by Kari Bovee
“She’s quite chilly with me. I overheard her talking about Sophia at the memorial—and not in the best of terms.”
“You know these girls all have their cat fights. Sophia was no angel, let’s not forget that.”
Pain stabbed at Grace’s heart. It hurt hearing those words from Charles, even though she knew they were true. She’d never known him to say anything negative about Sophia.
“Everyone vies for Flo’s attention.”
“But do you think Lillian would be capable of . . . you know?”
“Grace, darling.” Charles placed reassuring hands on her shoulders. “You must stop these questions. You’ll drive yourself mad. If there was foul play, the police will take care of it. But honestly, I think you’re just overwrought.”
“Possibly . . . I’ll get these costumes upstairs.”
“Be careful with the beading.”
“Charles, I’m the one who stitched every bead and sequin in place. Do you think I want to do it again?”
“Are you quite all right, dear?”
“I’m fine.”
Grace pulled the garments closer to her body to relieve the ache in her arms. Her thoughts turned back to Flo and the weight of obligation she now felt crushing her—the same weight Sophia must have felt every day.
She maneuvered her way through the small doorway of the costume room and headed down the narrow hallway.
What would happen if she wanted to marry someday? Would Flo object to her marriage as he had Sophia’s? Perhaps if Sophia had chosen someone other than Jack Pickford, a known philanderer, gambler, and general ne’er-do-well, Flo wouldn’t have cared.
Doubtful.
How could she not have seen the depth of Sophia and Flo’s relationship? Probably because she’d never had a romantic affiliation herself. Yes, there had been flirtations with boys who’d come and gone in the theater, and once, she’d shared a kiss with Stevie, the newspaper boy, but she’d never experienced a serious romance, the kind of relationship—Sophia’s tortured face passed through her thoughts—that could break one’s heart.
Suddenly winded, Grace stopped and leaned back against the wall. She shifted the garments more to her right arm, the stronger one, and stood for a moment, catching her breath.
A relationship with a man would be wonderful. Although, most of the women she knew had been made unhappy by their men, including her mother. She couldn’t remember much about her father, only that he sometimes put her to bed at night and sometimes kissed her forehead.
That’s all she’d remembered of a father figure until Flo had stepped into the role. She often wondered why Anna Held had agreed to Flo taking in two girls from the streets. Her own daughter, Liane, lived in Europe with her father, and perhaps Sophia and Grace had filled her need to mother someone. After Flo and Anna had split, Billie came on the scene, but by that time, Grace and Sophia had become permanent fixtures in Flo’s world. Billie had tolerated them but soon moved to Los Angeles.
Grace took a breath and pushed herself off the wall with her backside. She made her way down the aisle to the back of the theater, toward the hidden staircase leading to the business offices. When she got to the door, she juggled the garments to free a hand. As she reached for the knob, the door swung open, knocking her off-balance. She fell to the floor with a thud, the garments landing on top of her. She looked up to see the perpetrator of the accident, and her heart skidded to a stop in her chest.
“I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Chet Riker leaned down to give her a hand.
Grace stared, unable to move or speak, her heart pounding.
“Sorry, but I can barely see you. You’re buried.” He pulled a garment off her head, and a smile melted across his face. She could swear his eyes twinkled.
Her stomach was in knots at her embarrassing predicament and her body shaky from falling to the floor. Grace wrenched a hand free to smooth her bun. It felt as if whole sections of hair had come loose.
“Let me help you. Grace, is it?” Chet held out his hand for her.
“Yes.” She took his warm, strong hand and allowed him to help her to her feet. She reluctantly pulled away. Straightening her skirt, she felt the pull of her corset hooks caught on the waistband. With a tight yank, she put it back in place, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She picked up her feet one at a time, trying to gently free them from the tangled web of costumes at her ankles. She must look a clumsy sight.
“Thank you,” she said, unable to divert her eyes from his persistent, smoky gaze. His light gray-blue eyes, rimmed with coal-black lashes, made her think of a storm—a storm that promised to devour her. She cast her eyes toward the costumes at her feet.
“Here.” He scooped up the garments, one by one, his suit stretching taut across his broad shoulders and long arms. “Where are we taking these?”
“Up there.” Grace pointed in the direction of the staircase to the offices. She followed him up the stairs, and when he abruptly stopped, pausing for her to open the door, she faltered, almost running into him. She tried to scoot past him but accidentally brushed up against him on the small landing, inhaling the scent of something like warm cinnamon.
Grace turned the knob and ushered him into the empty reception area. Goldie must be gone for the day, she thought. Flo was probably in the dance studio, drilling the girls.
“Over there.” Grace pointed to the sofa. “Someone will come to pick them up for cleaning,” she said, the explanation completely unnecessary.
After Chet deposited the clothes on the sofa, he smiled as if satisfied with the fine job he’d accomplished. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” She led him back downstairs, her heart pounding in time to his footsteps behind her. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, she turned to him. “Thank you, Mr.—”
“Please call me Chet. And it was my pleasure . . . to see you again.” His eyes roamed her face and Grace’s cheeks burned under his gaze.
“Do you visit Flo often?” she asked in an attempt to regain her composure. “I’ve not seen you here before. Well, that is, until . . . you know, earlier, in the theater . . . with Miss Brice.”
“It’s been a while. I worked for him a few years ago. Um, listen . . . I am sorry for your loss.”
Grace’s stomach twisted. “Yes. Thank you.”
“It must be a difficult time for you.”
“Yes. Quite. So, I heard that you’re a private investigator.”
His smile deepened, revealing charming dimples that softened his square features. “How’d you know?”
“I overheard some of the others . . . um, Lucile said it, I think.”
“Ah. I see.”
His concentrated scrutiny of her made her want to lower her eyes, but somehow, she couldn’t. She struggled with the desire to leave, to rid herself of the itchy anxiety his gaze produced and the paradoxical longing to make the moment last forever.
“How long have you known Miss Brice?” she asked.
“About three years. I’ve known her husband, Nicky, for a long time. I’ve done some work for him.”
“Business with Nicky Arnstein can land you in jail.”
Chet’s mouth twitched. “Behind that pretty face you have quite a mind, Grace. Are you always so direct?”
Oh, God. Blood surged to her face.
“I’m sorry, I—” How stupid and presumptuous of her. “I need to get back to work.”
“I understand. Sorry to have detained you so long.”
Unable to resist, she looked up at him again for an awkward moment and then turned to leave.
“Grace?” He reached out and stopped her with his fingers on her sleeve. Her stomach flipped. “I hope to see you again.”
“Yes. I’m sure you will . . . if you happen to be around.”
She could feel his eyes on her back as she walked down the aisle. Finally, she reached the side door next to the stage, opened it, walked through, and then closed it behind her. She leaned against the smooth wood and exhaled
, her shoulders sinking down. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. And what had come out of her mouth? What a fool. She’d practically accused him of the crimes that had landed Arnstein in Sing Sing. She shook her hands, as if doing so could stop them from trembling.
What did it matter anyway? Chet couldn’t possibly be interested in her. He probably had his pick of women. How could such a handsome man not have, especially working with Flo and Nicky, both of whom always surrounded themselves with beautiful, sophisticated starlets? Not a backstage costume girl. Well, no matter, she told herself, straightening her shoulders. She’d just avoid engaging in conversation with Chet alone . . . ever again.
Chapter Eight
Grace headed back to the costume room in search of work to keep her hands and mind busy. “What can I do to help?” she asked Lucile.
“Fanny should be here any second. Her dress needs some alterations. She’s lost weight again. But don’t cut the fabric; she’ll gain it back as soon as Nicky’s out of prison.”
Grace nodded and pressed her hands together, still shaking from the encounter with Chet Riker.
The familiar whine of Fanny’s voice boomed down the hall and echoed throughout the room. “Girls, girls, girls! So many girls.” Fanny, wearing a felt cap with a giant peach rose anchored to the side of it and a luxurious sable fur, pushed her way through the throng of dancers being fitted for their costumes. “There must have been a sale on legs at Macy’s I didn’t hear about. You all look fabulous.” A twitter of giggles filled the room.
“Where’s my dress?” She glanced at Grace with big eyes and raised eyebrows.
Grace marched over to the clothes rack, plucked the hanger from the rod, and held the garment up for Fanny to see.
“Ah yes. A treasure to behold. C’mon, kid, let’s go to my private dressing room. These girls and their gams are too much for my eyes. So much beauty can blind a person.”
The sound of the girls’ laughter followed them out of the room.
An endless hallway, a flight of stairs, and another long corridor led them to Fanny’s dressing room. Although often the life of the party, Fanny made it known that she treasured her privacy.
“Home sweet home. Close the door behind ya, kid.”
Grace complied. Fanny slinked out of her fur coat and threw it on the love seat next to the door.
Nancy, Fanny’s maid, stood beside the sofa, her hands folded quietly at her waist. Bone-thin with skin the color of mocha, Nancy wore her usual, meticulously pressed navy-blue uniform with white, starched apron and collar.
“Nancy, you are an angel in the midst.”
“Hello, Miss Brice. I made your tea.” Nancy turned her attention to Grace. “Would you like a cup, Miss?”
“That would be lovely, Nancy. Thank you.”
Nancy poured tea from Fanny’s opulent, sterling tea service into delicate, floral porcelain cups. Fanny placed a cigarette in a diamond-studded holder and held it aloft for Nancy to light, then inhaled the smoke, making the tip of the cigarette glow bright red. She held the smoke in her lungs for several seconds and then exhaled with a flourish, ever the entertainer.
“I just need a sec, kid,” Fanny said to Grace. “I had one hell of a morning.”
Fanny ripped the hat from her perfectly coiffed waves, plopped down on the sofa, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. The hat fell to the floor, but Fanny didn’t bother to retrieve it. Grace watched Fanny instantly shut out the rest of the world.
Unsure of what to do, or how long she would have to wait, Grace settled onto a wooden chair next to the vanity, sipped her tea, and scanned the room. Framed and unframed photographs, along with several show posters she recognized from the theater offices and backstage rooms, filled virtually every inch of wall space. Grace’s gaze settled on a show poster she had never seen before. It depicted a beautiful black woman in a voluminous red dress, caught tightly in the embrace of a handsome, mustachioed gentleman. The title read, The Ziegfeld Frolics, starring Felicity Jones.
Grace could not stop looking at the enchanting woman on the poster. There was something so unusual about her face, the bright azure eyes. Grace had never seen a colored woman with blue eyes. Could the image have been accurate, or had the artist embellished?
“How you doin’, kid?” Fanny asked, raising her head and opening her eyes, back from her mental hiatus. “I mean, with Sophia and all. How are you holding up?”
Grace shrugged. She had been trying so hard to focus on work and not think about Sophia. And she didn’t want to go around crying, particularly in front of Fanny Brice, who’d been nothing but kind to her and who had her own problems.
“I’m sorry things ended on such a sour note between you two. Did you get to speak to her before she left for California?”
Grace shook her head. “I should have said goodbye.” She raised the shaking teacup to her lips.
“Ah. Don’t beat yourself up, kid.”
“Fanny,” Grace said, hesitating to sip her tea, “how well did you know Jack?”
“Not well at all. Just know what I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
She shook her head. “Nothin’. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Fanny?”
The woman reached over to grab the small ashtray on the arm of the sofa. She put it in her lap and flicked the ash off her cigarette.
“This isn’t gospel now, just a rumor, but I heard he had some trouble with the law—selling cocaine.” She took a drag on her cigarette holder, her eyes avoiding Grace’s.
“Gosh, how awful. I mean, that he sold drugs. Do you think Sophia partook . . . ?” A vision of Sophia’s diminutive frame popped into Grace’s mind. The frame that seemed to be shrinking by the day before she’d left for California. The look on Fanny’s face answered Grace’s question. Her own naiveté infuriated her. How could she have been so blind?
“Do you think Jack would ever intentionally hurt her?” Grace’s voice came out in a whisper, the thought of it pressing down on her lungs like an anvil.
“Oh, honey. Sophia was a big girl. She made her own decisions. I may not have known Jack well, but I do know he loved her. You could see it in his face. I don’t believe he would have hurt her.” Fanny leaned her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes again, once more shutting out the world.
Grace’s mind was reeling from this new information, and she went back to scanning the room, looking for a distraction. Her gaze moved across the walls from photograph to photograph. Almost every one of them contained the dashing figure of Nicky Arnstein.
Grace stood, balancing her teacup in her hands, and approached one of them. She peered closer, studying Nicky’s face, wondering what fascination it held for Fanny. A heavy, dark brow balanced his chiseled jaw and encased dark, almost black, eyes. Grace pulled back and let her gaze fall on other photos: Nicky on his polo horse, Nicky leaning against a Model T Ford, Nicky waving bon voyage from an ocean liner, Nicky steering a speedboat, and in many of them, Nicky staring into the eyes of his beloved Fanny.
One photo in particular caught Grace’s attention. It depicted a foursome sitting in a Rolls-Royce, smiling enthusiastically at the camera. Fanny and Nicky were in the front seat of the Rolls Royce, and in the back was someone familiar. Grace leaned forward to get a better look. Gasping, she almost spilled her tea. Chet Riker, in a crisp, light-colored suit and devilish fedora, stared back at her. A lovely girl sat next to him, leaning intimately close.
Who was she? Had he loved her? Did he still love her? Were they married? The questions rattled around in her brain. She looked over at Fanny, who took another drag on her cigarette holder, eyes still closed.
Nancy broke the silence. “Is there anything else, Miss Brice?”
“No, dear, you can go.”
The maid gave Grace a shy wave, retrieved her coat and hat from a stand in the corner, and left the room.
“All right.” Fanny stood up wearily. “Let’s get this beauty on.�
�� She turned her back to Grace, indicating that she wanted assistance unbuttoning the hooks on her dress. Grace helped her undress and slip into the new gown.
Fanny then stepped atop a footstool, and Grace set to work, plucking pins out of the pincushion fastened to her wrist and placing them into the pinched seams and hem of the dress. Despite her sad feelings over Sophia, she had to admit it was gratifying to see the first dress she had ever designed worn by Fanny Brice. Black, sequined, and elegant, the dress made Fanny look even taller than her five feet eight inches. The back of the dress cut low, hitting almost at the waistline, and the top fastened at the neck with a single button. Two slits came up from the floor-length hem to mid-thigh.
“You’ve lost some weight,” Grace said, pinching the fabric together with her fingers.
“I smoke too much, worry too much.” Fanny eyed herself in the mirror. “It shows in my face, also.”
“You have a lovely face.”
“And you, sweetheart, are a lovely liar.”
They both laughed. Grace wanted to ask her about Chet but didn’t know how to bring him up.
“Don’t ever fall in love, kid,” Fanny said as if reading Grace’s thoughts. Still admiring herself in the mirror, Fanny tilted her head one way and then the other. It seemed as though she was trying to reconcile something to herself through the image of her body. “How’d you like the pictures? I saw you looking at them.”
“There are so many.”
“I know every inch of those photos.” Fanny sighed and turned away from the mirror, absently pulling the hemline away from Grace’s working fingers, which might have been irritating if Grace hadn’t wanted the conversation to continue. She decided to come back to the hem later and focused on the waist of the dress.
“The one over there.” Grace pointed. “Is that Mr. Riker?”
“Yes, I was wondering if you would ask. I saw the way you looked at him in the theater.”
Blood rushed to Grace’s face, and she bent her head closer to the garment to hide her embarrassment.
“Oh, honey. You weren’t the only one. He’s quite a dasher, Chet.”
