by Kari Bovee
“Two seconds.” I made the needle fly and tacked on the lace as fast as I could. Standing so close to it, it looked a mess, but the camera would not be able to pick up the uneven stitching. I looped the needle through the thread to make a knot and clipped the remaining thread with my scissors. “Off you go,” I said to Helen.
She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pressed her hands against her ribs, centering herself for the shoot. I left instructions for Martha to take over for me and told her to watch the dress like a hawk in case the lace came away from the garment. I tilted my head in the direction of the wardrobe room and motioned for Felicity to follow me.
As she had promised, Felicity had left a little black address book and the picture frame on my desk.
“The lawyer said the father’s name was Alastair Travis, right?” I asked, recalling what he’d said at the will reading.
Felicity nodded “Yes.”
I flipped opened the booklet, looked under T, and quickly found the name Alastair Travis along with an address. “This is excellent. I’m going to send him a telegram right away.”
Felicity picked up the framed photo and studied it. “What about shooting? Won’t you be needed on set?”
I worried my lower lip, thinking. “Yes, but Martha can handle it. This is too important, Felicity. I need to get word to Alastair Travis as soon as possible—for Lizzy’s sake.”
“But what if he was the reason Margaret changed their names?”
I hadn’t thought about that. But did it matter now? The stakes were too high not to take the risk. Lizzy would likely be sentenced to death if we couldn’t get her out of this.
“I have to take the chance. Besides, I have a feeling. It’s all I have to go on, but this is too important for Lizzy. And maybe Mr. Travis will spring for a good lawyer—a really good lawyer.”
I jotted down the address and handed her back the address book. I then took the gold frame from her. My eyes went directly to the swallows flying above the garden scene, then drifted down to the photo of Florence on the horse. The message from Miss Lange—or was it Sophia?—was beneath the swallows. But what was I looking for? I scrutinized it so hard the photo blurred and my eyes watered, but I couldn’t see anything resembling a clue.
I turned the frame over and studied the velvet backing, the little hinges, and the clasp that allowed one to open the back and insert photos. I pushed the clasp with the tip of my finger and opened the back. I flipped the frame over so the photo and glass fell into the palm of my hand. I set the glass on the desk and turned over the photo, surprised to see a second photo resting beneath the first. It was a picture of a well-dressed man and woman, both sitting in chairs angled toward each other, with two boys standing between them. The taller of the boys stood next to the man, and the smaller, seemingly younger boy was beside the woman. I turned the photo over and read the inscription: Alastair and Edward Travis, Jane and Preston James Johnson Travis, 1887.
I nearly dropped the photo on the floor. Preston J. Travis. One of the beneficiaries to Mr. Travis’s estate. I showed the inscription to Felicity.
She looked up at me and her eyes met mine. “They’re brothers?”
“Apparently so.” I turned the photo over again and studied the faces. The older boy looked to be about ten years old, and the younger boy seemed to be seven or eight. Even though their faces were immature, there was no denying who they were—and who had motive for committing the murders. All of them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Determined to get my telegram off to Mr. Travis’s parents, I left the studio for about twenty minutes to do so. In the message I made a quick introduction of myself as their granddaughter’s guardian, then articulated that she was in trouble and I needed to speak with them as soon as possible. I included my address and phone number, hoping I would get a call. If I heard nothing back, I would assume they either didn’t know of her existence or didn’t care. Long-distance telephone calls were a huge expense, but given the urgency of my request, I hoped they would forgo a letter and the two to three weeks it would take to arrive.
When I returned to the set, Florence and Mr. Johnson had left. I thought about the photograph and again wondered why I’d had no inkling that Mr. Johnson and Mr. Travis were related. Did anyone else know? Was this common knowledge and I was just so far out of the Hollywood social loop that I alone was in the dark? But Felicity didn’t know either, and she had worked very closely with Mr. Travis redecorating the mansion and had been in Mr. Johnson’s presence on a daily basis. Did Florence know? Surely, she must have. And what about Helen? Was that what she was referring to when she had slipped earlier and said Mr. Travis had had to put up with Mr. Johnson?
The rest of the afternoon and early evening had zipped by as Timothy and the actors worked through one excruciatingly difficult scene. Now they were working on another, this time the scene in which the king dies. I watched Helen with fascination. Again, the emotion she portrayed in her performance was so raw and so real it was mesmerizing. I envied her gift to show her vulnerability in a way that was so tragically beautiful. It made my helplessness to face the tragedies of my own life all the more apparent to me.
“Cut!” Timothy’s booming voice startled me out of my thoughts. “That’s a wrap, people.”
I looked at my watch. It was 8:00 p.m. Helen sank into the chair on set and covered her face with her hands, obviously drained from remaining in character, drenched in the emotions of fear, anger, and grief throughout the day. I wanted to ask her about Mr. Johnson but didn’t have the heart to do it. If I was honest with myself, I was worn out physically and emotionally, too, and I longed to go home and crawl into bed, even if I didn’t get any sleep.
I decided to leave her alone for the time being. I would talk to her tomorrow.
I arrived home shortly after 9:00 p.m., and once again, the house was quiet. I walked into the darkened living room, kicked off my shoes, and made my way into the kitchen. I opened the icebox to find Rose had left me a piece of shepherd’s pie. I fired up the oven to warm it and then sat down at the kitchen table. The evening paper had been left there with a note from Rose. It read, Page 3, Column 2.
I opened the paper to page three. There was another story about Pearl Davis. Apparently, according to this story, the coroner claimed Miss Davis had died from an overdose of insulin, a medicine used to treat diabetes, but her medical records indicated she did not suffer from the disease. As a result, the coroner determined she had indeed been murdered.
I set the paper down, my mind swirling with the information, but I was too tired to make everything fit together. I got up and put my plate of food in the oven and set the egg timer for ten minutes. I had just settled back in my chair when I heard someone come through the front door.
Startled, I grabbed Rose’s rolling pin on the counter and slowly pushed open the kitchen door that led into the living room. In the dark, I saw a figure moving around and then a lamp switched on.
“Chet! Oh, my gosh, you scared me.” I placed a hand over my racing heart and lowered the rolling pin. I rushed over to him, and throwing my arms around him, I gave him a passionate, lingering kiss. His coat was cool to the touch, and he smelled of damp, night air and cigar smoke. His arms went around me, and he returned the kiss with the same ardor, his whiskers rough against my skin.
Finally, we broke apart.
“Wow. I should leave town more often if that’s the reception I’ll get when I get back.” He smiled down at me, his light-gray eyes dancing.
“Well, if that’s the case, I take it back. I hate it when you’re gone. But boy, do I have so much to tell you. Do you have any more information from your inquiries in Lake Tahoe?”
He shook his head. “No. I kept looking but hit a dead end. Margaret liked to keep to herself. No one really knew much about her, and I couldn’t find anything more in the records office.”
I grinned up at him. “Not to worry, dear. I’ve found the proof we need.”
I to
ld him about the birth certificate and the petition to change their names I’d found at Margaret’s house.
“This is wonderful,” he said, smiling. “My gosh, you did it.”
“Yes, but I want to keep it secret for a while. At least until I find proof that Lizzy did not kill Margaret or Mr. Travis. It would cast doubt on her innocence.”
He pressed his lips together. “But, Grace, the police need to know about this. You are withholding information in regard to the case. They could arrest you for that, just like Daniel.”
“I know, but I’m finding out more about Mr. Travis by the day.” I told him about what I’d discovered about Mr. Johnson.
“Don’t you see? That gives Mr. Johnson motive for killing Mr. Travis—and for killing Margaret and Pearl Davis. She died of an overdose of insulin, by the way.” I pointed to the paper. “Oh! And the medicine vial!”
Chet shook his head, not understanding. I told him how I’d found it at work and had thought it belonged to either Robert Smith or Helen Clark.
“But when it rolled out of my purse yesterday, Mr. Johnson seemed to take particular interest in it. I wonder if it belongs to him? For all we know, he may have tried to kill Lizzy, too, but failed. It would make sense if he knew she was really Elsa.” I paused to let it sink in. “I keep thinking about why she was unconscious in the barn, why she couldn’t remember the incident. She would have had to drink an enormous amount of alcohol for it to have affected her like that, and I only saw her have a couple of drinks.”
“You think he drugged her with insulin?” Chet asked.
“It’s possible. The article in the paper mentioned a puncture wound and bruising on Pearl Davis’s buttocks. Lizzy had a bruise on her arm, and she said she’d felt like she’d been stung by a bee at the party, around the same time she was talking to Mr. Travis and James Johnson. And remember when we found Margaret? She had that bruise on her thigh!”
Chet smiled at me. “I think you are definitely onto something, Grace. Nice work. Let’s call the police station first thing in the morning. This is something Detective Walton definitely needs to hear.”
Sophia is standing over me watching me sleep. She’s dressed in one of the costumes I helped Lady Duff Gordon design for her. The headpiece I created is set askew on her head, and her eye makeup and lipstick is smeared. She’s drunk and bleary-eyed, and looks like she’s been crying. She clutches something in her hand, a glass vial marked XXX Poison. I try to reach for it but can’t move. I try to tell her not to drink it, but the words won’t come out of my mouth.
My heart races as she lifts it to her lips. Then she’s gone and I am alone, sitting on the stage of the New Amsterdam Theater, reading the headline, Sophia Michelle Dies of Accidental Overdose in Hotel Room. I look up at Flo, who was dancing with a showgirl on the stage. He is holding her tight and looking deep into her eyes.
“But, that’s not what had happened to Sophia,” I tell him. “Not exactly. She was poisoned—on purpose.”
He keeps dancing as if I’m not even there. The girl in his arms looks over at me and kicks something on the floor toward me. It’s a small medicine vial. I pick it up and try to read the label, but the words are distorted and misshapen.
A phone rings. Flo stops dancing and goes over to a phone set on a table on the stage. He picks up the receiver to answer it, but the phone keeps ringing, and ringing, and ringing.
I opened my eyes to find myself in my bedroom. The ringing was still happening. I looked over at Chet, who lay there peacefully, breathing the deep breath of sleep.
The phone!
I jumped out of bed and grabbed my dressing gown on the bedpost. Running down the stairs, I slipped my hands through the sleeves and tied it securely around my waist. Finally, I reached the phone.
“Hello?” I whispered breathlessly.
There was a woman’s voice on the other end. “Miss Michelle, this is exchange seven-six. I have an overseas call for you.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll take it.” I blinked in the dark, wondering what time it was. Rose came out into the hallway, and I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s okay, Rose. Go back to bed.”
Without a word, she shuffled back toward her wing of the house.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said on the other end. “Is this Miss Michelle?”
“Yes. Mr. Travis?”
“I’m sorry to ring you at this hour. It must be— Well, it must be the middle of the night there. But I was concerned about your telegram.”
I smiled into the receiver. “It’s no problem, Mr. Travis. I’m happy you called. First, I want to extend my condolences in regard to your son Edward. He was a fine man, and it’s been my pleasure to work with him.”
There was a brief silence on the other end.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said after a beat. “You worked with him? Are you an actress?”
“No, I’m a clothing and costume designer.”
“Ah. I see. A profession of some utility. I never understood Edward’s passion for the theater or the movies. I had always hoped he would choose a more useful pursuit, but alas, he did not.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to that declaration so I didn’t say anything.
He cleared his throat. “I must say, I was astounded to receive your telegram. You mentioned some trouble with my granddaughter and that you are her guardian? Is Elsa all right?”
So he did know about her. I hadn’t mentioned her by name in the telegram. Just as his granddaughter.
“Yes . . . well, no,” I stammered helplessly, then pulled myself together and told him how she had come to be with us, as well as all about her current predicament.
“I see.” He paused. I could hear his breathing through the phone. “Poor girl. I haven’t seen her since she was a small child.”
“Mr. Travis, I know that Lizzy—I mean, Elsa—did not kill your son. I firmly believe she had no idea he was her father, and if she—I hate to even think it—if she did kill him, it must have been an accident of some kind. As for her mother, Margaret—I mean, Greta—I just don’t believe Lizzy—Elsa—would kill her, either. They had been at odds, yes, but she had set out to apologize for her behavior. Please, Mr. Travis—”
“Slow down, my dear,” he cut in. “I am an old man and cannot keep up.”
I took a deep breath and willed myself to calm down. There was just so much to say, so much to ask. “Could you answer some questions for me?” I asked softly.
“I will try.”
I took another deep breath and let it out. “How well did you know Greta and Elsa?”
“Not well. Edward and Greta brought the child here on holiday shortly after she was born. She was the most beautiful infant I’d ever seen in my life. And it was the happiest I’d ever seen Edward, before or since. Greta was charming. We were saddened to hear the relationship did not last. I don’t think Edward was ever the same after she left him.”
“Do you know what happened between them?”
There was another silence on the other end of the phone. I heard the crackle of something on his end, and then he exhaled. I imagined him smoking a pipe.
“Edward was married to Pearl, though it wasn’t the happiest of relationships. I found her to be demanding and demeaning. He’d promised Greta he would divorce Pearl and marry her, but I am afraid that never happened. I understand they were still married when Edward died.”
I wondered if he knew about Florence Thomas. I decided it best not to bring her up.
“Mr. Travis, I’ve only recently found out Greta’s and Elsa’s true names. Do you have any idea why they might have gone by Margaret and Lizzy Moore?”
More crackling and another exhale.
“Mr. Travis?”
“It was on account of my stepson.” The register of his voice lowered.
My heart quickened. “Do you mean Preston J. Travis?”
“Yes. You know about him?”
“I’ve only met him recently,” I said, my throat
going dry. “I know him as James Johnson, though, and I had no idea he and Mr. Tra—Edward were brothers.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. Few, if any, in America knew. It was by design.”
I waited for further explanation. “I don’t understand.”
Another exhale. “My wife was a widow when I met her, and I was a widower. Preston was four years old, Edward six. Preston was a difficult child. While Edward was always outgoing and gregarious, Preston was withdrawn and sullen. It wasn’t until years later that we found out how disturbed he truly was. I won’t bore you with his life story, but suffice it to say, the child needed to be institutionalized, but my wife wouldn’t have it. We had a horrible time with him. While Edward flourished in school and with his peers, Preston got into more and more trouble and showed absolutely no remorse for his actions. He would leave us for days. The only person he would listen to was Edward. Somehow Edward saw through Preston’s failings as a human being. But after Edward left home for America, Preston became involved with a gang in London. Terrible lot. He ended up in prison.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. But how . . . ?”
“The barrister I hired for him persuaded him to testify against the members of this gang in exchange for early release. In an effort to protect his stepbrother, Edward encouraged him to begin going by his middle name and father’s surname and join him in America. Said Preston could work for him if he kept his identity secret. This was roughly around the time Greta left Edward. But Edward pursued her relentlessly, had Preston keep tabs on her. I believe this is why she changed their names. She didn’t want to be found.”
I thought about this for a moment. The agreement between Mr. Travis and Mrs. Hillson came to mind. So perhaps Mr. Travis had always known where she was, took care of her in spite of her wanting nothing to do with him.
“Oh dear.” The elder Mr. Travis broke my train of thought. “I must let you get back to bed. I do apologize again for calling at such and ungodly hour.”
