by Kari Bovee
“Ho there,” Chet called from behind them. His sparkling eyes looked at Grace as his fingertips grazed the brim of his hat. “Miss Michelle.”
She nodded, diverting her eyes.
“There’s a little café down here I’d like to try,” he said, falling in step with Grace. “Nothing like the Plaza, but I’ve heard the food’s wonderful.”
Dodging a mass of people, all hurrying to get to their destinations, they rounded the corner and Grace noticed a black motorcar idling in the middle of the street. She thought it a strange place to park but continued to listen to Chet’s story about the neighborhood.
The high-pitched squeal of the motor revving made her turn. The car pulled forward and accelerated—toward them. Pedestrians crossing the street dove out of the car’s path. Seconds before the car was on them, hands grabbed her. She went sprawling onto the ground, the air forced out of her lungs.
When she opened her eyes, she found Chet’s blue-gray gaze settled on her face. Feeling the need to gasp for breath, she inhaled deeply, and the cold air, once soothing, made her chest ache.
“Are you all right?” Chet held out his hand to help her to her feet.
“I think so.” She winced, her elbow throbbing and her head pounding.
“My arm hurts.” As she said the words, the world went white, her knees buckled, and Chet’s arms went around her again.
Grace lay in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness from the sedative the doctor had given her. She could hear murmuring voices just outside the door and could smell the welcoming scent of fresh roses next to her bed.
She again slipped into sleep and dreamed of walking alone in the streets, with Flo’s big fur coat enveloping her. She walked at a fast clip, intent on getting somewhere in a hurry. She could hear the low, grating sound of a motor engine and the clip-clop, clip-clop of horses’ hooves as they pulled the carriages in and around Central Park and through the streets. A loud screeching sound made her turn to see a car headed straight for her. A man gripped the wheel, his face sneering with malice. As the car sped closer and closer, his features became more defined. She knew him! She recognized the clump of bloody hair fringing his forehead, the lines of blood streaking downward between his eyes. The car was now inches from her. She opened her mouth to scream . . .
Grace bolted upright in the bed, her heart racing. She sank back onto the pillows and tried to close her eyes, but the bloody face wouldn’t disappear. It couldn’t be him. She and Sophia had left him for dead years ago. Dizziness consumed her until she slept again.
The next time she opened her eyes, Grace recognized Flo’s silhouette framed within the window. He stared out the paned glass, smoking a cigar.
“Is it morning?” she asked.
Flo spun around and smiled. “Yes, my dear. You’ve slept for over fourteen hours. How are you feeling?”
“Rested.” Though Grace’s head still throbbed, and her wrist felt stiff.
“I’ve been worried about you.” Flo stubbed out his cigar in a crystal ashtray on the bureau and sank down onto the edge of the bed.
“About me or about your new star?”
Flo frowned, rubbed at the day-old scruff at his chin.
“I’m sorry, Flo. That was unkind.”
“I was worried about you.” He reached for her hand.
“I know. Thank you.” She placed her other hand on top of his. His large brown eyes took on a dolefulness that startled her. “What’s wrong, Flo?”
He inhaled, as if bracing himself for the words about to come out of his mouth. “I—we—don’t think it was an accident. We think the driver intended to. . . do harm.”
Grace’s heart leaped to her throat. “Why?”
“He aimed directly at you, so we’re guessing it has something to do with Sophia.”
The bloody face from her dreams flashed in her mind. She tried to still the pounding in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. He was dead. At least, she’d thought he was dead when she and Sophia left him lying in the alley, blood pooling around his head. And, that had been years ago.
“I don’t want to alarm you, darling. It just means you’re going to have to be extremely careful.”
Should she tell him about the man—about how he had tried to hurt Sophia, and how Sophia had only tried to defend herself? Grace and Sophia had agreed to take the secret to their graves. But now, with Sophia gone, if Grace confessed, and she was mistaken about the man in the car, would Flo protect her or allow them to take her away? She closed her eyes and fought for calm.
“Why would someone want to kill Sophia? Or me for that matter?” She tried to disguise the waver in her voice. If he thought it was due to grief, she could hold on to the secret a little longer.
“I wish I could tell you more, darling, but I haven’t sorted it all out. I did, however, relay my suspicions to the police—that someone may have murdered your sister—and they promised to dig deeper. However, the sooner we get you to California, the better.”
“But will I be any safer there? That’s where Sophia—” The realization suddenly hit her: It didn’t matter where she went. She might never be safe.
Chapter Eleven
MAY 30, 1920 - NEW YORK CITY, NY
Flo told Grace that Billie’s private train car had arrived in New York and that tomorrow, she and her entourage would embark on the railroad sojourn to Los Angeles, California. Once there, they would take motorcars to the beautiful, sleepy town of Beverly Hills.
After hearing the plan, Grace tried to rest, but she only ended up pacing the floor. Her nervousness increased when the bellboy delivered a telegram. Billie had wired it, expressing her condolences and her excitement at the opportunity to welcome “Flo’s newest star” to her hotel suites in Beverly Hills.
Grace set the telegram on the table with dread in her heart.
Moments later, Lucile entered the room waving a copy of Variety. “Look at this,” she said, tossing it onto the bed.
Grace grabbed the paper. “Ziegfeld star nearly run down by Model T Ford,” she read aloud and then continued in silence. She read of Sophia’s suspicious death, her stomach churning, but the last few lines made her palms sweat and her knees grow weak: Ziegfeld’s newest protégé, the late star’s younger sister, Grace Michelle, is under strict guard.
She looked up at Lucile. “How did Variety find out about this?”
“Get used to it, darling. You now live in a fishbowl. Sometimes it’s a hindrance, but often it can help.”
“How can it help?” Grace asked, painfully aware of how it could hurt—especially if someone from her past came looking for her. Being in the newspapers would make her whereabouts easily known.
“Look at it this way, if you are in danger, the word is out that you’re being protected.” Lucile’s voice projected calm, and her eyes crinkled in the corners, giving her face a motherly glow. Grace shifted her attention to the colorful pile of garments sprawled across her bed.
“I’m not sure what to pack.” She had only placed a few simple sheath dresses in the teak trunk Flo had sent to her room. “The last time I traveled anywhere, all I had were the clothes on my back.”
“And now you’ll be all the rage in a new ensemble every day.” Lucile shuffled through the clothes in Grace’s wardrobe, choosing a few dresses for her to place in the trunk.
“Have you designed the new clothes yet?” Grace asked.
“Several, but not all of them.”
“Lucile?” Grace bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “Do you think I could design some of the pieces? If I don’t have something to do on that long train ride, I’ll go mad.”
“Oh, you won’t be bored, I can assure you of that. You’ll have speeches to prepare, events to attend—”
“Speeches?”
“Yes.” Lucile placed hands on her ample hips. “As Flo’s new sensation you’ll be expected to make multiple appearances. I’ve been told that we’ll make a few scheduled stops, beginning in Chicago. At each one,
you’ll be introduced to the public and paraded around to plug the Follies, especially the new show. They call it a whistle-stop tour, as most of your speeches will be offered from the caboose’s deck. The public loves that kind of thing. It’s a favorite of politicians.”
Grace sank onto the bed. Speeches? Appearances? Sophia hadn’t done those things. She simply walked onto the stage, sang a song or two, danced a little, and attended lots of soirees on Flo’s arm. Why this big push? She’d never be a star of Sophia’s caliber.
“I know you’re feeling uncertain about it all, but Flo needs to redirect the publicity surrounding Sophia’s death.” Lucile’s eyes shimmered with a sympathetic gleam. “He needs you to embrace the spotlight, use your good looks and intelligence to wow the reporters and get everyone focused on the new show.”
Of course, Grace had to do whatever Flo wanted. She owed him that, and more.
“I’ll go along, but I so wanted to become a designer and to have you teach me everything I needed to know. I love creating ideas, sketching them on paper, sewing. And frankly, it’s the one area of my life that I can control. You do understand, don’t you?”
When Lucile smiled, the corner of her blue eyes crinkled again. Not one to show much emotion, Lucile’s pride in her craft showed in her expression. “I do. We’ll just have to keep quiet about it.”
Grace reached for her hand. “Thank you.”
“Now, young lady, you need to finish packing and get dressed. I just came by to check on your wardrobe. We leave at six thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Chet Riker and a publicist by the name of Donovan Green. Fanny will join us on the West Coast, in a week or two.”
Grace smiled, hoping to disguise the apprehension that twisted her stomach into one giant knot.
Chet looked around the small, grime-encrusted flat for anything he might need for the trip, thrilled he would soon be leaving this hovel. After California, his financial status would be secure, and he could finally be rid of this paint-peeled dump.
As he turned on the propane stove to heat dinner, he tried to piece together the hit-and-run. Flo thought it an attempt on Grace’s life and one linked to Sophia’s death, but Chet couldn’t see it. The hugely famous Sophia and her somewhat notorious husband did associate with a loathsome lot, but even if someone had killed Sophia—and even he wasn’t convinced of that yet—he couldn’t see how Grace’s death would accomplish anything. Unless Sophia had somehow blackmailed someone and they figured Grace also knew their dirty, little secret.
The thought of Grace in danger made his jaw clench, so he turned his attention back to cooking, pulled open the drawer beneath the oven, grabbed a pot, and filled it with water. He then opened a can of beans and set the can into the pot on the stove, waiting for it to heat. While it warmed, he opened a can of peaches, picked up a fork, and began to devour the sweet segments of flesh.
Marciano could have been responsible for the car. At least that was his first thought the minute he’d pulled Grace up from the slush-soaked pavement. Guilt wormed its way into his thoughts when he remembered his full weight falling on her. It surprised him how much he cared about this girl he hardly knew.
With the mob boss on his back, he could be a detriment to Grace. He shouldn’t have taken the job as her bodyguard, but if he hadn’t, who would have protected her? Flo? That man couldn’t be trusted to take care of anyone. The sweet girl lived right under his nose and he didn’t have a clue that she had no desire to become a star. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Flo pushed her toward a destiny that favored him, not her.
Maybe Chet could find a way to protect her, at least from Marciano and Flo. Protecting her from himself might prove much harder.
Grace stepped onto the platform and steadied herself against the doorjamb to take in the beauty of Billie Burke’s private railcar. The walls, paneled in deep, rich walnut, rose four feet to the wainscoting; deep-crimson fabric covered the remainder of the walls above that, all the way up to the rococo molding encircling the ceiling in swirling designs.
Oil paintings depicting lush landscapes, Louis XV–styled table and chairs, a white damask divan, and a mahogany writing desk adorned a sitting area. Grace caught a glimpse of herself in the gold gilt mirrors scattered among the paintings and was surprised at the look of panic in her face.
She moved through a narrow doorway framed with carved molding and made her way to the bedroom at the back of the railcar. A portrait of luxurious decadence, the bed took up one third of the room and the entire width of the car. Walnut panels framed the bed, creating a cozy “box,” and swags of silk tied back with golden ropes hung down from the canopy ceiling at the foot of the bed, allowing for privacy, if wanted.
A vanity to her left displayed everything she could ever need for her toilette—a tray of cosmetics, brushes, powders, oils, scents, and creams. Another writing desk sat next to the vanity and another crystal chandelier lit the tiny bedroom, casting a fragmented rainbow off every surface.
“Getting settled?” Flo startled her as he entered through the narrow hallway into the bedroom.
“I don’t know what to say. This is beautiful. It was so kind of Billie to—”
“You deserve it.”
Grace shook her head. She didn’t deserve any of this. She hadn’t done anything. She pushed the unease that had been plaguing her for days out of her thoughts.
“I’ll have your trunks deposited in a few moments, but I want to speak with you first. I have a little something for you.”
He handed her a small box.
“Oh, Flo, no. I—”
“Oh, don’t be preposterous. Take it, darling.”
Grace ran her fingers across the lid, hesitating to open it. Gifts from Flo came with a price. She thought of Sophia and fear crept up her spine.
“Open it,” Flo urged, not moving his eyes from her face.
Grace cracked it open and discovered a sparkling diamond bracelet. A sinking feeling made her knees weak.
“I can’t, Flo.”
“But you must. You need to get used to this, my dear. Now that you’re a star, men from all over the world will be showering you with gifts. I am but the first.”
Blood drained from her head. Most women would be flattered by his comments, but they terrified her.
“Just smile and say, ‘thank you.’”
Grace forced her lips into a smile. “Thank you.”
“Wear it in health, my dear, and wear it every time you’re in public. Flash it around a bit.”
“But Flo—”
He put his hand up, clearly unwilling to hear further protests.
“I’ll have your things brought in. Lucile, Chet, and the others will be boarding soon. Lucile will be traveling in a separate sleeper car. I think Chet should stay in your sitting room during the night. I want him as near to you as possible. That car episode shook me up.” His gaze traveled to the floor. Grace knew his fear of death had no doubt become worse since the incident.
“That’s fine, Flo. I’ll be fine. Really, please don’t worry.”
“I miss her, you know.” He looked into Grace’s eyes with a pain that startled her. “Things weren’t good between us when she left, and—”
“Don’t, Flo. Don’t blame yourself.” How well she understood his feelings of fear and regret. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll find out what happened to Sophia. We’ll do right by her.”
He nodded. “You take care, Grace.”
“I will. Thank you. For everything.”
“Knock ’em dead, honey.” He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead and squeezed her arms.
Grace smiled and watched him leave the train car. Her heart should have been filled with joy and excitement at her new, glamorous life, and she chastised herself for being so ungrateful. She would do this for Flo and she would do it for Sophia, but someday, she vowed, someday, she would have her own life. She just had to pay her dues to earn the privilege first.
<
br /> Chapter Twelve
A few hours later, iron groaned on iron as the train lurched into motion. Grace settled into the private car, alone, curled up on the damask sofa with Nathaniel Hawthorne’s, The Scarlet Letter.
A loud rap on the door startled her.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Donovan Green, Miss Michelle. Flo sent me. I’m your publicist.”
Grace slipped on her shoes, smoothed her hair, and opened the heavy door. A tall, reed-thin young man with a mane of blond hair and a hawk-like face stood there, hat in hand, smiling.
“Miss Michelle, you are more beautiful than I’d imagined.” His deep-brown eyes twinkled when he spoke. He held out his hand.
Grace studied the halo of golden waves atop his head. The way the light shined on it gave him the appearance of saintliness.
She looked over her shoulder at the empty railcar, uneasy and a bit annoyed at Chet’s absence. Lucile had told her to expect Donovan Green, but the impropriety of letting him into her private quarters without her “protector” didn’t seem prudent.
“Come in, please,” she said, hoping it was not the wrong decision.
Mr. Green entered, his face radiating a pleasantness that made it a bit easier to ignore her fears.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Green?”
“Please, call me Donovan.” He smiled at her. “May we sit?”
“Certainly.”
Donovan chose the sofa. Grace kept her distance and sat in one of the parlor chairs near the table.
He leaned his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “First, my condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Second, it is Mr. Ziegfeld’s desire for me to create an image for you, Miss Michelle. You are unknown to the public, aside from the fact that you are Sophia Michelle’s sister, but we want to give you a different image from hers.”
