by Kari Bovee
Flo grabbed his coat and hat, and followed Marciano out of the theatre, a swirl of smoke trailing the mobster. Two of Marciano’s men flanked him on each side, and the man she’d feared for weeks now took up the rear.
Grace’s legs crawled with numbness as she watched them walk away.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chet arrived at Flo’s office late that afternoon to find him pacing, a stiff drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. His hair, mussed and in need of a cut, stuck out in sweaty spikes. Chet had received Flo’s call an hour prior and had come as soon as he could. He figured Flo wanted to discuss the California trip, and hopefully, they would come to terms with Chet’s debt and he would soon be off the hook, if he wasn’t already. He could start working on his business again and somehow win Grace back. She’d refused to have anything to do with him since that last night in California, and he was nearly crazy with worry about her emotional state.
“Want a drink?” Flo asked, never slowing his pace. He gestured toward the bar.
“No, thank you.” Chet sat in one of the chairs facing the desk. Flo had never looked so haggard. In fact, Chet had never seen Flo look anything short of perfect. “What’s the news?”
“Problems. Big problems.” Flo ran his hands over his thinning hair. He paused, then sighed. “I’m sorry about the Sophia-murder thing, Chet. I got carried away, caught up in the story. It was bad, I know. Hell, it was real bad, and I feel awful about it.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve spoken to Grace. She’s fine, fine.” Flo waved his hand in the air. “I’ll make it up to her, I swear I will.” He resumed pacing.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Money.”
“Go on.” Chet clenched his fists. He needed to be done with this job. He needed out, to get on with his life, and get on with repairing his relationship with Grace. If Flo was having money problems, he’d likely want more work from Chet—and God knows what that would be.
Flo stubbed out his cigar and shook his head, greasy strands of hair falling into his eyes. “She’s giving me fits”
“Grace?”
“No, no.” Flo shook his head. “It’s Macy. She’s divorcing her husband, but she wants to marry Hans Shoefeld.” He slammed his hand down on the desk.
Another starlet, another affair. Chet was unmoved. Now that he knew what Flo could do to the women he supposedly loved, Chet held no sympathy for him. “What does this have to do with money?”
“Macy wants to leave the Follies, but I can’t let her go. It’d be like watching money sift like sand through an hourglass. I’ve been so upset about it, nervous, and so tense I needed to find a way to cool down. I thought a few days in Florida by myself would help. Maybe I could sort things out, try to figure a way to make her stay.” He walked over to the chair behind his desk and sat down. “And then there’s Liane.”
“Liane?”
“Anna’s daughter. Threatening me. Says I owe her an inheritance.” He put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands in front of him.
“What did she threaten to do?”
“Nothing. I took care of it.” Flo waved his hand in front of him.
“And what happened in Florida?” Chet asked, afraid of the answer.
“I found myself at the tables.” Flo bolted out of his chair and commenced pacing. He placed his hands in his pockets, took them out, put them in again, took them out again. “I’ve lost everything.”
Chet closed his eyes. He opened them again to see Flo fling himself into his elephant-themed chair in the corner. “What do you mean, everything?”
“All the money I had, Chet, every last dime. I even raided one of Billie’s accounts. She’s furious and threatening to file for divorce. I can’t blame her. Everything has spun out of my hands. It’s all gone.” His last words squeaked out, and he pressed his fist to his mouth. He rose and went to the bar to pour another whiskey.
Chet froze in the chair. Florenz Ziegfeld Jr. had more money than anyone he’d ever known, except Marciano. But Flo also made a habit of throwing his wealth around, the money floating through the air like confetti.
“What about my debt? What about Marciano?”
Flo shook his head.
Chet gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath. He’d never wanted to strangle Flo as much as he did now.
“Marciano is still financing the show, but it has to be a hit, Chet. Grace has to be phenomenal. She’s the only one who can get us out of this mess. The show may have to run for a few years to get us whole again.”
Chet fought to still the rage seeping into his core. He struggled to keep his voice calm. “What about the banks? Have you gone to them?”
“We’ve been down that road before, Chet. You know they won’t loan me another dime. All I’ve got is Marciano.”
Chet felt his anger bubble up like boiling water in a geyser. “You son of a bitch.” He sprang from the chair and lunged at Flo across the desk, grabbing him by the shirt collar. He hauled him to his feet. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to that girl? You’ve used her like you use everyone. You’ve lied to her, cheated her, and now she’s your lifeline? Everything rests on her shoulders? Your debt? My debt? And now she’s working for Marciano?”
He drew his hand back and delivered a blow to Flo’s mouth, feeling the wet flesh smash against his knuckles. Blood from Flo’s lips sprayed onto Chet’s face, and Flo’s head snapped back before he crumpled onto the chair, semiconscious.
“You lousy bastard.” Chet pulled his pocket square from his breast pocket and wiped the blood from his hand and his face. He put the bloodied pocket square in his pants pocket, straightened his suit, and walked out of the office.
He entered the empty reception area. Goldie must have gone home for the day. Good. He would have hated to have her see him manhandling her boss.
Chet pulled his pocket watch from his vest. 6:00 p.m. He put the watch back and started down the stairs that led to the theater. He had to see her. He had to convince Grace to let him protect her because she needed protection now more than ever. The last thing he wanted was to leave her at the mercy of Marciano.
He knew what he had to do: he had to meet with Grace in a public place, and people needed to know about it. He had to get Marciano there. Chet just hoped his plan would work. But even more than that, he hoped he’d come out on the other side.
Since leaving rehearsal, Grace lay on her bed staring at the ceiling, her stomach in knots. Something was wrong, very wrong. Flo must be in some kind of trouble with the mobster, and although Flo had hurt her through to her very core, Grace couldn’t find it in herself to hate him. Angry, sad, and disappointed, yes, but she just couldn’t hate him.
A knock on the door startled her, and she clutched at the bedspread. She froze, listening. Another knock made her flinch.
Smoothing her skirt, Grace walked to the door and pressed her ear against it.
A third knock. Grace jumped back from the door.
“Miss Michelle, it’s the bellman. I have a message for you.”
Grace let out a rush of air, but her thoughts went immediately to the man in the brown suit. He could be pretending to be a messenger.
“Slide it under the door, please.”
A few seconds later, the envelope slid under the door with a whoosh. She picked it up, opened it, and read.
Chet wanted to see her. Lowering the letter, she glanced over at the clock on her dresser. She would have an hour to get ready. What did he want? She read the letter again. It wasn’t a plea to get back into her good graces, but something in the handwriting seemed urgent. He wanted to meet at the Plaza Hotel—such a public place. Photographers would likely see her entering or exiting.
She sighed. She would have to dress up. She walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. Hotel staff answered immediately. “This is Grace Michelle. Would you please send a message to Lady Duff Gordon? I need her sent to my s
uite immediately. Also, I will need a taxi, either horse-drawn or motor car, to take me to the Plaza Hotel in one hour.” She hung up the receiver, took a deep breath, and shuffled through the dresses in her wardrobe to find something fabulous to wear.
Within a half hour, Lucile arrived, and together they chose a dress of pale blue satin overlaid with thin mesh netting and embroidered with rhinestones and bugle beads. The dress showed off Grace’s thin waist, cinched unmercifully with a corset, and clung to her hips and legs. The hue was a perfect complement to her green eyes, making them appear a deep shade of aqua.
Chet’s letter had seemed businesslike and professional, but she wanted to be sure she looked her absolute best for the evening. In truth, a small flutter of hope bloomed in her chest that she and Chet would somehow work things out.
Chet waited for Grace in the Plaza’s lobby, his eyes scanning the crowded room of well-dressed guests. A few photographers had set up their tripods near the door, and men with notepads milled about, smoking their cigarettes and conversing with one another. There was no sign of Marciano, but he knew he’d arrive soon.
Not long after he’d left Flo, Chet had gone back to Flo’s offices, apologized, and told Flo he would help to make the show a hit. He’d said, in fact, that he knew Grace had made plans to have dinner at the Plaza Hotel, a great photo and publicity opportunity, and Flo should let the right people know when she’d be there.
A flurry of activity surrounded the revolving door of the hotel, and when Grace entered the red-carpeted lobby, pops from the camera flashes echoed through the room Soon the smell of gunpowder and mists of swirling smoke hovered above and around the cameras.
Grace, stunning as usual, walked through the lobby, her face tight. Chet knew she’d feel guarded. He watched her eyes skitter back and forth, scanning the lobby, until a look of relief passed over her face when she saw him. She didn’t pause to answer any of the reporter’s questions, and instead, she immediately came up to him and took his arm, her fingers wrapping firmly around his bicep.
“Can we get out of this lobby?” She spoke through a forced smile without moving her lips.
Chet slipped his arm around her waist and whisked her into the Palm Court, where he’d already directed the maître d’ to escort them to a booth in the back corner.
As Grace slid into the red velvet seat and removed her gloves, revealing white, silky, ringed fingers, she drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Chet noticed her fingers trembling.
“Oh, how I hate those photographers and reporters,” she said, exhaling in a huff.
Chet gently took her hand in his. “No one will bother us, now. I asked the maître d’ to make sure we have privacy.”
“What is going on, Chet?” She pulled her hand away. “Why did you ask me to come right away?”
A waiter approached and requested their drink order. Chet requested a bourbon and Grace, champagne. As soon as the waiter left, Chet looked into her eyes. “I needed to see you, Grace. I know things aren’t good between us, but I wanted to apologize again for how I handled Sophia’s case. It was wrong of me to keep the truth from you, and I hope you can forgive me.”
Grace set her mouth in a tense line.
“But that’s not why I asked you to come. I have to tell you something.”
She met his gaze.
The waiter returned with their drinks and asked if they were prepared to order dinner. Chet waved him away.
“So, tell me,” she said.
“I spoke with Flo earlier today, and he confessed that he’d lost everything to a gambling hall in Florida and that you’re now working for Joe Marciano. If Flo has any hope of hanging on to the theater, Molly has to be a huge hit, running over the course of a few years. It seems, unfortunately, that his salvation rests on your shoulders.”
“But I—” Grace’s eyes opened wide as silver coins.
“I have a plan, Grace. I’m going to fix this. You won’t have to work for that man, I promise you.”
Grace’s eyes narrowed, and Chet saw the hurt and betrayal in them. “You promise? Why would I take your word on anything?”
“I know the wounds are still fresh, and I’ve only stayed away because I know you need time to sort everything out. I know you’re angry and hurt, and I know that you can’t forgive me right now, but this is important.”
“My sister’s murder was important, Chet. You lied, made me think you cared as much as I did about solving the crime.”
“I did all I could.” He really hadn’t, which was why he had to make it up to her now. “I went to the police. As you know, the case is closed.”
“Well, you may have accepted their brush-off, but I discovered new evidence.”
“What do you mean? What new evidence?”
“Right before we left Beverly Hills, I went through Sophia’s trunk and found something. She had been writing a letter to me, telling me that she’d married Jack and fled New York because someone was after her. I took it to Detective Barnett.”
“And? Was he receptive?”
“No.” Grace shook her head. “He said there was no way to prove that she had written it.” She ran her fingertips across a small patch of tablecloth, a look of utter loss on her face. “Honestly, I can’t tell if it’s Sophia’s handwriting or not. It was similar but also different. She’d become so erratic, so many things about her changed. Could her handwriting have changed?”
Chet shrugged. “Perhaps she was drunk or on something.”
Grace’s face hardened. He’d hit a nerve. Again. She turned her head away. He could almost hear the wheels spinning in her head.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure I can trust you with what I want to say.” Grace lowered her hands to her lap and her eyes to the tablecloth in front of her.
“You can. I’ve learned my lesson.”
She raised her gaze to his again, her eyes so full of sorrow, mistrust, and suppressed anger that he wanted to flinch, but he held steady. He needed to prove to her his steadfastness.
“Two people hated my sister with a vengeance. It doesn’t mean they killed her, but each one of them keeps clawing at my mind like a bad dream.”
Chet sat silent, waiting.
Grace leaned closer to him and whispered. “Lillian and Liane.” She sat back again, her eyes skittering back and forth as if searching the room for eavesdroppers—or reporters.
“I can see your point with Lillian, but why Liane Held?”
“She thinks Flo gave Sophia her promised inheritance. Flo claims he doesn’t know what she is talking about. Denies everything. But in her mind, Sophia stole everything Liane felt should be hers, mainly Flo’s love.”
“What else do you have?” Chet asked, impressed with Grace’s analysis.
“I think they were both at the party at John Barrymore’s the night Sophia died. I know Liane attended. I saw a picture of her there with my sister.”
“And Miss Lorraine?”
“I’m not sure, but she was at Sophia’s funeral, which I think is very odd.”
“What are you implying?”
“Maybe Sophia was poisoned at the party, went home, and collapsed in the bathroom.”
Chet nodded. She could be on to something there.
“But what about the mercury bichloride?”
Grace shrugged. “Jack left it open after using it?”
Chet inhaled deeply while he processed her words. He didn’t see Liane Held as being capable of murder. She seemed so needy, petulant, and weak. But this scenario reeked of the kind of venom Lillian Lorraine often spewed.
“There’s more.”
“Go on.”
“What if one of them wrote the note addressed to me? I’m still uncertain of the handwriting.”
A spark of adrenaline surged through Chet’s system. He reached into his coat pocket. “I thought this might come in handy.” He pulled out the piece of paper with Lillian’s autograph on it.
“What is it?”
> He laid the paper in front of her. It read, Hugs and kisses to you, Lillian Lorraine.
Grace’s eyebrows pulled downward, her eyes raised to his, her gaze accusing.
“I was trying to find out why she was on the train to California. Told her my daughter wanted an autograph.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Hunch?”
Grace studied the paper. Her face relaxed, as if she felt relieved. “Can I take this? To compare the handwriting.”
“By all means. Let me know what you think.”
Grace tucked the small piece of paper in her handbag. When she looked up, her eyes widened as she peered over Chet’s shoulder. He shifted to see what caught her attention.
Joe Marciano had just entered the restaurant.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With three men accompanying him, and a beautiful colored woman in a red satin dress trailing behind them, Marciano strode toward them. He had a full-length fur coat draped over his shoulders, the arms of the garment swinging with his every step, and his eyes were as dark and angry as a thunderstorm.
Perfect. Chet knew Marciano would be furious at seeing him with Grace.
The minute Marciano focused his attention on Grace, the thunderstorm in his eyes dissipated, replaced by lusty languor, as if he’d already had her in his bed. “Miss Michelle, it is such a pleasure to see you.” He bent low, gesturing for her hand. She raised it to him, shaking like a leaf, her eyes flitting toward the woman—Felicity Jones, if Chet didn’t know better. Chet could see the look of lascivious pleasure in his eyes as he pressed his oily lips to Grace’s knuckles. He wanted to slap the mobster’s hand away, but instead, bided his time. Miss Jones stared at the ceiling.
“I’m happy to see you’re out in public on such a fine evening. It’s good publicity. Good for the show,” Marciano said, releasing her hand. “But you should be with me, not Piker Riker.”
