by Kari Bovee
“I am nothing like my sister, God rest her soul.”
“You don’t appear to be.” He smiled at her with twinkling eyes. “Mr. Ziegfeld wants your image to be that of an intelligent, kind, and charitable benefactress. Stars, particularly Flo’s stars, often have the reputation of being spoiled. So we’ll create a plan that presents you as someone who gives back to her public, a star any woman and her daughters would look up to and admire. How does that sound?”
“Fine,” she said. “I hope to be that kind of person.”
“Good. Now, what are some of the things you’d—”
The door abruptly popped open, and Chet slid in the room.
“Oh. I didn’t know you were expecting someone,” the publicist said, irritation in his voice.
“This is Mr. Riker. He’s a private investigator.”
Chet walked in and threw his hat on the entry table. “Actually, I’m Miss Michelle’s personal bodyguard. Anyone who wants to see her should go through me. And who are you?”
“I’m Donovan Green.” He stood and held out his hand. “Didn’t Mr. Ziegfeld tell you? He’s hired me to shape Miss Michelle’s image.”
Chet hesitated a moment and then shook his hand.
“We’ll be finished in a few moments,” Grace said.
“I’ll be right outside the door.” Chet aimed his words at Donovan.
Embarrassed at Chet’s rude treatment of the publicist, Grace clenched her fists. She took a deep breath, released her fingers, and quietly waited for her publicist to speak.
“A bodyguard?”
“It’s Flo’s idea. It’s just a precaution,” she said. “You were saying? Before we were interrupted?”
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.” Donovan blinked and then looked at her with focused concentration, as if studying a piece of art, an object.
Heat rose to Grace’s face, and her palms dampened again. She turned her back to him and wiped her hands on her dress, wishing he would hurry up and finish their conversation so she could go back to her book.
“I’ve embarrassed you. That wasn’t my intent. Sometimes, when I am struck by things, the words just come out of my mouth. I hope you will accept my apology.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s get back to the subject at hand, shall we? We were discussing some of the things Flo wants you to accomplish as a public figure. I would like to hear what you have in mind. Are there any particular causes or charities that interest you?”
“Orphans. I would like to help orphans.”
Donovan nodded in approval. “You yourself are an orphan, correct?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a wonderful idea—very apropos and exciting. I’ll book a tour of an orphanage somewhere along the way. Chicago’s too close; there won’t be time to get things in place, but maybe somewhere in the western states. Indian children, perhaps.”
“Yes. Yes, that sounds splendid.”
“Very well. I’ll get started right away.” Donovan hesitated a moment. “Miss Michelle, Grace, may I call you Grace?”
“Yes.”
“Would you join me for dinner in the dining car tomorrow? We could discuss our plans further.”
She tensed. The warm feeling vanished, replaced with dread. Dinner? With a man she barely knew? She bit the inside of her cheek and stalled for time. Several questions and ideas ran around in her brain. They would be discussing her new cause.
She nodded her assent.
“I’ll come by at eight.” Donovan took his hat and walked toward the door. Before he reached it, it opened once again, and Chet walked in.
Another twinge of irritation pricked at Grace. Had he been listening to their conversation?
She smiled at Donovan when he tipped his hat and departed.
Wringing her hands, she shifted her gaze to Chet, who stared and shook his head at her. She turned her back on him and picked up her book from the sofa.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” he said.
“You could have knocked.”
“I didn’t realize the conversation was so private.”
She turned around to face him. “That’s not the point.”
“Not very wise, you know, letting him in here like that when you were alone.”
“You certainly weren’t here. Isn’t that why Flo pays you?”
He stiffened at her words. “I’m sorry. I was inspecting the train to be sure I wasn’t—you weren’t—being followed.”
Grace frowned. She couldn’t understand the tension between them. Not knowing what more to do or say, she took her book into the bedroom. Before she had a chance to close the door, she heard him curse and throw his hat on the table.
The lock clicked on Grace’s bedroom door, and satisfied at her immediate safety, Chet stepped out for some air. Her irritation at him both confused and disappointed him. He’d so hoped they would get along. On a purely professional level, of course. Now employed to take care of the woman, he couldn’t let lust get in the way.
He looked back at the door, wondering if she too felt itchy and uncomfortable, as though any room they entered together suddenly grew too small. He let out a deep breath and secured his hat on his head. He stepped out of the car, took the key that Flo had given him—Grace had the other one—and locked her in. With Grace safely tucked away and his mind a jumble of thoughts, the moment called for a drink.
He made his way down the narrow hallway and through the sliding doors of several cars before he reached the bar car. Filled with smoke and hopping with passengers entertaining themselves before the nine o’clock dinner hour, the car felt as if it would burst at the seams. He worked his way through the press of elegantly dressed men and women, and searched for an open seat. He spotted one in the far corner.
He removed his hat and set it on the cocktail table, then sat down with his back to the corner, a habit he’d developed since the war. Ears and eyes forward at all times. He scanned the crowd but had difficulty seeing everyone because of the many passengers standing, their bodies swaying with the motion of the train.
A waiter appeared at the table.
“Scotch. Rocks,” Chet said before the waiter even spoke.
A shift in the crowd presented a better view of the seated clientele. His eyes were drawn to an extremely attractive woman with auburn hair and an oversized purple hat with white ostrich feathers streaming from behind. The two gentlemen sitting with her both leaned into the table, eagerly hanging on her every word, every giggle, every lick of her red lips. She looked familiar.
Recognition dawned. “What is she doing here?” he said under his breath. He thought she’d just signed a contract with the Shuberts for a new show. Why would Lillian Lorraine be traveling west? He took a closer look at her companions, and a sinking feeling hit his gut. One of the gentlemen had his hat resting on his knee—black, made of the finest beaver pelt, with two silver toothpicks nestled behind the leather hatband. Marciano’s men.
So the mobster made true on his words. He’d be watching his investment. But what was Lillian doing with them?
Probably brownnosing to steal Grace’s part in the new show.
“Your drink, sir.” The waiter appeared at the table. Chet gave him a nod, took the tumbler, and sucked down a mouthful of the burning liquid.
Another man walked up to Lillian’s table; The fellow looked like a goon with a scar streaking across his forehead and down his face. Not only the scar but the shabbiness of his brown coat and hat made him stand out like a guinea hen in a room full of peacocks.
With a pronounced frown on her face, Lillian abruptly stood up, gave the newcomer a scowl, and stormed out of the bar car. Chet swallowed down the rest of his drink, threw some coins on the table, and followed her.
Somehow, she had scooted through the throng much easier than he could. He kept the purple hat in view as he shouldered his way through the mass of people. The bar car doors hissed as Lillian made her way through them.
Chet
followed her through the next car, and as she opened the doorway to the car after that, a family of four entered into the hallway, impeding Chet’s progress. The boy, about four years of age, clung to his mother’s skirt, whining that he wanted her to pick him up. The little girl, a few years older, pink and plump, stared at him with large blue eyes under a pink straw hat as she sucked on a lollipop.
She held the sticky thing out to him. “Want some?”
“Sally!” The mother’s face flushed crimson.
The father stepped out of the compartment into the hallway and attempted to gather his family to scoot them past Chet. Chet strained to look through the glass windows of the hallway doors in search of the purple hat. The family headed in the opposite direction, so Chet let them squeeze by and then made his way to the door. He found Lillian out on the platform. She stood with her back to him, the wind making a mess of her ostrich plumes as she smoked a cigarette.
Chet took off his hat. “Miss Lorraine?” He raised his voice to be heard above the chugging of the train.
Lillian whirled around, surprise in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Her eyes lit up with wide-eyed admiration, something Chet had seen many times when he approached women. “Oh, you didn’t,” she said with a seductive upturn of her lips.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but you seemed upset with those men in there. I just wanted to make sure you are all right.”
“How sweet.” She smiled, showing a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. “Yes, I’m absolutely fine. Fans. They can be so abrasive. Especially men. Present company excluded, of course. Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so. Believe me, I would have remembered.” Chet flashed his most dashing smile. “So where are you headed, Miss Lorraine?”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Charles Rockwell.” His pride was a bit wounded she hadn’t recognized him, although, on that day in the theater she’d had Flo in her sights.
She let out a laugh. “Sounds like a movie star. Is that where you’re going? To California to be in pictures? I bet the camera loves that handsome face of yours.”
Chet moved closer to her. “No. Unfortunately, my life isn’t quite so glamorous.” He knew her type well. There were some women who played hard to get, and some who didn’t. She fell into the latter category. The type who basked in attention, like a cat in the sun.
“What do you do, Mr. Rockwell?”
“I sell insurance.”
“Oh.” A flicker of disappointment crossed her face.
“See? Nothing glamorous. But you, on the other hand, you must be going somewhere to light up the stage. Chicago? San Francisco?”
“Los Angeles.” Lillian lowered her gaze and focused on her cigarette holder. “I’ve been offered a film.”
Chet pressed his lips together. What about the contract with the Shuberts? Why would she lie about a film role?
“Sounds exciting. I’m sure you’ll be perfect in the part, whatever it is.”
“It’s nice to meet such a gentlemanly fan.” She looked up at him through impossibly long, black lashes, her brown-eyed gaze sinking into his. “Are you married, Mr. Rockwell?”
“Yes.” Chet put his hands in his pockets and stepped back. “My daughter is a big admirer of yours. She’s too young to see one of your shows, but she’s seen photos of you in the magazines. I’m wondering if I could get your autograph for her.”
A distinct wave of disappointment crossed Lillian’s face. “Delighted,” she said, her mouth tight.
“She’ll be so pleased.” Chet produced a small pad of paper and a fountain pen from his coat pocket.
Lillian didn’t bother to ask the child’s name and scrawled her autograph across the paper. She handed the pad and pen back to Chet, avoiding his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m quite tired.”
“Of course. Have a good evening. And thanks for the autograph.”
She shouldered past him and left the platform.
Chet studied the handwriting and put the pad back in his pocket, satisfied his ruse had worked. Lillian’s story of a film offer seemed flimsy. She had been none too happy about Grace getting the role she coveted. Was she accompanying them to California to cause trouble?
He sighed. He also had that twit Donovan Green to attend to. Something about the man annoyed Chet—something besides the way his eyes roamed over Grace like honey dripping over a honeycomb. Poor, naive thing had no idea the man had designs other than the publicity he was hired to create for Ziegfeld. Her attitude didn’t help matters, either. She had been defiant, almost angry at Chet’s intrusion of their conversation earlier.
He took his pocket watch from his vest. It was eight thirty. His stomach growled, and he wondered if Grace wanted to eat. He made his way back to the private car to find the parlor empty. He stared at the closed door of Grace’s bedroom and contemplated whether or not to disturb her again. Taking a chance, he walked over to it and knocked.
“Yes,” she clipped from within.
“Are you hungry? I’m going to the dining car.”
“No.” Anger reverberated through the door.
He sighed. This was going to be a long trip.
Chapter Thirteen
To Grace’s delight, Lucile brought her drawing paper and pencils to the private railcar. The two had their breakfast and lunch brought in and spent most of the day laughing and working, which helped to distract Grace from her upcoming train-stop appearance in Chicago that evening. In the afternoon, when Lucile left, Grace stayed in her bedroom until it was time for her dinner date, not wanting to make conversation with Chet.
Once she was dressed and ready to go, she entered the parlor to find Chet sitting with his feet propped up on the coffee table.
“Going out?” He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head.
“Yes. The dining car.”
“Eating again? You must be very hungry.”
“I haven’t eaten since noon.”
“Very well. I’ll join you.”
“Well, I don’t know. We’ll be discussing business.” Grace fumbled with her handbag.
“We?”
“Yes. Mr. Green— I mean, Donovan and I.”
“Sounds interesting.” Chet swung his feet off the table. “Let’s go.”
Grace raised her eyebrows. Maybe she didn’t want to go to dinner after all. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on helping orphans with Chet looming over them.
“Donovan is picking me up.”
“Oh. I see.” He flashed her a toothy grin.
She sighed. When one has a bodyguard, I suppose there is no choice in the matter.
Annoyed, she walked toward the sofa and took a seat, refusing to look at him. She focused on the walnut paneling, the window with the world going by, the silk drapes swinging around the window frame. Anything but Chet.
A few moments later, Donovan arrived. “Ah, Grace, don’t you look lovely?”
She returned his smile, trying to ignore the weight of Chet’s gaze.
“Your . . . bodyguard is joining us?”
“No,” Chet said. “I’ll leave you two alone—to discuss business.”
Donovan took Grace’s elbow and led her into the next passageway that led to the dining car. She glanced back and saw Chet following them, a scowl on his face.
Adorned with elegant furnishings, the dining car matched the rest of the luxury train. White tablecloths, six-piece sets of silver flatware, and the finest china and crystal goblets ornamented each table, which was lit by its own gas lamp. Set against the car’s large windows, the tables provided privacy with brocaded curtains held back with silk ties. Gossamer sheers over the windows kept out the harshness of sunrise and sunset, but still offered a picturesque glow of the painted sky and fluffy clouds streaming by.
Donovan led her to a secluded table for two near the rear of the dining car. Chet t
ook a table a few feet away and sat facing Grace. She didn’t know how she could possibly eat with Chet planted in front of her. He already made her so nervous she could barely swallow, and they hadn’t even ordered yet. She sighed. Did he have to be so close? Couldn’t he keep an eye on her from the other side of the car?
She would have to manage. The importance of the work Donovan had proposed finally made Grace feel good about her impending celebrity.
As Donovan ordered champagne, Grace glanced over at Chet, who seemed unconcerned looking out the window. Then he caught her eye. Embarrassed, she turned her attention to Donovan. “When do we start this project?”
“I found an orphanage in New Mexico in a village outside of Albuquerque. The orphanage is called St. Cecilia’s. The train stops in Albuquerque in few days, so I’ve made arrangements for a short visit.”
“What will I do? What will I say?”
“It would be nice to start out with the donation of a big, fat check.” Donovan laughed and leaned in closer.
“Oh.”
“I’ll handle that part with Flo.”
“But what can I do?”
“The money will be donated in your name, Grace. This is quite generous of Flo. You will take a tour, meet some of the children. We’ll have someone take photos we can send to various newspapers.”
She frowned. “That’s it?”
“Yes. But don’t think it’s not important. You’ll be giving these children clothing, furniture, further care, and a roof over their heads. You’ll be giving them hope.”
Grace wanted to do something more meaningful, work on a project with the children, read to them, and spend time with them. What he’d described sounded more like a purely promotional opportunity for the Follies.
“When we arrive in Chicago, we will mention it to the press.” He sipped his champagne. “We should start writing your speech immediately. We’ll be there in about an hour.”
“An hour? But that’s so soon.” Her stomach flipped at the thought of speaking to a crowd of strangers.
