Grace in Hollywood: A Grace Michelle Mystery

by Kari Bovee

  Helen took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Charles had heard that Mr. Chaplin and Mr. Fairbanks would be at the party. He wanted to talk with them about the possibility of me working for United Artists. He wanted me away from Edward and Ambassador.”

  “I see.”

  She wiped her nose again and folded the handkerchief over on itself several times, then clenched it in her fist. Her crying had calmed to occasional gulps of air. She looked exhausted.

  “Helen”—I kept my voice quiet—“did you, or perhaps your husband, go out to the barn that night?”

  She looked up at me with confusion on her face. “No. Why do you—” Her eyes opened wide, searching mine. “You don’t think I had something to do with Edward’s murder, do you? I didn’t kill him, I swear it! I told that police detective as much when he came round the house to talk to Charles and me.”

  I figured this was as good a time as any. “Helen, as you know, the girl who is living with me has been arrested for Mr. Travis’s murder.”

  She nodded and sniffed into the handkerchief.

  I tried to gauge the expression on her face, looking for anger, but I didn’t see it. Only a sad vacancy. Still, I pressed onward. “I don’t believe she did it. She says you might have bumped into her at the party. Then later, you came up to her and Mr. Travis to speak with him. Were you angry at him for talking to Lizzy? Were you jealous?”

  She blew a puff of air through her lips. “Of her? No. He wasn’t flirting with her. Believe me, I knew when Edward was flirting. He had this way he looked at women he was interested in, you know? He wasn’t looking at her that way. I was angry because he was avoiding me.”

  I pulled my top lip between my teeth, not sure what to make of this or if I even believed her. “I have something to show you.”

  Her brows pulled together in confusion. “Okay,” she said uncertainly, and sniffed.

  I went over to my purse, which was lying on the desk. I opened it, pulled out the vial and sat down next to her again. “Is this yours?”

  She blinked at me, shaking her head, her eyes flicking from mine to the vial. “No . . . No. Why would you ask?”

  “I found it on set. I thought maybe—”

  She held up her hand in protest. “I know you’ve read the gossip sheets. Yes, I use laudanum on occasion, but never at work.”

  Fair enough.

  “Did you use it on the night of the party? Did you bring it with you?”

  She sighed, getting impatient with me. “Yes, I took some before we left the house. Things had been tense with me and Edward, and I knew it would be uncomfortable seeing him at the party. But I didn’t bring it with me.” She leaned close to me and looked me straight in the eyes. “I didn’t kill Edward. I loved him.”

  I stared back at her, and she didn’t flinch. Either she was an excellent liar or she really didn’t do it. “What about your husband?”

  He vehemently shook her head. “No. No! Charles was with me all night. Wouldn’t let me out of his sight. He may be a controlling bastard, but he’s not a murderer!”

  I pressed my lips together, couching what I was going to say next. I decided to come right out with it. “But he is prone to violence.”

  She blinked at me and then lowered her gaze. She tilted her head to the left. “He has been prone to violence, but it’s only because he loves me so much. He can’t bear to lose me.”

  “Do you love Charles?” I was having trouble understanding this strange love triangle.

  Her expression belied her inner turmoil. “I . . . I . . . I wouldn’t be where I am today without Charles. My life was horrible before him. He saved me from a dreadful existence. My father was gone, and my mother was . . . well, she drank. She didn’t love me. I was working in a hotel as a hat-check girl, and he discovered me there. Got me into pictures. I didn’t mean to fall in love with Edward, but—”

  “But you did,” I finished for her.

  She nodded and pressed the handkerchief to her eyes.

  “Did you know about Pearl Davis?” I asked.

  She took in a weary breath. “Yes. But I only found out about her by accident.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She came to town about two weeks ago. She lives on the East Coast somewhere. Anyway, Edward and I had booked a room at the Roosevelt for a weekend getaway. We were having dinner in the restaurant, and she showed up at our table. At first I thought she was just another smitten actress trying to get Edward’s attention, but then she said, ‘I’m here to discuss our divorce.’ I was so shocked I choked on my Chateaubriand. I mean, really choked. The waiter came over and slapped me on the back a few times. It was quite embarrassing.” She shook her head as if reliving the discomfort. “Anyway, she left during all the commotion.”

  “Did you see her after that?” I asked.

  “No. Not until the reading of the will.”

  “How did Mr. Travis react to Miss Davis showing up at the hotel? Did you talk to him about it later?”

  She folded and unfolded the handkerchief in her hands. “Of course I did. I was furious with him. Here he was, married to Florence, and then I find out he was married to someone else, as well? How could we marry if I divorced Charles? I wasn’t about to be his third wife like some concubine in a harem.”

  I reached out and stilled her hands. While I couldn’t condone her behavior of carrying on with another woman’s husband, I certainly understood the devastated feeling of betrayal. “Did Mr. Travis mention why he and Miss Davis hadn’t divorced?”

  Helen blew her nose into the handkerchief. “He said they couldn’t come to terms on the financial aspect of the agreement. She comes from a wealthy family and had property all up and down the East Coast. As her husband, Edward felt entitled to at least half of it, but she didn’t agree. She was able to secure a really tough lawyer, someone who had been a family friend for years. So Edward wouldn’t agree to the divorce until she met his demands.” Another fresh batch of tears fell from her eyes, bathing Helen’s cheeks.

  “Oh dear.” She wiped her eyes again. “I am just blathering on. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s quite all right.” I patted her knee. “You’re distressed, and sometimes unburdening yourself is just what you need. But we really should get back to the matter of this costume.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stood and stepped up to the platform again. I set to work, my mind swirling with the information she’d just given me.

  Pearl Davis had come to town to discuss divorce. Had she finally agreed to his terms, or had she come up with a scheme to avoid them? If things didn’t go as she planned, killing him might solve all her problems, but only if she didn’t know about his heir. She hadn’t been at the party, but what if she’d hired someone to do the deed? I had to find out more. A visit to Pearl Davis at the Roosevelt was definitely in order.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We finally got the dress figured out, but because we were so late getting started, Timothy wanted to push through the evening. It was about 10:30 p.m. when we wrapped for the day. My trip to the Roosevelt would have to wait until tomorrow.

  When I got home that night, I was dead on my feet. I entered the house and heard rattling around in the kitchen. Opening the door, I found Miss Meyers there, brewing some tea.

  “Oh, hello,” I said. “Everything all right?” Early to bed and early to rise, it was unusual to see Miss Meyers about at this time of night.

  “Yes, I think so. Susie’s come down with a head cold. Thought I would make her some chamomile with honey. Hopefully it will settle her a bit.”

  “Oh no. Do you think it’s serious?” My stomach seized with a flash of panic.

  “I don’t think so. She’s just a little agitated.”

  “It’s been a rather trying several days.” I set my purse and my coat on one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Want some tea?” she asked.

  “That sounds lovely.”

  She pou
red me a cup and then one for Susie. “Shall we take it to her together?” Miss Meyers blew on Susie’s tea. “She’s been asking for you. I think it would give her some comfort to see you.”

  I pushed my lip out in sympathy for the girl, feeling terrible at not giving her any attention over the last several days. “Poor dear. Of course.”

  We climbed the stairs and entered her room. It was bathed in a soft glow of light. Miss Meyers had put a scarf over the lampshade on Susie’s night table. Susie rolled over when she heard us and sat up. Miss Meyers set her tea on the table, and I sat on the bed next to Susie.

  “I hear you don’t feel well.” I gently pushed her hair out of her eyes. Her skin was warm to the touch, and her cheeks were pink with fever.

  “I have a stuffy nose and my throat hurts.” She looked up at me with big hazel eyes.

  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  “Why weren’t you home for dinner?” she whined.

  “I had some work to do. But I’m home now. Should we let Miss Meyers go to bed?”

  Susie nodded, and I turned to Miss Meyers, who smiled and left the room. I set my teacup and saucer on the table and handed Susie hers. “Here. Drink some of this. The honey will make your throat better.”

  I held the cup to her lips, and she drank. “It tastes good. It’s warm in my tummy.”

  “Good. When did you start to feel poorly?” I let her hold the cup and reached for mine again.

  Her gaze dropped to her teacup. “Well, my throat started to hurt yesterday, but I’ve been feeling bad for a while.”

  “You have?” I asked with alarm. She hadn’t mentioned anything.

  “Well, not sick or anything, but bad about something else.” She handed me her cup, and I set it back down on the saucer.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, but I’m afraid you’ll be mad at me and you’ll make me go away.” She wouldn’t meet my eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “Oh, sweetie. I promise you, no matter what you tell me, I won’t make you go away.”

  She sniffed, and then her gaze met mine. “It’s about your scissors.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise and waited for her to continue.

  “I wanted to cut out some clothes for my paper dolls, and I couldn’t find my scissors. I remembered that you cut out patterns in your studio so I took yours.”

  “I see.”

  “Then Daniel said it was time for me to go give the horses their oats so I put the scissors in the pocket of my jumper. When I leaned over the molasses to scoop it out and put it into the oats, the scissors fell in. I got them before they fell all the way in, but when I pulled them out, they fell in the dirt. I tried to clean them, but they were just so sticky, and I—” Her voice broke.

  “Aw, honey. It’s okay.” I pulled her to me and wrapped my arms around her.

  “I’m really sorry,” she blubbered into my shoulder. “When that man came to ask about the scissors, I thought I would be in trouble and then he would take me away like he took Lizzy away. And now Daniel is gone, too. I thought we would all have to go away.”

  I held her close for a few minutes and let her cry. This was such a mess, and really, at the moment, I couldn’t see my way out of it. I wanted to cry, too, but I needed to be strong for Susie, for all of them.

  “Listen to me.” I gently relaxed my hold on her and lifted her chin with my finger until her eyes met mine. “We are going to stick together, you understand? Chet, Miss Meyers, Rose, and I have all made a promise to take care of you kids, and we are going to do everything in our power to do so.”

  The corners of her lips lifted in a smile. “I won’t have to leave?”

  “No.” I used all the conviction I could find in my voice. “You will not have to leave. Cross my heart.” I drew a cross on my chest with my finger.

  “What about Lizzy and Daniel?” she asked.

  Of course she was worried for them. They were stability for her. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, though, given the situation was out of my control at the moment.

  “No matter what happens with Lizzy and Daniel, we will not turn our backs on them. So you need to help us.”

  She batted her eyes at me and wrinkled her brow. “How can I help?”

  “Well, you just be a good girl, do your schoolwork and help with the chores—like you always do—and you think good thoughts for Lizzy and Daniel. That would help them the most.”

  “Can I pray for them?”

  “Of course.” I smiled at her. “Do you want to pray for them now?”

  She smiled back, revealing a gap where she’d lost a tooth recently. She put her hands together and closed her eyes tight. “Dear God, please take care of Lizzy and Daniel and help them come home to us soon. Amen.” She beamed up at me.

  “Amen,” I said, hoping with all my might that if there was a God, he—or she, or it—would answer this little girl’s prayer.

  Another dream woke me at 3:00 a.m. and I couldn’t get back to sleep. It was different than the ones I’d had before, though. I had been standing in an art gallery, looking at paintings, and as I slowly passed by them, I came across a small portrait of my mother and father. My mother was painted with both her own physical qualities and Sophia’s. She held a baby in her arms, but it wasn’t me. It was Sophia. Strange as that was, what I’d found so fascinating as I was looking at it was the frame. It was gold and ornate, stylized with a terrace with columns, vases, a profusion of flowers and plants, and a swallow flying in the sky.

  I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the image of the frame dancing in my mind. Chet’s soft snores soothed me. I hadn’t left Susie’s room until she’d fallen asleep. Completely exhausted, I had taken off my clothes, put on my nightgown, and gone to bed without even washing my face. I had fallen asleep instantly, which was a blessing, but then after the dream, I’d only lightly dozed until the gray of early morning filled the room.

  I got out of bed and went downstairs to make coffee. My plan was to take my coffee and the newspaper into the sunroom and watch the sunrise. If I wasn’t going to get any sleep, I was going to do anything I could to find some peace in my day, if only for a few moments.

  My limbs dragged with fatigue, and my thoughts were fractured and disjointed as I padded into the kitchen and made coffee. I made it extra strong. I absolutely had to be to the studio on time today or Timothy would have my head. Once the coffee had brewed, I poured some into one of the Hall China coffee mugs—the largest cups in our cupboard—and stepped outside to walk down the lane to the ranch entrance gates to get the paper. The summer breeze was soft, but there was still a bit of a chill in the air from overnight. Casually strolling down the road, I could hear Joe and Ned in the barn feeding the horses, and birds singing in the trees. I took in a deep breath and relished the heady smell of alfalfa floating on the breeze and tuned in to the sounds of the ranch waking up.

  As I reached the gate, Jimmy, the paper boy, had just ridden up on his bike and tossed the string-wrapped paper over the gate. It landed at my feet.

  “Morning, Mrs. Riker!” he hollered as he turned in an arc and sped back down the road.

  I bent down to get it but stopped when I read one of the headlines: Pearl Davis, Wife of Bigamist Director Edward Travis, Found Dead in Hotel Room.

  I picked up the paper and stared at it in disbelief. How horrible! I placed a hand on my chest, my mind reeling. The story claimed she had committed suicide, as an empty bottle of Secobarbital was found on the night table next to her. Suicide? But she was second in line to inherit Travis’s estate, and for all we knew, she might have thought she was first in line before the reading of the will. Why would she kill herself?

  I wish I’d been able to speak with her, but now . . .

  I hurried back into the house just as Chet was coming down the stairs. I handed him the paper. “Second story on the right.”

  He read it and then look
ed up at me. “What a shame.”

  I took the paper back from him. “I know. But why would she commit suicide? With Edward Travis dead, she stood to gain from his estate. It wouldn’t make sense for her to kill herself.”

  “She would have inherited only if Mr. Travis’s heir isn’t found,” Chet reminded me.

  “Right. But so far, she hasn’t turned up. Pearl Davis committing suicide makes no sense. Do you think the police will investigate the possibility of foul play?”

  Chet lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know, but I’d assume so since she was married to Travis.”

  I followed him into the kitchen where he poured himself a cup of coffee. We sat down at the kitchen table.

  I took another sip of my coffee and leaned my elbows on the table, my mug between them. The pungent aroma wafted into my nostrils, clearing my head. “Chet, these deaths are connected. I know it.”

  He added some sugar to his cup of coffee and stirred it slowly. His eyes were puffy from sleep. “But how is Margaret’s death connected to Travis and Miss Davis?”

  “Detective Walton said Margaret was at the reading of the will,” I reminded him. “They even found the blond wig in her house.”

  Chet held his coffee cup up to his lips. Steam swirled beneath his nose. “She could have just been curious. Snuck in. Like you. Maybe she was there for the same reason you were. To see who would gain by killing Travis in an attempt to exonerate her sister.”

  “But then, why wear the wig?”

  “Maybe she wanted a new hairdo for the day?”

  I sighed. “Really, Chet?”

  “Sorry,” he said, his gaze resting on mine. “That was insensitive. In your conversations with Margaret, did she ever mention an association with Travis?”

  “No—other than the fact that Lizzy was a suspect for his murder.”

  “And did Lizzy ever mention knowing him?”

  “No. She met him on the lot at Ambassador with me the week of the party but that was all.” I set my cup down. “I wish I knew more about Margaret. And about Pearl Davis. ”