Grace in Hollywood: A Grace Michelle Mystery

by Kari Bovee

  I was still trying to process all that had happened, too. My nights were filled with lucid dreams of Mr. Travis, Lizzy, and of course, my mother and Sophia. I woke tired, confused, and feeling helpless. I wanted to know what Detective Walton and the police were doing in the investigation, who they were questioning, and what was being said. I was comforted by the fact that they hadn’t come for Lizzy again, which meant they hadn’t found any concrete evidence pointing to her guilt. I, on the other hand, resolved to find evidence pointing to her innocence. I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  The conversation at the dinner table that night was unusually light, except for the quiet discussion Chet was having with Joe about the horses. Chet had invited him over for dinner, which was not unusual as Joe lived alone and wasn’t handy in the kitchen.

  Lizzy hadn’t eaten much and pushed the food around on her plate while Daniel shoveled food into his mouth at a rapid rate, then heaped seconds and thirds onto his plate. Ida ate slowly, watching Daniel’s every move. Susie had pulled her chair close to Miss Meyers—so close, Miss Meyers had trouble lifting her right arm to eat. Poor Susie. I knew the events of the last few days had left her feeling scared and insecure.

  “Slow down, Daniel,” Rose scolded. “You’ll give yourself a bellyache.”

  He stopped mid-chew, rolled his eyes at her, and continued.

  “The cheek,” she murmured under her breath.

  Everyone was on edge and lost in their own thoughts, me included. My mind was focused on Robert Smith and the medicine vial, and how I might question him about it. I didn’t know when I might see him again, nor where he lived or even his phone number. Perhaps it would be better to take the vial to the police, but even if it was Mr. Smith’s how would it prove he drugged Lizzy? And, would Detective Walton even take me seriously? I needed to be certain. Yes, I would pursue this line of inquiry on my own. I’d find a way to reach Mr. Smith.

  Ned, sitting next to me, seemed lost in thought, as well.

  I set my fork down, only half of my food eaten. I didn’t have much of an appetite, my concern for Lizzy and the other children overriding my need for sustenance. Perhaps it was overambitious of Chet and me to take on children with such troubled pasts. Were we really equipped to provide what they needed? To keep them out of trouble? Given the last few days, I was seriously beginning to doubt it.

  When Sophia and I had been living on the streets of New York City, before Flo had found us one cold night outside his theater, I had dreamed of a life like this. Flo had done his best, but parenting hadn’t come naturally to him. He had been so preoccupied with his starlets and his theater, he hadn’t had time to address our emotional needs. I supposed when he and Sophia had had their affair, he’d thought he was providing love and support for her, but it had turned out all wrong. His dalliances with his other starlets was disturbing enough, given he was married to the lovely and talented Billie Burke, but those other starlets had not been raised as a daughter.

  The affair hadn’t lasted long. Flo had ended it. I knew he felt bad about it, and even deeply regretted it, but it had left Sophia confused, heartbroken, and angry. So angry, I had often thought it had contributed to her taking up with Jack Pickford and his destructive ways.

  My thoughts were interrupted when I felt Ned’s hand on top of mine. Surprised, I looked over at him. His eyes met mine, and I saw such tender concern in them that it made my heart stutter.

  “You look a million miles away,” he said quietly, his voice as smooth as butter.

  Shocked at his forwardness, I pulled my hand from his and rested it in my lap. Thankfully, Chet had not seen the exchange, as he was still talking to Joe.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I answered, smiling. I picked up my fork again and forced myself to take a bite of my mashed potatoes.

  “Can I be excused?” Susie asked me in a loud whisper. She had eaten almost everything on her plate, which was good.

  “Yes,” I said. “Take your plate to the kitchen.”

  “I’ll take it,” said Rose. “I’ve got to see to the pies in the oven.” She got up from the table.

  “I need to excuse myself, as well,” said Miss Meyers. “I need to get ready for the lessons tomorrow.” She got up from the table and followed Rose into the kitchen, Susie on her heels.

  Lizzy stopped moving the food around on her plate and set down her fork. “I’m not very hungry. I think I’m going to go to my room.”

  Daniel took the last swig of milk from his glass. “You want to go for a walk?” he asked her, his voice hopeful.

  She shook her head. “No, I have some studying to do.”

  A look of disappointment swept his face, and he stood up and picked up his plate. Lizzy did the same.

  “Daniel, don’t forget you need to check the horses’ water tonight,” Chet reminded the boy.

  “Yep.” Still eating a piece of buttered bread, he slipped through the doorway to the kitchen.

  Chet resumed his conversation with Joe, and I picked up my water glass and took a sip. I set it down, turning the base of it between my fingers, studying it. The detective had mentioned glass shards in the barn. Shards that were too small to cause a fatal injury, leading him to believe that the killer had used a knife or other sharp object. But then where had the shards come from? Our kitchen? The caterers? Or had it been glass from a liquor bottle? Had the killer used the glass to kill Mr. Travis and then broken it in an attempt to get rid of the evidence?

  “Grace?” Ned’s voice, soft and insistent, once more brought me back into the present. I turned to him, and he smiled at me, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare again.”

  “Oh,” I said, wondering if he always scrutinized me so closely and suddenly feeling a bit vulnerable. I turned my attention back to the glass between my fingers. “What did you do with the hay that had the glass shards in it?” I asked him.

  He swallowed a bit of food and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I wanted to make sure there was no possibility of the horses getting any of it so I pitched a large portion of it into the back of the truck and then emptied it into a pile out behind the barn. I burned it, so the horses wouldn’t eat it. Then I went back to the hay room and swept up the area, to get any remaining glass.”

  “Was there much waste? I mean, of the hay?” I asked, the practical side of me taking over for a moment. We’d already baled for the season, and we’d had a good cutting, but would we have enough to get us through to the next one?

  “Yeah. Quite a bit, actually. But Chet said we couldn’t take the risk.”

  “No. I suppose we couldn’t. What did the shards look like?” I asked him. “Could you tell what they had come from?”

  He shook his head. “The pieces were too small. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged. “Just curious. Wondering about the murder weapon.” I stifled a yawn, suddenly exhausted from the stress of the day. I longed to soak in a bath and then get into bed and read. “Excuse me,” I said, a little embarrassed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

  “You do look tired.” His dark eyes settled on mine “Here, let me.” He stood, picked up his plate and mine, and took them into the kitchen.

  “I’m exhausted,” I said, interrupting Joe and Chet. “I’m headed upstairs, unless you need me for anything.”

  “You feeling all right?” Chet asked. It was the first time he’d looked at me in earnest all evening.

  “Yes. Just tired.” My brain felt mushy from the long day, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Lizzy and the murder. I needed to take a mental break and try to relax.

  His eyes lingered on me for a moment. I could tell he was trying to read my mood. “Okay. I’ll be up later,” he said.

  Joe saluted me. “Good night, Grace.”

  I headed upstairs to our bedroom and immediately ran a hot bath. I soaked in the tub for a long time, trying to clear my mind of all the drama that had transpired over the last several days. When the water started to get cold, I got out, tow
eled off, and put on my favorite silk, Crepe de Chine nightgown, and settled into bed with my latest read, The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie. I had purchased it because of the title, which was oddly serendipitous as I had referred to the man whom Sophia and I had encountered in that alleyway in New York all those years ago as the Man in the Brown Suit. I hadn’t learned his name was Lefty until later. Although in my story, the man in the brown suit was far from a good guy. In fact, he was wasting away in prison for his association with Joe Marciano and his role in my sister’s murder, a reality that gave me a degree of comfort.

  As I read, it became harder to keep my eyes open. The book fell onto my chest, startling me awake. I don’t know why I didn’t put the book down and turn out the light to go to sleep. I needed it so much. My eyes drifted closed again, and my awareness settled on the blissful sensation of nothingness.

  Mother stands over me, screaming in rage, but her outburst isn’t directed at me. It’s directed at my father. He tries to calm her, but she will have nothing of it. My shoulders fall in on themselves as I retract, trying to make myself smaller, to protect myself from the rage on her face. I look past her to see Sophia crying, begging Mother to stop yelling. She covers her ears, shaking her head.

  Somehow, I find myself in a corner of the room, clutching one of my dolls, but I am a grown woman. Mother grabs a knife from somewhere and raises it above her head. Then, the room is full of people, full of voices, all colliding with one another. Lenora Lange appears from nowhere, dressed all in white, backlit and glowing, her hair shimmering.

  I sat up, breathing hard.

  Chet stirred beside me. “Grace?”

  When I didn’t answer, he took hold of my hand. “What is it?”

  I pulled my knees up, rested my elbows on them, and ran my hands through my hair. “Bad dream.”

  He propped himself on an arm. “Want to talk about it?” His voice was thick and groggy with sleep.

  “No.” I lay back down, my heart racing. He folded me into his arms, and I pressed myself into him as if I were trying to crawl inside him, to get outside of myself and somewhere safe. I finally let out a slow breath, comforted by his warmth and strength. We lay there for a while without speaking. I thought he would fall asleep again immediately, but I could tell he hadn’t.

  “Have I ever told you about my parents?” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer at first, but I could feel his breath in my ear.

  “No. Not really,” he said. “Only that they died in a train accident when you were young.”

  “Yes. I guess I haven’t told you much because, the truth is, I don’t really remember much. I remember things from the age of three or four until I was about ten, but not much after that.”

  “Like what kind of things?”

  “Sitting on my dad’s lap. Him reading to me. My mother’s smile. Sophia looked just like her. I remember a picnic we all took one day. It was a sunny, beautiful day. We sat near a stream on the grass somewhere, under a tree. Sophia and I had been playing in the stream, and we were drenched. We lay in the sun to dry off. Mom and Dad were laughing. That’s the last good memory I have of my family. All the others are—”

  “Not good?”

  I sighed. “No. I have memories of my mother being upset. Crying. Yelling. Sick. Or at least I thought she was sick. She wouldn’t get out of bed for days. Dad was gone a lot, and when he was home, he always seemed preoccupied, like he was not really there. Mother was so hard on Sophia. She was only a year and a half older than me, but Mother put the onus on her to take care of me and keep the house. Sophia had such a burden to carry. I remember that with vivid clarity.” I swallowed the growing lump in my throat, the one that made me want to stop sharing. “But then it all gets blurry. I remember snippets, but they’re fractured. Sometimes I wonder if they are real memories or if I’ve made them up. Then the memories get clear after Flo found us and took us in. I remember almost everything after that.”

  Chet rubbed my arm. His hand was warm, rough from ranch work. “Maybe you can’t remember because it was too painful. I don’t remember parts of the war. I think the mind forgets to protect us.”

  I snuggled closer to him, reveling in his strong embrace. His breathing slowed and lengthened and then turned to soft snoring. I felt my muscles relax, my mind loosen, and soon I, too, drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tuesday morning I went to the studio early to view the dailies, the unedited footage of the Thursday before the party, with Timothy and some of the other crew members. Timothy was not at all happy with what he saw. Thank goodness it didn’t have anything to do with the costuming, but mainly with the script. It wasn’t playing out on the screen as he envisioned. He canceled filming for the day, and he and the writers set to work.

  Felicity wasn’t needed on set for the day, either, so was headed back to her cottage on the Travis estate to catch up on some work there. I still had some party items that had been left at my house, and we agreed to meet there later.

  I had plenty of work to do but decided to take advantage of not being immediately needed and went to the office of the studio heads to speak to their secretary about getting Robert Smith’s address to show him the medicine vial and ask if it was the item he’d left on set. Luckily, after telling the secretary I had something to return to Mr. Smith, she complied.

  Mr. Smith lived in West Hollywood, and when I pulled up to his home, I found a quaint little Spanish Revival–style house with two identical tiled gables over large-paned windows and framing the front door. The curtains were pulled closed. The yard, though small, was well-kept. Two flower beds stuffed with bright-pink impatiens lined the front walk that led to the door.

  I parked the car, got out, and made my way up the walk. I knocked on the door and waited. Hearing nothing from inside the house, I assumed he was either not at home or didn’t want to answer the door. I was about to turn and leave when the door opened a crack.

  “Mr. Smith?” I tried to peer inside.

  He opened the door, looking as if he’d just stepped out of the bath. His hair was wet and dripping onto his shirt, which had not yet been tucked into his pants.

  “Grace? What are you doing here?” he asked, blinking into the light. Behind him, the house was shrouded in darkness.

  “I think I may have found something that belongs to you,” I said, rummaging through my purse. At last, my fingers grasped the small medicine vial. “You said you’d left something on set, and I was wondering if this was it?” I held it up to him.

  He squinted his eyes, and his brow furrowed in confusion. “What is it?”

  I blinked up at him. “It’s a medicine vial.”

  He opened his eyes wide, and his brows shot up. “Oh, I see,” he said, his face hardening. “You, like the rest of them, think I’m on drugs. Well, I’m not. Yes, I drink. I drink a lot, but I got the morphine habit licked.”

  “Oh, I . . .I didn’t mean to imply,” I stammered, suddenly flustered. What had I hoped to gain by this inquiry? That he would say, Oh, thank you so much. Yes, it’s mine, and reach for it? It had seemed so reasonable when I’d decided to ask him about it.

  His mouth twitched in annoyance. “I think it’s exactly what you meant to imply. For your information, I was looking for a writing pen—a very special writing pen given to me by Lenora. I misplaced it somewhere and thought perhaps I’d left it on set while going over my script. Did you happen to find that?”

  I smiled at him, trying to soften his anger. “No. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

  “Why don’t you ask Helen about that vial? I’m surprised you haven’t noticed she’s often stoned on the set. If she hadn’t been sleeping with Travis, she would have been fired, too.”

  I had noticed strange behavior from Helen at the party . . . “Perhaps I will. I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr. Smith.”

  He scoffed and shook his head. “Is there anything else?”

  I pressed my lips together, contemplating wh
at to say next. Given his hostility, I wasn’t sure I wanted to proceed, but I was there and I needed to help Lizzy.

  “Mr. Smith, I’m sure you are aware that one of the girls who lives with me, Lizzy, was at the party on Saturday night. She was the one found with— Well, I found her with Mr. Travis’s body. She has been accused of killing him, which I do not believe to be the case at all.”

  He heaved an irritated sigh and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. “What does this have to do with me?”

  I swallowed, trying to bolster my courage. “You see, when I went out to the barn to look for Lizzy, I saw you in the field.”

  He crossed his arms, and his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, what of it?”

  I smiled again, feeling a little intimidated by his defensive posture. I’d witnessed the man fly into a rage with my own eyes. I needed to tread carefully. “Did you happen to see anyone other than Mr. Travis and Lizzy going to or from the barn when you were out there?”

  He shook his head at me again. “So what are you now, a cop? I answered all those questions already. Now, I have to go.”

  With that, he slammed the door in my face.

  I blinked, stepping backward, and exhaled a shaky breath. I quickly turned and headed back to my car. After I got inside, I shut the door and leaned my arms and head against the steering wheel, my heart pounding.

  When I had settled myself, I placed the vial back into my handbag and replayed my conversation with Mr. Smith in my mind. He’d seemed genuinely baffled by the medicine vial so I was fairly sure it did not belong to him. Now, it seemed, I would have to make an inquiry of Helen Clark. It was too bad we had stopped filming until the script was revised to Timothy’s satisfaction. I’m sure Helen had gone home by now, and I didn’t know where she lived. What kind of excuse could I give Mr. Steinberg’s secretary this time? I’d have to find another way.