by Kari Bovee
He took a swig of his coffee, his eyes narrowed. I could almost see the wheels turning in
his head. “Do you remember the name of Travis’s estate lawyer?” he asked.
“Oooh.” I scrunched up my face, trying to remember. “Yes, I think it was Redford. No, Willford? No, wait, Redmond. William Redmond!”
Chet nodded, going pensive on me. “I’m going to pay him a visit. See if I can find out anything more about this mysterious heir.”
“But why would he talk to you?” I asked.
He gave me a smile. “I’m a private investigator working on behalf of Lizzy Moore, and I have questions about Mr. Travis’s heir—what he might know about her, why she might want to frame my client for murder.”
I tucked my chin and pulled back in surprise. “But you’re retired.”
Chet shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. “My license hasn’t expired yet.” He placed his hand over mine. “And I want to do my bit to help Lizzy,” he said, his eyes tender with concern.
How could I possibly say no to that?
And in the meantime, I would try to find out more about Margaret.
Timothy had said shooting wouldn’t start until ten o’clock that morning. It was only 7:30 a.m. by the time I got ready for the day, so it gave me plenty of time to begin my investigation in earnest. Margaret had worked at the Art Students League, which seemed like a good place to start.
After joining Rose, Miss Meyers, and the children for a quick breakfast, I went to the phone and asked the operator to connect me with the Art Students League. A man answered. I told him I was interested in taking some courses and wanted to come see their school. I hated lying, but I thought it would be indelicate to bring up Margaret over the phone. He told me they were located on the third floor of the Lyceum Theater and gave me the address.
Since it was still early, I was able to find a parking spot out in front of the four-story, Romanesque revival–style building, complete with narrow turret. The poster in the window indicated that Secrets, starring Norma Talmadge, was playing. I hadn’t seen the film yet but was curious to see the work of costume designer Clare West. I’d seen her work in D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation and was duly impressed. But that would have to wait for another day.
I entered the building and found my way to the third floor. I spotted the Art Students League sign on the double doors to the right and walked into a large studio. Several easels surrounded a large dais furnished with a fainting couch. I imagined a scantily clad model reclined there having her portrait done.
An older man came out from behind a wall carrying a wooden painter’s box. He was tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, piercing blue eyes, and a gray goatee. He wore an eye monocle.
“Hello. I’m Grace Michelle. I called earlier?”
“Ah yes. You are interested in taking some classes.” He set the box down and came over to shake my hand.
“Well, sir, not exactly,” I admitted, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. “I’m actually here to talk to you about Margaret Moore.”
He released my hand and removed his eye monocle. He tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. “Such a pity. Are you a relation?”
“No. I’m a, well, a friend. A new friend. I know she didn’t have much family—”
“Aside from the sister who is accused of her murder,” he said, raising his eyebrows at me. “Despicable.”
I swallowed the knee-jerk reaction that was about to come out of my mouth. Instead, I cleared my throat. “I thought I would put together a little obituary for her—for the paper. I was wondering if you could tell me about her job here.” The guilt of lying clawed at me again, but I didn’t know how else to get the information I needed from this man.
“Oh. Well . . .” He scratched at his goatee. “She did some administrative work, registered new students, and did some light bookkeeping. I paid her, of course, but she also took classes in lieu of a full salary.”
“Did you advertise for her position? How did she find out about you? It was my understanding she came to you from Lake Tahoe.”
“Yes, yes, she did. And no, we didn’t advertise the position. In fact, we hadn’t even considered using a secretary. We are on a rather tight budget here, but one of our benefactors made a large donation with the stipulation that we hire Margaret. But she wasn’t to know about the arrangement.”
My pulse quickened at this new information. Someone went to great lengths to get Margaret to Los Angeles . . . How cryptic.
“Oh my, that is generous indeed,” I said. “For both you and for her.”
He shook his head and chuckled. “I was dubious to say the least. But we really couldn’t afford to turn down the offer. Once Margaret arrived and we saw what a talented artist she was, I quickly changed my opinion on the subject. She was a stand-up secretary, as well.”
“Well, if she wasn’t to know, how did she learn about the position?” I asked.
This benefactor asked a friend to visit her boarding house in Lake Tahoe and claim he was one of our members. He stayed the weekend, saw some of her work, and made the offer.”
My eyes widened at the new lead. “Do you know who this friend was?”
“No.”
“Who was this benefactor?”
He chuckled again. It was a deep-throated and pleasant sound. “I’m afraid it was anonymous. I don’t know, but I am eternally grateful.”
“I see. How terribly puzzling,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too disappointed. But I wanted—no, I needed—more. “Do you know if she had any friends here? You know, any one she was particularly close to?”
He stroked his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “Hmm. Well, she was quite friendly with Barnaby Maxwell.” He pulled out his monocle and pocket watch. “He should be here in a few minutes if you’d like to wait. We will be starting class shortly, but you could probably speak with him for a moment.”
I smiled at him. “Yes. I think I will. Thank you.”
He clapped his palms together. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get prepared for class. Make yourself at home.” He then wandered back to where he’d come from.
I strolled quietly through the room, studying the easels. They were painting a portrait of a woman wearing a Grecian gown seated on the fainting couch and holding a lyre, with a man standing behind her looking over her shoulder. Several of them were in the classical style while others interpreted the scene with the newly popular Abstract Modernism.
“Hello?” A dead ringer for Cary Grant walked into the room. “Are you the new artist’s model? Please say yes.” He stood back and appraised me from head to toe. “You are lovely.” He made a beeline for me with an outstretched hand. When he grasped mine, he laid a wet, rather sloppy kiss on my knuckles.
I pulled away and refrained from wiping the back of my hand on my dress. “No. I’m a friend of Margaret Moore’s. Are you Mr. Maxwell?”
He let out a chuckle. “Hardly. That man’s got more talent in his little finger than I can ever hope to have. George Perry, at your service.” He bowed with a flourish, then sobered. “Yeah. Tough luck about Margaret. She was a nice kid. She had her fair share of talent, too.”
“Yes, I know. I was lucky enough to see some of her work.”
Another man entered the room. He took off his coat and hat and hung them on the coat rack at the door. He was small and narrow shouldered, and had a disheveled look about him.
Mr. Perry held his arm aloft. “Barnaby! Just the man. This lovely creature was looking for you.”
Mr. Maxwell appraised me with intelligent, dark eyes.
“I’m Grace Michelle, a friend of Miss Moore’s. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a few moments?”
He gave a slight nod.
“I’ll set up for you, sport.” George Perry slapped him on the shoulder.
I decided to continue the charade about the obituary and told him I was writing something for the paper. He pressed his lips together, and his jaw twitc
hed, clearly trying to hold back his emotions.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to upset you,” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s just such a shame. She was the whole package, you know. Smart, beautiful, talented.” He diverted his gaze to the floor. I wondered if theirs had been a romantic relationship but didn’t quite know how to ask. I decided to stick to my obituary script and took a small pad of paper and a pencil from my purse.
“I wonder, did she ever talk about any distant family? Cousins? Friends?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Just her sister. Not friends. Like me, she was quite a loner. I think that’s why we got on so well.” He crossed his arms over his chest and settled his stance.
I scribbled something on the pad. “Did she ever talk about her time in Lake Tahoe?”
He nodded. “Yeah, sure. She owned a boarding house.”
“Yes, I knew about that. She sold it, if I recall?”
He pressed his lips together again. “Got to be too much work for her. She wanted to focus on her art. Said some guy who was visiting up there saw her work and told her about us. He recommended her to the old man, and he offered her the job.”
So, the “old man” had been telling the truth. Not that I had doubted him. It was simply good to have someone corroborate his story.
“Do you know how long she lived in Lake Tahoe? Was she from there originally?” I continued.
“No.” He shook his head. “She moved to Tahoe from New York City. Said she didn’t want to leave New York but had a bad breakup and wanted to start over, so she came to California.”
I tapped my pencil on the pad of paper. Neither Margaret nor Lizzy had made any mention of New York City or a bad breakup. “Do you think this old flame caught up with her? Do you think he could have, well . . .”
He shrugged. “I know her sister is accused of killing her, but I don’t buy it. They were pretty close.”
I smiled at him, glad he didn’t feel Lizzy was responsible either.
“To answer your question,” he continued, “I believe this ex-boyfriend could have killed her, yes. But he wasn’t the problem so much as his brother. I guess the guy was a criminal, served some time in the Big House. Margaret said he threatened her—came after her once.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh my. Did she say why?”
He shook his head. “She started to once, I think, when we were at her house painting. We’d had a bit too much wine, and when she’d realized what she’d said, she clammed up. Never mentioned it again, and I didn’t ask. Figured it was too painful for her.”
“Yes, I imagine so.” The wheels in my head were spinning. How had this person threatened her and why? Could he have followed her here to Los Angeles? Found out where she was living? Strangled her? But it wouldn’t explain the earring, why he’d want to frame Lizzy.
A group of people filed into the room all at once and started to hang their coats and hats. I took it as my cue. “Well, thank you, Mr. Maxwell. I won’t keep you any longer. If you should happen to think of anything else—for the obituary—would you please contact me?” I handed him one of my calling cards.
He took it, looked it over, and then tucked it into the pocket of his trousers. “Yeah, sure.”
I thanked him again and took my leave.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a lot more information than I’d had before.
Chapter Eighteen
My mind was buzzing with all the new information I’d gathered from Margaret’s place of employment as I drove to the studio. Who was this ex-boyfriend, and who was his brother? When Detective Walton had asked Lizzy about Margaret’s boyfriends, she had claimed not to know of any. But according to Mr. Maxwell, there had been at least one.
I was still pondering this as I sat on set watching a scene with Helen Clark and Bill Havers, the replacement for Robert Smith, unfold. It was a scene in which the queen is in the bedchamber with her lover and she finds out he is the king’s brother when the king interrupts them. Helen’s performance was so mesmerizing to watch, it pulled me away from my thoughts. Her range of emotion and facial expressions were astounding. Suddenly, she looked away from the camera and over my shoulder.
“Cut!” Timothy yelled. “What are you doing, Helen? You should be looking into the camera.”
I swiveled my head to see Florence Thomas standing there, looking fresh and beautiful in a caramel-colored silk dress with apron front and lace collar. Scalloped lace ran down the front and across the hem. It beautifully set off her auburn hair, which was pulled back in a neat chignon.
James Johnson, Mr. Travis’s hired man, accompanied her. He carried her wrap, which was a fox stole complete with tiny white points on its head and beady black eyes. Mr. Johnson looked as if he were carrying the thing like a treasured pet.
“Florence!” Timothy rushed over to greet her. He looked particularly charming today with his white shirtsleeves rolled up and his unruly hair flopping in his eyes. He planted a kiss on each of her perfectly alabaster cheeks. “Good to see you, lass. How are you keeping?”
She raised her chin with a determined air. “Well, all things considered. I’d like to come back to work.”
“That’s smashing, love. But are you certain?” He looked at her earnestly.
Florence gave a theatrical sigh. “Yes. I believe work will keep my mind off things.”
“But are you sure? There hasn’t been a funeral yet, has there?” Timothy asked, looking around the room as if he had been the only one who hadn’t been told. I, too, would have thought Florence would want the closure of a funeral before coming back to work.
She pressed her fingers to her trembling mouth.
Mr. Johnson cleared his throat. “We had a private service yesterday,” he said. “Florence wanted to keep it secret, didn’t want the press involved.”
Well, that did make sense.
“Yes.” Florence looked over at Mr. Johnson adoringly, giving me pause. Just how close were those two?
It did seem odd to me, though, that she wouldn’t want a regular funeral, despite the press. It was customary to give others closure, as well, and their own venue and space in which to grieve. I’m sure there were many people who had wanted to pay their respects, myself included. Perhaps Florence merely didn’t want Helen Clark—or any other paramour of her husband—to show up at the funeral to diminish her shine as the grieving widow.
I realized the callousness of that thought and tried to dismiss it from my mind. I got up from my chair and wandered over to them.
Then I remembered what the executor of Mr. Travis’s will said would happen to his estate if no heir was found. “Didn’t Mr. Travis have family? Parents? A brother?” I asked.
Florence regarded me coolly and ignored my questions.
“They live in England. The parents are too ill to travel,” Mr. Johnson chimed in sharply.
“Oh, I see.” Perhaps the brother stayed behind to care for them? I cast a glance in Florence’s direction. She abruptly turned her head as if she didn’t want to have anything to do with me. I assumed this was on account of the fact that I had harbored her husband’s supposed killer. I inwardly scoffed. In my estimation, Florence, as the cuckolded wife, had a pretty good motive for wanting her husband dead herself.
“Well.” Timothy clapped his hands together. “We don’t have you on the schedule for shooting, my dear,” he said to Florence. “We weren’t sure when you’d return, but I think we can make some adjustments.”
Florence smiled at him. “You’ll have to make further adjustments. I won’t be on set with her.” She lifted her chin in Helen Clark’s direction.
Helen heard the exchange, and with hands pressed against the stomacher of her costume, she muttered something under her breath.
“But, Florence, you have a number of scenes together,” Timothy protested.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “So I guess you’ll have to fire her.”
I stifled a gasp. Helen had the lead in the movie, an
d she was marvelous in the role.
“Come on, now, lass.” Timothy circled his arm around her waist, turning up his charm. “You know I can’t do that.”
Florence sniffed. “Well, it’s her or me. How do you think your movie will be received if you fire Edward Travis’s bereaved widow? The press will eat you alive.”
Well played, I thought. Timothy needed this movie to be a success considering the fact that no other studio would hire him at the moment because he had cast Felicity, a colored woman, as the lead in his last film. Incredulous as it was, it was true.
My gaze traveled to James Johnson. He returned the look with an uncertain smile. There was something in his eyes that conflicted with the smile, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Was it sadness? He had the air of a sensitive being, someone who was not entirely comfortable in his own skin.
“You can’t ask me to do that, Florence,” Timothy insisted.
“Yes, I can, sweetie,” she said, running a finger down his cheek. “And one more thing. I will need James to replace Mark Clemmons in the male supporting role.” She took Mr. Johnson’s arm and pressed herself against him.
“This bloke?” He pointed at Mr. Johnson. “Can he even act?”
Mr. Johnson smiled at Timothy in that same uncertain way. “I graduated from the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. My forte is music, but I took my fair share of acting classes there.”
The name rang a bell. Hadn’t Edward Travis graduated from LAMDA, as well? Was that where the two had met? And what exactly had been the nature of their relationship? He and Florence seemed awfully cozy. Too cozy. But at the party, Mr. Smith had alluded to the idea that Mr. Johnson was homosexual.
Florence looked at the director expectantly. “Will you speak to the Steinbergs and Mr. Combs or shall I?”
During the exchange, Felicity had wandered onto the set. She wore a pair of cream wide-legged trousers and a bright-red top. She was checking the curtains hanging from the castle windows. I didn’t see Helen any longer, though. She must have snuck away.
