Grace in Hollywood: A Grace Michelle Mystery

by Kari Bovee

  I started up the car, Mr. Smith’s words echoing in my head. He never answered my question of whether or not he’d seen anyone come or go from the barn, I realized. In fact, he’d gotten quite upset by the question. Did that portray a guilty conscience? Had my question hit a little too close to home? What exactly had he told the police?

  By early afternoon, I was headed to Beverly Hills to return Mr. Travis’s tableware from the party to Felicity. As I drove up to the Victorian mansion situated on Canon Road, my breath caught in my throat at its architectural beauty. A large circular driveway led up to the front door, and several cars were parked along its graceful curve. Felicity had told me to take the adjacent drive toward the back of the house that led to the cottage.

  I drove past a large swimming pool and generous grounds of verdant grass and trees. The yard resembled a well-manicured park. In the near distance, I spotted the cottage. It looked like a miniature version of the main house, complete with its own circular drive flanked by flowering bushes. I pulled the car up to the front door just as Felicity was coming out to greet me. She wore cream-colored wide-legged trousers with a matching cream top, and a multicolored turban covered her hair.

  “Hello,” I said as I got out of the car.

  Her smile broadened at my greeting.

  “Beautiful place.” With a sweep of my arm, I indicated the manicured acreage. It was a far cry from our dusty ranch.

  “It’ll do,” she said with a laugh. “Come on in.”

  “Should we get the boxes?”

  “In a minute. I’m having some coffee. Join me?”

  I closed the car door. “I’m gasping for some.

  We entered the cottage into a small foyer, brightly lit with natural light from the semicircle window above the front door. The foyer opened to a modestly sized living room with wood floors partially covered with a Persian rug in soft pinks, blues, and greens. Two tufted, watermelon-colored accent chairs sat on either side of a white, ornately carved fireplace.

  “Come through to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way. We walked across the living room to the adjacent kitchen. The room was a study in white, with lavender and champagne accents.

  “Wow,” I said, duly impressed. “Did you do this?”

  Felicity nodded. “Yes. Mr. Travis said that while I’m staying here, I could decorate the cottage as I liked. Said it would only improve the value of the property.”

  “I can only imagine what you’ve done in the mansion.”

  She poured coffee into a dainty teacup, placed it on its saucer, and handed it to me. “Cream and sugar?”

  “No. Black is fine. Smells wonderful.” My mouth watered at the fragrant aroma dancing in my nostrils.

  “The mansion’s color palette is a bit darker, heavier—more masculine,” she continued. “That’s how Mr. Travis wanted it.”

  I took a sip of the nutty brew, fully appreciating its richness. I proceeded to tell her about my conversation with Mr. Smith and how I needed to speak with Helen Clark.

  “So I still don’t know much of anything,” I said, disheartened. “I wish Lizzy could remember more about that night.”

  Felicity sighed. “Yes. She was pretty out of it when you brought her into the house.”

  I shook my head, crestfallen at Lizzy’s predicament. “She’s still not herself, as you can imagine.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Each ruminating on poor Lizzy, I suspected.

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” I said. “I know you must have a lot to do.”

  Felicity nodded. “Yes, the east wing is kind of torn apart. Florence asked me to continue with the work but not today. Apparently, the lawyer has called a meeting with the beneficiaries of Mr. Travis’s estate. It seems there are quite a few, judging from all the people I’ve seen going into the mansion.”

  “That’s why there were so many cars out front,” I said. “How strange that he wants them all together. And so soon after his . . . well, his demise.”

  “I’ll say.” Felicity took her coffee cup in both hands. “Florence said this gathering was stipulated in the will by Mr. Travis. He must have had his reasons. I was invited, too, which is even odder.”

  My mouth flopped open. “Really? What do you think he left you? He must have updated his will quite recently, then. You haven’t known him for very long.” I briefly wondered if there had been more than friendship between the two. “You two weren’t . . . ?”

  Felicity looked at me aghast. “No! I swear it. He’s not really my type anyway.” She waved a hand in the air. “We were just friends. I can’t think of what he would leave me— Wait!” She pursed her lips in thought. “There is a set of eighteenth-century Chinese vases in his study that I greatly admire, and I told him so. He seemed very pleased that I liked them so much. Said no one in his family appreciated them and that maybe he’d give them to me one day. I thought he was joking, but . . .”

  I tapped my fingernail on the edge of the coffee cup. Why had he so recently updated his will? Was it just coincidence, or did he have some kind of premonition about his death?

  “You know, come to think of it,” I said, “maybe this type of gathering is not so unusual. Chet once told me about a murder case where the potential beneficiaries were gathered together shortly after the death. It was another high-profile murder case, and there was much contention among the family and other beneficiaries. The lawyers decided it best to have everyone hear the reading of the will together to dispel any disputes. Perhaps Mr. Travis knew there might be trouble in the event of his death?” Another thought came to me that quickened my pulse. “What do you think about me accompanying you to this meeting?”

  Felicity raised an eyebrow at me. “You want to go?”

  “Yes. It might shed some light on who may have killed Mr. Travis. What other opportunity would we have to see who might have a monetary motive to get Mr. Travis out of the way? Love, revenge, and money are the primary motives for murder. But it might look kind of funny for me to be there.” I suddenly had my doubts about the plan.

  Felicity set her coffee cup down and put her elbows on the table. She rested her chin on her clasped hands. “You’ll be my guest—to offer emotional support.”

  I considered her thought and took a sip of my coffee. “I suppose that would be reasonable . . .”

  “The worst anyone could do is ask you to leave,” she said with a shrug.

  “I suppose you’re right. It’s worth trying—for Lizzy.” A pang of sadness stabbed at my heart. “I know she didn’t kill him, but I think Detective Walton is convinced she did. I need to find out who might have done this terrible thing. It could be the only way to save her if the detective decides she’s guilty and tries to make a case against her.”

  Felicity’s brow furrowed, and she pressed her lips together. “Now, don’t get upset, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, but how can you be so certain she didn’t do it?”

  I blinked at her. “She was unconscious when I found her.”

  Felicity gave me a sympathetic look and placed her hand on my forearm, which was resting on the table. “Honey, that doesn’t mean she’s innocent.”

  “But if she did it, what did she do with the murder weapon? How could she have done away with it or hid it if she was unconscious?”

  Felicity shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe someone did it for her. Maybe another one of the kids? Maybe one of them came out to the barn, saw her there, saw the weapon, suspected she killed him, and got rid of the weapon to protect her?”

  Daniel immediately came to mind. Maybe Detective Walton thought that, as well, and that’s why he’d wanted to question him. Daniel did nothing to hide the fact he was sweet on Lizzy. A sinking feeling came over me, but then it suddenly vanished. A voice, like a whisper, sent a shudder through my core.

  No, that’s not what happened.

  I marveled at the overwhelming certainty in my mind. Was the voice my intuition?

  “I can’t explain it, Felicity. It’s ju
st a feeling in my gut, but I know she didn’t do it. I’d bet my life on it. I need to explore other possibilities.“

  She released my arm. “Don’t you think the police are doing that?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest. I wish I did. But, I have to help her. It’s the whole reason Chet and I decided to open up the ranch to the kids—to help them, support them, advocate for them if need be. So that’s what I am doing. I have to try.”

  Felicity sighed and then smiled at me. “You’re a good egg, Grace. I should know that when you back someone, you really back them. I won’t ever forget what you did for me.”

  I returned the smile, despite my confusion. “What I did for you?”

  She nodded. “You helped me to believe in myself again. Those years with Marciano made me feel hopeless, helpless, worthless. You had nothing to gain from helping me, yet you did it, even when it meant putting yourself at risk.”

  I waved a hand in the air, embarrassed yet touched by her words. Truth be told, if it weren’t for Felicity, I’m not sure I could have gotten out of the mobster’s grasp myself. She had been instrumental in helping me with my plan to escape after he’d kidnapped me. Having invested heavily in one of Flo’s shows, in which I had a starring role, he’d considered me his property. And when the show had failed, he’d wanted his money back. But Flo had been broke so Marciano had taken back his investment: me.

  A heavy silence hung in the air, and then I met her gaze. “We did it together, Felicity. We make a great team.”

  She pressed her lips together in a smile, nodding. “That we do, my friend. All right. Let’s go to that meeting. We’ll have to hurry.”

  I clapped my hands together, delighted at her willingness to help me. But then I remembered the reason I’d come over in the first place. “What about the boxes in my car?”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ll take two to the kitchen now and then come back for the other two later.”

  We went to my car to get the boxes. I’d placed one in the passenger seat, and the other three in the back seat. I handed one to Felicity and took another myself. Felicity then led me down a path that wound from her little cottage to the back of the mansion.

  “The kitchen is back here. We can set the boxes there and then go on to the ballroom.”

  We walked down the winding path edged on either side by thick bougainvillea bushes with bright orange and pink blossoms. Eucalyptus trees soared overhead, providing shade and a wonderful, sweet aroma that floated on the air. We passed the large, crystal-clear swimming pool adorned with fountains at each corner, and finally we stopped at a Dutch door at the back of the mansion, which I presumed led to the kitchen. Balancing her box on a knee, Felicity opened it.

  We entered a large, sunny kitchen, with gleaming white walls and black-and-white tiled floors. Huge windows to the west let in a flood of natural light. It was a chef’s dream, this kitchen, with two massive tables in the center for food preparation, and a hanging rack with cast-iron and copper pans was suspended above one of the tables. There were four iceboxes, two gas oven ranges, and loads of cabinets for storage. We set the boxes on one of the tables and then made our way out of the kitchen, our heels clacking against the tiled floor.

  I followed Felicity through another door into an enormous wood-floored hallway carpeted with expensive Persian rugs. Two open double doors stood before us at the end of the hall, and I knew from the grand piano at the back of the room that this was the ballroom. A murmur of voices wafted from that direction, as well.

  We entered the room to find about twenty people milling about. There was a table set up against one wall, laden with light fare—pastries and cookies, and large urns of coffee or tea. Those who weren’t standing or talking in small groups sat in the white, wooden folding chairs that faced a table at the front of the room. A gentleman sat at the table, going through some folders. I assumed this was the lawyer. I quickly took stock of the hopeful recipients.

  Of those I recognized, I first spotted James Johnson, Mr. Travis’s hired man, standing alone near one of the windows. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and dark bow tie. He held his hands behind his back, surveying the room. A woman in a maid’s uniform came up to him and they exchanged a few words and she went to the food table. Was Mr. Johnson a beneficiary or was he meant to be working? His actions didn’t seem appropriate for the latter, but I still didn’t understand what exactly he did for Mr. Travis.

  Florence Thomas was standing with a couple of older women who all seemed to be clucking over her. She wore a beautiful tweed dress—Coco Chanel, if I was not mistaken. The acclaimed designer had made the headlines this year by taking fabrics usually used for men’s sportswear in Europe and fashioning dresses for women. Very new. Very avant-garde. I was completely impressed.

  I spotted Helen Clark at the opposite side of the room and couldn’t believe my luck. I’d have to find a way to speak with her, but at the moment, she was talking with none other than Lenora Lange. Why on earth would Miss Lange be here? She had an arm around Helen, who dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. Her face was blotchy and her nose red. I wondered if she’d been in that state since the party. Her husband was absent, making me wonder if he knew she was there. He never seemed to let her out of his sight.

  I recognized a few other faces, those I’d seen around Ambassador, but the majority of them were strangers to me. My eyes traveled back to Lenora Lange. “What is she doing here?” I asked Felicity, gesturing with a tilt of my head in her direction.

  “She’s here a lot,” Felicity said. “She and Mr. Travis had become close.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Ah yes, come to think of it, she mentioned she knew Florence. Commented on how unhappy she was.”

  Felicity nodded. “She performed a few séances for Edward, I heard tell. A friend of mine attended one.”

  “You don’t say?” I mused. “Why’d he have a séance?”

  “I guess it was in regard to some young thing. Would you expect anything else from him? The man had more women than Henry VIII. That’s all I know.”

  Looking around, there were a few that fit the bill—young, beautiful, all wearing the latest fashions. My eyes drifted to a woman at the back of the room near the piano. She had platinum-blond, bobbed hair and wore dark, round-framed sunglasses. She stood apart from the others. She wore an expensive-looking dark suit with a fox stole pinned around her shoulder and a wide-brimmed bucket hat. She didn’t come any closer or speak to anyone, just stayed by the piano.

  The man at the table, a wiry specimen with a shock of gray hair and a bushy beard framing his elongated face, banged a gavel against the tabletop. “Please take a seat,” he said.

  Everyone made their way to a chair. I exhaled a silent breath of relief that no one seemed alarmed or surprised by my being there. Felicity and I each took a seat in the back row. I noticed the woman at the piano stayed where she was, standing. She also hadn’t removed her sunglasses. I looked toward the double doors on the other side of the room, at the entrance Felicity and I had used. Detective Walton was there, Officer Clayton with him. I guessed he was here to see who had to benefit from Mr. Travis’s death, as well. In truth, I was glad to see him there. Perhaps he would be further questioning anyone who might be guilty of the murder.

  I turned back around to face the front, and the man at the table stood up. “Good morning,” he said. “I’m William Redmond, attorney for the estate of Edward Travis. Thank you for coming today. I will first start by saying that I am terribly sorry for your loss. This came as quite a shock to all of us. It is a terrible business, indeed.

  “You are all here,” he went on, “because you either have a claim to part of the estate or you may have inherited either assets or goods from Edward Travis. He has made some bequests, and I will get to those later, but first I want you all to know, the beneficiary of the bulk of Mr. Travis’s estate has not been located.”

  “What?
!” Florence Thomas stood up. “What do you mean, the beneficiary? I’m the beneficiary!”

  “You can’t be.” A woman’s voice came from the back of the room, and all heads turned to see a darked-haired woman coming through the doorway. She wore a full-length sable mink coat and wide-brimmed hat with dark feathers shooting out the back. She strode into the room.

  “Who the hell are you?” Florence said.

  “I’m Pearl Davis, Edward Travis’s wife. Who the hell are you?”

  I gasped. His wife? This was a strange turn of events.

  Florence’s eyes widened in rage. She stabbed at her chest with her index finger. “I’m his wife! Get out of my house!”

  The lawyer raised his hands. “Ladies, please.” He took off his spectacles and rested his fists upon the table. “Well, this certainly complicates things, but not in terms of the last will and testament. Mrs. Trav— Miss Davis, will you please take a seat? You too, Miss Thomas.”

  I pressed a hand to my mouth in surprise. So the lawyer apparently hadn’t known about Pearl Davis, either.

  A sob issued from the front of the room. Helen Clark held the handkerchief up to her face—no longer wiping away her tears but bawling into it. Miss Lange quietly shushed her, trying to comfort her. I exchanged a look with Felicity, who rolled her eyes. She had no patience for melodrama.

  Miss Davis gracefully lowered herself into a chair, and Florence sat down in a huff. Exactly who was this woman? I’d never heard of her before. She certainly wasn’t of the Hollywood set.

  The lawyer, still standing, cleared his throat and continued. I wasn’t sure if he hadn’t taken his seat in order to yield command of the room to prevent further outbursts or if he’d simply forgotten to sit down again. “In recent days, Mr. Travis has made changes to his will, but the bequest to the main heir has been in place for many years now.”