Grace in Hollywood: A Grace Michelle Mystery

by Kari Bovee

  “I’ll have my guys work through the night if we have to so we can release the scene. The coroner should be here any minute to take the body.”

  “Can I go to the station and wait for Lizzy?” I asked.

  The detective gave me a dubious look. “I don’t know how long we’re going to keep her. You might as well stay here. Get some rest. We can give you a call in the morning.”

  “The morning!” I cried. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 1:00 a.m. It was already morning. I shook my head vehemently. I didn’t care. “I want to be there when you are done questioning her.”

  Chet took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “I’ll go, Grace. We’re going to need to notify her sister first thing in the morning, and I think it’s best if that comes from you. You go be with her. That’s a conversation best had in person. And the kids might need you tonight.”

  “But—” I started to protest but stopped myself, taking in the wisdom of his words. What if Susie needed me? Or Ida? She’d looked so shaken when she’d seen Lizzy. I realized with aching disappointment that I couldn’t be everywhere, as much as I wanted to be.

  Chapter Seven

  I woke early and immediately jumped out of bed and got dressed. My eyes stung from lack of sleep. I don’t think I got more than three hours at the most, and those three hours were filled with more of the nightmares that were coming all too frequently. All versions of the same scene. Sometimes I was holding the knife over my head, ready to sink it into the back of a man who was attacking Sophia, and sometimes it was her holding the knife. Sometimes it was my mother holding the knife, which was the most chilling scenario of all.

  My parents had been gone for twelve years. They had walked out of the house, suitcases in hand, to take what my father had claimed was a weekend trip, leaving me, twelve years old, and Sophia, thirteen years old, alone. I remember my mother crying as my father ushered her out the door. We never saw them again. We’d been told they were in a train accident.

  Thinking about family, I mentally prepared myself to break the news to Lizzy’s sister, Margaret. It didn’t help that Chet and Lizzy had not yet returned home. How long would the police keep her? I worried about her, cold and alone in a cell, and was grateful Chet would be there when they finally released her—if they did release her. Hopefully, they wouldn’t charge her for a crime she didn’t commit.

  I took a deep breath. I had to put my anxieties aside and get to Margaret as soon as possible. She had left us with an address in Inglewood and telephone number. I thought about calling but then thought again. As Chet had said, this was the kind of news that needed to be imparted in person, and I wanted to tell her before she found out any other way. The murder of a Hollywood director, especially one as famous as Mr. Travis, would be front-page news in no time. I simply had to drive out to Inglewood to see her toot suite. Since it was a Sunday, I assumed she’d be home. At least that is what I hoped.

  I arrived at her address at around 9:00 a.m. It was a charming little pitched-roof cottage—with emphasis on the word little. I walked up the three steps to the covered porch and rang the bell.

  Margaret answered, her hair in a headscarf. She was wearing an artist’s smock speckled with paint. She was a striking woman with high cheekbones, broad forehead, and sensuous mouth. The resemblance between her and Lizzy was remarkable. I remembered thinking the same thing when I’d first laid eyes on both of them only three short months ago.

  Her eyes registered surprise at seeing me there. She leaned her hand against the doorframe as if bracing herself for the worst. “Miss Michelle? Is Lizzy all right?”

  I smiled at her in an attempt to hide the dread I felt at what I was about to tell her. “May I come in?”

  “Of course, please,” she said, her voice wavering.

  She opened the door wider, and I stepped inside. The entry opened to a small living area. There were few but fine furnishings. I spied an easel in a screened porch at the back of the house. “Can I offer you some coffee?” she asked unsteadily.

  “Yes. That sounds wonderful.” I followed her into a tiny kitchen. It was a sunny room with white-painted cabinets, a small gas range, and a wooden icebox. Lace curtains adorned a window that looked out onto the backyard, which was well tended with rose bushes lining the fence.

  She took two cups from a cupboard and set them down at the table in the middle of the room. I took a seat while she poured the coffee from a silver pot. There was sugar and cream on the table, and I stirred both into my cup, trying to find the words to say what I’d come here to say.

  Margaret joined me at the table and stirred cream and sugar into her coffee, as well. “How’s Lizzy? Is everything okay? She hasn’t been any trouble, has she?”

  “Miss Moore—”

  “Margaret. Please.”

  “Okay. Margaret, Lizzy has been involved in an incident at the house.”

  She looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Oh no. She hasn’t run away, has she?”

  “No.” I shook my head. That news would have been so much easier to deliver. “She’s been taken downtown to the police station for questioning.”

  “Oh god. She didn’t steal from you, did she? I’m so sorry. You’d think she’d learn her lesson! I told that silly girl—”

  I put my hand on hers. “She was taken in for questioning regarding a murder that occurred last night at the ranch. I’m afraid she is a suspect.”

  Margaret blinked at me, her mouth agape. I told her how I’d found Lizzy and what had transpired afterward. Her face went white, and she placed a hand over her mouth. She slumped against the back of her chair.

  After a few moments, she lowered her hand. “This man. Who was he? Why was he alone with her? If she did it, it was obviously self-defense. What did Lizzy say?”

  “She claims she doesn’t remember. But that’s what I think, too. If she did kill him, she did it in self-defense.” Although, to stab someone in the neck was extreme, especially for someone so young. That kind of killing seemed so . . . well, so expressly violent. I didn’t think Lizzy capable of that kind of rage. I continued. “Either someone attacked them both or . . . The man, Edward Travis, has—well had—a reputation for his philandering ways.”

  Her eyes popped open wide, and her mouth twitched. “You mean . . . Edward Travis, the director?”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  She stood up from the table and went to the kitchen sink, her back to me. I got up and joined her, placing my hands on her shoulders. “I know, Margaret. It’s a terrible shock. But I won’t give up on Lizzy. I promise you.”

  She shook her head. “This can’t be happening. I should never have let her go. I should have—”

  “Margaret, what choice did you have? The judge mandated she come live with us or go to jail. It was out of your control.”

  She tilted her head back, and the next thing I knew, her knees buckled. I caught her arms and led her back to the chair. She collapsed into it, laying her head on her forearms. Her shoulders heaved with sobs, and my heart shattered into a thousand pieces. I gently stroked her hair.

  She sat like that for a long time, crying into her folded arms. Poor woman. From what she’d told us, Lizzy had been difficult ever since Margaret had made the decision that the two would move to Los Angeles from Lake Tahoe.

  The lingering taste of coffee on my tongue soured as I sat there helplessly watching her.

  “Margaret,” I said. “I promise to help Lizzy, and you, in any way that I can.”

  She lifted her head, wiped her eyes, and sniffed loudly. I reached into my handbag, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to her.

  “I never should have uprooted her like that.” She unfolded the handkerchief and dabbed at her cheeks with it. “It’s just, the boarding house was getting so expensive to run. The woman who’d owned it previously left it to me and Lizzy in her will. I’d thought it so strange at the time. We were just boarders there, but she treated us like family. I don’t think she had anyone el
se.” She blew her nose. When she was finished, she picked up her coffee cup but didn’t drink anything. She just stared into the dark-brown liquid, reliving her memories.

  A sympathetic lump formed in my throat. I swallowed and did my best not to add to her discomfort by letting my own emotions get in the way.

  She took a deep breath and continued. “I was able to keep painting and do my art for a while, but I needed to spend more and more time running the boarding house. It was old and needed more upkeep than I could give it. One of the boarders, who was there on an extended vacation, offered me a job here in Los Angeles—at the Art Students League. It was a wonderful opportunity, and I could continue to pursue my painting career. When I told Lizzy about it and that I needed to sell the boarding house, that’s when she began to act out. Right after we moved here, she started seeing that older boy, the one who robbed that store, and now this? How could I have failed her so badly?”

  I leaned in closer to her, trying to keep my tears at bay. “This isn’t your fault, Margaret.” Somehow, it was so much easier to say it to someone else than believe it yourself. When Sophia was murdered, I too had felt responsible. If only I had done this or said that or hadn’t gotten mad at her or . . . Looking back at it now, it was so irrational. I had no control over Sophia’s life. But that’s what grief did.

  Margaret shook her head. “But I haven’t even been to see her. I haven’t been there for her. She was so mad at me, I thought I would give her some space. If only I had insisted on spending time with her . . . Oh!” She wailed, lifting her hands to her face. She covered her eyes as if to block out what she’d just been told. “This is horrible. Just horrible! She didn’t know . . .”

  “Didn’t know what?” I asked.

  After a few seconds, she lowered her hands and sniffed. She righted her face, the anguish in her expression vanishing. “She didn’t know any better. She was only doing what she had to, to protect herself.” She wiped her tears and gave me a weak smile. “Do you think I can see her?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how long they will keep her. Chet is down at the station, waiting for her.”

  The doorbell sounded in the other room. Margaret rose to answer it, and I followed her. She opened the door to reveal Detective Walton standing there with Officer Clayton standing behind him.

  “Miss Moore? I’m Detective Walton, and this is Officer Clayton. May we come in?”

  She nodded and let the officers in. When Detective Walton saw me, his face registered surprise.

  “Mrs. Riker,” he greeted me and removed his beat-up fedora. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I nodded. “Detective.”

  “I gather Mrs. Riker has told you about the incident involving your sister?” he asked Margaret.

  “Yes,” she said, closing the door. “How is Lizzy?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said, ignoring hers.

  “Of course. Please, come sit down.”

  “Do you mind if Officer Clayton has a look around?” The detective asked.

  Margaret shook her head. “No, not at all.”

  She showed him into the living room as the other officer wandered into a smaller room off the living room. From where it was positioned, I assumed it was supposed to be a dining room, but Margaret had two more easels set up in there. Paints, brushes, and jars of murky water graced a sideboard covered with a checkered tablecloth.

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked the detective, her voice unsteady and her complexion growing pale. “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” He took off his hat and smoothed his hair. His weary eyes met mine and he gave me a brief nod. His skin had the pallor of grayness, of someone who rarely ate, or slept—and if he did eat, it was on the run, and sleep only came in short shifts.

  We went into the living room as the uniformed officer made his way into the kitchen. We all sat down—Detective Walton in a low-backed burgundy armchair, and Margaret and I on her rose-and-burgundy chintz sofa. Margaret nervously fingered the handkerchief I’d given her.

  The detective, still in his khaki trench coat, leaned forward, placing one elbow on his knee. “You are Lizzy’s sister?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said, picking paint off the nail of her index finger.

  “And your parents?”

  She looked up at the detective then. “Both dead.”

  “I see. And how did they die?”

  Margaret sniffed and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to ward off more tears. “My mother died . . . giving birth to Lizzy. Lizzy was a change-of-life baby.”

  “I see,” he said. “And how old were you?”

  She covered her eyes with her hands. I scooted closer and placed an arm around her shoulder.

  “Miss Moore?” the detective pressed. I shot him a look. I knew all Margaret could think about was Lizzy at the moment.

  “You were how old?” he pressed.

  Unable to keep silent, I spoke up. “Detective Walton, she’s only just heard the news of her sister. She’s in a state of shock.”

  The detective heaved an impatient sigh. “The sooner I can finish my investigation, the sooner we get to the truth. I need to establish background on the girl, determine her character. Now, how old were you when your mother died?”

  Margaret dropped her hands to her lap. “How does this have any bearing on what’s happened to Lizzy?”

  “You’ve raised the girl, correct?” he soldiered on.

  “Yes.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she blinked them rapidly, taking in a deep breath.

  “She’s been in trouble with the law before, correct?”

  “Yes, but—” She shook her head, and a tear escaped down her cheek.

  Detective Walton pressed on, his expression hard. “She took up with an older boy, a young man, a criminal. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “They robbed a grocery and severely injured the owner of the store—almost killed him and then left him for dead. Is that correct, Miss Moore?”

  “No! Not Lizzy. She was driving the car. That’s all! She didn’t touch that man.”

  The detective appraised her with softened eyes. “But she has a history of violence, does she not?” he asked quietly.

  Margaret squeezed her eyes shut. Her shoulders trembled beneath my arm, and I pulled her closer to me.

  “Detective, is this really necessary?” I asked, the thudding of my heart pounding in my ears. I, of course, knew about Lizzy driving the getaway car, but I had no idea they’d left a man for dead.

  I shuddered, memories of my own troubled youth flooding in. It was as if, all of a sudden, I was reliving it—reliving the time when Sophia and I were in living on the streets of New York. The images pushed their way into my mind. The alleyway and the man standing over her, shouting at her, beating her, and then I—

  “According to her file,” Detective Walton said, snapping me out of my waking nightmare. I took a sharp breath. I needed to stay focused, in the present. I blinked the images away. “Lizzy was responsible for injuring a Mrs. Hillson, the owner of the boarding house you used to live in, the same boarding house she left you in her will. Is that correct, Miss Moore?”

  Margaret’s whole body tensed. “It was an accident!”

  “In a fit of rage, Lizzy pushed her down the stairs. Is that correct?”

  I somehow managed to hold back my gasp. I had not known of this, but I couldn’t reconcile Lizzy doing something so horrible. Yes, she was troubled and moody, but I had seen no violence in her.

  “She tripped!” Margaret shrieked, her body shaking from head to toe. She was now beyond upset. I knew Detective Walton had a job to do, but I didn’t see the need to interrogate Margaret like this. My god, how had he treated Lizzy, then? My heart broke for her once more.

  I shot to my feet. “I think you need to leave, Detective.”

  He pressed his lips together, looking up at me like a recalcitrant child defying his teacher. Slowly, he stood
up, still staring down at Margaret who was now sobbing in earnest.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said to her and then gave me a sideways glance.

  “What about Lizzy?” I asked.

  He secured the stained fedora on his head. “We’re holding her for the time being, until we have more information. I sent your husband home. He was dead on his feet.”

  My heart leaped to my throat, and Margaret’s shoulders tensed under my arm. “But can we go see her?” I asked. “Have you charged her?”

  Detective Walton raised his hands. “We haven’t charged her. She is still being questioned, so I can’t let you see her. We will give you a call later today. Your husband gave me your number. Officer Clayton!” He hollered for the other officer who had disappeared somewhere in the house, or perhaps he’d gone outside? Suddenly, he appeared in the living room, an expectant look on his face.

  “Let’s go,” the detective said to him. The officer obediently went to the door.

  Before Detective Walton stepped outside, he turned and said over his shoulder, “We’ll be in touch.”

  I sat down next to Margaret as she wept into the handkerchief, my stomach feeling as if it was going to heave.

  Chapter Eight

  Not wanting her to be alone, I had offered to take Margaret back to the ranch with me to wait for the news about Lizzy. She claimed she would be more anxious away from the comfort of her home. I then offered to stay, but she insisted she would prefer to be alone and that I go home to the other kids. The detective had taken down her number, and we agreed we would call each other as soon as either one of us had news.

  As I drove home, a headache started at the back of my neck. Must have been from lack of sleep. Suddenly, it dawned on me that Lenora Lange had visited my dreams last night. She was trying to show me something in that dreaded alleyway where Sophia and I had barely escaped with our lives. She was only there for a second, then morphed into my mother, and then vanished into the air like a wisp of a cloud. I blinked the memory away and focused on the road.