by Kari Bovee
Grace chose a linen dress that had come from one of her own drawings for a Follies beach number to wear to the party. Formfitting with navy-and-cream stripes, it fell in a slim silhouette to her ankles. She pulled on navy ankle boots with a small, feminine heel that buttoned down the side of her foot. The pièce de résistance? A straw hat with a sleek navy ribbon and floppy brim dipping over one eye.
When she finally left the room and headed to the garden party, she ran into Chet in the lobby. He pulled her to him, lifting her off her feet, and kissed her tenderly.
“I missed you this morning,” she whispered into his ear.
He set her back down and smoothed a piece of hair under her hat.
“What did you find out from the police?”
He was about to speak when a group of reporters descended upon them. “Miss Michelle, Miss Michelle!”
Chet slipped an arm around her shoulders and turned Grace toward the garden in an attempt to thwart the press.
“Miss Michelle, do you have any lingering injuries from the riding accident?” a voice rang out from the crowd. She turned to see who had asked the question but was confronted with a sea of faces.
A balding, heavyset man stepped forward. “Do you know who killed your sister?”
A photographer stepped forward and captured her surprise at the question with the blinding light of his flash. Before she could answer—if she dared to answer—more voices began shouting.
“Is your life still in danger?”
“Do you know who’s trying to kill you?”
“I . . . Well, I, um. . . .” Grace raised a hand to her temple, her heart fluttering.
“Is there a wedding in your future?” The flashes from the cameras snapping photographs nearly blinded her.
Chet’s hand tightened around her shoulders again, and he guided her away from the clamoring photographers and reporters. The voices diminished as they walked quickly toward the party. When they finally reached the garden, a tall, dark-haired woman wearing bright red lipstick approached her. The surrounding reporters stepped back like the parting of the Red Sea to let the woman through.
“It’s Hedda Hopper,” rippled through the crowd in whispers.
Hedda Hopper, the famed gossip columnist—known as a viper for mesmerizing her prey with sweet words until they confessed all, and then striking for the kill—stood before her. Grace took stock of the woman’s overwhelming presence.
“Well, I finally get to meet the mysterious Grace Michelle.” Without asking, Miss Hopper swung Grace around to face a camera on a wooden tripod. The photographer, a dashing, raven-haired gent who could have easily been mistaken for a film star, fumbled with the black silk hanging from the back of the camera. Holding the tray of gunpowder with one hand, he flipped the silk up with the other and buried his head behind the lens.
“It takes forever to get decent publicity photographs,” Miss Hopper said through closed teeth as she tightly gripped Grace around the waist and preened for the camera. “Smile, Miss Michelle.”
Grace forced a smile, her eyes blinded by the white light and her ears ringing with the pop of the flash. Miss Hopper’s earlier words echoed in Grace’s head. “Mysterious?” she repeated.
“Why, yes, the mysterious starlet playing the role of a damsel in distress. Everyone’s talking about your convenient brushes with death and your handsome hero, Mr. Chet Riker, PI to the Stars.” Her gaze pounced on Chet like a hyena ready to devour some leftover meat.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Miss Hopper,” Grace said. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
The columnist opened her mouth wide and laughed long and hard. The crowd followed suit.
“I’ve heard you’re quite charming,” Miss Hopper said. “I can see that now.”
A woman approached them, the same woman who’d been staring at Grace at Billie’s party the other day.
“Ah, Miss Held!” Miss Hopper rang out.
Grace’s jaw dropped slightly as the photo Grace had seen of Liane Held at Sophia’s funeral came back to her. This woman had the same long, pinched face—one that didn’t seem to smile much. Short, brown, curly hair framed her face, and she towered over most of the women, as she had in the photo.
“You must be here for a film. When did you arrive from Europe? How are things between you and Flo? Tell me, darling, what’s the news?” Hedda Hopper hovered over the woman, her notepad thrust into Liane’s face.
“I, um . . . I . . . Yes, I’m here for a film,” Liane said, her gaze never leaving Grace’s face. “I arrived from Europe several weeks ago. Things with my stepfather are . . . strained. That’s all I can say.” She stood with her hands folded neatly at her waist.
“Well!” The reporter turned to the group. “I’d love to stay and chat, but unfortunately, I must run. I’ve an interview with Elmo in his bungalow across the way.” Grace knew Miss Hopper had meant Elmo Lincoln, the star of the wildly popular film Tarzan of the Apes. At the mention of the much bigger name, reporters turned their attention—and their endless questions—to Miss Hopper, leaving Grace and Liane alone, an awkward silence filling the space between them.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Grace said in an attempt to be polite.
“Yes, I suppose.” Liane’s expression didn’t soften or change in the least, as if it had been set in plaster.
“What film are you auditioning for?”
“I’m not here for a film.”
Grace swallowed. “Oh?”
“Your sister had something that was mine—something very valuable. I had come to get it before— Well, before she died.”
“Oh. . . .” Grace said quietly. Then more confidently, “What was it? Perhaps I can help.”
“A ruby-and-sapphire-studded ermine cape—part of a costume, a genuine antique from the Renaissance period. Very rare. It was my inheritance from my mother, intended to support me for the rest of my life. Your sister stole it.”
“What? Stole it? My sister would never steal anything.”
“Of course you would say that.” Liane’s lips turned up into a smirk, the first hint of emotion Grace had seen in the woman yet. “I’m here to prove differently. Do you have it?” She shoved her small clutch under her arm.
Grace grappled with something to say. She’d never heard of this fur cape, let alone seen or touched it. “No, I don’t. I didn’t know it even existed.” Her words came out clipped and desperate.
Liane raised an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she said and stalked away from them, her stick-thin legs taking small, quick steps.
Grace’s mouth hung open. “What was that about?” she said, turning to Chet, mouth still agape.
“Who knows? Liane’s been out to get Flo since her mother died. She’s just bitter and dramatic.”
“But Sophia wouldn’t steal, Chet. She just wouldn’t.”
“Flo probably gave Sophia the thing. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.”
“But why wouldn’t I know about it, then?” Grace immediately thought about Jack and how he wouldn’t think twice about selling something that valuable, whether it was stolen or not. A sinking feeling hit her stomach.
“It’s become obvious Sophia didn’t tell you everything,” Chet said, concern in his eyes.
“Grace!” Billie called, approaching them at a brisk pace, her steps tiny and her hips swaying due to the pencil skirt plastered against her legs in its viselike grip. “Oh, you look marvelous. That Lucile is simply a wonder!”
Grace smiled politely but tensed inside, still disturbed by Liane’s accusation.
“Chet, you are a sight for sore eyes, you handsome devil. Were you able to drive the car all right?” Billie asked.
“It was fine, thank you.”
“Absolutely. No problem at all. Oh, and I also meant to tell you, don’t let Flo make you feel too bad about the jewelry theft. These things happen.”
Grace turned to Chet. “Jewelry theft?”
A flush washed over C
het’s face. He cleared his throat and pulled at his collar. Grace faintly remembered a story about a robbery attempt on Billie’s train car, but it seemed so long ago now and Chet had been in New York, not California.
“You must have been terrified, Billie,” Grace said. “I’m so glad that they didn’t get away with anything, and even more so that you weren’t harmed.”
Billie’s face pinched and she looked at Grace as if she’d just fallen from the sky like an injured bird.
“Why, darling, the whole affair was a scam. Your friend here arranged it all. It didn’t quite turn out as planned, but the publicity was marvelous. Producers were vying for my attention. I got two more motion picture contracts offered to me that very week.”
Grace turned her eyes to Chet, who avoided her gaze. The sinking feeling in her belly was replaced with slow, crawling sludge.
“Shall I get us some drinks?” Chet asked, obviously seeking an escape.
Billie flashed her prettiest, pearly white smile. “That would be lovely, Chet.”
Chet disappeared into the crowd, and seconds later, someone pulled Billie away into another conversation. Grace’s stomach roiled. Could she trust Chet? Was she being played, as well?
Chet returned, a drink in each hand. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.” He slid closer to her, handing her one of the drinks. Now she avoided his cool gray eyes. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Let’s go for a walk. I think the reporters are safely gone by now, or they’ve had enough Grace Michelle for one day.”
But they hadn’t. As they slipped away from the party and headed toward a breezeway, Grace noticed a few photographers moving their tripods to aim at her and Chet, who left arm-in-arm and only relaxed once they were safely free of prying reporters.
“You probably want to know what I found out from the police,” Chet said the moment they were alone, standing in the shade of a grove of manicured olive trees.
“I do. Definitely.” Grace turned to face him. “But first, tell me about the train robbery.”
“It was a small job,” he muttered. “Nothing worth talking about.”
“Billie seemed quite impressed.”
“She’s easily impressed.” He reached over to slip his arm around her shoulders. He kissed her on the temple.
Grace pulled back, shook his arm loose. “Don’t think you can distract me, Chet. I want to know what the theft was all about.”
Chet sighed. “It’s really not important. You know Flo, always coming up with some scheme or another, solely designed to garner publicity for the Follies.”
“But what did you have to do with it?”
He rubbed a hand across the darkening stubble on his chin and shoved the other hand in his pants pocket. He glanced around as if to make sure no one could hear their conversation. “Flo hired me to arrange the robbery.”
Grace cringed and brought her hand to the crown of her hat as if it were going to pop off. “But how could you?” She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
“I didn’t have much of a choice. I’m in a bit of a financial bind.”
Grace blinked up at him. “What kind of bind?”
“My mother needed help.” He shoved his other hand into his other pants pocket. “I needed the money to help her.”
“Is that why you agreed to protect me and find Sophia’s murderer?”
“Yes, at first. But now the job has become more personal.” Chet pulled his hands out of his pockets and ran them down the length of her arms. His face broke into a mesmerizing smile, causing his dimples to deepen. “I really care for you, Grace.”
Not quite sure what to say, she leveled a stare at him. “So, what did the police say?”
“They’re still investigating. Nothing conclusive.” Chet held her gaze.
“Nothing?”
“They were reluctant to talk about it because it’s still under investigation.”
Grace let out a sigh, feeling as deflated as a worn tire. “I need to find out what happened to her, or this trip to California is worth nothing. It’s the only reason I agreed to come.”
Well, almost the only reason.
Chet raised his eyebrows at her.
“Well, you know I couldn’t refuse Flo. But while we’re here, we have to focus on solving Sophia’s murder. You have to do more to solve her murder. You were hired to investigate her death.”
“I was also hired to be your bodyguard, remember?” Chet removed Grace’s wide-brimmed hat and kissed the top of her head. “I think I’m doing a pretty good job of that, wouldn’t you say?” He smoothed several strands of hair that had been caught in the breeze off of her face and plunked her hat back on her head.
“You have done a marvelous job of that,” she said, surrendering to her attraction. She ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, admiring the strong, taut muscles of his physique through his well-fitted suit. “But my primary mission is to find out what happened to Sophia, and I need your help. Promise me that you’ll dig deeper?” she asked, putting on a pitiful pout.
Chet answered with a long, slow kiss.
Chapter Twenty-One
JUNE 14, 1920 - BEVERLY HILLS, CA
Chet watched Grace sleep in the early-morning light. The dewy freshness of her fair, pink skin and the golden brilliance of her hair glowed against the pillow. Soft brown lashes swept down from her eyelids, casting feathery shadows on her perfectly structured cheekbones.
He should have told her the truth about Sophia’s investigation, but at the time, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wanted to make sure she stayed the course, played along with Flo’s little scheme until he could get out from under Flo, and Marciano. Then, she’d be safe.
And, the business with Liane was probably nothing, he tried to reason with himself. She had been known to make up stories about Flo, like the time she claimed Flo had made Anna get an abortion. Anna had gone along with the story, but only after Flo had flaunted his relationship with Lillian Lorraine in Anna’s face. Both Anna and Liane were desperate to make Flo’s life miserable. Unfortunately for Chet, Liane posed yet another threat to Grace. How far would she go to get back the cape that Grace obviously didn’t have? If the damn thing even truly existed.
Chet sat up in the bed, still admiring Grace’s face. How in the world had he come to care so much about this woman? He had promised himself he would never love another human being again, not after Sister Anne.
Sister Anne . . . He hadn’t thought about her in years. She had been a sweet woman, who’d been kind to a lonely kid whose mother had dumped him in an orphanage. He could still hear Sister Maria’s shrill voice in his head:
“Chet, why are you here?”
“Because my mother didn’t want me.”
“And why didn’t she want you?”
“Because I’m no good.”
“That’s right, boy.” Sister Maria circled the hard-backed chair where he sat.
“And why do you sit here today?”
“Because I picked a flower for Sister Anne.”
Sister Maria’s large nostrils flared. “You violated the rules. The flower was not yours to take. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“You will do penance for this crime. One week in isolation.”
“Will I see Sister Anne?”
“She’s been sent to another orphanage. She’d grown too attached to you. We may not have favorites. Do you understand?”
Chet gently lifted himself off the bed, dressed, and then grabbed a pink rosebud from the vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand, along with a conch shell Grace had found on the beach, and lay them on his pillow. He took one last long gaze at her.
He had to extricate himself from this scam that Flo had orchestrated. He had to make some money, pay off his debt, and then he and Grace could be free of this charade forever.
Grace held the rosebud up to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled the lovely fragrance. She opened her eyes again to see the l
ittle white shell that lay next to the rose—a creation of perfection, with its pink underside and long white fingers. Its elegant form gave her inspiration. She could use it as a model for an exquisite gown, a white, formfitting sheath with plumes of delicate pink feathers extending from the shoulders. Perhaps ornately beaded to conjure the opalescence of the shell. She imagined the fine-boned Marion Davies wearing it for one of the Follies’ numbers.
As Grace rose lazily from the bed and reached for her dressing gown, she wondered where Chet had run off to. She hoped he’d gone to further investigate Sophia’s case.
Her stomach growled sending her in search of food. Just as she had expected, coffee and pastries awaited her in the living room.
A knock on the door was followed by one of the staff entering with a message: Fanny had arrived and requested that Grace join her in sunbathing by the pool.
A short while later, she joined Fanny under a large blue umbrella. Fanny was wearing the latest in swimwear: a scoop-necked wool tunic tied at the waist worn with leggings that reached to the middle of her thigh. Her stockings came only to her knee, exposing the delicate white flesh of her legs. Fanny blinked at Grace beneath a small-brimmed white hat that had been adorned with rhinestones.
“Morning, kid. How ya been?” she asked, then sipped a colorful drink.
“Fine. It’s good to see you, Fanny. You certainly look relaxed.”
Fanny took another swallow of her drink. “This is the life, kid. I should make California my permanent home. I’d never have a worry in the world.”
Grace discarded her linen shrug, reveling in the soft, fragrant breeze.
“Hey, get out of the sun, honey. You’ll get lines.” Fanny sat up and moved her chair so Grace could place hers farther under the umbrella. “Lines are the death of a star, I’m telling you. My motto? Never let them see you age.”
Grace laughed, glad to be in Fanny’s company again. The woman used her sparkling wit and humor to take away the troubles of the world.
“So, I hear you’ve had a couple of tough breaks, kid.” Fanny puffed on her cigarette holder and then blew a determined stream of smoke into the breeze.
