Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Ambrose’s secretary, Eleanor Lansing, had an anxious expression on her narrow face. Mr. Ambrose was on a long-distance call, she told the detectives, and would they mind please having a seat. As Twaddle and Lyons waited, they heard Miss Lansing answering inquiries on the phone. She ended each conversation with the same tagline: “We have a perfect safety record.” In between calls, Twaddle attempted to engage her in conversation and learned that Marcus Ambrose had started the business six years ago. There were six other pilots and yet it was Ambrose’s hobby to frequently take the controls himself when interesting people booked a charter.

  “Wasn’t it awful about that beautiful model, Alexandra Saunders, who was murdered?” She sighed. “I heard it on the radio when I was having lunch. She was part of a group that regularly chartered our planes . . . just shows you never know.

  “I never met her. I wish I had. Someone else made all the arrangements for that trip. The charter Miss Saunders was on was booked by the Wilson Modeling Agency.”

  The door of the inner office opened. Ben was sure Twaddle would have loved to continue talking with Eleanor Lansing, even though he would never give the slightest hint of disappointment that a conversation was over. Instead, Twaddle rose to his feet and solemnly acknowledged the muted greeting from Marcus Ambrose. The man’s face was flushed, his eyes were half-closed and his hand was trembling when he extended it.

  Ambrose’s private office had been furnished with the same disinterest as the reception area. He waited until he’d closed the door before turning to the detectives and asking, “Do you know who did this to Alexandra?”

  “The investigation into her murder is continuing. We are trying to discover where Miss Saunders might have gone when she left the airport on Monday evening,” Ben replied.

  “I had offered her a ride home and she accepted it. But then after I stopped here for ten minutes, I returned to meet her at the terminal, in the arriving passengers area. She was gone.”

  For the next half hour Twaddle and Ben repeated the questions they had asked earlier that morning. Ambrose’s statements were identical to those he had given to Mike and Janice. He had been at the filming of the final commercial in Venice. Alexandra neither looked nor felt well.

  “Do you have any idea why she would have left the airport without taking her luggage?” Twaddle asked.

  “I thought she might have seen one of the paparazzi and didn’t want to be photographed looking the way she was. She certainly knew I would take care of her luggage.”

  “Were you and Miss Saunders personally involved?” Twaddle asked.

  “I only wish. I won’t deny that I was trying, and as I told her sister, in her free time we did some sightseeing together and I was beginning to think she enjoyed being with me.”

  Fifteen minutes later when Hubert Twaddle and Ben Lyons were in the car, Ben volunteered, “I don’t think we got very much out of that interview.”

  “Let us not be too sure of that,” Twaddle answered. “But I believe the background investigations of Mr. Wilson, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Ambrose may make very interesting reading when we get back to the office.”

  • • •

  Even though Emma had prepared scrambled eggs for them after the police left last night, Michael had decided not to awaken Janice. He had covered her with a blanket and let her sleep through the night.

  At nine o’clock on Friday morning she opened her eyes and then closed them again. She had had a nightmare. In it, Alexandra had died. No, she had been murdered. And her face was covered with chalk—no, it was a beauty mask.

  It wasn’t a nightmare. It had happened. Alexandra was dead. “No, no, no,” Janice murmured. She looked up. Mike was sitting on a chair next to the bed. “Who?” she demanded, anger in her voice.

  “Janice, we don’t know yet. But I believe the detectives who were here last night will find some answers for us.”

  “Where is Alexandra’s body?”

  “The medical examiner took it.”

  “They’ll do an autopsy, won’t they?”

  “I’m afraid that’s necessary.” Mike was tempted to say, “Try not to think about it,” but did not. Of course she was going to think about it. Of course she was going to grieve for her sister.

  As she had promised, Emma Cooper had arrived to make breakfast. She could be heard moving around in the kitchen. The living room was in perfect order, except for the armchair that had replaced the one where Alexandra’s body was found. The police had taken it as evidence.

  Emma had explained that to Mike last night. “It looked so empty here without that chair where . . .” She did not finish the sentence. “I brought in one from the dining room.”

  Mike opened Janice’s suitcase and took out her warm bathrobe. He realized that she was still wearing exactly the same dress that Alexandra had been wearing when she was murdered, that it was bound to be a fresh shock for her. He helped her to slip it off then replace it with her robe.

  It was like dressing a child. She stood mutely as he tied the sash around her waist and put her bedroom slippers on her feet. Then, his arm around her, they went into the kitchen, where Emma had the table set and an omelet bubbling in the pan.

  The comforting scent of brewing coffee welcomed them as they sat down. “I hope you had as good a sleep as you could get,” Emma said.

  “Yes, I did,” Janice murmured, her voice composed but filled with sadness. They ate silently, grateful for the food but still overwhelmed by what had happened only hours ago.

  After breakfast they went back to the bedroom, showered and dressed. At ten-thirty Twaddle phoned. “The autopsy has been completed,” he said. “I will pick you up at two-thirty and take you to the Medical Examiner’s Office.”

  As the hours passed, Mike could see that Janice was on the verge of losing the fragile composure she had managed to display. By the time the detectives arrived, silent tears were running down her cheeks. In the car on the way over, Twaddle asked only one question. “Did your sister always wear a wig?”

  Startled at the question, Janice said, “I know she has a collection of wigs. She wrote to me about them. She said that they were great for when the weather was bad and her own hair got too curly.”

  “I see.”

  They did not speak again until they got out of the car in front of the grim-looking building on East 30th Street that was the Medical Examiner’s Office. They walked through the sterile lobby and were taken to the morgue. Mike felt Janice begin to tremble as they approached a gurney with the outline of a body visible beneath a sheet.

  Taking care to be certain that Michael Broad was holding his wife tightly, Twaddle lifted the sheet from the victim’s face. He had expected anything from an outpouring of grief to watching Janice crumple in a faint. He had not expected to hear a shriek and then hysterical sobs of relief as Janice screamed, “THAT’S NOT MY SISTER. THAT’S NOT MY SISTER!”

  • • •

  For a moment Mike and the two detectives thought that Janice was in denial, but then through her sobs they could make out what she was saying. “Alexandra has natural blonde hair. It’s as long as the wigs she wears. I don’t know who this is. I don’t know who it is. But it isn’t Alexandra. Thank God, thank God it isn’t Alexandra.”

  The detectives leading, Mike half led, half carried Janice to the medical examiner’s offices. There they waited while she managed to calm herself as she alternated between relief and panic that Alexandra might have been murdered as well.

  Twaddle did not try to soften what he needed to say. “Mrs. Broad, it seems almost certain that this young woman was murdered by mistake because the killer thought she was your sister. What we don’t know is whether the killer realized he had made a mistake before he left the apartment.

  “The question is why would this woman, who dressed to appear like your sister, have gone to the airport, according to the cab driver, expecting to meet you.”

  Twaddle continued. “Would your sister, or for that matter any woman, be
likely to have applied the Beauty Mask after she was fully dressed?”

  “Of course not,” Janice said. Alexandra is alive. Alexandra is alive, she wanted to shout out, but then became terrified as the conversation continued.

  “Then we must assume the killer applied it, probably to delay our investigation, if only for a short time,” Twaddle said, and then he continued.

  “And there is one other very disturbing aspect. What would be the killer’s next move if he realizes that the woman he killed was not your sister?” Twaddle paused.

  “So you are suggesting that whoever murdered this woman, if he realized his mistake, since last night has been out there searching for Alexandra or—” Mike stopped before he said what they were all thinking: “Or may have already found Alexandra.”

  “That is what I am telling you. Mrs. Broad, did your sister mention a close friend in any of her letters to you?”

  Janice shook her head. “No one whose name came up enough for me to really notice.”

  “Then we must talk immediately to the housekeeper again. Would she be at the apartment?”

  “She was planning to stay until five.”

  The answering service picked up on the first ring. Twaddle instructed them to let the call ring through to the apartment. “If she doesn’t pick up, we’ll phone the building superintendent and get him to knock on the door.”

  But Emma Cooper answered the phone. When Twaddle identified himself, she asked anxiously, “How is Miss Janice, poor thing? I’ve been praying for her all afternoon. To think of her having to look down at Miss Alexandra’s dead body.”

  “Mrs. Broad is doing very well under the circumstances,” he said, “but now it is important to our investigation to know where Miss Saunders was staying since Monday. We need you to give us the names of close friends of Miss Saunders, either male or female.”

  “Male, I’d say no one close. Sure, she has a lot of girlfriends. What with her being so nice and friendly and kind.”

  “Mrs. Cooper, can you give us some names?”

  “Let me see. Her address book is here.”

  Ben knew that when Twaddle bit his lip he was wildly impatient. But then he began to write names on the pad he always carried, repeating them as he wrote, “Joan Nye—Lee Rush—Irene Brady—Alice Kohler—Lisa Markey.”

  “Mrs. Cooper, this is very helpful. Which of these women most resembles Miss Saunders in appearance?”

  On the other end of the phone Emma Cooper frowned. “Well, let’s see. There’s Joan. She’s a television producer. She’s shorter than Miss Alexandra and her hair is real dark. Miss Rush—” Emma interrupted herself, “Oh, of all of them I’d say Miss Markey. She’s a model too. Sometimes she wears a blonde wig in her pictures. When she does, she sure looks like Miss Alexandra. Looks like her but not anything as gorgeous as Miss Alexandra—”

  Twaddle cut off the flow of words. “Mrs. Cooper, do you know if Miss Markey worked at the Wilson Agency?”

  “No. She worked for the Ford Agency. She was always telling Miss Alexandra to dump Wilson and sign up with Ford. Oh, and I should tell you I was cleaning out the medical chest in Miss Alexandra’s bathroom. I swear there were two unopened jars of Beauty Mask there. Now one of them is gone.”

  “Mrs. Cooper, thank you very much. We will pick up the other jar. And I must tell you something in deepest confidence. The following is information you cannot share with anyone. The body that was found in the apartment was not Alexandra Saunders.”

  He heard a gasp on the other end of the phone. “Oh, thanks be to God.”

  Twaddle continued. “Mrs. Cooper, again it is crucial to our investigation to know where Miss Saunders has been staying since Monday. If you hear from her, you must notify us immediately.”

  “Of course I will,” Emma said. “Thanks be to God.”

  Twaddle broke the connection. Without looking at the others in the room, he dialed information and asked for the number of the Ford Agency. When he inquired about Lisa Markey, he was put through to her booking agent. In an irritated voice the agent told him that Lisa had not arrived this morning where she was scheduled to pose for the fall line of a designer. “Do you know where I can reach her?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Twaddle said.

  He hung up the phone and looked at Janice, Mike and Ben.

  “I believe it is possible we have learned the identity of the young woman who was murdered last night,” he said.

  • • •

  On Friday morning in Windham, New York, a popular Catskills ski resort, Alexandra stirred, then opened her eyes. She blinked to orient herself. She looked at the clock and was shocked to see that it was almost noon.

  She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. Her long blonde hair spilled around her shoulders and she brushed it away from her face. She stood up and reached for the robe she had borrowed from Lisa. Putting it on she realized that this was the day she would finally see Janice and Mike. Lisa had promised to pick them up at the airport last night, take them to the apartment, and tell them to meet Alexandra up here. How great it would be to see them and meet Mike! They probably slept late because of the time difference between New York and London. They should be here by mid-afternoon.

  I want to tell Mike what’s been happening to me. From everything Janice has written and said about him, he’ll make sense of what’s been going on. I just don’t trust myself anymore.

  She walked unsteadily the few steps into the hall to the only bathroom. She turned on the light and looked into the mirror over the sink. She studied the face staring back at her. Her skin that had been pasty gray and blotchy when she was in Venice had now fully returned to its normal healthy glow. It was in her eyes that she saw the greatest change. They had been so heavy-lidded and dull but were now completely clear. Alexandra remembered that only a few months ago a gossip columnist had referred to them as “intensively blue and unforgettable.” I look like myself again, Alexandra thought. I could redo that commercial in a heartbeat. The only difference, she realized, was the feeling of fatigue she had not been able to shake off since she had been in Venice. I need a cup of coffee, she thought.

  When she had fled to Lisa’s apartment on Monday evening, it wasn’t necessary to explain that she wasn’t well. Lisa had taken one look at her and said, “What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.”

  Alexandra had told Lisa that she just needed to get away from the pressure. “Damn this Beauty Mask booking,” she had told her. “I know they’ll want to do retakes quickly and look at me.”

  She walked into the small rustic living room/den, realized how dark it was and turned on the light. She glanced out the window, looked at the sky and noticed that a storm was gathering. So gloomy looking, she thought. Not like last year when she had come here for the first time on a skiing weekend with Lisa. Lisa had told her she had just inherited the house from her grandfather. “The cabin isn’t much, I assure you,” she had said, “but the skiing is great.” Lisa was right. The skiing was great fun. They had had a terrific weekend.

  Lisa is such a good friend, Alexandra thought gratefully as she went into the kitchen, took a jar of instant coffee from the refrigerator and turned on the kettle. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought again about Monday evening.

  That was when Lisa had suggested that she spend a few days in Windham. She had promised to meet Janice and Mike at the airport on Thursday evening and take them to her apartment. Alexandra then realized that she did not have a picture with her of Mike and Janice to help Lisa recognize them.

  Lisa had solved the problem. “I’ll wear my blonde wig and the Pucci dress you gave me. Don’t worry. They’ll recognize you/me.

  “I’ll tell them that you asked that they stay at your apartment on Thursday night and drive up on Friday. They’ll probably appreciate a chance to sleep in. Sorry, my cabin phone is turned off after the winter.”

  The kettle was boiling. Alexandra measured coffee into the cup and stirred it.

/>   She had slept at Lisa’s apartment on Monday, and early Tuesday morning she had driven up in Lisa’s car. It should have been only a two-hour ride, but several times she’d had to stop, rest and get more coffee. The minute she arrived, she had thrown herself on the bed and fallen into a deep sleep.

  And I’ve been asleep almost the whole time since then, she thought. What is the problem that I need to sleep so much? Is what I suspect possible? Did I jump to conclusions at the airport? Thank God I’ve given myself some time to rest and think.

  She brought the cup into the den, turned on the television and settled on the couch. And then she saw her face on the screen and in horror listened as her murder was reported.

  For long minutes she sat trying to absorb what she was hearing.

  The broadcaster was saying, “According to police, Alexandra Saunders had gone that evening to meet a flight at Kennedy Airport. She had been mistaken in that the flight had actually arrived in the morning. She then returned to her apartment. Apparently, while sitting in her living room, she was murdered by an intruder. Police are asking that anyone with any information relevant to Alexandra Saunders’s whereabouts beginning on Monday evening contact them at . . .”

  My God, it must have been Lisa’s body they found at my apartment. She must have still been wearing that blonde wig that made her look so much like me.

  I didn’t warn Lisa that I thought someone might be trying to harm me, she thought. I just told her that I was at the end of my rope and couldn’t face trying to redo that last commercial. I know I looked terrible. I was afraid she’d think I was paranoid if I said that I thought Marcus Ambrose might be drugging me. Oh, Lisa, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.

  Whoever killed Lisa wanted to kill me. Probably still wants to kill me.