by Kari Bovee
“Yes. It’s certainly been interesting.”
“How are you handling the press? The reporters?”
“Okay, I guess. They’ve portrayed me as—”
“The damsel in distress? The victim?” Fanny guessed.
“Exactly.”
“It’s Flo. He’s working the ‘good girl’ thing to counter Sophia’s suicide.”
Grace’s stomach sank. “What?”
“You know, the poor, heartbroken, innocent little sister. The public loves it. He spoons it out, and they eat it up.”
“So he’s calling Sophia’s death a suicide?”
“Oh, it’s just another angle on what Flo sees as the ongoing story.” Fanny sipped her drink, the ice cubes tinkling against the glass. “He’ll go back and forth on theories—whatever works to keep reporters on the string. You know Flo: he always milks the melodrama.”
Grace lowered her head, staring at her hands in her lap. Not suicide. How could Flo go back to a theory they’d both dismissed? Why would he let people think Sophia would kill herself? She drew in a breath, trying to resist showing how much Fanny’s news had upset her.
“Oh, honey.” Fanny’s voice softened. “I’m sorry. Don’t let it get you down. People don’t believe everything they read. We all know drama sells papers and reporters will go for splashy headlines whenever they can.”
“It’s just . . . Flo sent Chet to investigate Sophia’s murder.”
Fanny leaned her head back on her chair and sipped at her drink. “Could still be murder. No one knows yet. That’s why there is so much speculation. You’re her sister. What do you believe?”
“Not suicide. I know certain people had things to gain by my sister’s death.”
“Who?”
The life insurance policy flashed through her mind, but she dismissed it, the thought too horrid to bear.
“Jack, for one. Although he is beyond playing the grieving husband—the man is destroyed. I don’t think it’s him unless he’s acting.”
“He’s not that good an actor.”
True, Grace thought, but then there’s the ermine cape.
“Fanny, did you ever see Sophia with a jewel-studded ermine cape?”
“No. No, I can’t say I have. Why?”
Grace shrugged. “Something Liane said. Did you know both she and Lillian were here in California before Sophia died? They both attended her funeral.”
Fanny put down her drink and leaned toward Grace. “Now that is odd.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t mean they killed her.” Fanny leaned back in her chair, shimmying her shoulders to get more comfortable.
“No, but their lives have been made easier by her death. Billie’s too.” Grace hated to say it out loud, but it was true. With Sophia out of the way, there was one less starlet for Billie to worry about.
“What does handsome Chet say?”
Her mind racing, Grace barely heard the question. “Um, I don’t know. He left a note on the pillow—”
Fanny ripped the hat off her head, sat up straight, and put her drink down. “He put what, where?” Her eyes were the size of silver dollars.
Fanny’s surprise startled Grace out of her brooding. “Oh.” She hadn’t realized what she’d said.
“You mean, you and Chet are . . . ?”
Grace put her hands to her mouth, stifling a smile. The expression on Fanny’s face, with her eyes and mouth wide like three O’s, looked even more comical than her jokes, and made Grace want to laugh.
“Well, I’ll be.” Fanny’s words rolled out of her mouth in a slow drawl. “So tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You know—” Fanny rolled her hand on her wrist in a flourish “—spill the details, angel. I’m all ears.”
“I’m not giving details.” Grace blushed. “But it’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. He’s gentle and kind and thoughtful.”
“Of course he is, sugar. They all are in the beginning.” Fanny relaxed back in her chair again.
“I think he’s sincere, Fanny.”
“Hey, I don’t have anything against the man. From what I’ve seen, he’s better than most. I’m just saying be careful, kid. Just because you fall for a handsome face and sleep with someone doesn’t mean you know them.”
Grace pushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, thinking again of the train theft Chet had just confessed to organizing. She hadn’t thought he’d do something like that. Could she trust him? Was he truly on her side? Was he really doing anything to investigate Sophia’s murder? He could have lied about seeing the detective in charge of the police investigation.
“Oh, honey.” Fanny’s tone turned sympathetic. “I don’t mean to burst your bubble. I’m just speaking from practical experience. Me, I tend to like the louts.” She reached over and placed her hand on Grace’s wrist and gave it a little squeeze. “Look, if you were a sweet, little housewife from New Jersey and he were an accountant, I’d say hooray for you. But you’re the innocent Grace Michelle, rising Follies’ star, and he’s Chet Riker, the suave sometimes PI. I don’t think Chet’s a rat, but you will encounter plenty of opportunists. Men love showgirls; they just don’t marry them very often.”
Grace looked off into the distance, annoyed at the very idea. Was Chet playing her for a fool?
She suddenly felt more alone than ever. If only she could see Chet right now, see his reassuring gray-blue eyes and his broad smile. Of all the emotions he’d generated in her, distrust and fear had not been among them—until now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Not long after Grace had returned to her suite, a persistent and peculiar nagging made her want to do a little more digging into her sister’s death on her own. Flo’s inconsistencies with the press, stating murder one day and suicide the next, sent her emotions reeling, and she wanted off the rollercoaster. She had to know more. Chet was still gone, and while she probably should wait for him, who knew how long he’d be? She could waste an entire day waiting for him, and she certainly didn’t want to run the risk of having to attend another party.
She rummaged around in her handbag for the telegram Jack had sent. In it, he had given her his sister’s phone number in case she needed to reach him for any reason, as he’d been staying with Mary since Sophia’s death. Grace picked up the phone and called him, asking to see him right away. He’d been hesitant but finally agreed and gave her his sister’s address. Next, Grace called Billie to tell her she needed to go see Jack, and Billie insisted that Grace use one of her cars and drivers.
The driver, Lloyd, was a robust man with red cheeks and a snowy, Santa Claus mustache and beard. He opened the car door for her, and she got in, pulling her skirt in behind her. When they reached the exit of the hotel grounds, a group of people crossed in front of the car, making them wait to pull out onto the main road.
Fidgeting with her handbag, Grace wondered what it would be like to see Jack again. Would he apologize for taking Sophia away? Would he take any responsibility at all for her death? Could he have caused Sophia’s death?
Grace closed her eyes, drawing in and exhaling slow, deep breaths to calm her racing heart. When she opened her eyes again, she gasped to see the man with the scar in the tattered brown coat cross the street in front of the car. Grace raised her hand to her lips. Why did he keep showing up? She’d last seen him with Lillian, but where was she? Grace hadn’t seen her since their arrival in California.
She leaned toward the center of the car to see around the driver’s head, but the man was gone, lost in a group of people walking en masse. Grace sat back in the seat, gripping her handbag. She shouldn’t have left without Chet. This man could be following her.
Maybe it isn’t the same man, she told herself. She swallowed hard and tried to steady her breathing. It had to be her imagination. Perhaps it was all the stress, not to mention the grief she still felt over her sister’s death. She knew she hadn’t mourned properly yet, and grief did st
range things to people. She could be seeing things, imagining that people were after her.
Throughout the drive toward the lavish Pickfair, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks manor home, down sunny, palm tree–lined roads, Grace gathered her wits. The farther she got away from the hotel, the more she calmed.
When the car finally entered through the gates of the property, Grace gasped, awestruck. Magnificent acres of perfectly manicured grass rolled out in front of the car. Palm trees lined the drive that climbed up a hill, and giant eucalyptus trees served as a perimeter around the property. The mansion, set back against a grove of lemon trees, was a massive stone house with an arched portico and circular drive. Lush gardens featuring carved shrubs and flowers abloom in every color graced the manse’s entrance.
When they stopped in front of the dark, wooden estate doors, Grace leaned forward. “I won’t be long, Lloyd. Please wait for me here.”
Lloyd nodded, but still, he got out of the car, opened the door for her, and accompanied her to the massive entrance. Grace rang the bell.
A stiff, sour-faced, thin man with bushy gray hair answered the door.
“I’m Grace Michelle, here to see Jack Pickford.”
The butler gestured for her to enter and then led her toward a grand stone staircase. Their footsteps tapped along the foyer’s terra-cotta floors, which were polished to a mirror gleam. Rainbows of reflected color from the sparkling crystal chandelier hanging from the alcove ceiling danced along the white walls that skirted the spiral staircase.
Once up the stairs, the butler led her down a great hall lined with classical paintings, portraits, and landscapes, all ensconced in thick, gold frames. When they reached a door at the end of the hallway, the butler knocked three times, turned the knob, and ushered her in.
Long, velvet curtains covered the windows, casting inky pockets of shadow in the dimly lit room. Daylight streamed through one window, highlighting strewn clothes, abandoned food trays, empty wine and liquor bottles, and used glasses. Grace squinted, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and saw someone slumped in a chair. The red, glowing end of a cigarette floated about his face.
“Jack?”
The cigarette glowed brighter, and then she heard a rush of air.
“Is that you, Grace?” the voice croaked into the darkness.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Come, come in. Please. Excuse the mess. I haven’t been well.” He gestured with silk-robed arms for her to come closer and pointed to a chair perpendicular from his. “Please, sit.”
Grace picked her way through the clothes and other objects littering the floor. Her stomach tightened. She’d never been comfortable with the man, and even now Grace tried to avoid looking directly at Jack. But she noticed his face had grown gaunt, highlighting the desperate angst in his eyes, the eyes of a man struggling with sanity.
“I . . . I’m so sorry about Sophia,” he said as Grace settled into a nearby chair. “She was my life . . . my everything . . . you know.” His words came out slurred and slow. “I am . . . nothing without her.”
On the table next to him sat a large, half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass. He reached over and poured some of the amber liquid into the glass, took a large gulp, and leaned his head against the back of the chair, eyes closed, silent, with the cigarette still burning between his fingers.
Grace cleared her throat. Had he fallen asleep? She waited a few moments, perspiration prickling the back of her neck. “Jack?”
He pulled his head forward and gave her a bleary-eyed stare. “Who are you?”
“It’s me. Grace. You agreed to see me, remember? I have some more questions for you about Sophia.”
A smile spread over his ghost-like, pallid face. He opened his mouth, still grinning. “Grace, Sophia’s little sister. Grace and Sophia, Sophia and Grace . . . two lovelies.”
Grace inhaled slowly, clenching her fists. “I can see you’re drunk, and I’m sorry to barge in, but I need some answers. You owe me some answers, Jack. I need to know what happened. They say it was suicide, but I don’t believe it. She would never—”
Suddenly light poured into the room, and Grace turned to see the silhouette of a woman framed in the doorway.
“Jack?” the woman said. “Jack, who’s there?”
Grace stood and approached her. “I’m Grace, Sophia’s sister. Jack invited me to come, but he’s—”
As the woman opened the door wider, Grace immediately recognized her petite, curvy frame and pixie-ish face as that of the famous Mary Pickford.
“Dear, please, come with me. I’m sorry you had to see this. How did you—”
“I telephoned him, and he told me I could come over.”
The woman placed her arm around Grace’s shoulders and led her to another room—a bright, beautiful, immaculately decorated sitting room. They walked to a lush sofa positioned under an expansive, sunny window.
“Sit down, please. I’ll ring for some refreshments. You look a little pale. Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you know who I am.”
Grace nodded, suddenly feeling very shy.
“I’m so sorry about your sister. It’s so tragic for us all. Jack has been like this for weeks now.” Mary looked down at the floor. “We were all fond of Sophia and welcomed her into our family. You should be very proud of her.”
Grace bit her lip. Tears escaped her eyes and slowly rolled down her face.
Mary then took both her hands and held them in hers. “You must miss her so.”
“I’m . . . so sorry,” Grace said, her voice breaking.
“It’s all right to cry.” Mary reached over to smooth Grace’s hair.
Grace drew in a deep, slow breath. “I need to know what happened to Sophia.”
“Your sister was a fine person, but we, too, were unhappy about this union, at first. They weren’t right for each other. But, then we accepted it. Accepted her.”
Grace met her eyes.
“Oh, darling, I am not speaking ill of Sophia. It’s Jack who wasn’t—still is not—ready for marriage. I know I shouldn’t criticize him, particularly to you. He’s my brother and I love him, but he has insurmountable problems, which doomed them from the beginning. In a way, Sophia was spared a lot of pain.”
Grace winced. Spared a lot of pain? Sophia had lost her life. “I don’t believe it was suicide,” she said in a rush. “I want to know the circumstances of her death. I want to know what Jack knows. I want a list of suspects, reasons, a thread to follow.” She stopped and exhaled. She couldn’t believe she could be so forward, but the anger just bubbled up.
“But who would want to kill her?” Mary’s eyes registered confusion. “Who would have a reason to kill her?”
“Her husband perhaps?” Grace bit her lip, again shocked at her own boldness.
Mary’s eyes widened. “I mean no offense, my dear, but your sister came into the marriage tainted.”
Grace felt hairs stand up on her neck. How dare she! “Tainted? What do you mean tainted?”
“She confessed to Jack that she’d been Flo’s lover and that she was running from another man. She was drunk when she told him this but confirmed it the next morning. She was miserably unhappy and took her own life, Grace.”
“No one has proven that, and I still don’t believe it . . . I’ll never believe it.”
Mary squinted, her head tilting in a question. “No one has told you?”
“Told me what?”
Mary straightened her back and let out an exasperated sigh. She blinked several times and bit her lip, as if trying to figure out what to say. When her gaze finally settled on Grace, her face softened. “Sophia ingested poison. The police called it an ‘accidental event,’ but we think it was something else.”
Grace blinked, waiting for Mary to continue. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the muscles of her neck tightened.
“Jack has a condition,” Mary said. “He has syphilis.�
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Grace knew of the disease. It was contracted from sexual intercourse—typically promiscuous sexual intercourse with multiple partners.
“He was taking a prescribed medicine, a topical liquid, to ease the pain of the sores. He and Sophia had been at a party—John Barrymore’s party, I believe—and came home very late. Jack had gone to bed and didn’t notice that Sophia hadn’t followed him until he found her lying on the bathroom floor hours later. She’d been there a long while, and they found a bottle of the medicine next to her.”
“I don’t believe it,” Grace said, every instinct in her body rebelling. “Drunk or not, Sophia would never have intentionally taken poison.”
“Darling Grace.” Mary gave her a sympathetic smile and took her hands again. “Your sister had been staying with us ever since she arrived from New York, so I feel as if I got to know her at least a little, and perhaps you are right.”
“So you agree it wasn’t suicide?”
“At first, we thought it was simply a terrible accident, but then we found something in her personal effects that we didn’t give to the police,” Mary said slowly. “Out of respect for Sophia, we thought it best to avoid additional scandal. Nothing would bring her back to us, after all. We wanted to protect her image as best we could.”
The blood drained from Grace’s face. “I don’t understand.”
Mary stood and walked to a desk in the far corner of the room. She pulled out a piece of folded paper and returned to sit beside Grace. “Jack found this letter among Sophia’s things.”
Grace took it and held it in her hands, her breathing growing shallow. Hands trembling, she opened it and read:
I can go on no longer. My heart is heavy with despair, and I can endure the pain no more. Please tell my sister I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt her.
Sophia.
Grace stared at the words, her stomach churning, her mind digesting the information. She turned to look at Mary. “This is typewritten,” she said, holding up the note. “Anyone could have written it after Sophia died as a way to cover up her murder.”
