by Kari Bovee
One by one, I took the items out and laid them on the bed, and then I started to go through the papers. Some of them were old photographs, one of which showed a cheery-looking picnic with smiling women in dresses that had been popular at the turn of the century and men in shirtsleeves playing croquet. I shuffled through several similar photos and stacked them on the bed. At the bottom of the box was an envelope with the words New York City Hall of Records stamped across the front. I opened it up and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. As soon as I unfolded it, my hand flew to my mouth.
It was the birth certificate of Elsa Mae Mayfield. Her parents were listed as Greta Mayfield and Edward Travis.
Stunned at this piece of evidence, I looked through more of the papers and found a letter written to the State of New York. As I read, my heart raced, the sound pulsating through my ears. It was a copy of a petition to change the names of Greta Lynn Mayfield and her three-year-old daughter, Elsa Mae Mayfield, to Margaret Moore and Elizabeth Moore respectively.
My hands shaking, I folded the papers and tucked them back into the box, unsure of what to do with this new evidence. This unequivocally proved that Lizzy was the daughter of Edward Travis and Margaret Moore. But it might also be the final nail in her coffin.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Still rattled from my find, I showed up for work thirty minutes late. So much for my resolve never to arrive late again. I placed the box I’d taken from Margaret’s house under the driver’s seat of my car for safekeeping and hurried inside.
To my chagrin, I walked into my office to see Timothy standing in front of a dress form adorned with one of Florence’s costumes, studying it. Florence and Mr. Johnson were also there. She was cooling her heels at my desk, smoking a cigarette while he was perusing the multitude of costumes on the rack. He pulled off one of the men’s suits and held it up to himself in the mirror.
“Glad you could join us, lass.” Timothy scowled at me. “We can’t do anything until you make some alterations to this dress. I don’t need to remind you we are already behind schedule.”
I set my things down on the desk. “I’m so sorry. I was, um . . . I was detained at the ranch,” I lied. I didn’t like to lie, but how could I explain that I was late because I had been snooping around a dead woman’s house?
Florence stood up. “I’m not sure this dress is in keeping with Dorothea’s character.”
Before I could offer her an ashtray, she dropped her cigarette to the floor and stomped on it with her delicate T-strap Mary Jane. I flinched, hoping the burning ember hadn’t left a mark on the wood floor. “This dress says demure, shy. It lends her no . . . confidence. Really, Grace, I’m surprised you would think it was appropriate.”
“It doesn’t show up well on camera,” Timothy added. “It’s too heavy.”
“All you see is the dress, not me,” she added.
I bit my lip. “I see.” I went up to the dress form and turned it to face me. “Well, perhaps we could change out this velvet bodice with something lighter, like silk. And we could use a lighter color than the indigo. Perhaps sky blue. It will show up as white on film, but it won’t be too brash. We would keep the skirt the same.”
“Florence?” Timothy turned to her for her opinion, which slightly annoyed me. Yes, women often knew what looked best on them, but it was the job of the designer to decide what worked best on film, not the actors.
She casually examined her fingernails. “I suppose that will work.”
“How long will it take to fix this?” Timothy asked.
“I think I have some fabric that will work for the bodice. Give me two hours?”
He looked at his watch. “So now we’re two hours and thirty minutes behind schedule today.”
I gave him an apologetic look, knowing that to say much more would only land me in further trouble.
Just then, Hilda came into my office carrying the Santa Maria. She looked up in surprise to see us all there. I quickly explained the situation and had her go to the wardrobe room to find the fabric.
“We’ll also need to fit Mr. Johnson,” Timothy added. “He will be playing the role of the guard. Billings was admitted to the hospital last night with acute appendicitis. His wife said she wasn’t sure when he would be able to return, and the lads upstairs said they’d put him on another project.”
“I see.”
“The bosses want to get this film made toot suite, which I seem to be failing at already,” Timothy continued. “You’ll have to alter Billings’s costume, lass. We don’t have time for you to start from scratch.”
I studied Mr. Johnson with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He was a good four inches taller than Mr. Billings and half his girth.
“How soon will you need it?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t this week.
Timothy looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Yesterday, love.”
I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course. I’ll get right on it.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He saluted as he left my office.
Florence settled herself in one of the club chairs. “The dress is also too big for me now. I’ve lost some weight—you know, with everything that’s been happening lately.” She reached for her handbag on the desk, and in doing so, she knocked mine off the corner of it. It dropped to the ground and popped open, spilling its contents.
“Oh dear,” she said but made no effort to clean up the mess.
“I’ve got it.” I knelt down and started to pick up the numerous items. The medicine vial I had found on set rolled away from my grasp.
“I say—” Mr. Johnson bent down to pick it up “—is this yours?” He held it out to me.
“No, it isn’t. I found it on the interior castle set.”
He reached down and patted his coat pockets absently, as if looking for something he was afraid he’d lost.
“Do you know who it belongs to?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Why would I?”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He seemed interested in it for some reason. “Oh. Well, I didn’t—”
Hilda came back into the room with the fabric I had asked for, thankfully interrupting us. I placed the vial back in my purse along with the other contents and placed it on the chair behind my desk. I set Hilda to work dismantling the dress and cutting the fabric to form while I asked Florence to go behind the screen and undress down to her slip. Mr. Johnson made no effort to leave.
“Mr. Johnson, would you . . . ?” I indicated toward the door.
“Oh, Grace,” Florence said from behind the screen. “Don’t be such a prude. Jimmy is fine where he is.”
Jimmy? Just how intimate were these two? And for how long?
“Very well,” was all I said aloud, though. “Mr. Johnson, I’ll take your measurements in the meantime. We will see what we can do to fit you into a costume we already have. You would be swimming in Mr. Billings’s costume, and it’d be far too short.” I went to my desk drawer and pulled out my tape measure, a pad of paper, and a pencil.
“Shall I undress down to my slip?” he asked with a grin, an obvious attempt to be funny.
I avoided his gaze. “No, you’re fine.”
He stepped up to me and stood unnecessarily close. Instinctively, I took a step back, then took a measurement of his head and wrote it down on the pad. Florence came out from behind the screen, sat down in one of the club chairs again, and lit another cigarette.
“So how long did you work for Mr. Travis?” I asked Mr. Johnson as I measured his neck and then took up my pad and pencil.
“Oh,” he said casually, “Edward and I go way back.”
I wondered how far back. “Oh yes. You are from England, like he is. So did you go to grade-school together?”
“No. Not until we were at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. Edward went to the finest primary and grammar schools, and was set up to enter university. I was not afforded that luxury.”
“Edward was spoiled rotten,” Flor
ence chimed in. “His parents are filthy rich.”
“Some people have all the luck.” Mr. Johnson gave me that unsettling grin again. “But look where that got him.”
I glanced over at Florence, who was taking a drag of her cigarette. She let the smoke linger in her mouth, her lips slightly opened in a cryptic smile, giving her the appearance of a dragon who’d just burned her prey to a crisp.
We had to wrap up filming early because it had grown too dark to continue, as the scenes we were shooting were outdoor scenes. By early, I meant 7:30 p.m., which was late enough for me. I was so tired I felt as if I was walking in a dream, disconnected from reality and having trouble forming my words.
I was headed back to my office in the wardrobe room when Felicity came running up behind me. “Hey, I haven’t had a chance to talk to you all day. How are you doing?”
I sighed. “I am dead on my feet.”
“Any word from Chet about finding the mysterious heir?”
“Oh my goodness! I haven’t told you yet.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I found proof that Edward was Lizzy’s father.”
Her eyes popped open wide. “You’re kidding?”
“Not in the least. Come to my office and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I can’t stay,” she said with a frown. “Miss Lange is having a séance tonight in her suite at the Hollywood Hotel. Why don’t you come with me and you can tell me about it on the way over?”
We reached the wardrobe room and then went into my office. I tossed my pad and pencil on the desk and ran a hand through my hair, rolling my head from side to side to release the kinks in my shoulders. “I don’t know, Felicity. I think I need to go home. I feel like my head is going to explode.”
“Still having nightmares?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Then do you really think you’ll sleep?”
I gave a her a defeated smile. “No.”
“I think you need to give Miss Lange another chance. You obviously still have some unresolved feelings and memories.”
“Yes, that’s true.” I still didn’t want to talk about what Miss Lange’s last session had provoked in me, but sadness swept through me like a cold wind as I recalled the horrifying visions I’d had about my mother coming at me with a knife. “But I’m not sure I want to relive the past. Maybe I want to remain in the dark about it.”
“No, you don’t, Grace. It is driving you crazy. And I think you still have some unfinished business with your sister.”
“Well, she did lead me to the photo ‘beyond the garden.’” I made quotation marks in the air with my fingers.
She lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe Sophia has more information for you.”
I lifted my brows, considering the possibility. “Let me ring Rose at home first and make sure she and the children don’t need me for anything.”
I picked up the phone on my desk and called the house. Rose said that Ida and Susie were upstairs doing homework, and she was about to retire for the night. It seemed I could accompany Felicity after all, though I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.
I hung up the phone. “All’s well at the ranch.”
“Okay, that settles it. Grab your coat and hat. We’re going to a séance.”
Too tired to argue, I relented.
“Good,” she said. “Now tell me all about this proof.”
We pulled up to the Hollywood Hotel in Felicity’s Packard Roadster. I had been to the hotel several times for parties and dances but was continually impressed with the architecture. It was sort of the classic Mission style meets Victorian—an odd combination but somehow it worked with its grab bag of arches, balconies, turrets, cupola, and broad veranda that served as a gathering place year-round.
As we passed through the lobby, we almost ran headlong into Hollywood’s most popular leading man, Rudy Valentino, as he was hustling to catch the open door.
“Ah scusatemi, signoras!” he said as he whisked by.
Felicity’s chin dropped, and she looked at me with wide eyes. “Was that . . . ?”
“Yes, I believe so,” I said. Not that Mr. Valentino could be mistaken for anyone else. I gave Felicity an amused grin as she stared after him. I hadn’t pegged her as someone who would be so beguiled by a movie star . She always seemed so above that kind of goggling adoration. But it was Valentino, after all.
Seated in two of the lobby’s lounge chairs were his wife, costume and set designer Natacha Rambova, and her friend and mentor, the actress Alla Nazimova. They nodded their heads in greeting, and we made our way to the front desk to inquire as to the whereabouts of Miss Lange’s suite.
In a matter of minutes we were knocking at her door. I was not surprised to see Robert Smith answer it. My surprise came at the realization that he looked to be completely sober.
“Welcome, ladies.” He waved his arm toward the room, inviting us in. “Grace, I’m glad you could join us.”
“Hello, Mr. Smith,” I said, surprised by his warm greeting, all traces of his former hostility toward me gone. “You look well.”
I only hoped I looked half as well as he did, but I knew I did not, given my frazzled nerves and lack of sleep. I really didn’t need to be here and longed for my bed, if only to get horizontal as I knew that slumber would be beyond my reach.
“Come in,” he went on, his voice somber.
We entered the suite to see two people already there. There was another knock on the door, and we stepped aside so Mr. Smith could open it again. Mr. Valentino and Miss Rambova entered the room.
Felicity raised her eyebrows at me and clutched my arm. “What are they doing here?” she asked in a raspy whisper.
Mr. Smith made the introductions. “Rudy and Natacha are also interested in spiritualism and have attended many of Lenora’s séances. Please, come have a seat.”
He led us to a round table with eight chairs circling it. The largest, an ornately carved chair painted in gold, was backed up against the fireplace. I assumed this was for Miss Lange. A sizable, well-coifed and elegantly dressed woman was already seated to the right of the ornate chair. Her pudgy fingers were adorned with a multitude of rings. She gave us a kindly nod as we sat down.
“I am Eugenie Delacroix,” she said in a heavy French accent, holding out a bejeweled hand. Both Felicity and I shook her hand and introduced ourselves.
Madame Delacroix swept a hand toward an equally elegantly dressed man standing near one of the windows smoking a cigarette. “And this is Pierre, my son.”
He raised a chin in greeting, a less than enthusiastic expression on his face.
“The sceptique,” she added dryly.
I stifled a yawn, wishing I’d never let Felicity talk me into this. Miss Rambova and Mr. Valentino took their seats to the right of Madame Delacroix, leaving a space for her son. Felicity scurried to the chair next to Mr. Valentino’s, and I was seated between her and Mr. Smith’s empty chair. He had retreated to another room of the suite, I assumed to retrieve Miss Lange. I no sooner finished the thought than out she came, in a flowing white gown with ostrich plumes lining the long, bell-shaped sleeves and boatneck collar. She glided to her chair without a word.
“I am going to turn out the lights,” Mr. Smith said. “Once I do, please hold hands and center yourself. Lenora requests there be no talking during the séance, unless you are addressed, and we must remain as still as possible to allow the spirit or spirits to enter through the portal. It is important to note that we do not always know who might come through, but they will make their presence known when they do.”
I glanced over at Felicity, who shrugged.
Mr. Smith closed the heavy curtains adorning the windows and lit a candle near one of them. He then proceeded to turn out the lights. Pierre Delacroix languidly took a final drag of his cigarette and then pressed the butt of it into an ashtray. He made his way over to the chair next to his mother and sat down with a sigh.
Mr. Smith took his place next to me
and blew out the candle, leaving us in complete darkness. I blinked, hoping my eyes would adjust quickly. The utter blackness was disorienting, and my head began to swirl. I squeezed Felicity’s hand, and she squeezed mine back. I was grateful for the reassurance.
“Please hold hands,” Miss Lange repeated, her voice soothing and rich.
We all sat in silence for several minutes, the only noise in the room the ticking of the clock on the mantel. I closed my eyes, and my shoulders lowered a fraction. Wrapped in a cocoon of darkness and silence, I felt the kinks in my muscles relax and untie themselves. My breathing lengthened, and I drifted into a pleasant state of obscurity.
A loud rapping on the wall sent my heart into spasms. Felicity squeaked.
“Who’s there?” Lenora asked.
More silence, save for the pounding in my chest.
“Please, make yourself known,” Lenora encouraged.
“Mama?” A high-pitched girl’s voice said. “Mama?”
I opened one eye. Lenora was speaking in the little girl’s voice. I squeezed my eye shut again, afraid I would somehow break the spell.
“Yes, darling.” It was Madame Delacroix. “I’m here.” Her voice wavered with emotion.
“Papa is here, too,” the little voice said. I wasn’t sure if it was my own nerves, but I felt a humming vibration in the room.
“Alexandre?” the French woman asked, her voice full of hope.
“Sacré bleu,” her son muttered, obviously annoyed.
There was more loud rapping on the wall. I jumped, and Felicity squeezed my hand.
“Oh, my dear Alexandre!” Madame Delacroix rattled off something in French. We waited to hear more, but silence filled the room once again.
My heart was beating so hard I wondered if anyone else could hear it.
Suddenly, a deep, male voice answered in French. Then a perky young woman’s voice came through. “Hiya,” it said.
I opened an eye again. Miss Lange, her eyes closed, was leaning forward.
“Who is there?” she asked. “Can you give us your name?”
