by Kari Bovee
This was true. Florence had said as much when Officer Clayton had broken the news to her of Mr. Travis’s death. In fact, the chemistry between Helen and Mr. Travis had been so palpable, it practically had taken on a life of its own. No wonder there was strife in Helen’s marriage. But at the same time, something was off about her husband. And with that hidden bruise, I was a little worried about her safety. Was her husband prone to violence? Had he hit her? She had been crying at the party. Could Charles Wilson have followed Lizzy and Mr. Travis out to the barn? He certainly had a motive for killing the man. Helen Clark did, too, for that matter. According to Chet, love, jealousy, and money were the primary motivators for murder.
“I’m telling you this, Grace, because I’d like for you to support her in any way you can,” Mrs. Steinberg continued. “Since you will be working intimately with her, you can help her to stay focused. You can be a sounding board, a friend. We women need to stick together.” She turned to Felicity. “I’m glad Timothy has brought you aboard. Welcome.”
Felicity gave her a warm smile. “Thank you. I’ll do what I can to help Helen, as well.”
“Excellent,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “The girl has a bright future. As long as the men in her life, my husband and Mr. Combs included, stay out of her way and let her be the actress she’s meant to be, that is.”
With that, she left the room.
“Well,” I said to Felicity, “how great is it that we get to work together?”
“Pretty great,” she said. “Things are a little slow at the Travises’ mansion, as you might expect, so this is a welcome diversion for me.”
“How are things, you know, at the mansion?”
Felicity shook her head. “Grim. Florence has been drinking—heavily—and she isn’t a kind drunk.”
I sighed. “It’s so sad. The way Mr. Travis died. Who could hate him so much they’d want to kill him?”
Felicity snorted. “A number of people.”
Florence had said so, as well. I raised my eyebrows at her. “Who do you have in mind?”
“Well, Florence for one. They argued all the time about his affairs, though one could hardly blame her.”
I hoped Mr. Travis hadn’t planned to make Lizzy a conquest. Perhaps that is what Florence had feared, too? She’d seen him chatting with Lizzy at the party. Maybe she’d seen them go to the barn and had imagined the worst.
“I’m sure there were others,” Felicity said. “Men like him make sure they are never alone and never without a beautiful woman on their arm. Must be some kind of insecurity.”
“Like Joe Marciano?” I added. That’s how I’d met Felicity. She, as well as my sister, had been in a relationship with the mob boss, and not a healthy one. I was glad she was finally rid of his cruelty and abusiveness, that she’d risen above the damage he’d created. I wondered if she would ever give her heart to someone else again.
She slapped my arm. “Don’t remind me!”
“Sorry.” Then I remembered what Lizzy had told me earlier about the argument Mr. Travis had with his employee at the party. “What do you know about the man, Mr. Johnson, who worked for Mr. Travis?”
Felicity shook her head. “Not much. He’s a bit of a loner. I think he was an actor at one time. Not sure why he’s not working in that capacity anymore.”
“He was sure buzzing around Lizzy the night of the party. She told me he and Mr. Travis had words about it that night.” Again, I wondered if Mr. Travis had been trying to protect her or lay claim to her.
Felicity crossed her arms over her chest. “Men. Ugh! Why can’t they find someone their own age? That’s disgusting.”
“It is,” I mused, no stranger to being propositioned by older—and younger—men.
“And what about Helen’s husband?” Felicity placed her hands on her hips in indignation. “He’s old enough to be her father. I’m sure he wasn’t a fan of Mr. Travis.”
“No,” I agreed. “And then there’s Robert Smith.”
Felicity’s brow furrowed. “What about him?”
“He might have blamed Mr. Travis for his getting fired. They had an altercation on the set a couple of days before the party. When Detective Walton was questioning Florence on the night of the murder, she’d said Mr. Smith had come to the mansion the day before, yelling and screaming at Mr. Travis.”
Felicity’s composure relaxed a bit. “Sounds like he did blame Edward for his getting fired. How’s the kid holding up?”
“Lizzy? She’s traumatized, as you can imagine.” I shook my head, wishing I could come up with a way to provide more comfort for her. “She doesn’t remember much after she and Mr. Travis left the house to go to the barn. He wanted to see the horses.”
“Mm-hmm. Maybe that’s not all he wanted to see,” she said.
Yes, that idea kept coming up. And with Mr. Travis’s track record with extramarital affairs, it was only logical.
“Maybe he wanted to get Lizzy alone, but I’m not sure his reasons were so nefarious,” I admitted. The idea that he was actually trying to protect Lizzy still sat at the forefront of my thoughts.
“Why do you say that?” Felicity asked.
I really couldn’t explain it. “I don’t know. Just a hunch?”
I shuddered. The image of Lizzy trying to defend herself against unwanted advances made my stomach turn. I refused to believe Lizzy could kill a person, even in self-defense.
“Well, I’m going to go find Timothy. See what he wants me to do,” Felicity said.
“Okay. I need to go back to organizing the wardrobe room. Looks like we’ll be working, first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Ten
Felicity and I parted ways, and I headed back to the wardrobe room. I passed by the massive outdoor set of The Queen of Whitehall, our own little Camelot glistening in the California sun with its white castle, complete with moat and drawbridge. Set design was an amazing art—an eye for scale was paramount, and one also had to determine how the set would look on camera. Since the majority of the sets were already in place, Felicity’s job would be easier, but I still didn’t envy her the task. Luckily, she and Timothy worked extremely well together and had a similar aesthetic so there would be few if any clashes of opinion.
As I left the car park, I saw them together, assessing the structure of the castle, Timothy standing with his hands on his hips and Felicity pointing to something at the topmost turret. I tried not to gasp as Robert Smith and Lenora Lange emerged from within the castle. What were they doing there? Robert Smith had been fired.
They approached Timothy and Felicity. Miss Lange looked like a fairy snow queen, wearing a white ermine fur over a white dress that, in combination with her silvery white hair and striking blue eyes, gave her an ethereal look.
“You know I’m the only one for this role, Timothy,” Mr. Smith said with a raised voice, marching fast toward them. Miss Lange hung back as if she couldn’t keep up with him, or perhaps she didn’t want to interfere with the conversation.
Unable to deny my curiosity, I walked toward her. As I approached, I cleared my throat, catching her attention. She gave me a nod in greeting but remained riveted to Robert Smith and Timothy.
“What are you doin’ here, Robert?” Timothy asked.
“I misplaced something, either on set or in the dressing room and was looking for it. But I also wanted to talk to you. I need that role, O’Malley. Gotta pay the bills.” He stood close to Timothy, so close that Timothy took a step back. Mr. Smith was usually a quiet, reserved man, and this aggressive side that presented itself lately was strange indeed.
“You’re a fine actor, make no mistake,” Timothy said. “But the studio has the last say, mate.”
Mr. Smith placed his hands in his pockets. “But as the director, you do have some influence. It was that bastard Travis who wanted me gone, and now I’m gone. Surely, you could persuade them to bring me back.”
Timothy shook his head, running his fingers across his chin. “When you don’t show up f
or work, it costs the studio time and money. You need to get the drinking and drugs under control, my friend.”
Drugs? I had heard through the Hollywood grapevine that Mr. Smith had become addicted to morphine after the war, but I never paid much attention to gossip, despite the fact that it was a second language in showbiz. Rumors abounded about everyone.
“I haven’t had a drink since Saturday,” he said. “I don’t need the booze, man. It just helps me cope. I can’t sleep without it.” He didn’t mention the drugs.
I was so engrossed in the conversation between him and Timothy, I didn’t see Miss Lange come closer to me, and suddenly, she was at my elbow.
“You carry a burden,” she said, giving me a half smile.
The hairs on my arms rose. The woman had such a cryptic way of speaking. “Oh?”
She nodded. “Those who have gone beyond can see all, my dear.”
What was she talking about?
“Poor Robert,” she said, her eyes misting over. “This job meant everything to him.”
I was touched by her sympathy for the man. They surely were close, but in what capacity, I wasn’t certain.
“He does seem upset,” I agreed. “When did he get the news about being fired?”
She sighed. “Early this morning. The phone call from Mr. Combs got him out of bed, and Robert called me straightaway. He was in a terrible state.”
So they didn’t live together. And he hadn’t been fired before the party. But had he known it was coming?
He doesn’t seem any better now, I wanted to add. His eyes were wild, unfocused, as if he’d been drinking, even though he said he hadn’t. I wondered how things had gone at the police station for him on the night of the party.
“He seemed in bad shape the night of the party, too,” I said, trying to be crafty. “I saw him out in the field before I found Lizzy and Mr. Travis.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “Yes. He drinks to forget the war,” she said wistfully. “But the drinking only heightens his memories.”
“Did the police detain him long?” I asked. I needed to know if they considered him a suspect. I couldn’t imagine they didn’t, given what I had told them, but knowing for sure would tell me a lot about what kind of reasonable doubt the police had when it came to Lizzy.
“Overnight. I was called midmorning to come get him.” She spoke as if we were talking about him being picked up from a casting call, not from a night—or morning, after he’d sobered up—of interrogation.
“So they didn’t think him a suspect?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
She turned to face me full-on, her contemplative demeanor gone and in its place a scrutinizing look. “I have no idea what the police think, Miss Michelle. What do you think?”
I blinked back my astonishment at being put on the spot like that. The skin on the back of my neck tingled. I wasn’t sure how to answer. The woman seemed to always put me off my guard.
“I-I don’t know,” I stammered.
She gave me a serene smile. “The girl will need your help. But to help her, you must rid yourself of the burden.”
“Um, what?” I asked, still trying to get my feet under me again. I didn’t really have time for these riddles. How had she so quickly turned the conversation?
“I feel a heaviness around you. They tell me it surrounds your family.”
What on earth were we talking about here? I had no family left. It was also impossibly rude to bring up my family when she knew nothing whatsoever about them. “They?” I asked, unable to hid the irritation in my voice.
She gave me that endearing smile again, the lines around her eyes crinkling in a motherly way. “Joshua.”
I shook my head, feeling as if I’d gone into one of my strange dreams. “Who?”
“Joshua. My collective of souls. I know, the name in the singular throws people off.”
That’s not all that throws people off.
I stared at her, again, not quite sure what to say. Was this woman mad?
“I’m sorry, I—” I wanted to tell her I had to go, but her penetrating gaze had my feet rooted to the ground.
“It is of no consequence,” she said.
“Hey, buck! Get off!” Timothy’s shouting drew our attention back to the two men and Felicity.
Mr. Smith had grabbed Timothy by the lapels of his gray Oxford sweater coat, his teeth bared in frustration. Felicity stood by helplessly, her eyes full of alarm.
“Robert!” Miss Lange scolded him as if chastising a dog. He quickly let go of Timothy’s lapels and jammed his hands back in his pockets as if he didn’t trust himself not to strangle the director. He had an aggressive side, indeed.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Timothy, taking his hands out of his pockets and holding them up in apology. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Timothy straightened his coat but kept silent. He simply shook his head and walked away, leaving Mr. Smith holding his hand over his mouth, as if surprised by his own actions.
“Robert suffers so,” she said, turning to me with a sigh. “The war, you know.”
“Yes,” I said, growing more impatient with her by the minute. “You mentioned that.”
And, yes, I did know. Chet had his own demons when it came to the war, but since we’d moved to the ranch and he’d retired from investigating, he had settled a great deal. My heart went out to Mr. Smith, but at the same time, his behavior gave me pause.
“We must go,” she said. “Remaining here will only agitate him further.”
“Yes, I see. Well, goodbye.” I hope I didn’t sound too eager to be rid of her, but this woman unnerved me, especially her continued mentions of my family. The familiar fluttering in my stomach and heaviness in my chest returned as I thought about them. The truth was, I didn’t remember much about my mother and father, which was strange because I had been twelve when they’d died. It’s not as if I had been an infant. I had a few photos, too. My mother was girlish looking, like Sophia, with wide expressive eyes, high cheekbones, and charming dimples. The only real difference between her looks and Sophia’s was their hair. Sophia had my father’s dark hair while I had inherited my mother’s golden locks.
Suddenly, the ground seemed to shift beneath my feet, and I faltered. I placed my fingers at my temples, taken by surprise at the sudden wave of dizziness.
“Hey, you okay?” Felicity came up to me, concern in her voice.
Embarrassed at how I must have looked, I quickly lowered my hands. “Oh yeah, fine. Just a little dizzy spell.” I did not want to tell her about my conversation with Miss Lange. “Maybe you should ask Timothy that question, though,” I said, nodding toward him. From the castle, he was watching Robert Smith and Lenora Lange walk away, shaking his head.
Felicity scoffed. “Yeah. I will. That Robert Smith is a real hothead.”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said under my breath, my uneasy thoughts still with Miss Lange’s cryptic words.
“Grace? You look like you just lost your best friend. What’s going on?” She put a hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I said, trying to reassure her.
Truth be told, I had lost not only my best friend in Sophia but those who had mattered most to me as a girl, the two people who had brought me into this world. What would it have been like if they hadn’t died? Would Sophia still have become a Broadway star in the Ziegfeld Follies, an occupation that eventually led to her death? Would I have become a costume designer? I certainly wouldn’t have met Chet. Had we not worked for Flo at the same time, our paths would never have crossed. The very thought made me sad.
“You sure?” Felicity asked.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, not sure at all. I was just about to escape back to wardrobe when I remembered what I might have done with my tape measure. I had used it to measure the width of the skirt on the Santa Maria, the nickname I had given one of Helen Clark’s costumes. She had been having trouble managing the massive volume of the skirt wh
ile going through a doorway of the castle, and I’d been measuring it on set, trying to figure out how to scale it down.
“I need to check something on set,” I told her.
“I’m going to catch up with Timothy. See you later.” She waved and then jogged toward the director.
I walked under the imposing arch into the castle’s courtyard and turned the corner to go to the area deemed “the banquet hall.” Spying something metallic on top of the large banquet table, I headed over there. It was, indeed, the tape measure. I let out a sigh of relief and swiped it off the table. It would have been a shame to have lost such a precious memento of my time with such a world renowned designer.
On my way out to the courtyard, I felt something make contact with my shoe. Something small and cylindrical went skittering across the set and wedged itself under the base of one of the standing candelabras. I walked over to see what it was and reached down to pull it out. It seemed to be some kind of glass medicine vial, dark brown in color and about two inches high and half an inch in diameter. It was void of a label and sealed with a rubber stopper.
I remembered Timothy’s comment to Mr. Smith about his drug use and the fact that the actor had been looking for something on set. Had this been what he’d left behind? Did he always carry around a glass medicine vial?
Holding the vial by the stopper, I twirled it in the light. It was empty.
Suddenly, what Lizzy had told me about the party flashed in my mind—that someone had bumped into her and then she’d had the sensation of being stung by a bee. I had thought then that she could have been drugged, but now . . . Could it have been Robert Smith who’d bumped into her? Had he drugged her? Did this even belong to him?
I slipped the vial into my dress pocket and hustled outside to see if Mr. Smith and Miss Lange were still there, but they were nowhere to be found.
Chapter Eleven
For the rest of the day, I spent the time off giving extra attention to the children, who were all understandably upset by what had happened at the ranch Saturday night, especially Lizzy. She never left my side as I worked in my studio, in the garden, or with the horses, although she didn’t speak much. I tried to engage her in conversation, to get her to talk about what had happened and to talk through her feelings, but she remained quiet. I decided it best to let her process her emotions in her own way. Miss Meyers had taken Susie under her special care, and Ida wanted to spend time with Daniel and Ned outside doing the more strenuous ranch work.
