by John Saul
“Think of yourself as the ‘before’ model,” Conrad said, keeping his voice as light as he could. “Next year, you’ll be the ‘after’ model, and knock them all dead. Think what they’ll cough up when they see what I can do! Now just put on your other earring, my darling, and let’s go.” He gave her shoulders another reassuring squeeze, and Margot, knowing that his will that she accompany him was stronger than her will to stay at home and hide, found the strength to add the other diamond to her right ear.
Conrad took her hand and drew her lightly from the vanity stool. He turned her to face him, and she flinched as he touched the terrible scars that had destroyed her once flawless face.
“You will always be beautiful to me,” he said, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Now come on, let’s head for the banquet and make the grandest entrance anyone’s ever seen.”
Margot closed her eyes and nodded. She had a job to do tonight. She was Conrad Dunn’s wife, and she would not fail him. She took a deep, determined breath, and let her husband lead her from her room.
Somehow, she would get through the evening.
2
AS FAR AS RISA SHAW—AND PRACTICALLY EVERYONE ELSE IN LOS Angeles—was concerned, any excuse to go to the Hotel Bel-Air was a good one, and as she gave her Lexus to the valet and she and Alexis Montrose crossed the small stone bridge onto the perfectly groomed hotel grounds, she decided that the air in Stone Canyon smelled sweeter than it did anywhere else.
Discreet signs bearing the Dunn Foundation logo directed them past the gracefully floating swans and through a courtyard with a bubbling fountain to the Garden Room, where members of the Dunn Foundation staff waited, offering each guest a small card bearing their table number, and directing them toward the bar if they wanted more than the champagne the waitstaff was deftly carrying through the throng that had already gathered. For half an hour Risa followed Lexie though the crowd, then found her seat at a table only three away from the one at which Conrad Dunn and his wife were sitting.
An hour later, as the staff cleared the empty plates with quiet efficiency, Corinne Dunn introduced the mother of the last recipient of her brother’s expertise and her family’s generosity. As Rosa Alvarez spoke, so softly that everyone in the room had to strain to catch her words, images flashed on the huge screen behind her.
First came photographs of the tiny baby that had been born to her only ten years ago. José was born with a cleft palate so severe that he couldn’t nurse from his mother’s breast; he was fed through a tube until he was two years old. For years after his birth, his life had been lived in the shelter of his home and his mother’s love, the rest of the children in his village unwilling even to look at him, let alone play with him. But then, by the grace of the Dunn Foundation and “St. Conrad,” as Rosa called Conrad Dunn, her son’s defect had been repaired, until all that remained was a tiny scar from his nose to his lip.
Now, even that small mark was quickly fading away.
As the photos on the screen dissolved from the baby’s twisted face to that of a beautiful, smiling, brown-eyed ten-year-old, Risa saw that she wasn’t the only one who took out her checkbook to divert or mask the tears glistening in eyes at every table. Then José Alvarez himself appeared, his face illuminated by both a spotlight and an enormous smile. Running to his mother, he threw his arms around her.
“It is a miracle,” Rosa said, gathering her son to her. “Thank you. Thank you all for making this possible.”
As Corinne Dunn rose to lead the applause for her and then led Rosa toward the garden where the party would continue, Conrad Dunn and his wife rose to follow his sister and their guest of honor. Responding to that cue, the crowd quickly began drifting from the Garden Room into the garden itself, and Risa quickly wrote out her check, adding an extra thousand dollars to the sum she’d initially decided to contribute.
Lexie Montrose, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the check, whistled softly. “Wow! Really? That much?”
“If ever there was a good cause,” Risa said, “this is it. Let’s go find the Dunns—I want to give this to Conrad personally.”
The two women followed the flow of people until they spotted Conrad, standing next to an extravagant dessert buffet. Rosa Alvarez was at his side, and they were surrounded by his guests. Risa and Lexie joined what had become a simple reception line, as tuxedoed waiters circulated with trays filled with yet more champagne glasses. The garden glowed with subtle lighting that made it seem as if the huge old oak trees were illuminating the evening.
Conrad Dunn managed to greet each guest by name, find a few words for every one of them, accept their checks with an appreciation that was heartfelt but not cloying, and keep the line moving as if by some kind of social magic. He also managed to keep shaking hands while simultaneously passing the checks to Margot, who seemed intent on staying in the deep shadows behind her husband as she discreetly slipped each check into a silk wallet. Even in the soft and flattering light, Risa could see not only how unhappy Margot Dunn was about being on display, but also the scars that no doubt were the cause of her unhappiness.
“Risa?”
The soft voice came from behind her, and Risa turned to see Danielle DeLorian. “Danielle! How nice to see you!” Risa kissed the air just far enough from Danielle’s cheek so the gesture wouldn’t disturb the perfect makeup that was not only Danielle’s hallmark, but her trademark as well.
A year ago, even Risa had begun using DeLorian cosmetics, despite their outrageous price. “What the hell?” Lexie had told her. “So it costs a million to look like a million—the way you’re selling these days, you can afford it.”
Drawing back from Danielle’s cheek, Risa introduced her former client to her best friend.
“Risa navigated me through an absolute nightmare of a deal a couple of years ago,” Danielle told Lexie in a soft southern drawl that belied her sharp intelligence. “I’ll be forever grateful.”
“I’m so glad it worked out for you,” Risa said, then turned to see that the line had moved and Conrad Dunn, a bemused expression on his face, was waiting for her.
Flushing, she quickly moved forward. “Conrad!” she said, handing him her check as she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you so much for including me in this. I’m just—” She hesitated, searching for the right word, then shook her head helplessly. “I’m just overwhelmed. What you’re doing is wonderful, and I’m so happy to be able to help.”
“And I’m just as happy to have you here. You know we built the new clinic on that piece of land you helped us buy.”
“Actually, I did know that,” Risa replied. “I’m just glad I was able to help.” She turned toward Lexie. “Do you know my friend Alexis Montrose?”
Conrad turned his warm gaze on Lexie. “Thank you for coming.” He smoothly eased them toward Margot to keep the line moving, and Risa extended her hand, which Margot seemed hesitant to accept. Even when she finally did, she still hung back so her face was deep in shadow.
Clearly, Margot Dunn wished she were elsewhere, and was eager for the evening to be over. Risa couldn’t blame her. As far as she knew, this was the first time Margot had been out in public since the accident a year ago, which had received far more publicity than Risa thought it deserved. Still, she, along with everyone else, was finding it hard not to stare at Margot’s scars, and as she and Lexie moved away from her toward the dessert table, Risa heard one woman whisper to another, loud enough to be heard by everyone within twenty feet, “Did you see those horrible gouges in Margot’s face?”
“There’s Mitchell Hawthorne,” Lexie said, dropping half the chocolate truffle she’d been nibbling onto the table. “You should meet him. He’s in the industry.” She took Risa’s elbow and began steering her through the crowd. “Absolutely tons of money,” she whispered, bringing her lips close to Risa’s ear, “and living in a terrible piece of crap out in the Valley.”
Risa winced at Lexie’s habitual crude directness. “Always happy to meet a p
otential new client,” she said, following her friend to a tall, silver-haired man holding a glass of champagne and speaking with two other men, one of whom had a familiar face.
Like the two women who had brushed by Risa a few moments ago, the men were talking about Margot’s scars. “Frankly, I don’t see how she can show herself in public,” the silver-haired man said as Lexie reached out and took his arm to draw him around.
“Mitchell,” she said, greeting him with a warm hug. “I want you to meet Risa Shaw. When you decide it’s time to buy something decent to live in, she’s the one to call.”
Risa took Mitchell Hawthorne’s extended hand, but before she could say a word, one of his friends cut in.
“Christ, Lexie,” the familiar face—who turned out to be a minor TV actor—said. “What was Conrad Dunn thinking, letting Margot show that gargoyle of a face tonight? Who’d want to contribute after seeing her? If I were him, I’d lock her up where no one could ever see her again.”
Risa glanced nervously around, hoping Margot Dunn was nowhere in the area, but as she scanned the crowd she realized that it wouldn’t matter where Margot was; everywhere she looked, she could see people whispering to each other, then looking guiltily toward the Dunns, obviously hoping they weren’t overheard. After forcing herself to chat a moment longer with the three men—and pocketing three business cards—Risa aimed Lexie toward the ladies’ room. There, at least, she might not have to overhear any more talk about their hostess.
As they passed the bar, they saw Corinne Dunn standing alone, sipping a martini. “You make a terrific emcee,” Risa said, pausing to introduce herself and Lexie.
Corinne smiled warmly. “I can’t tell you how gratifying it is to see all these children go on to lead normal lives,” she said. “You’d be amazed at how many of them stay in touch with us for years afterward.”
“It’s a wonderful thing the foundation does,” Risa said, then followed Lexie into the ladies’ room, where her friend bared her teeth in front of the mirror to make sure not a fleck of anything was marring their whiteness.
“Boy,” Lexie said as she fished in her bag for her lipstick. “This is the place to schmooze the rich and famous, isn’t it?”
“It’s an admirable charity,” Risa observed archly, even though she knew at least half the people in attendance were there for exactly the reason Lexie had just stated. “But I’m worried about Margot. She doesn’t look well.”
“I wonder why her husband hasn’t fixed those appalling scars yet?” Lexie said. “Everybody—and I mean everybody—is talking about it.”
“I’m sure he will,” Risa replied in a tone that clearly told Lexie she didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
As usual, Lexie ignored her tone. “I mean, how long has it been? A year? Don’t you think he would have done something by now if he could have?”
“I don’t know,” Risa said, freshening her own lipstick. “And I don’t think we need to talk—”
“She’s probably just going to have to learn to live with it,” Lexie broke in, carefully adjusting her studiously casual hairdo. “How awful would that be?”
“Very, very awful,” Risa replied. “And she certainly seemed depressed. I feel so bad for her.”
Lexie’s brow rose sardonically. “Well, she better get undepressed or she’s likely to lose that gorgeous husband of hers. Every woman in this place would kill to take him over.”
Risa gave her a sidelong glance in the mirror. “Including you, Mrs. Happily Married?”
“I could be Mrs. Happily Unmarried in a heartbeat if Conrad Dunn came on the market!”
A toilet flushed, and a moment later Margot Dunn emerged from one of the stalls. Risa’s cheeks burned as she quickly replayed in her mind everything she and Lexie had said while standing in front of the mirrors, and wished she could drop through the floor.
Not even acknowledging their presence, Margot walked directly to the sink, calmly washed her hands, then dried them and left the room.
Risa slumped against the wall, her stomach churning, her face still burning with embarrassment.
Lexie, though, only shrugged. “So what if she heard us?” she asked, reading Risa’s mind. “It’s not like any of it was news to her.”
Risa said nothing, but made a mental note to call Margot in the morning and apologize.
If, that is, Margot Dunn would even take her call.
CAROLINE FISHER BALEFULLY EYED her last customer of the evening, who was still sitting at the round table in the corner, still sipping his decaf, and still reading the paper. He’d been there for at least an hour and seemed in no hurry to leave, even when she’d made a fairly unsubtle show of locking both doors and turning off the OPEN sign in the window.
Now, at seven minutes past her ten o’clock closing, Rick was cleaning the espresso machines while she finished straightening the displays of coffees, mugs, and other caffeine-related accoutrements the shop sold, then began to put the chairs up on the tables.
“Oh,” the man said, finally folding his paper. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”
Caroline gave him a smile she hoped looked warm. “You can just leave your mug there,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” he said, tucking his paper under his arm as he waited for her to unlock the door to let him out into the warm Encino evening.
“Some people have no place to go,” Ricky said as he gave the countertops a final desultory wipe-down.
“Well, I do,” Caroline said, “and I don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah, me, too. I think I’m finished here.”
Caroline nodded, looking at the clock and deciding that whatever else needed to be done could wait until tomorrow. “We’re good. I’ll leave a note for the morning crew to sweep up.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Caroline locked the door behind Ricky, then swept her gaze around the small coffee shop she’d managed for the last year. It looked good. If Corporate sent a shopper in for a cup of coffee in the morning, he—or she—would have nothing to complain about, especially with her numbers not only far better than those from a year ago, but going steadily up every single week. She might be only a single store manager now, but within two more years she intended to be running at least the whole district, if not the region itself.
For now, though, the long day was over. She turned out all the main lights, leaving only the two small fluorescents glowing behind the counter, and went into the tiny room that barely met the legal standards for an “employees’ lounge” to begin the process of getting the smell of coffee off herself and freshening up for her date. Terry—if that was even his real name—was probably already at Weasel’s, waiting for her. According to the clock on the wall, they were to meet in five minutes. She’d be late, which wasn’t good, and not like her at all. Besides, the later it got, the more crowded Weasel’s would be, which would just make it that much harder to find him. When they were chatting online last night, he said he’d be wearing a white button-down pinstripe shirt and jeans. Blond, blue-eyed, six feet tall, waiting for her at the bar.
She hoped he looked at least something like the photo he’d put up with his profile.
She taped a note to Sheila’s locker asking her to sweep up before opening tomorrow morning, then took a pink cotton sweater and jeans out of her locker, along with her makeup kit, and headed for the unisex restroom. She’d have to hurry: being a few minutes late would be all right, but if she was too late, Terry just might stop waiting and start looking around at whoever else was cruising the bar.
Caroline peeled off her white top and black slacks, and then, wearing only bra and panties, dampened a paper towel to wipe away the smudges under her eyes before freshening up her makeup. At the last minute she added a little dark eye shadow for some extra evening drama.
She was just pulling her favorite pink sweater over her head when she thought she heard one of the bathroom stalls open.
Who could still be here? Keish
a? Impossible—her shift had ended an hour ago. Or had she been in the bathroom all this time?
Could Keisha be sick?
Caroline struggled with the sweater for a moment, trying to figure out what she could do if Keisha really was ill. If the girl couldn’t drive, then she would have to take her home, and that meant—
Before she could finish the thought, a rubber-gloved hand grabbed her hard around the mouth and jerked her head back. She barely saw the glittering flash of the blade before it sliced across her throat and she began to choke.
It took a moment—a half second or two that seemed an eternity—before she realized she was breathing in blood instead of air.
Her own blood.
But there was no pain—no pain at all! How was that possible? How could she be sinking down to the floor, feeling her own blood gushing from her throat, choking on the very fluid that gave her life, and not feel anything?
The light in the restroom began to throb in strange synchronization with her own heartbeat, and a terrible melancholy settled over Caroline as her life drained away onto the bathroom floor. Mutely—numbly—she watched as her assailant sliced through her sweater and her skin and laid open her abdomen.
And still she felt nothing.
She watched as a detached observer as her intestines were torn out and flung aside, as greedy hands reached deep inside her as if searching for some specific thing.
The blade glimmered once more in the now fast fading light of the restroom, and the awful spurting of Caroline Fisher’s blood slowed to nothing more than a dribble.
Her last thought was of Terry. Blond, blue-eyed Terry, waiting at the bar.
Waiting for her.
Waiting for eternity…
3
RISA SHAW REACHED OVER AND SPOONED TWO DOLLOPS OF YOGURT from the container in front of Alison into her own bowl, added some cereal, and topped her breakfast off with a large handful of blueberries, earning herself a quizzical look from her daughter.
