by Kari Bovee
“Hey!” Grace stepped toward her.
Lucile reached out, grabbed Grace’s arm, and pulled her back.
“Oh, nice to see you dressed,” Lillian said to Grace, eyeing her from head to toe, her voice sticky sweet.
Flames of embarrassment and anger licked the sides of Grace’s neck and face.
“I thought you were working for the Shuberts,” Lucile said.
Lillian shrugged her shoulders and pushed out her lower lip in a pout. “I am, but this show was written for me.”
“Well, things have changed, Lillian. If you want, you can go talk to Flo, but leave us out of it. We’re just doing our jobs here; we don’t want any trouble. Now, go on. Leave us to our work.”
“Very well.” Lillian let out a dramatic sigh and crossed her arms over her chest. “But you haven’t seen the last of me, Lady Duff Gordon. I can assure you of that.” With a parting sneer at Grace, Lillian strutted off the stage, down the stairs, and out the side door of the theater.
Grace stood with fists clenched, watching her go, even more convinced that Lillian was reveling in the fact that Sophia had died.
“Are these diamonds?” Helga asked, looking down at the bodice of the dress.
“They’re rhinestones,” Lucile said, her eyes on the gown, inspecting the fit. “We had to cut back.” A wave of sadness passed over her dignified face.
“Cut back? Is money a problem around here? I don’t work for free,” Helga said.
“You won’t work at all with that attitude, young lady.” Lucile’s brows shot up. “Mind your tongue, and your business. Flo supports many people, and he hasn’t failed any of us yet.”
“Duly chastised by the great Lady Duff Gordon.” The girl sighed. “So, what was it like? The Titanic?”
Grace’s stomach twisted. An immediate glance at Lucile justified Grace’s discomfort. The woman’s face clouded over in annoyance. “Stunning,” Lucile said through tight lips.
“Such a pity it sank.” Helga sighed again and turned her backside to the mirror again.
“Yes.” Lucile abruptly turned and walked across the stage.
“What are you doing?” Grace whispered. “Believe me, you don’t want to annoy Lucile. It won’t be good for your audition.”
“What did I say? Did I offend again?”
“You didn’t hear the stories?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But she and her baronet husband were exonerated, no? They did not bribe the young man to get them off the ship. I probably would have. Every man, or woman, for themselves, no?”
“You are beyond words, Helga.”
Laughter from some of the girls at the opposite end of the stage drew Grace’s attention. Fanny, up to her usual antics, was walking around in circles, mimicking an ape. The choreographer desperately tried to regain control of his chorus line, but the girls paid him no mind. He threw his hands in the air and then lit a cigarette in surrender.
Their laughter stopped as a tall, slender man with broad shoulders entered through the theater doors and walked down the aisle. When Grace noticed him, the remaining pins dropped from her mouth to the floor.
“Well, hel-lo, handsome,” Fanny said.
The man’s face opened into a devastating smile. He removed his fedora and held it between his hands.
“Hello, Fanny,” he said, his voice deep and melodious. “It’s been ages.”
He smoothed his shiny black hair into place. Light gray eyes contrasted with the darkness of his hair, giving Grace no other option but to gape, her previous troubles forgotten.
“Ages, yes. But you don’t look a day different. Gorgeous as ever.” She circled around him and wolf-whistled. “Goodness, I love the way you wear a suit.”
Clearly hoping to capture his attention, the girls donned their most impressive stage smiles. Helga stood a little straighter, her complaining and insulting questions squelched by the presence of this mysterious guest.
Lucile walked back to oversee Helga and the dress. She nudged Grace and gave her a frown. “Back to work.”
Grace resumed the fitting but continued to peek and eavesdrop, unable to resist his intriguing face and lyrical voice.
“What are you doing here? Come to see me?” Fanny asked him.
“I need to see Flo.”
“Oh.” Fanny’s mouth turned down into a pout. Then she grinned flirtatiously. “What kind of nefarious wretch are you looking for this time?”
He gave a chuckle. “You never change, Fanny.”
“Not on your life. I don’t know where Flo is. I’m waiting on him myself.”
“All right. I’ll come back in a few hours.”
Grace peered at him through downturned eyelashes to see him give Fanny a peck on the cheek. When he stepped back and his eyes moved toward the stage and locked with hers, her heart slammed against her ribs, and a flush of heat washed over her. Quickly, she refocused on her task. When she looked up again, he was gone.
The choreographer, finally able to gather the girls’ attention, clapped his hands and signaled them back to their positions. He started counting loudly, encouraging them to start, and in seconds, the musical sound of tap dancing filled the theater.
“Wow,” said Helga. “Who was that delicious man?”
“That was Chet Riker,” said Lucile. “He works for Flo on occasion.”
“Is he one of Flo’s gangster friends?” A mischievous twinkle sparked in Helga’s eyes.
“Not exactly,” said Lucile. “Former military police. Sent home from the war after surviving a mustard gas attack. Now he’s a private investigator.”
Grace concentrated on the dress again. A private investigator. Did his visit have something to do with Sophia’s death? She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Sophia and what might have happened to her. She didn’t want to think about the insults Helga and Lillian had just hurled at her. She didn’t want to think about Flo’s files. She wanted to work, to lose herself in something outside her terrifying thoughts.
The image of Chet Riker’s squared jaw and pale gray eyes also unsettled her. She’d been around a fair number of men in the theater, many of them handsome and charming, but none of them had knocked the wind out of her by merely walking into the room.
Uncomfortable with the shaky feeling in her stomach, she tried to dismiss him from her thoughts. After all, if he had worked for Flo, he’d probably been entertained by some of these beautiful girls. In fact, she could almost be sure of it. Chet Riker didn’t look like the kind of man to notice the little costume girl who worked in the background. But then again, maybe he had.
Chapter Seven
Chet paced outside the closed door to Flo’s office. Goldie had said that “under no circumstances” could Chet interrupt him. Chet glanced at his watch and then again at Goldie, who was busying herself at the noisy typewriter. He watched as her fingers punched away on the round disks at the speed of a runaway train.
“Goldie, why the cold reception? C’mon. Let me see Flo.” Chet flashed a smile, trying to soften her with his charm.
She stopped typing and looked up at him over her rhinestone-studded spectacles. “He’s very busy, Chet.”
“Then you talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been up to? How many gents are trying to woo you away from me?”
Goldie’s stern face broke into a smile. “You get me every time, Mr. Riker. I’m sorry to be rude. It’s just with Miss Michelle’s . . . death and Flo trying to replace her—”
“You mean, there is a shortage of beautiful women around here? That can’t be possible.”
Goldie took off her spectacles and dangled them from her hand, her elbow resting on the desk. “Well, it has to be the right girl. You know Flo. He has a vision for what he wants, and he won’t stop until he finds it.”
“Do you mind if I wait for him? It’s rather important.”
“Suit yourself.”
Chet continued pacing and could feel Goldie’s eyes on him.
“Are you all right,
Chet? Would you like a seat?”
“No. I’m fine standing.”
“A drink?”
“No.”
“Well, you’re wearing down Mr. Ziegfeld’s very expensive rug. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Working a case?”
Chet sighed. “Business is slow.”
“Oh dear. What about this situation with Miss Michelle?”
“I’m not sure there’s anything to investigate. From what I’ve read, no one is certain who, if anyone, is responsible. Besides, she died in California. They’ll be investigating it there.”
Goldie shrugged her shoulders, her eyes never leaving Chet as he walked back and forth across the “very expensive rug.” He couldn’t relax after the meeting with Marciano. He suspected that Goldie’s motherly instincts clued her in to his anxiety. He snuck a glance at her and saw the concern in her eyes.
“You must see a lot of heartbreak in your line of work, Chet.”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“Why do you do it?”
“Sometimes I wonder, but I’m good at it. People need help.” Chet shrugged. “I made a promise.”
“To whom?”
“John Steinbrenner.” Chet started to pace again. “He was a PI, gave me my first job. I was thirteen, had left the orphanage, and was on my own. He let me sweep the floors in his office.”
“From sweeping the floors to the military, to private investigator. Sounds like a story to me.”
“I watched that man like a hawk.” Chet stopped pacing and let out a chuckle. “When I was a bit older, he’d take me on stakeouts; he started grooming me to become an investigator. I worked for him until he died. He was murdered . . . died in my arms. Made me promise I would take over the agency. Then the war came, and I had to leave. Now I’m back, but I’m having a bit of trouble getting things going again.”
“Who murdered him?”
“A man who’d embezzled thousands from John’s family’s business. John found the proof, and the guy murdered him.”
“Is he in jail?”
He nodded. “I made sure of that.”
“Bully for you.” Goldie’s sage green eyes crinkled in the corners.
Flo’s office door opened, interrupting their conversation. Chet’s jaw dropped when a vision of loveliness made her way through the doorway. He’d seen her before—in the theater just this morning, in fact—hidden behind the brassy-haired, European vixen. A slim wisp of a girl with delicate features and creamy pink skin, like the color of the inside of a seashell. With her thick, golden hair piled high on her head, she looked like one of the fashion dolls he’d seen in windows of FAO Schwartz. Her green eyes opened wide with astonishment to see him standing there, and in them, he saw the wisdom of a much older woman.
“Darling.” Goldie rose from her typewriter and approached the girl. “Do you need anything?”
The young woman’s emerald gaze shifted from him to Goldie. “No, thank you.” Her voice, too, sounded mature, deep with a silky resonance.
When her eyes flitted back to him, her lips twitched upward in a shy smile.
Flo came through the door, breaking the spell. “Chet, hello. Sorry I’m running late. We’ve had a loss here at the theater.”
Flo rested his hand on the girl’s shoulder. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she bit her perfectly plump lower lip.
“You can go, dear,” Flo said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll talk later.”
“Flo.” Chet stepped forward. “You haven’t introduced us.” His skin prickled under his suit. The girl smiled again, smoothing the tension from his shoulders.
Flo’s eyes shifted from him to the young woman, then back to him. “Oh.” Flo rubbed his forehead impatiently. “This is Grace Michelle. She assists Lucile in costume design. Grace, this is Chet Riker.”
Chet extended his hand, and she took it.
Grace Michelle. Any relation to the dead girl?
“How do you do, Mr. Riker,” she said, blinking up at him.
Their gazes held for a few moments, and suddenly, the temperature in the room rose, making him want to pull his collar away from his neck. He usually had no trouble talking to women, pursuing women, even getting women, but now the air in his lungs seemed to freeze, rendering him speechless.
“A pleasure,” he choked out. Although embarrassed, he couldn’t release her hand.
Flo stepped forward, inserting himself between the two of them. “Sweetheart, go get some rest.” He ushered her toward the door.
“I’ve had more rest than I need, Flo. I’m going to see if Lucile has more work for me. I need to use my hands.”
“Whatever you want, dear.” Flo pressed his lips to her forehead.
She glanced sideways at Chet through long, featherlike lashes, and then left the reception area.
Chet followed Flo into his office. “Where’ve you been hiding her? She’s lovely.”
“Forget it. The girl’s like a daughter to me, and she’s too young for you.”
Chet raised his eyebrows. “How old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“Is she related to . . . ?”
“Her sister. You leave her alone. She doesn’t need to fall in love with the likes of you.”
“You’re right, but I never said anything about love. I just want to know more about the girl, Flo.”
“You just forget about her and let’s get down to business, shall we? I have rehearsal in fifteen minutes.”
Chet conceded and sat in a pointy backed, Gothic-style chair opposite Flo’s desk. Flo reached into one of his drawers and pulled out a cigar box. “Cuban?”
“No, thanks.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need a case. I’m tapped out.”
“Well, my man—” Flo leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk “—it just so happens that I need some publicity. I’ve just lost my biggest star, and I don’t have anyone else worth headlining right now. We need to focus public attention on something else, get this mess out of the limelight.”
“Do you know what happened? You know, to the girl?”
“I can’t talk about it.” Flo’s eyes shifted from Chet’s face to the desktop.
“What about ‘La-La’ Lorraine? Can’t she headline?”
“We’re not on speaking terms at the moment.”
“I see.”
“I have an idea,” Flo said. “You tell me if we can pull it off.”
“Shoot.”
“Billie is going to California to do a film. I don’t want her to go, but hell, I can’t stop these damn motion pictures, and quite frankly, we need the money. But I need to stay afloat. The Follies need to stay afloat.” Flo paused, wiping a flake of tobacco off his lip and flicking it in the air. “Billie is traveling by train. I just bought her a private car and spent thousands decorating it. What if, on the way to California, there was a theft? A big one. Jewelry. She’s got boxes full of it. Practically priceless stuff, and she hauls it around like it’s paste.”
Chet’s stomach turned. He needed a job, not a scam. He’d been hoping for a domestic case of some kind—affair, embezzlement, something that may have been marginally smarmy, but at least legitimate.
“You want me to steal from your wife?”
“You’re not stealing from her. I am. And as she’s still my legal wife, the jewels are also my property. Plus, if I benefit financially, she benefits. Billie Burke and the Follies would be splashed all over the papers. Publicity keeps us alive in this business, good and bad.”
“I don’t know, Flo.”
“I’ll split half of what it’s worth with you. I have a man who will buy the jewelry back for almost retail.”
Chet sighed. He needed the money. He also knew some gents in the Bronx who owed him a favor. He’d buy them a train ticket. That way he’d have nothing to do with the robbery. Well, almost nothing.
“When does she leave?” Chet asked.
<
br /> “Two weeks.”
His stomach tightened again. He needed something sooner, but he had no choice. Damn.
“Fine,” he said, giving in. “I’ll arrange everything.”
Grace held out her arms, bent at the elbows, palms up like a table as Charles laid each shimmery pink garment across them, one at a time. Her mind was still awhirl with her confrontation with Helga, and her last conversation with Flo about his getting “a return on his investment.” He’d made it clear that she’d be indebted to him—indefinitely—but how? Working for him in what capacity? And then there was that man, Mr. Riker, she’d met outside Flo’s office door. He was even more dashing up close. She couldn’t seem to find any sort of emotional rest lately.
“Are you sure you can carry these all the way up to the office?” Charles’s perfectly groomed eyebrows pressed down toward his nose. “I would do it, but Lucile is after me to tape the soles of all the girls’ shoes. Don’t want anyone to ‘break a leg,’” he said with a snicker.
“Funny. I think I can manage. How many are there?”
“Twelve.”
The costumes, made of chiffon, should be light as a feather, but voluminous beads and sequins weighted them down.
“Charles, you’ve known a lot of theater people in New York for a long time.”
“Are you referring to my age, my dear?”
“No. I’m just wondering, did many people know of Sophia’s affair with Flo?”
“I don’t think so. It was certainly news to me. Why?”
“That Variety article . . . mentioning foul play.”
Charles took hold of her hands, relieving the weight of the garments. “The papers sensationalize everything.”
“But Billie knew?”
Charles let go of her hands and placed his in his pockets, rattling spare change and his keys. “Billie and Flo have an . . . understanding. She knows that Flo loves her above all others, but that he gets . . . distracted. Billie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“What about Lillian?”
“She and Flo have been off-and-on for years. She might have known about the affair.”
