by Kari Bovee
My breath hitched as I spotted the detective’s Model T pulling up to the gate and coming down the drive. I called to Chet, and he met me by the front door. We hurried out onto the porch. When only he and Officer Clayton got out of the car, my heart sank.
“Where’s Daniel?” I asked.
The detective took off his hat and held it to his chest. “We’re still holding him. We believe he might have been persuaded by Lizzy to kill Miss Moore. He made it clear he’d do anything for her.”
“What?” I nearly shrieked. Chet wrapped his arm around me.
“And we have reason to believe he might have killed Mr. Travis, too,” the detective continued. “We have a witness who saw him go to the barn that night, shortly after Lizzy and Mr. Travis headed out there.”
The air in my lungs froze. “What? Who? What witness?”
Detective Walton gave me a half smile. “You know I can’t tell you that, Mrs. Riker.” He looked over my shoulder. “May we come in?”
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said under my breath. But, in actuality, the theory was plausible—probably more so than Lizzy being some long-lost heiress to a Hollywood fortune—which was more terrifying. Perhaps Daniel, worried—or even jealous—of Mr. Travis’s attention to Lizzy caused him to follow them out to the barn. If Daniel thought he’d caught them in a compromising position, he may have retaliated. But still, murder was a tall order, especially for a boy like Daniel.
The detective took his hat off and held it between his hands. “Neither one of the kids is budging on their story. There’s something they aren’t telling us, and until we get more information, they are both staying put. I can’t risk them going on the lam.”
I clenched my jaw, knowing I wasn’t going to persuade him otherwise. Instead, I turned to what I could do. “Detective Walton, you took my scissors as evidence the other day. Were you able to find out if they were the murder weapon?”
He let out an irritated groan. “We were, but it was determined that the substance on them was not blood.”
I smiled with satisfaction. “Well, I found something this morning—something you and your officers missed.” I couldn’t keep the condescension out of my voice. “I believe it to be the murder weapon, and I think I know who most likely killed Mr. Travis.”
“Oh?” he said, glancing at Chet.
“She’s right,” Chet said. “We’ll show you.”
When we reached the spot, Detective Walton picked up the empty rye bottle and handed it to Officer Clayton.
“There,” I said, pointing to the broken glass. “This is where I saw Robert Smith right before I found Lizzy and Mr. Travis in the barn. Mr. Smith had motive, means, and opportunity. So you see, you have to consider him as a suspect.”
The detective shot me a look. “Everyone’s a suspect, Mrs. Riker. But I’m afraid Mr. Smith had an alibi.”
That was impossible. “What? But he was out here alone. I saw him. No one was with him.”
“Miss Lange claims they came out here together. She left him for about two minutes to go get her wrap from the car, and then she came back. There wasn’t enough time for Mr. Smith to get to the barn, kill Travis, and then come back here.”
“But don’t you agree the broken glass could be the murder weapon?” Chet asked.
Detective Walton nodded. “Could be. And it if is, my guess is that Lizzy or Daniel killed Travis, and then Daniel disposed of the glass. He saw you, Mrs. Riker, heading to the barn so he skedaddled.”
It was difficult to argue with his reasoning, but something inside me still could not believe either one of the kids had done this. Was I just fooling myself?
“If that is true, Detective, doesn’t it stand to reason that it could have been self-defense?” I asked. Surely that would work in Lizzy’s favor.
He held up both hands. “That’s for the court to decide.”
“So you are charging her?” Chet asked.
“Yep. Afraid so.”
“For which crime?” I asked.
The detective’s gaze met mine. “Both.”
I closed my eyes, wanting to chase away this horrible reality. It couldn’t be true, and if it was, how could we have been so blindsided by this girl?
It’s not true, a voice rang out in my head. It was that same voice again.
I opened my eyes and turned to him, crossing my arms over my stomach. “What about Daniel?”
“Seems they were in collusion.”
I shook my head, unwilling to believe it.
“Do you have any proof to that effect?” Chet asked.
“Circumstantial evidence. And that’s enough for my part of the deal, you know that. The court will decide whether they are guilty or not.”
My hopes wilted. From what he was saying, Detective Walton would have no reason to continue to search for the real murderer. He believed he’d found her—or him. The detective just needed to decide which one of them did it, and I imagined he would do so by continuing to interrogate them. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought. But with that thought came the determination to prove him wrong. I just needed to figure out how.
Later that morning I went to work with a heavy heart, my mind swirling with all kinds of horrifying thoughts. To make matters worse, I arrived late to the set. Timothy was none too pleased because there was another problem with Helen’s costume, the Santa Maria, and Martha, the lead seamstress, and Hilda needed my input on how to fix it. Helen was still having trouble moving in the dress, and we needed to come up with a solution that gave her more freedom but also stayed true to the time period.
“This is taking too much time, Grace,” Timothy said to me after I’d been briefed by the seamstresses. “It should have been taken care of the first time.”
Felicity was with him and gave me a sympathetic smile.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We will have the problem rectified by this afternoon.” Secretly, I was actually a little pleased at this turn of events. It would give me the perfect opportunity to speak with Helen.
“It needs to be rectified now, but this afternoon will have to suffice. I’ll give you till one o’clock. I can’t have my production schedule compromised more than it already has been.” He tamped out his cigarette. “Everyone, we’ll meet back here at one o’clock sharp. Please be ready to shoot—all of you.” He gave me a sideways glance and then stalked off. Felicity stayed behind.
“Hilda.” I crooked a finger at her. “Help Miss Clark get undressed. With a nod, Hilda led Helen off the set.
I turned to Martha. “Hilda and I can take care of this. Would you mind double-checking the other costumes for any potential problems? We can’t have any more issues.”
“Of course,” she said, and followed the other two. I exhaled a deep breath.
“How are you holding up?” Felicity asked me. “You look tired.”
I shook my head. “I’m obviously not holding up very well.”
“Are you sleeping?” She picked a stray piece of thread off my sweater.
“No. I can’t even remember when I had a full night’s sleep.”
She nodded sympathetically. “Still having those dreams? About Sophia?”
“Yes. And my mother has been making a star appearance, as well—all on top of what happened to Mr. Travis and Margaret.”
Felicity crossed her arms and then rested her chin on her fist. She cocked her head at me.
“Do you feel like Sophia is trying to tell you something?”
I wrinkled my brow. “If you had asked me that a week ago, I would have said you were crazy. But—” I thought about the voice that had come to me a few times since the murder of Mr. Travis. “Yes. Maybe.”
“Hmm . . . Have you thought about having a psychic reading?”
“Do you mean like a séance?” I never imagined Felicity would put stock in something like that. She was always so practical and pragmatic.
“No. A reading. Lenora Lange has been hanging around the mansion at Florence’s behest. She’s
trying to contact Edward from the beyond. Actually, Florence just had a séance the other night. She invited me to come.”
I scoffed. “You’re kidding. Did the ghost of Mr. Travis show up?”
“No.” She gave me a demure smile. “But Joe did.”
I raised my brows. “Joe? You mean as in Joe Marciano?”
Felicity pressed her lips together and nodded.
“Do you really believe it was him?” A tingling sensation ran down my arms. This was too strange to be true.
“Not at first, but, later, Lenora approached me and suggested I do a private reading. She said it would be easier for the spirit to come through and communicate with me.”
“And?” Perspiration dampened my palms. Had anyone but Felicity told me something like this, I wouldn’t have believed them, but Felicity was a no-nonsense type of person. For her to be saying this was incredible.
“He showed up again during my private reading. Lenora mentioned things Joe had said and had done to me that no one else knew about. It was uncanny. She even mentioned the day he died—gave some pretty accurate details. And she mentioned you.”
“Me? Why me?” I ran my sweaty hands down the skirt of my dress. Their coolness penetrated the fabric and radiated onto my upper thighs.
“You were there when he died,” she stated matter-of-factly.
True. I had been. My mouth went dry, and my scalp prickled. I shook off a shiver. I wanted to protest, to tell her this was absurd, but I found it difficult to do so.
Felicity placed a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?” She must have seen the color drain from my face because then she said, “Sugar, you don’t look very well. Do you want to sit down?”
Unable to speak, I shook my head, tears starting to surface.
“My goodness but you are under a lot of pressure, aren’t you?” she said, more as a statement than a question.
At her words, emotion welled up inside. She only knew the half of it. My lip quivered, and I placed a hand over my mouth to hide my distress, but my eyes pooled with tears.
“Come sit down,” Felicity said softly. She put an arm around my shoulders.
I sniffed loudly and shook my head. “No. I can’t. I have to get Helen’s costume fixed. You heard Timothy.”
“Just for a few minutes.” Her voice was like honey, smooth and soothing, and I felt lulled into obeying her.
We made our way to some chairs at the back of the room, and I sat down with a sigh. Looking into my friend’s startling blue eyes, everything I’d been holding in tumbled out. I told her about Margaret and how Lenora had said something tragic would happen within forty-eight hours. How Lizzy had been taken in again, and this time under arrest for the murder of her sister. And about Daniel and how Detective Walton was convinced he was in on both crimes.
“You still think Lizzy is innocent? And Daniel?” she asked, her voice dubious.
“Yes. Maybe I’m crazy, but yes.” I looked down at my hands clenched together in my lap. Something compelled me to believe they were innocent.
Felicity took in a deep breath. “Listen. You’ve got a lot to contend with here, Grace. You need to rest or you are just going to crumble.”
I chuckled, wiping away a tear. “Going to? It’s already happening.”
Felicity took hold of my hands, which were still cold and clammy. “Let me set up a reading. Maybe we can put some of these unresolved issues with Sophia and your mother to rest at least, and that will ease your mind a little. I got some resolution with Joe through the readings. With each one I feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted. And I’m sleeping better than I have in years. Better than when I used to take laudanum, if you can imagine.”
I sighed again, and holding back tears, I nodded, desperate for some kind of relief. “Okay. I don’t suppose it could hurt.”
I went back to wardrobe and vowed I would dismiss the conversation I’d just had with Felicity from my thoughts. If I didn’t, I would never be able to concentrate on my work. The Santa Maria was in desperate need of some alteration, and I needed to get information from Helen Clark.
“Ouch!” Helen yelled at Hilda. She stood in front of a three-way mirror on top of the eighteen-inch platform while Hilda worked at the cinched-in stomacher of the dress. “That is the second time you’ve stuck me with a pin!”
I was surprised at the outburst. Although a little ditzy and “off with the fairies” much of the time, Helen was mostly sensitive and always polite with the crew. And today, she seemed completely sober.
“I’m sorry, Miss Clark,” Hilda said, still pinching the bodice of the dress together.
“Let go of me!” She stepped down off the platform. “Grace, will you please come over here?”
“On my way, Helen. What seems to be the problem?”
“This dress is impossible.” She flopped her hands down on either side of the dress, looking like a frustrated four-year-old whose princess gown was too uncomfortable for her. “And she—” she pointed at the seamstress “—is so clumsy, I’m sure I’ll have a dozen holes poked into me by the time she’s finished.”
I gave Hilda a sympathetic look. “Why don’t you go get things ready for another makeup and wardrobe test for Miss Clark. We may have to talk with Mr. O’Malley about moving some of her scene shoots around until we get this dress figured out. And also get my sketchbook and pencils, will you? I have a feeling we may have to start from scratch on this one.”
Helen stepped back up onto the platform and looked at herself in the mirror. She issued a theatrical sigh. “This bodice seems to hit me in all the wrong places.”
I scrutinized the dress with a studious eye and had to agree with her. “What if I lowered the waist a little?” I suggested. “It seems too high.”
She put her hands on her hips and swiveled on the platform. “Perhaps that would work but then look at the bust. I’ll be coming out of it.”
“I’ll just replace the stomacher. Don’t worry. We won’t have you creating a scandal on the screen.”
I caught her eye in the mirror, and she scowled at me. “No. Only off-screen, apparently.”
My fingers flew to my mouth. There had been much talk of her affair with Mr. Travis on the set and in the papers. “Oh, Helen, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right.” She stepped down from the pedestal. “I knew what you meant. I just—” She dropped into the club chair next to the platform and pressed her forehead into the palm of her hand, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
I stood there silently, allowing her time to say more if she wished. I also was trying to figure out how to couch my questions. She looked up at me with her large, sorrowful eyes, and they filled with tears. I reached for my handbag and pulled out a handkerchief.
I handed it to her, and she dabbed at her eyes. “I know what people say about me. That I was just another amusement for Edward. But I wasn’t. It was different between us.”
“Of course it was,” I said the words just to appease her, even though I tended to agree with the rest of our gossipy little movie colony. Mr. Travis was notorious for his affairs.
“He said this picture was going to be a wild success, and after he proved it to everyone, he was going to divorce Florence and marry me. I’ve been speaking to a lawyer about divorcing Charles. He doesn’t know it, of course, but Edward wanted me to get the process started.”
I wondered if Mr. Travis had truly spoken to a lawyer about divorcing Florence or if he’d just been trying to placate Helen—to get the most out of her performance. I’ve heard of directors doing worse to manipulate their actors’ emotions to get the results they wanted. And it seemed he hadn’t been successful in divorcing his other wife, Pearl Davis, if he truly was still married to her.
“And what about Florence?” I asked.
She screwed up her face. “He wanted to keep her happy so she wouldn’t sabotage his film. She’s that vindictive. I only wish—” She pressed the handkerchief to her
face and cried into it in earnest.
I sat down on the other club chair next to her and placed my hand on her arm, distressed to see her so upset.
“I only wish we had made up before—” She blew her nose. “Before the party.”
So, they had been arguing before that night. “What happened between you two?”
She shook her head as if trying to rid herself of a memory. “We had a horrible fight. We hadn’t spoken—except on set—for a week. Sure, we’d had our arguments, but this time— Oh, I feel so stupid now. Of course women would fling themselves at him.”
I furrowed my brow, not following her line of thought.
“Charles wanted to take me to the Monterey Room at the Rosslyn Hotel to listen to some jazz,” she explained, “and, well, Edward was there, dancing cheek to cheek with some floozy. She couldn’t be more than sixteen if she was a day.”
Just like Lizzy, I mused.
“I couldn’t believe it,” she continued. “He said I was his special girl! So what was he doing with her?”
I shrugged. A few things came to mind, but I refrained from mentioning them. It seemed she needed to unburden herself so I listened. “So what did you do?”
“I stormed up to them, and then I slapped him.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Charles was furious. First that I’d made such a scene, and second because I foolishly as much as admitted that I was having an affair with Edward. I was just so . . . so . . . I was so hurt. It was a stupid thing to do, and I paid for it in more ways than one.” Her voice cracked.
I remembered seeing makeup covering a bruise under her eye. Had Charles been so infuriated that he’d hit her?
“Helen—”
She gave me a teary smile. “Yes?”
“Helen, if you don’t mind my asking, if your husband knew you were having an affair with Mr. Travis, why did you agree to come to his party and bring your husband?” The thought had crossed my mind that Charles had gone in order to get Mr. Travis alone somehow and kill him. Or had Helen seen him speaking with Lizzy and flown into another jealous rage?
