by Kari Bovee
“I’ve never seen Flo this agitated,” Fanny said. “Not since he broke it off with Sophia.”
Grace turned to her. “You knew of their affair?”
Fanny shrugged. “Sorry, Gracie, I didn’t mean to let that slip and bring it up again.”
“And what is Liane doing here? I thought she’d never leave Europe,” Charles said. “I heard she hated the States, hated New York, and hated Flo.”
Grace wanted to say something about the ermine cape, about the fact that Liane thought Sophia had stolen her legacy, but recent events made her reticent and she didn’t know whom to trust. Fanny had just admitted that she had known about Sophia’s affair with Flo. Why had she kept it a secret ’til now? If Fanny had known about the affair while it was happening, perhaps she knew a lot more about what had happened between Sophia and Flo. What had caused the rift? Did Sophia really overreact, or was that just the story everyone perpetuated about her because of the sensationalism it produced?
Grace wanted to get Fanny alone, but for now, she’d keep the questions simple. “Fanny, did you see Sophia with anyone after the breakup? Another lover?”
“Well, Jack, of course,” Fanny said.
“Of course, but before Jack?”
Fanny leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette, her gaze drifting away from Grace’s. “I never saw her with anyone.”
“Nor did I,” Charles said.
Grace bit the inside of her cheek and focused her attention on Fanny, who still avoided her eyes. As if sensing Grace’s ardent gaze, Fanny briefly turned her head toward Grace, fluttered her eyelashes, and went back to smoking her cigarette as if Grace and Charles weren’t even there.
Fanny knew something.
Grace sighed. Someone else had to have seen Sophia with this mystery man. It would just take a bit more digging to find out who.
Chapter Twenty-Six
That night, Flo insisted Grace have dinner with him alone in his suite. She braced herself for what he might confide, reveal, or lie to her about this time.
She arrived promptly at 8:00 p.m. Harold let her into the parlor where Flo sat at his desk, staring at the papers strewn all over it. Two new, carved wooden elephant figurines graced the desk, a sure sign that Flo did not feel confident about the show—or anything else.
He raised his eyes as she approached. “Grace, please, sit down,” he said, motioning to a chair opposite his. His smoking jacket buckled open at his chest, and hung on him like a sack. “I’m so glad we have this opportunity to chat. Dinner will be served in a few minutes. But first, please, tell me, how are you?”
Grace didn’t know where to begin. “I’m well.”
“Wonderful. Was the railcar to your satisfaction? Were you comfortable?”
Grace gripped the arms of her chair. “Why did you lie to me, Flo? Why did you perpetuate the story of Sophia’s murder, or suicide rather, when you knew the police in Los Angeles closed the case?”
Flo froze, his cigarette dangling between his lips. He removed it, exhaled. “It was for you, darling, for the show. You’re going to be a star. Bigger than Sophia.”
“Don’t you see that is not what I want? I’m doing this show for you, Flo, to repay you for taking in Sophia and me when we needed it. I agreed to go to California so that I could find out what happened to my sister, and you knew all along that the case had been closed! You led me astray and gave me false hope!”
“Guilty.” Flo held his hands in the air. “I am guilty of all you said, and I am sorry, dear. I did what I thought was best for you, for the show. But now we know what happened to Sophia. That should give you comfort.”
“Comfort?” She shook her head. “Now I am only further convinced that Sophia was murdered and the police have missed something. The postmortem report didn’t even make sense, Flo. The police got an answer and that was it, no more investigation.”
Flo sighed and pressed his hands to his face. Grace noticed his fingers trembling. She knew he was under tremendous pressure at the moment, but she wanted answers.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“Mary Pickford led me to believe that you might have orchestrated the events that put me in danger, just for the sake of publicity.”
“Mary Pickford? When did you see her?”
“I went to the house to see Jack. Complete disaster. The man was so drunk he forgot who I was the minute he said my name. But is it true, Flo? Did you put me at risk just for publicity?”
“I would never do anything to hurt you,” he said, not actually answering the question.
“Is that what you told Sophia all those years ago?”
Flo looked as though she’d struck him, his brows turned down, his mouth working furiously as if he might break into tears. “My dear . . . I’m so sorry. Everything is falling apart since Sophia died. The show is doomed, and unless you are the sensation I know you can be, I will be ruined.”
Grace closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the pathetic look on his face. She let out a breath, calming herself. “Why don’t you just give the part to Lillian Lorraine? She wants it far more than I do.”
“I don’t think Lillian is in her right mind these days,” Flo said, under his breath.
“Did you know she was in California? At Sophia’s funeral? And on my train?” She paused for effect. “Why would she have been there, Flo?”
“I’m not sure, darling. But I won’t keep this from you any longer: she despised Sophia and threatened her more than once.”
Grace’s stomach turned. She remembered what Lillian had said when Flo had given Grace the part to fill Sophia’s shoes. She’d been livid.
“Do you think Lillian could have killed Sophia?” Grace asked.
“I don’t know. If she’d had too much to drink, too much cocaine, anything is possible. What did the police say?”
“That Sophia died of her own hand, end of story. You know that,” she ground out. “What about Billie?”
“What about Billie?”
“I heard she paid Jack to get Sophia away from you. Is that true? Were you still pursuing Sophia?”
“No, darling. I’m afraid it’s quite the opposite. Sophia wanted to reconcile. She was quite desperate. But my feelings had changed. I love my wife.”
Grace nearly choked. Didn’t Charles just tell her that Flo had a new lover? Unable to speak, Grace let Flo continue. “I don’t know anything about Billie paying Jack. Billie keeps her accounts separate from mine. She feels I gamble a bit too much. But Sophia and I were through, I promise you.”
“Do you know who Sophia started seeing after your breakup?”
“There were quite a few men. I’m surprised you never knew about them.”
Seems I didn’t know much about my sister.
“Was there anyone special? Anyone she was serious about?”
“Only Jack. Poor choice, I might add. Sorry, dear. I shouldn’t speak ill of your sister.”
Grace gripped the arms of the chair harder, bolstering herself for what she was going to say next. “And what about you, Flo? You’ve sure garnered a lot of publicity over Sophia’s death. Did you do it? Did you kill her?” Grace looked straight into his eyes. They turned a deeper shade of brown, almost black, and he clamped his jaw shut so tight that Grace could see the muscles flexing below his ears.
Flo took in a deep breath, and Grace noticed his eyes travel to one of the wooden elephants on the desk. “Well. I don’t know whether I am insulted, sad, or completely furious at your question, my dear. I am quite shocked.” His gaze drifted up to meet hers. “I understand that this whole situation has been difficult for you, and I apologize for causing you any undue stress, but I assure you, my show—my art—and my reputation has never been in more trouble than it is now, and it all started with Sophia’s death. Why would I do that to myself? I’ve had nothing but loss since her death, not gain.”
Grace let the words sink in. She hated to admit he had a point.
Flo stood. “If
you will excuse me, I am going to check on dinner—and I must compose myself. Your question caught me quite off guard, my dear.”
Grace stood up, as well. “I am sorry, Flo. I’m frustrated and angry. I know that something about Sophia’s case is not right. I’m just seeking answers, and I feel in order to find those answers, I must ask questions of everyone who knew Sophia. I hope you understand.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Flo said, straightening his smoking jacket. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He left Grace standing at the desk, feeling like a complete ingrate, yet not entirely sorry for asking the question. Since she’d learned that both Flo and Chet had tried to keep her in the dark, she felt her boldness growing by the day. She would have her answers.
Flo had mentioned he’d gained nothing financially from Sophia’s death. Grace pondered that thought. She remembered the life insurance policy sitting in a folder, in the drawer in the desk right in front of her. Did she dare go through his desk when he could return at any moment?
She walked around the other side and rested her hands on top of the papers strewn across the desk. She sat down in the chair, her hands still on the desk. With her right hand, she opened the drawer. Her eyes immediately found Sophia’s file. With one last quick glance to make sure Flo wasn’t stepping back in the room, she opened the file.
Empty.
Grace’s stomach twisted, forcing a dull, throbbing pain in her torso. Her eyes traveled to the file labeled Grace Michelle. Slowly, as if opening a box full of snakes, she pulled the file open. Staring back at her was a crisp, white sheet of paper with the words Metropolitan Life in bold script across the top. Her eyes scanned down the sheet until they rested on her name with the amount of thirty thousand dollars next to it. It was signed in her name but not in her hand.
The blood drained from her face, and her hands went numb. In a stupor, she closed the file, placed it back in the drawer, and returned to her chair. She let her legs give out beneath her and rested her head in her hands.
“Grace?” she heard Flo ask from behind her. “Dinner is served.”
Grace stood and turned to him, smiling. She couldn’t make her mouth form the words that she wasn’t very hungry after all.
Grace stared at Flo, smiling at her as if they’d never had the previous discussion. He must have “composed” himself quite well since he’d left the room. Now, it was Grace’s turn to try to pretend she hadn’t accused him of murder, and also to try to pretend that she didn’t know he’d secretly taken out a life insurance policy on her. She stilled her trembling hands by clasping them together.
Flo held his arm out to escort her. “Shall we retire to the dining room?”
Without speaking, Grace stood and took his arm. The door chimed again as Flo led Grace to a chair at the dining room table. A moment later, Harold appeared in the room. And trailing behind him was Liane.
Grace snuck a look at Flo whose demeanor immediately hardened, his upper lip twitching the only emotion on his face. “Liane, darling. Come in. Grace and I are just about to have dinner. Won’t you join us?”
Liane’s forehead pinched into a vee, and she adjusted her handbag under her arm. “I need to speak with you alone.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but Grace and I have important business to discuss about the new show.”
“I’ve come to get my inheritance. Miss Michelle’s sister stole it from me.”
Flo let out a chuckle. “What are you talking about, my dear?”
Liane set her handbag down on the table with a thud. “I traveled to California to get it back. I spoke with Sophia’s husband, her sister-in-law, anyone who knew her. It’s gone. She must have sold it here in New York before she left for California. It’s mine, Flo. You promised me. Where is it?”
Flo slowly sat down in his chair opposite Grace and raised his eyebrows at her as if he thought Liane had slipped over the edge of sanity. “I’m sorry, dear. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“The cape!” Liane slammed her hand on the table. “The ermine cape with rubies and sapphires. When you bought it for mother, you said it would be mine one day. I know it is worth a fortune. Where is it?”
“Truly, I—” Flo raised his hand to the stubble on his chin, his eyes reflecting his search for the memory.
“Oh, come now, Flo. Surely, you remember. I was there with you and mother when you purchased it for her. I was six years old and had just arrived from France. We went to the Lyceum Theater. Mother was in one of your shows there. She fell in love with the cape; it was part of a costume. You told me it would be mine.”
An uneasy silence filled the room. Grace fidgeted in her chair, surprised at the lengths Liane would go to get that cape back. Would she have stooped to murder? She said she’d been in California and had confronted Sophia about it. Could that have been the moment the camera had snapped their conversation?
“Really, darling.” Flo reached his arm out in front of him on the table in a gesture of peacemaking. “That was so long ago. I truly don’t remember telling you it would be yours.”
“But you do remember the cape.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“I gave it to Sophia. She didn’t steal anything.”
“When you were screwing her,” Liane spit like venom.
“Liane!” Grace cut in. “I beg your pardon!”
“It was mine, Flo, and you gave it to that tramp. You owe me.”
Grace stood up. “I will not let you speak about my sister like that, Liane. Watch your mouth.”
Flo gestured for Grace to sit again. She obeyed but wanted to tackle Liane from across the table.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Flo said. “What would you like me to do?”
“I’d like one hundred thousand dollars.”
“It’s not worth that.”
“Maybe not then, but it is now. I got nothing when mother died. As your adopted daughter, I deserve something.”
Flo let out a rush of air, set his hands on the table as if bracing himself. Grace saw the lines crease in his forehead as he raised his eyes to Liane.
“Those papers were never signed. You are not my adopted daughter.”
Liane’s face drained of color, but her eyes burned with rage. “Don’t think I won’t ruin you, Flo. I have information on you that you would rather forget, including some tantalizing tidbits on your floozy sister.” She directed her gaze at Grace. “I hated that woman, and I hate you, you pathetic orphan. Flo already had a child when you straggled in from the streets. He had me.”
Grace steeled herself by bracing her hands against the sides of the chair. “You were never here, Liane. You lived in France. I’d never even met you until recently. I’m sorry to hear you hated my sister, but the question is, did you hate my sister enough to kill her, Liane? Are you here to kill me?”
Liane smirked, then laughed. “Murder is really not my style.”
Flo stood up so fast, the chair nearly fell over behind him. “Girls, girls! Please, Grace, Liane would never kill anyone. Liane, Grace has done nothing to you. This argument is going nowhere.”
“I am your step-daughter!” Liane said, pointing a finger at her chest. “I deserve this life, these riches, these roles, not this stray cat from the gutter.”
“What do you want, Liane?” Flo asked, his voice raised for the first time.
“The money.”
“I don’t have the money, but I can give you a job in Grace’s show. You can be a chorine, darling—sing, dance, wear lovely costumes.”
Grace swallowed, knowing that particular offer would not be tantalizing to Liane.
“A chorus girl?” Liane’s gaze bore into Flo. “Oh, that’s rich.” She pointed a finger at Grace. “Very well. When you make Flo thousands of dollars in your new show, I’ll be standing by to get my share.” She turned back to Flo. “And believe me, there will be consequences if I don’t get it.”
Line rehearsals started the next day. Grace arrived early and
stood onstage, silently reading her script while waiting for the others. Flo and the director, Harvey Stein, stood in the corner talking while the crew bustled around the stage, arranging props.
Suddenly, someone flung open the doors at the back of the theater, spewing shafts of daylight into the great gallery. A large man wearing a dark suit, hat, and white scarf entered the theater. All activity and conversations ceased. Joe Marciano had arrived, looking smug.
Walking slightly behind him were his two guard dog cronies and a taller, thinner man wearing a brown suit. Grace’s heart slammed so hard against her ribs, she almost lost her balance. What was he doing here? Her first impulse was to turn and run, but she stood her ground.
Flo crossed over to stage right, holding his hand above his eyes to diminish the glare and greet his guest. “Joe. Uh, hello.” The cigarette dangling from Flo’s fingers shook.
Grace swallowed, her eyes riveted toward the man in the brown suit. The same man she thought had run her down in the car, who had appeared on the train, and who she’d seen crossing the street in Beverly Hills. The man she thought was following her. The man she and Sophia had left for dead in the street all those years ago. He returned her gaze but showed no emotion, no sense of recognition. His eyes passed over her and focused on Flo. She held the script firmly at her side to stop her hands from shaking.
Marciano tipped his hat to Grace. She managed a tight smile and nodded back to him, her skin crawling as his lips curved into a lecherous sneer.
“I’d like a word, Ziegfeld.” Marciano took off his hat and fingered the brim.
“Certainly, certainly. Boyd!” Flo waved his manager over. “Take over for me.”
Jack Boyd, a short, barrel-chested, heavyset man, looked from Flo, to Marciano, to Grace, and then back to Flo.
“Sure, boss.” He glanced back at Grace. “Have you got your lines?”
Grace gave a terse nod, afraid her voice would croak like a bullfrog’s if she spoke. Her eyes flitted toward the man in the brown suit. His gaze grazed over her again, seemingly more interested in the lights and catwalks than anything else.
