by Kari Bovee
Abuzz with activity, the theater hummed like a well-oiled machine with all the crew preparing for opening night. The lighting had been tested, sound checked, and costumes fitted, refitted, and repaired. Grace sat at a vanity table in the chorus girls’ dressing room, where they chatted noisily as Grace waited for Liane to enter. Giving up her personal dressing room to appease Liane didn’t bother Grace in the least. The girl obviously had a need for personal attention—much more than Grace did. In fact, Grace liked being among the throng of noise and bustle—it helped with her mounting nerves.
The thought of performing in front of hundreds made her fingertips sweat. She wiped her hands on her dress and then laid a hand on the red ribbon-wrapped box next to her. She hoped Liane showed up soon. Grace had to meet with Lucile for a fitting in thirty minutes.
“You look very relaxed considering tonight is your debut,” a sweet-faced young girl said to Grace, setting a hand on her shoulder. “I know you’ll be great. I love your voice.”
Grace blinked. “Thank you.” Although they’d been rehearsing for a few weeks now, she still didn’t consider herself a singer—just a mediocre actress who happened to be easy on the eyes. The compliment certainly boosted her sagging self-esteem.
Finally, Liane entered the dressing room. She’d come from the back door to the alleyway, not from the dressing room Grace had loaned her. Liane scooted past the flurry of pink-and-white-feathered bottoms belonging to the giggling girls.
“Hello, Liane,” Grace said, taking the woman by surprise.
Liane stopped and placed a hand at the nape of her neck to smooth her hair. “Hello. Am I late?”
“No. Where have you been this morning? I expected you’d been in your dressing room.”
“I’m not taking your secondhand cast-offs.” Liane stuck her nose in the air. “You can have your dressing room. And it’s none of your business where I’ve been this morning.”
Grace sank her upper teeth into her lower lip to prevent herself from saying something unkind. “Liane, I have something for you. Can we go somewhere we can talk?”
Liane rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure I have time,” she said, a flourish of her arm indicating that she needed to be dressed like all the other chorines. “We don’t get personal wardrobe mistresses and the great Lady Duff Gordon to dress us as some people do.”
“It will only take a minute.”
Liane sighed. “Fine. Your dressing room?”
Grace led the way to the small, closet-sized room Flo had given her for the show. Lavish, expansive, and elegant could not describe the small space. It consisted of a vanity with mirror and chair, full-length mirror, small wardrobe, and a screen set up in the corner against a paint-peeled wall for the purpose of changing clothes and costumes discreetly.
“Comfy,” Liane said with a snort as she and Grace squeezed into the room.
Grace held the box in front of her. “This is for you. Open it.”
Liane’s eyes narrowed, and then her gaze lowered to the red ribbon. “You’re giving me a gift? Why?”
“I’m hoping this will set the record straight between us. You seem to think my sister stole something very valuable from you. I’m making up for it. Open it.”
With her lips downturned, Liane opened the box. Her eyes widened when she saw the fur cape within the box. She glanced up at Grace. “Where did you get this?”
“A friend gave it to me.”
“My cape. I can’t believe it. This is incredible.” Liane pulled it from the box and held it in front of her, admiring the soft fur and gleaming gemstones.
“I have some bad news for you, though.”
Liane raised her eyes to meet Grace’s gaze.
“It’s not worth anything,” Grace said. “The gemstones are glass, and the fur is rabbit, not ermine.”
Liane’s face fell, then hardened. “How do you know? What are you talking about?”
“The woman who gave it to me had it appraised. It’s merely a pretty costume.”
“You’re lying!” Liane clutched the cape to her chest, her eyes flaming with accusation.
Grace pulled the lost sapphire from her pocket. “I found this in Sophia’s wardrobe in California. It’s a perfect match to the cape and the other stones. Here, take it. Have it appraised yourself. But if you look closely, you can see it’s not real.”
Liane reached out for the sapphire and held it close to her face. Her brow rose and her mouth turned down as a cloud of disappointment shrouded her wilting figure.
“Was it worth killing for?”
“What do you mean?” Liane’s fist encircled the gem, and she lowered the garment.
“Did you kill Sophia thinking you would get this back? For spite? Anger? Revenge? Will you still kill me now that you have it again?”
Liane’s face opened up in shock. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I’m not going to kill anyone.”
“Were you at John Barrymore’s party in California? The night Sophia died?”
“What are you saying? No, no, I was not at that party. I didn’t kill your sister!”
“You’re lying. I saw a photo of you standing next to Sophia at Barrymore’s party.”
“Okay. All right.” Liane’s fingers curled around the fur, gripping it tighter. “I was at the party. Sophia and I had words. I left soon after that. I swear, I never saw Sophia again.”
“Until the funeral. Why were you even at the funeral?”
Liane laid the fur on the vanity. Grace could see perspiration glistening on the girl’s forehead. “I thought on the off-chance Flo would be there. He made it clear that he loved Sophia more than my mother. He didn’t attend my mother’s funeral, but I thought maybe he’d be at Sophia’s. I wanted to make a statement. I wanted him to know how much he devastated my mother—and me.”
“Your mother left him, Liane. Everyone knows that.”
“It was because of that tramp, Lillian. Their affair was so public. It humiliated mama. I wanted him to see me, a ghost from his past, one that would forever haunt him.”
“And the fur?”
“It’s mine. He promised me. I needed it. I needed the money. I have nothing.” Liane raised a hand to her mouth, her fingers trembling. Grace felt the slightest bit of compassion for the girl.
“I’m going to ask you one last time, Liane. Did you kill my sister?”
“No,” she whispered. “I swear it.” Liane’s eyes softened and filled with tears.
Grace studied the girl’s face, whose eyes never wandered, never blinked. Her cheeks had reddened from the sudden onslaught of tears and her lips trembled, but this was not the face of a guilty killer. This was the face of yet someone else who’d been disappointed by a father figure who’d promised much and delivered little, and always at a cost.
“I believe you,” Grace said. “But I have one more question for you, Liane. Please tell me the truth.”
Liane sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and nodded.
“Was Lillian Lorraine at John Barrymore’s party?”
Liane paused as if in thought. She raised her eyes to Grace. “No. I didn’t see her there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. She wasn’t there.”
Grace bit the inside of her cheek. Another dead end. “Thank you, Liane. You’d better go out there and get ready. I’ll step outside while you compose yourself.”
Grace opened the door and walked into the hallway. She slumped against the wall. What a fool she had been. Suddenly, the idea that someone had actually killed Sophia seemed ridiculous. In her grief, she’d stirred up a story that didn’t exist. She’d made accusations, insulted people, shoved those who cared for her away, and all because she couldn’t handle the truth.
The door handle clicked, and Liane came out of the dressing room, holding the fur tight against her body. She slid past Grace without glancing up and headed back to the chorines’ dressing room.
Grace walked back into her private dressing room, s
hut the door, and sat at the vanity. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and, in it, saw Sophia and her mother, their eyes glowing, their smiles radiating, compassion written in their every feature. Grace buried her face in her hands and let out her breath. No more tears left to cry. She had to carry on and carve out some kind of life for herself and forget the past.
She lowered her hands and stared into the mirror. Her gaze traveled across the vanity and settled on the glass sapphire Liane had placed there. The blue stone sat still and alone, its facets gleaming in the lamplight.
That night, opening night, Grace arrived to a hubbub of activity on the stage. Staff, looming high up in the rafters and on catwalks, set the lights for the first act. Stage crew put finishing touches on props. Ushers in their tuxedoes fiddled with their ties and vests. Lucile, Charles, and their assistants filled the chorines’ dressing room with a ball of blazing energy, tweaking hemlines and replacing feathers and sequins. Everyone in the theater busied themselves with fine-tuning all the elements of the production to achieve Ziegfeld perfection.
Fragments of her lines and the tunes of the songs raced through Grace’s mind. Terrified she would bungle them, fear as big as a peach pit lodged in her throat. When she looked up at the stage lights, not all of them on, her heart pounded in her chest. In less than two hours, the theater would be full of people, important people like Marciano—especially Marciano—all there to see her sing, dance and act. None of which she did very well. She breathed deeply, fighting the urge to swoon.
The orchestra pit buzzed and crooned with the tuning of instruments. Flo stood at one corner of the stage talking with Harvey, the director, and the music master, Irving Berlin. In his shirtsleeves and loosened tie, Flo looked nothing like himself. His clothing hung on him like a wilted sack. His face, drawn and gray, much as it had been for the past several days, looked like a mask.
When he saw her watching him, Flo excused himself and walked over to her. “Hello, dear.”
Grace attempted a smile.
“Are you ready for your debut? You’ll be a sensation, I just know it.” The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened, and he tilted his head toward her. “Do you know all your lines?”
“Of course,” Grace said, hoping she could convince them both.
“Then go get ready for rehearsal.” Flo kissed her cheek before leaving to finish his discussion with the director and conductor. They nodded their greetings to her, and she turned and walked backstage to her dressing room.
Rehearsals flowed without a hitch, and Grace could tell Flo was pleased as his gestures became more animated, color bloomed in his face, and he started to take on the demeanor of his old self, eagerly preparing for the curtains to go up. When he gleefully called it a wrap, he rushed over to Grace and embraced her, almost squeezing the breath out of her. If she could pass the Ziegfeld perfection test, surely she could successfully assume the role of an actress who could wow the audience.
By the time the theater gallery started to fill with patrons, Grace had perfected all her lines and song numbers. She peered around the curtain to watch people file in, and suddenly, her hands and feet went cold. Perspiration gathered under her breasts and seeped into her corset.
I can’t do this. I’m not an actress. They’ll know I’m an imposter. She would ruin the show, and she, Flo, and Chet would lose everything. With her heart pounding, Grace ran back to her dressing room and closed the door.
Seconds later, Charles peeked his head into the room. “Are you ready. Do you need anything?”
Grace paced across the tiny floor of her dressing room, biting her nails.
“Grace?”
“I can’t do it. Charles, I can’t do it.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you can do it. You’re Grace Michelle, Florenz Ziegfeld Jr.’s newest star.”
“I wish people would stop saying that. It’s not true. My sister was Flo’s star, not me. I’m not going out there . . . I can’t.”
Charles reached out to hold her, but Grace abruptly turned away. “But honey, you have to. Curtain goes up in twenty minutes. We’re all depending on you to pull it together.”
Grace stopped pacing and glared at Charles. “That’s the problem. I’m so afraid I’m going to fail, and then everything will—”
Charles walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver. “This is Charles. Please send Miss Brice to Miss Michelle’s dressing room. Tell her we have a problem, and we need her help.”
Grace continued pacing and biting her nails. If she kept up much longer, they’d be bloody nubs. Panic writhed in her chest like snakes. How could she get out of this?
“Can’t someone else take my place? What about the understudy? What’s her name?”
“Carla hasn’t had time to prepare. The show wasn’t supposed to open ’til next week, but Flo insisted it start tonight. She’s not ready.”
“I’m not ready.” Grace stopped biting her nails and wrapped her arms around herself.
The shuffling of feet and whispers at the door caught Grace’s attention. Charles opened it a crack and let Fanny nudge her way in.
“Good God, you can’t breathe in this room. What’s the matter? What’s going on?”
“Grace has a bit of the jitters,” Charles explained. “Says she can’t go on.”
Fanny nodded and whispered something to Charles as she ushered him out of the dressing room. As soon as the door closed, Fanny turned her attention to Grace.
“So, what gives, sweet cheeks?” she asked, straightening her feather boa.
“I can’t go out there, Fanny. I just can’t do it. No matter what Flo says or tries to convince us is true, I’m not ‘star material.’”
Fanny placed her hands on Grace’s shoulders and looked hard into her eyes.
“You look ready to me. You’re in costume, and your makeup is on. Irving told me your voice is crystal, too. Plus, I rehearsed with you earlier this afternoon. You nailed all your lines. You can do this. I know you can.”
Grace shook her head.
Fanny’s sympathetic expression turned cold. “I never thought I’d see this from you, Grace. You’re scared, I get that, but you have to deliver. Don’t skip out like Sophia. It will vilify her memory. There’s an audience out there expecting you to fill those shoes and more.”
Skip out? Sophia had to leave because someone wanted to kill her. Anger surfaced around the edges of Grace’s fear.
“You have to honor this commitment, Grace.”
Grace folded her arms over her chest. Her stomach ached.
“Flo needs this, Grace. Everyone knows he’s in financial trouble. Big trouble. And just like a man, he’s hung every damn thread on one thing, and that thing is you. The show’s got to be a hit or we’re all at the mercy of that fat-headed mobster Marciano.”
Grace drew in a slow breath. She prayed Chet would come dashing through the door any minute, saving her from the need to take the stage, but she hadn’t heard from him.
“Five minutes.” Charles’s voice rang out from behind the door. Another knock.
“Grace,” Flo said. “Grace, please.”
“Tell him I’m coming,” she whispered to Fanny. “I don’t want to see him.”
Fanny went to the door and opened it a crack. Someone’s arm pushed through, opening the door to reveal Flo, Jack, and Charles standing at the door, their faces as forlorn as those of abandoned puppy dogs.
Grace stared at them staring at her, the looks on their faces nothing short of comical and ridiculous. All this concern, all this angst, all this desperation—all for her to go out on the stage. Suddenly the thought didn’t seem so daunting. How hard could it be?
From somewhere deep inside her, a giggle surfaced, then another. Within seconds, deep, resonant laughter bubbled out of her at the absurdity of it all. The shocked expressions on the three men’s faces made her laugh even louder. Looking more and more baffled, their faces broke into unsure smiles, and they laughed, too. Other cas
t and crew members passed by the door, confusion on their faces.
Grace wiped tears from her cheeks as Charles and Jack led her to the stage. She walked to her mark and stood.
The curtain rose, and the lights hit the stage. The sound of strings and horns filled her ears, triggering an automatic response within her. Mustering every ounce of will and determination in her soul, once Grace uttered her first line, her fear, panic, and doubt fizzled into nothingness and she belted out the verses of the opening number with everything she had.
Chapter Thirty
The second act should have gone as smoothly, but it didn’t, nor did the third act. In the middle of one of the musical scores, part of the set crashed to the floor with a loud bang, a mechanical pedestal on which Grace stood malfunctioned, and in the fervor of frantic desperation, the leading man dropped one of the props and, consequently, lost track of his lines. Snickers and gasps could be heard from the audience.
When Grace glanced into the audience, her eyes were drawn to the silky white scarf draped around Marciano’s neck, his face reddening with anger. Sitting next to him, the beautiful Felicity Jones outshone everyone within the near vicinity in her green dress that shimmered under the gaslights. But her eyes glittered hard and her mouth twitched with recognizable fear. When the curtain finally fell after the disastrous third act, Flo, too, exhibited a silent rage.
Grace’s armpits dampened, and a trickle of sweat dripped down her lower back. The lead actor, his face ashen and perspiring, clutched his stomach with one hand and his mouth with the other, then ran off stage toward the men’s room. Grace followed, hurrying toward her dressing room. She could hear her poor leading man retching from behind the closed door, but she kept going. When she reached her dressing room, she slipped in. She started to slam the door when Flo pushed past her and slumped down onto the vanity stool.
