by Kari Bovee
“Not my type.”
“You really aren’t interested in stardom at all, are you?”
“Glitz and glamor don’t appeal to me. I want a simple life. Yet, here I am,” she said, sighing. “This was my sister’s dream.” Grace’s words trailed into silence. She closed her eyes, taking in the aroma of the jasmine-scented air. She struggled to compose herself and focus on the most important thing about this trip of theirs. “Speaking of, did you make any inquiries? Did you speak with anyone about Sophia?”
“Yes, that redhead I was talking to actually brought up the subject, but I fear she was simply repeating gossip. Still, it’s worth looking into.”
“Well, what did she say?”
Chet looked over his shoulder and behind Grace, seeming to be making sure no one could overhear. “She implied that Billie hired Jack Pickford to get Sophia out of New York and away from Flo.”
Grace let out an exasperated rush of air. “So she may have seen Sophia as more of a threat than we thought.”
“It’s just gossip so far.” He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. Grace tried to ignore the heat radiating from his touch.
“You don’t think Billie would have done something more . . . sinister?” she asked, remembering the chill she’d gotten when Billie had mentioned Sophia earlier. “She had legitimate reasons to despise my sister—or at least to wish her gone forever.”
Chet shrugged. “Jealousy is a common motive for murder. But we haven’t any proof of anything. For now, it’s idle gossip.”
“I’m so tired of all of this. I’m going back to the bungalow.” Without waiting for his response, she moved past him and began to walk away.
Chet instantly regretted his words. He wished he hadn’t told Grace what the redhead said. It seemed to have made her sad, and he didn’t want her going to bed sad. “Grace, are you up for a walk on the beach?” he asked.
She stopped and turned toward him. “Yes. That sounds nice.”
The hotel provided them with a car and driver. They sat in silence together in the back seat, their hands so close they nearly touched. Grace rolled down the window and lifted her face to the wind streaming into the car. Chet couldn’t pull his eyes away from her outstretched neck and her gossamer hair, pulling loose in the breeze.
When they reached the beach, Chet told the driver they’d be back in an hour. Grace ran down to the sand, quickly removed her shoes and then her stockings. Chet tried not to watch but couldn’t help himself. Her skin glowed in the moonlight, and that backless dress was a stunner.
“There, much better,” she said.
He fell in step next to her, his hands in his pockets. They walked in silence, their bodies straining forward to push their feet through the thick sand. Chet could feel Grace fold into herself like a spring bloom retreating into the night. He turned to look at her. Tears glittered on her cheeks in the moonlight.
He stopped and reached out to touch her arm. “What is it, Grace, what’s bothering you so?”
She wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “I miss Sophia. I should have spoken with her before she left.”
“Look, Grace, I know it’s hard, but sisters always fight. She left knowing how much you loved her. You have to trust that she knows it still.”
Grace exhaled loudly and closed her eyes. She popped them open again. “Trust. I don’t know who or what to trust anymore.” Without waiting for Chet to respond, she resumed walking.
They strolled in silence for a while, alone on the beach; their only company the moon and stars. They listened to the sound of the waves roll in with a rush and then back out with a sucking sound as the foam rumbled pebbles back into the frothy water. Chet longed to comfort Grace, reach out to her, draw her into his arms. Instead, he took her hand and they walked on in silence.
The sound of the surf and the moonlight dancing on the ocean isolated them from the rest of the world. Chet could feel the beat of Grace’s heart where her wrist pressed close to his. With each pulse, he almost felt as if he could read her every emotion, her every memory, and her every desire. She squeezed his hand tighter, as if she felt the same way, as if their thoughts and emotions were as intertwined as their fingers.
Grace turned to him and opened her mouth to speak, but Chet took her in his arms, his hands encircling her tiny waist, and his mouth found hers. Longing to envelope her body and soul, he crushed her against him and she did not resist. She simply leaned into him as if she could no longer stand on her own two feet.
Grace returned Chet’s urgent kisses, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body against the lean hardness of his. His hand went to her hair and pulled out the comb that held what remained of the twist. Her golden curls tumbled down around her shoulders, sending a skittering chill up her spine. Chet plunged his hands into her hair and ran his fingers through its silken curls. When he pulled back and gazed into her eyes, she was startled by their glow.
“Grace, you are like no one I’ve ever met,” he whispered, drawing her close. He kissed her again, causing waves of pleasure to course through her. She felt like putty, ready to be molded by his hands.
Suddenly afraid of his pull, Grace planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Wait,” she said, nearly breathless. “What about last night? You left me there, wanting you.”
“You were hurt, Grace, and barely conscious. I didn’t want to take advantage of your vulnerability.” He paused and looked into her eyes. “It would be your first time, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course it would! I am insulted that you’d think otherwise.”
“But I didn’t . . . think otherwise,” Chet said, smiling. “I’ve been attracted to you from the first moment you walked out of Flo’s office, looking like a naive but radiant goddess. But I am also—”
“Oh, please stop talking,” Grace said, pulling him in for another kiss.
He let out a muffled groan and guided her down to the sand.
Grace lay with her head on his bare shoulder, the sand, saltwater, and grit tingling on her cheek. They lay on the beach, their bodies molded together on Chet’s dinner jacket, their damp and mussed clothing, still partially covering their bodies. Her eyes roamed his chest and shoulders, and they were every bit as magnificent as she had imagined, with firm, rippled muscles and soft, olive-colored skin.
“How do you feel?” He lightly brushed his fingers down her cheek. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” she lied. It had hurt, but only for a moment. Once the pain had receded, a tremendous pleasure, unlike any she could scarcely have imagined, had enveloped her. Their bodies had entwined, impassioned, moving together in a harmonious rhythm, the most beautiful thing she’d ever experienced.
She stifled a grin when she remembered how it had felt when he’d touched her in all the right places and made her aware of others she hadn’t known existed. His body had seemed to anticipate her every want and need. The experience had left her fulfilled, and yet, she craved more. She’d never felt such a hunger before.
“Although, I seem to have sand covering every inch of me,” she said. “My dress, and your poor jacket—"
“Never mind that. C’mon,” he said, sitting up.
“Where are we going?”
He pulled her to her feet and toward the water. “We’re going swimming.”
She laughed and began to run with him, the hem of her dress flapping against her bare ankles. They raced out into the water, jumping as waves washed over them.
When they were waist-deep, Chet pulled her to him and kissed her, fumbling with the fabric of her dress.
“What are you doing?” she asked, coming up for air.
“Okay, I’ll go first.” He undid the remaining buttons of his shirt and then took his trousers off with his shorts and let them float on the water.
Grace laughed at the exuberant expression on his face and raised her arms in the air. He pulled the dress over her head and threw it toward the beach. She hoped it landed free of the water, but
it was already ruined. What would she say to Lucile?
With the dress’s plunging neckline and bare back, wearing undergarments had been impossible. At first, she felt self-conscious being naked in front of him, but when she saw his eyes and smile in the glint of moonlight, she let go and laughed again, throwing her arms around him. Electricity vibrated through her as his skin touched hers. They held each other for a long time, bobbing in the waves like a twin set of buoys, all the while talking and laughing.
Chet buried his head in the crook of her neck and kissed her shoulders and breasts. The feel of his mouth on her sent heat throughout her body, and that heat became so intense, she got lost in the sensation. She felt him grow hard against her and knew where they were headed once again. This time, she looked forward to the pleasure in earnest.
Suddenly, a large wave knocked them off their feet, washing away the moment. When they emerged, sputtering and choking on the stringent salt water, both burst out in laughter. Grace placed her hands on top of Chet’s head and pushed him under. Instantly, he grabbed her by the feet and pulled her down with him. They both came up coughing. Grace felt wild and free and happier than she’d ever been.
The chill of the water gradually seeped into their playful bliss, and like two exhausted children, they let the waves push them back to the shore. Both shivering but still laughing, they looked for their clothes, which took a little longer than they’d expected. Luckily, Grace’s dress had landed on the sand, but Chet’s clothes had rolled in with the waves and were spread across the beach. Once they found them all, they both dressed in the wet, salty, sand-covered clothing. Grace grimaced at the cold silk and rough grit next to her skin, but she didn’t care. She knew she’d soon be warm in the lush, pillowy bed of the hotel room, with Chet lying next to her. They walked back to the car, scrunched together against the marine chill.
Chapter Twenty
Chet chewed on a toothpick while he sat in the reception room of the Los Angeles Police Department. His nostrils pricked with the smell of mold, and his feet stuck to the grime of the linoleum floor. Through the glass partition he could see the uniformed officers working at their desks or milling around the station with cups of coffee or paperwork in their hands.
He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, the early hour making him groggy—that and the long night of lovemaking with Grace.
“Mr. Riker?” A skinny man, all elbows and knees in a poorly fitting suit, came out to greet Chet. “I’m Detective Barnett. I hear you’re a private dick.”
The hair on the back of Chet’s neck bristled. “I prefer to call myself a Private Investigator, thank you.”
“Uh-huh. You want some coffee?”
“I would, yes.”
Detective Barnett waved Chet over to the door and ushered him to a beat-up, wooden desk. “Take a seat. I’ll be back in a minute. Secretary called in sick today so I have all the domestic duties.”
Chet took the chair angled next to the desk and settled into it, the smoke in the room burning his eyes and nose. Several of the police officers turned his direction, gave him the once-over, and then returned to their typewriters or conversations.
Detective Barnett came back carrying two steaming cups of coffee. His thin, pinched face, protruding nose, and thick lips gave him the appearance of a duck. He set one cup of coffee on the corner of the desk in front of Chet and then sat in his desk chair.
“I take mine black,” he said, pushing his wire-rimmed spectacles farther up on the bridge of his nose. “I assumed the same for you.”
“It’s fine.”
“So, how can I help you, Mr. Riker?”
“I’m here to look into the death of Sophia Michelle. I’m told that you are familiar with the case. She was the star of—”
“The Ziegfeld Follies. I know about her passing. Real shame, that one. She was quite the looker. How come you’re looking into this?”
“I work for her boss, Florenz Ziegfeld Jr. He sent me here as a bodyguard to one of his stars, and also to investigate Miss Michelle’s death.”
“That death has already been investigated, son—by real detectives who do real police work. Nothing here for some private dick hired by the rich and famous to catch cheating spouses in the act.”
Chet leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, stalling to come up with something that would grab the guy’s attention. He knew the police hated PI’s on principal alone. He’d have to warm this guy up somehow.
“I understand your concern,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not concerned,” the detective said with a chuckle. “There is no bad guy for you to catch so you can become a hero. Case was investigated and closed.”
Chet drew in a deep breath and pressed his lips together, perusing the desk. His eyes lit on a lapel pin next to a pencil holder.
He pointed to the pin. “That yours?”
“’Tis.” Barnett squinted his rheumy eyes beneath his spectacles.
“Thirtieth Infantry? Old Hickory, am I right?”
“You are.” Barnett picked up the pin and placed it in his pocket.
“Battle of St. Quentin Canal?”
“Just what are you trying to get at, son?”
“Were you there?” Chet uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“I was. I don’t know what you are playing at here—”
“I was there, too. O’Ryan’s Roughnecks. Twenty-Seventh Infantry.”
Barnett’s face relaxed. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He stared at Chet for a few seconds, and Chet sat quietly, letting the information sink in. Barnett took another sip of his coffee. “What was your question about that Ziegfeld star?”
Chet leaned back in his chair again, his shoulders resting comfortably against the wooden slats. “I’ve been led to believe she was murdered.”
“Everyone was. Those damn reporters.” Barnett folded his hands over his caved-in belly. “They were on that case like fleas on a rat. Said they’d been tipped off that it was murder. We found no evidence of murder.”
“So the case is closed.”
“Tight as a drum. But isn’t it like these showbiz types to scare up a scandal?”
Chet nodded. “That sounds about right. Do you know what happened to her, then?”
Barnett picked up his cup and let the steam of the coffee swirl around his nose before taking another swig. “From what we could gather, she and her new husband attended a party at a Mr. John Barrymore’s house, got back to the hotel in the wee hours, and she collapsed on the bathroom floor. There were no signs of violence, only an open vial of mercury bichloride in the bathroom. Seems her beloved had the clap.”
Chet set down his coffee cup. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a medicine used to treat syphilis. Pretty nasty stuff. Mr. Pickford was using small doses of it for his condition. He said when they got to the hotel, the missus went into the bathroom, and he fell asleep. When he woke up alone, he went to the bathroom and found her on the floor. By the time the ambulance arrived, it was too late. The medics found the opened vial of mercury bichloride on the counter, and took it with them. The medical examiner determined she accidentally ingested it, and that’s what killed her.”
“So, not murder?”
“Her husband and his sister said she’d been feeling down of late.” Barnett tilted his head, as if he wasn’t quite sure about the question. “Could’ve been suicide, or an accident. But, not likely murder.”
“How could you be sure?”
“Autopsy. When they opened her up postmortem, they found her kidneys damaged, which would be consistent with mercury poisoning. As you know, the husband is generally suspect number one, but there were no signs of a struggle, nor could we come up with a motive of why he, or anyone would want to kill her. Girl was a fallen star, and had nothing to her name. Based on interviews, Pickford adored her. Nothing added up to murder. Case closed.”
Chet sipped his coffee, then rolled his to
ngue over his teeth, feeling the grit of the coffee grounds between them. He agreed that Jack probably wouldn’t have killed her. Didn’t have the smarts or the guts, but Flo would definitely benefit by a story of murder—a much more glamorous death than kidney failure or accidental poisoning. Suicide would prove far too scandalous, even for Flo. Could he have somehow had Sophia killed? Her leaving Flo and the show definitely had left him in the lurch, not to mention with a bruised ego. The whole idea stank like a bad hangover. Chet shook his head thinking about the lengths Flo might go to in order to create his own truth.
“What happened after the case closed?” he asked. “Did the local reporters walk away and just leave it alone?”
“Once the headlines lost their drama, they backed off. It comes up now and again, but mostly they’ve stopped writing about it. Guess that’s the same nationwide?”
“Seems to be,” Chet said, standing up. “Well, thanks for your time and the coffee. Do you have any idea where Sophia’s husband may be? Did he stay in Los Angeles?”
“I have no idea. We had him stick around until we buttoned things up, in case we needed to question him again. He mentioned something about staying at his sister’s house up in Beverly Hills. You know, Mary Pickford.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips. “Another looker.”
“Right.”
Chet left the police station and stood outside on the sidewalk, pondering the information he’d received from Barnett. How could he bring himself to tell Grace that Sophia’s case was closed? That Flo used the situation to garner more publicity. If Chet told her the truth, she might leave Flo and the Follies, and then she’d have Marciano after her. He had to keep the truth from her in order to protect her, at least for now.
Grace awoke to a note on her bed stating that Chet had gone to see the police. He’d also told her to stick close to Billie. How fortunate, considering she’d received another invitation to yet another one of Billie’s parties that day. Grace wasn’t sure she could keep up with this excessive socializing.
