, kid,” Fanny said, pointing a bright red fingernail at Grace. “It hides all those little lumps and bumps, you know what I mean?” She playfully jiggled her hips. “Lucile, you’ve got some talent on your hands with this one. And she’s pretty too.”
Grace looked at the floor, her cheeks blazing hot, unable to stifle a small, proud upturn of her lips.
“Yes, Grace has got quite a career in front of her,” said Lucile. “But she’s also got a lot of learning to do. Now, we’ve got to go fit those girls. If you’ll excuse us, Fanny?”
“Don’t mind me, kids. I’m just hanging around waiting for my check. This is the third time Flo’s been late with my money. Guess I’d better have a chat with him. Geez, I wish I had been born rich instead of beautiful.”
Grace’s throat went dry. No one talked about finances in the Follies, especially about Flo’s state of affairs. The life insurance policy flashed into her mind again. Had Sophia’s death been an incredible convenience?
Grace bit the inside of her cheek to keep from dwelling on such thoughts. Flo had been good to them, despite his inappropriate feelings for Sophia. But those thoughts aside, if Flo couldn’t afford to keep Fanny Brice, then what would happen to her?
The next day Grace entered the theater, a featherlight chiffon gown she had made for Sophia in her arms and a lead weight in her chest. A new starlet had been found to audition for Sophia’s role. It seemed a betrayal of sorts, to fit Sophia’s gown to a new actress. Lucile had offered to do the fitting herself, but Grace needed to keep as busy as possible. Only the hours spent embellishing costumes brought her any peace these days.
Onstage, several girls worked with the choreographer learning new dance routines. Others sat around smoking cigarettes and talking, their voices echoing throughout the cavernous theater. Grace noticed a girl she had not seen before talking with the others. She wore only a slip and red high-heeled shoes.
Must be the girl auditioning.
When she saw Grace with the dress, she stubbed out her cigarette on the stage floor and sauntered over, her blond, bobbed head held high, a shroud of arrogance wrapping around her like an expensive cloak.
“I’m Helga. Is that my dress?” The girl’s voice revealed a clipped, German accent, and her startling blue eyes raked over every inch of Grace.
“Um . . . yes.” Grace held out the dress for Helga to step into. Once they secured it on Helga’s shoulders, Grace ran her hands down the fabric, scrutinizing the hang of the silk against the girl’s slight frame to see where the dress needed to be taken in.
“Really, this dress feels like a cotton sack,” Helga complained.
Grace bristled but busied herself with a visual measurement of the dress’s waist.
“And so big! I have a twenty-one-inch waistline, you realize.”
Grace stepped back, coolly surveying the dress and the outspoken girl in it. The dress, only a smidgeon large in the waist and shoulders, looked fine. The girl, on the other hand, made her blood boil. Grace swallowed her anger and continued pinning. She knew Lucile and Flo would accept nothing less than a perfect fit. She pinned the loose fabric with deft, fast fingers.
“So this was your sister’s dress, no?” Helga said, craning her neck to look at her backside in one of the mirrored columns on the stage.
Grace drew in a breath so deeply she nearly choked on it. “Yes.”
“Tch, tch, tch. Such a pity. Such a waste of talent.”
Grace’s fingers froze. “A waste?”
“Hmm.” Helga nodded, tossing her platinum, finger-curled bob.
“Just what are you implying?” Grace stabbed the padded pincushion at her wrist with the remaining pins.
“Oh, dear. Don’t take offense. The paper said perhaps she was murdered, or she . . . I only meant that she was so young.”
Grace fought an impulse to chastise the girl for her rudeness, but instead, she placed a couple of pins between her lips for easier access and continued with the fitting. The scandal of Sophia and Flo’s affair stung enough; the thought that her sister had ended her own life because of it was too horrible to contemplate. And who could possibly have wanted Sophia dead?
A hush fell over the cast and crew as Lillian Lorraine, in her white fox fur and oversized, overly embellished hat, entered the theater through the gallery doors. Quickly, everyone went back to the business at hand.
“God, I am burning up. Hey!” Helga screamed at the light man. “Dim those damn lights!” Her voice echoed through the empty theater, and within moments, the bright glare diminished. “I don’t know why we h
ave to do this here. It’s so much cooler backstage.”
“Please hold still,” Grace said. “We’ll be finished in a minute. Flo wants to approve the costumes onstage. He has to see how they look under the lights.”
Helga gave a theatrical sigh.
Please, Flo, don’t hire this one.
Lillian Lorraine would be a welcome substitute compared to this girl. Maybe if Grace could somehow make the dress look awful? One of the pins slipped in her hands and stabbed Helga in the ribs.
“Ouch! Damn it!
“I’m sorry,” Grace lied.
“Do it again and I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Grace asked through a mouthful of pins. “You need to show a little respect here, Helga.” She removed the pins from her lips. “You can’t even begin to fill the shoes of my sister. Furthermore, this dress was designed and made by a legend in the industry, and you have no business criticizing any part of it. Now, you be quiet and let me finish fitting this dress, or you won’t be able to audition.”
“Feisty.” Helga placed her hands on her hips. “I sense I may have offended you. Please accept my apologies. Sometimes I appear a little too abrupt.”
Appear?
Grace released the air in her lungs and managed a tight smile. A lump rose in her throat, and she tried to swallow it away as she placed a few pins between her lips again. Maybe she should have let Lucile take this one after all.
Lillian had made her way down the aisle, walked past the orchestra pit, and came up the stage stairs. She approached Grace and Helga.
“Who are you?” she asked the young German woman.
“I am Helga,” the girl said raising her chin.
“This part should be mine.” Lillian secured her hands on her hips and thrust out a small-heeled, Mary Jane-clad foot.
To Grace’s relief, Lucile appeared from the wings of the stage. “What are you doing here, Lillian? I thought you were in California.”
“I got bored. This part—this role—should be mine. Flo had the show written for me in the first place . . . Until that silly, no-talent vamp bewitched him. But she’s not around anymore, is she?”
