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Josie began her search to get back home in her bedroom. She had no idea what she was looking for, but didn’t think she’d find the solution to her dilemma at a garden party, especially since the guests – and the host – would have more questions she couldn’t answer. Maybe there was a panel which was a portal to another time. Or, perhaps, she’d take another nap and wake up in her own bed in her own time, though that felt like wishful thinking right now.
Josie knocked on all the walls to see if one might be hollow. She even knocked on the paneling of her cedar wardrobe. Perhaps C.S. Lewis had been on to something.
“Miss?”
Josie turned to see the maid who’d scurried away earlier, looking like she might bolt again. She was carrying a dozen dresses, which she placed in the wardrobe – after warily walking as far away from Josie as possible. “What are those?” asked Josie.
“Mr. Remington thought these might fit you, miss, and that you’d be in need of them, having misplaced your luggage.” Now the maid placed several changes of undergarments into the dresser. They were silk from the look of it, and expensive.
“Where did Mr. Remington get these clothes?”
“He’s been coming to this house for several years and has a lot of parties, miss. Some clothes get left behind.” The maid blushed as she said it, making Josie wonder just what kind of parties David Remington had.
Josie examined the dresses, all expensive, all well-made. There was a variety, ranging from linen dresses suitable for a summer’s day, to evening wear similar to her sequined gown. There was even a pair of silk palazzo pants, Josie was dying to try on. She reminded herself she was there for answers, not fashion. “How did Mr. Remington know my size? Pardon me, what’s your name?”
“Betsy, miss,” said the maid as she bobbed a curtsy. “Mr. Remington has a way with women, miss.” Then she blushed bright red and Josie hoped Mr. Remington hadn’t been hitting on his staff.
“Betsy, how long have Mr. Remington and Miss Andrews been together?”
“I don’t know exactly, since I’m not one to gossip. But when Mr. Remington came out here for the summer, they met when Miss Andrews’s tire went flat. She drives her own automobile, if you can imagine!”
“How modern of her. Go on.”
“So he went to her aid and they began stepping out shortly after. Between you and me, I think they’re about to become engaged.”
“That would be a mistake.”
Betsy blinked. “Why, miss?”
“Never mind. I’ll talk to Miss Andrews, myself. In the meantime...” A strong tremor shook the room, which reminded Josie of the one she’d felt the night she’d gone downstairs into another century. Maybe this was the way to go back. Perhaps this whole thing was tied to seismic activity. She closed her eyes, thought about home, then opened her eyes again.
Betsy was still there, though she’d backed away from Josie by several feet.
“Are you feeling poorly again, miss?”
“Not any more than I was earlier, but thank you for your concern. Have you had other earthquakes like that?”
“Yes, miss, for several months now. I think it’s the End of Days and the devil is about to bring us all to hell, especially with what goes on at these parties. Not that I would gossip about that, of course.”
“Of course. But what does go on at these parties?”
Betsy leaned close – but not too close – to whisper, “The only thing I can say is that the ladies all leave with smiles.”
* * *
After knocking on her bedroom walls until her knuckles ached, Josie went outside again, hoping the cool breeze of late afternoon might clear her head, which still ached from the fall. The lack of Advil in the 1920s was particularly vexing. One of the first people she ran into was Constance Andrews. Perhaps now would be a good time to warn her that her soon-to-be fiancé was also a soon-to-be-murderer. She also had to find a way to warn Mikey Corrigan, if he was there.
Constance was walking with a woman who had platinum blonde hair. “There you are, Josephine, I was worried the side effects of the concussion had begun. How do you feel?”
“Better, thank you, though still a bit confused.”
“Speaking of confused, let me introduce you to Mikey Corrigan’s girlfriend, Lucy.”
The other woman looked Josie up and down. “That was quite a fall you took last night. I was surprised your noggin didn’t split open like a watermelon.”
Constance stepped back to usher a tall handsome man into the group. “And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who this is.”
Josie recognized him from the newspaper photo but couldn’t remember his name. “I’m afraid you might.”
Lucy gasped and Constance was shocked.
“Surely, you must go to the pictures,” said Constance.
“Not as often as I’d like,” said Josie apologetically. She knew this was the actor who’d been killed, the one who made Valentino’s funeral look ill-attended. But she couldn’t remember his name, which must look odd to everyone else, since he was one of the most famous actors in the world. She had to figure out a way to warn him, as well as Mikey Corrigan, but it wasn’t going to be easy. How could she make them believe her when she couldn’t explain how she knew what was going to happen? Hell, she couldn’t even explain how she’d arrived at the party. This was going to require some serious thought.
Too bad it still hurt to think.
“I’m Kurt Franklin, miss,” said the actor in a pronounced southern drawl which was so thick Josie was afraid she’d need a translator. Then she remembered how many silent movie stars never made the transition to sound because their voices were so unrefined. Even if this guy hadn’t been killed, his future success in Hollywood would have been a longshot. Perhaps she should warn him his life was in danger and give him advice on finding another line of work.
A maid handed Constance a note. She read it, then nodded at Josie and the others, “If you’ll excuse me, I must take care of something.”
Lucy turned to the handsome actor. “We didn’t get a chance to talk much last night on account of because Mikey don’t like me talkin’ to good-lookin’ men. Especially good-lookin’ actor types. Especially good-lookin’ actor types who star in movies like ‘The Archer’ and ‘Captain Voyage’ and ‘Tafarr, the Jungle Man’ – that was a particular favorite of mine – and ‘The King of Wolves.’ I didn’t even know wolves had royalty. I also like all your shorts, as well. Especially the ones where you’re a cowboy. Each of those short films was the best five minutes I ever spent with my clothes on. Can you show us how you rescued poor Lillian Gish when she was in quicksand in ‘Jungles of the Night?’ I was afraid you’d both sink to your deaths. Though, of course, I was much more concerned about you than her because, frankly, she seems like a bitch.”
Kurt was about to reply when there was a scream from the woods. A panicked gardener ran toward them. “Come quick! Mikey Corrigan has been shot!”
With a bit of deft maneuvering, Lucy fainted into Kurt’s arms.
And Josie was left with the guilt of knowing she’d been too late to save Mikey Corrigan.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, they were all standing in front of Mikey Corrigan, who was bandaging his arm which had a flesh wound and not the fatal gunshot of the newspaper articles. Josie was surprised, relieved, and more than a bit confused. She was also appalled by the lack of both antibiotic ointment and hand washing. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call a doctor?” Josie asked him.
“Trust me, I’ve been hurt worse.”
“What happened?” asked David Remington, as he approached the group. Josie didn’t see the direction he’d come from, but he hadn’t been there when they’d been told Corrigan had been shot.
The gangster nodded to his arm. “What does it look like? Somebody took a shot at me.”
“Who was it?”
Mikey snorted. “I didn’t get a look at him and he didn’t stick around long enough for us to get acquainted.”
“That ain’t like you,” said Lucy. “Getting’ shot and not gettin’ one off in return. You sick or somethin’?”
“You brought a firearm to the party, Mr. Corrigan?” asked Josie.
“I never go nowhere without one and now you know why.” He looked at Josie and frowned. “We never were formally introduced.”
“Oh, excuse me, I’m Josie Matthews,” she said to the curious stares of those around her, which included Lucy and Kurt. They were then joined by the man Josie had heard described as Kurt’s press agent.
“That was quite an entrance you made last night,” said Corrigan, in a manner which was midway between observation and accusation. “Care to explain it?”
Josie still didn’t have any idea how to explain. She looked toward David Remington, the man who’d probably just shot his friend, then doubled back around.
Remington cleared his throat. “I don’t think last night is nearly as important as what just happened in the woods. Where were you when you were shot?”
“Out in the trees.”
“Can you be more specific?” asked Remington.
“They were green.”
David laughed. Before he could question him further, they were joined by the rest of the guests. Josie turned to see two of her idols. “You’re Dora Barnes and Lawrence Henry!” she said to two of the most distinguished playwrights of the Twentieth Century. She’d seen no mention of them in the articles which was surprising, given how famous they were. “You’re a great writer,” Josie said to Dora.
“You know my work?” asked a puzzled Dora.
“Of course! I was even in a play you and Mr. Henry wrote. I mean, it was back in high school and I was terrible, but, wow!”
Dora looked at Lawrence in confusion. “But Lawrence and I have never written together.”
“And none of my plays have been seen beyond New York,” said Lawrence.
That’s why they hadn’t been mentioned in the articles. They weren’t famous yet. “You should think about working together,” said Josie lamely. “It could be fun.” It was also going to get them countless rave reviews, Tony Awards and even an Oscar nomination.
Dora and Lawrence looked at each other, while Josie could feel David staring at her.
“Lawrence’s play ‘Children at Dinner’ opened on Broadway five years ago,” said Constance, who had just joined them. “It’s a shame it closed so quickly.”
“It should have been shut down for indecency!”
Everyone turned to see a gruff man in his mid-thirties in an ill-fitting suit, with a flask in his pocket.
“Haven’t you heard, Agent Barker?” asked Lawrence. “There is no such thing as decency, anymore. After all, it is the Roaring Twenties. Or at least it will be until the end of this year.”
“Grant Barker is a federal agent,” said Constance. “He’s directly under J. Edgar Hoover.”
“And what a horrid position that must be,” said Lawrence.
“Enough with the chitter chatter!” said Barker. “Who shot you, Corrigan? Though I’m sure it was nothing more than you deserved.”
“I don’t know who shot me. But I’d sure as hell like to find out. What are you doin’ makin’ eyes at my girl?” Mikey asked Kurt, who had been staring at Lucy.
Kurt grinned. “Didn’t mean no harm, Mr. Corrigan. I guess I just like pretty girls.” He winked at Lucy, then went on his way.
Once he was out of earshot, Mikey snorted. “If you ask me, the biggest mystery is how a guy who sounds like that ever got into pictures.”
“They’re silent, you know,” said Dora.
“The least interesting thing a man can do with his mouth is talk,” added Lawrence.
“Yeah, talkin’ is highly overrated,” said Lucy as she looked over to where several maids were now gathered around Kurt.
David looked at his old friend’s wound, which was beginning to bleed anew. “Mikey, why don’t you go inside and get patched up for real? Barker, you might as well come along.”
“And the rest of us can have tea,” said Constance, desperate to get the party on track again, as she ushered everyone toward tables which had been set out on the lawn.
Josie pulled Remington aside. “Where were you when Mr. Corrigan was shot?”
“I don’t know exactly when he was shot, so I can’t tell you where I was.”
“I find that highly suspicious. Even I can tell you where I was and I’m the one with the head injury.”
Remington’s eyebrows vaulted upward. “Are you asking if I shot my friend?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“Might I remind you you’re an uninvited guest and you just asked your host if he’s a murderer?”
She had just done that, hadn’t she? But she might as well stay the course, since the insult had already been issued. “You didn’t answer my question.” It was a bold thing to say to a murderer, but perhaps if she let him know she was on to him he wouldn’t make another attempt on Mr. Corrigan’s life.
He was surprised, but not particularly displeased, by her honesty. “I was around the side of the house, and to answer your next question, no one saw me there, but I didn’t shoot my friend. I should probably point out that no one was shot until you arrived, Miss Matthews.”
“Yes, but I know I didn’t do it. I have my eye on you, Mr. Remington.”
He smiled. “And I, Miss Matthews, have my eye on you.”