by Merry Jones
When had my face been scraped off? A patch of raw puffy red crust covered part of my chin and one cheek. The cheekbone was swollen and purple. Dried blood lined my nostrils. My tan had turned a frightening shade—was it ocher? Ocher came to mind, but I wasn’t sure. This face was a horror—and forget the rat’s nest on my head. No—not even a rat would tolerate that. No wonder Alain had kept his distance, not even trying to hold me in the night. I thought again of the beauties he treated, their perfect features. My face got hot, ocher became blotched with crimson, and I grabbed a washcloth, cleaned dried blood off my nose. Dabbed the rest of my face and neck. Wished I had a hairbrush. Some mascara.
Don’t be stupid, I told myself. Who are you trying to impress? Alain? Why? You’re leaving soon. And no matter how you fix yourself up, you can’t compete with his perfect women. And he’s married. Go have coffee. Eat pastries. Relax.
Fine. I tied my hair into a makeshift knot. Wandered through Alain’s red, yellow, green, and blue house into his kitchen, poured a mug of coffee. I picked out a pastry of sweet flaky dough filled with custard. Sat and took a bite or two, a sip or two. Wondered if his wife had chosen the flower-patterned dishes. If he’d usually bought pastries for her breakfast as well.
I stopped eating. Looked around the house. The colors, fabrics. The décor. Were those her choices? I doubted it; her bedroom was all heavy brocades and darkness, in sharp contrast with the rest of the rooms. So had Alain chosen the tiles and furnishings? Had it bothered her that their house—even their dishes—reflected his taste, not hers? I wondered about her taste in clothing. Her personal style. Was she pretty? As pretty as Alain’s patients?
What did I care? I was leaving, remember? Alain and his marriage were not my problem.
I took another bite of pastry. Another sip of coffee. And realized that, whether or not she’d selected the floor tiles and dishes, Alain’s wife might have some makeup. Or at least a hairbrush. I should go look in her room.
No, wait. What was I thinking? I couldn’t use her things. How would I have felt if some woman Charlie had bedded had come into my house and helped herself to my personal—
Oh, right. Some woman had.
I saw them yet again in the shower. Felt my heart freeze as if I was finding them for the first time.
But that was the point. I had been devastated. Still was, after all this time. I couldn’t do to Alain’s wife what had been done to me.
Except that I already had. I’d slept with a married man. I had become the Other Woman, the enemy. A lowlife, amoral, man-stealing, home-breaking piece of scum.
I bit my lip where it had cracked, made it hurt. Taking a breath, I told myself that I was leaving in a day and a half. That Alain wasn’t a typical married man; he was alone because his wife was an invalid. That, even so, I wouldn’t sleep with him again. But that, even if I did, Alain’s marriage was his problem, not mine.
I felt crummy, took another bite of sweet chewy dough, washed it down with a gulp of bitter blackness.
I tried to imagine Alain’s wife. Was she naturally beautiful? Or had he done surgeries on her, improving her looks? And after the accident, had she been disfigured? Had he done procedures to restore her beauty? Why weren’t there any photographs of her? I thought about that. Maybe there were pictures in her room.
It was normal to be curious. That’s what I told myself as I hobbled across the living room to her door. It wasn’t as if I were snooping. After all, Alain had offered me her bedroom the night before. If I had slept in there, I’d have seen her things, wouldn’t I? So I wasn’t doing anything wrong by opening her door and stepping into her room, pausing to take in its dark textures. Wasn’t hurting anyone by going into her powder room and opening her medicine cabinet, trying to translate labels on medications and cosmetics, examining the creams and lotions covering the counter. Opening drawers filled with blushes, eye shadow and liner, compacts, mascara, gloss. Dozens of colors, sizes, brands.
No, I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was only looking for a photo. Trying to learn about the woman. Jewelry covered her vanity. Earrings and bracelets, rings. Pendants. Ornate hair combs. In one drawer, I found scarves and shawls, neatly folded. In another, lingerie. Nightgowns. Bras.
Okay, enough. Now, I was crossing the line into snooping. Invading a person’s privacy. I thought of Melanie, pictured her ransacking Luis’s room. Lord, was I becoming like her? I shut the drawers, backed away. Knew I should get out of the room. Started to, but stopped at her nightstand and opened the drawer, still looking for even one photo. Surely, there had to be at least one? Inside, I found a hodgepodge: a sewing kit, more bottles of medicine and an almost empty one of tequila. Note-books with entries scribbled in Spanish. Pens. A book of word puzzles. Fashion magazines. And, deep in the bottom, finally, a photo. Well, half a photo—it had been ripped in half. Alain, grinning by the pool, was all that was left.
Oh my. Had she ripped herself out of the picture? Why would she do that? Unless it had been taken after the accident, after she’d been hurt. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to be photographed that way. I could relate, wouldn’t want my picture taken the way I looked, and her injuries must have been far worse.
But none of this was my business. I replaced everything. Looked around the room at its dark heavy furnishings, its walls heavy with somber art. My body ached, but not just from my injuries.
I started for the door. Stopped to consider using some mascara. Decided that it would be too creepy. On the way out, I casually opened the mahogany wardrobe. It was an impressive piece. Ornately carved. Dresses and skirts hung inside; shelves held shoes and sweaters. I almost closed the wardrobe, almost didn’t notice the garment hanging on a hook inside the door.
But when I did, I stood, staring at it, unable to form a thought. Unable to move.
I felt wobbly, the kind of wobbly I’d felt on the balcony railing with Claudia. The kind of wobbly that, if I moved even a finger, I knew I’d lose my balance and drop into nothingness, falling forever.
So I didn’t move. I held still, watching the garment with disbelief. It couldn’t be there. A hotel maid’s uniform? Why would there be a hotel maid’s uniform in Alain’s wife’s wardrobe?
Images poured through my mind. A maid in the hallway, turning away, concealing her face. A maid in our room after Claudia died. A maid in Greta’s room the night she was killed. Sergeant Perez showing us pictures, suspecting that our intruder might have been a maid.
Why did Alain’s wife have a maid’s uniform? I studied the thing. It was embroidered with the hotel name, made from the hotel staff’s deep-maroon cotton.
I hugged myself, trying to think of a reasonable explanation. Maybe—no, probably, the uniform belonged to Alain’s housekeeper. Of course. That had to be it. What was her name? Ana? Ana had probably worked for the hotel and Alain had met her while treating his patients there. Had hired her to work for him and help with his wife. She’d kept her uniform. Why shouldn’t she? She’d probably change into it as soon as she arrived. I’d been frantic over nothing.
I shook my head, told myself to lighten up. I was way too on edge, still shaken by Melanie and the violence of the week. I needed to go finish my coffee and relax. Closing the wardrobe door, though, I stopped. What was that under the hem of that dress, half-hidden by the skirts? I reached out, moved the fabric aside. Uncovered a head of hair.
My hand jerked back reflexively, even as I realized it was just a wig.
The hair was chin length and black. I stared at it for a moment, then shut the wardrobe door, hurried out of the room, went back to my coffee. Sit down, I told myself. Finish your breakfast. None of what you’ve seen is your business.
I sat down, but I couldn’t stop thinking. A maid’s uniform. A wig. Lots of cosmetics and jewelry. Medicines. But, now that I thought about it, there were also lots of things that I hadn’t found in Mrs. Du Bois’s room. Like feminine supplies. No tampons or birth control. No razor or tweezers or hair curler or hair dryer. No deodorant, conditioner
or shampoo.
So what? I asked myself. She probably had those things with her at the clinic.
If she really was at the clinic.
Wait. What was I thinking? That she didn’t actually exist?
That she had died in the accident?
And Alain was in severe denial?
No way. I’d gone way too far. I was making things up based on nothing. Still, I was trembling. I gulped coffee to get warm, but it had cooled, tasted like watery mud. Maybe I’d pour a fresh cup from the pot. I stared at the pot. Wondered if I was drinking from a dead woman’s mug.
Stop, I told myself. You’ve just had a series of traumas; your thinking is convoluted because of Melanie. And Greta and Claudia. And too many movies like Psycho. And being married to Charlie. Not everyone has dark evil secrets—certainly not Alain. Alain was a gentleman, an internationally renowned plastic surgeon. A decent guy.
But Alain was also a man who cheated on his wife. A doctor who slept with his patients. He was about my height, would probably fit into the maid’s uniform. And if he wore a wig, no one would suspect he was in disguise, especially if he lowered his head or turned the other way.
I couldn’t sit. I limped around in circles. Sat again. Held my head, chewed a fingernail. What I was thinking was bizarre. Why would Alain dress up like a maid, sneak around a hotel and kill two of his own patients? Women he’d had affairs with.
I had no answer, except that he wouldn’t have. Absolutely not. The idea was preposterous. I dismissed it. Looked at the rest of the pastries. Thought about having another. Picked out one with nuts, but didn’t take a bite.
Because I still had a question that wouldn’t go away. If Alain hadn’t disguised himself as a maid and killed his patients, why did he have the uniform and the wig?
My face hurt. My ribs hurt. Every part of me was sore. I rubbed my forehead. Remembered the veiled woman who’d appeared in the night and torn off Jen’s bandages. She’d also been about my size. Had that been Alain dressed in his wife’s clothes? Hiding under her shawl? If not for Susan and me, would Jen have been his third murder victim?
No. What was I thinking? Alain hadn’t done any of those things. Couldn’t have. I’d slept beside him, had sex with him. He’d been tender. Serial killers weren’t tender, were they?
My head hurt. Snippets repeated themselves: Alain blaming himself for his wife’s injuries. The bathroom lacking tampons. The house reflecting nothing of Mrs. Du Bois’s taste. The wig and the uniform hanging in the wardrobe. The maid working in Greta’s room. The veiled woman tearing at Jen. My mind went round and round, seeking connections.
But maybe there were no connections. The explanations I was imagining were far-fetched. For example, it wasn’t believable that Alain’s guilt and despair over his wife’s accident had caused his personality to split into two. The first part was his persona as Dr. Du Bois; the second as his wife. And when his wife’s was in charge, he’d disguised himself as a woman—internalizing his wife, expressing her pain, jealousy, and rage. Acting out her desires.
No. That scenario was unthinkable. Unimaginable. And yet, there I was, thinking and imagining it: Alain dressed as a woman, exacting his wife’s revenge upon Greta and Claudia, murdering his own lovers.
I closed my eyes, saw a veiled woman raise her fists in the dark, crying out “Quiero la venganza!”
Ridiculous. I had to stop this far-fetched twisted thinking. The dress belonged to Ana. Probably the wig did, too. Not everything had diabolical significance.
I picked up the nutty pastry. Smelled almond paste. Scolded myself for eating so many sweets. And for doubting a man who’d been nothing but kind and affectionate to me. Who just the night before had fed me dinner and tended my wounds. And kissed me gently, telling me—what had his words been? Something like, “Already, Elle, you’ve become dear to me.”
Oh, shit. I swallowed, nearly choked on almond paste.
I told myself that his words didn’t mean anything. I wasn’t like Claudia and Greta, wasn’t one of his patients. Wasn’t having an actual affair with him. And besides, he wasn’t a psycho, killing his lovers for his wife’s sake. No. I wasn’t even going to consider it.
To prove it, I took another bite of my pastry. Chomped on it. Gulped cold coffee.
But what if being a patient didn’t matter? What if the connection between the dead women was simply that they’d slept with Alain? Would that qualify me to be the next victim? Would the part of his mind that had snapped and become his wife—if indeed part of it had—would that part want to eliminate me as well? I touched my face, pictured Greta’s.
Nonsense. Bull.
Alain didn’t have a split personality—if there even was such a thing. This wasn’t a Hollywood movie. Real people didn’t simply divide into two personalities. The maid’s uniform was simply for Ana, the housekeeper. The wig, like the dresses and shawls, probably belonged to his wife. Alain had nothing to do with either of the deaths at the hotel.
Fine. Enough. I put the topic to rest.
And then I rushed into his bedroom, pulled on my clothes, called a taxi, limped out to the street to wait. My leg throbbing and scrapes burning, I hid in a cluster of bushes so Ana wouldn’t see me if she arrived before the cab came. I hunkered down, picturing Alain in a maid’s dress, coming at me with a butcher knife. Or cutting ribbons in Greta’s face or backing Claudia against the railing, shoving her over.
Of course, none of that was real. Alain was innocent. Even so, I counted seconds and minutes, waiting for the taxi, filling my head by counting time, shoving out images of wigs and uniforms and a man acting out the anger of his dead or incapacitated wife.
When the cab pulled up, after I’d counted six minutes fifty seconds, I darted into the backseat, my breath shallow and my body shaky. I told the driver the name of the hotel and then stared out the window, refusing to think, especially about Ana. An old pickup truck had dropped her off at Alain’s as I’d watched from the bushes.
The housekeeper was a short, wide woman. Very round. Definitely too large to fit in the maid’s uniform.
I heard Jen when I came in. “I can’t wait to see you either, Honey Bear. I miss you so much.”
They’d been married for what? Twelve years? Despite her normally foul language, she called Norm Cuddlesnooks. Sweetikins. I’d never called Charlie anything but Charlie. Not true. I think I called him a fucking wad of slime once or twice. But Honey Bear? Never.
Susan was on the balcony, sunning herself. She looked up when I opened the door. “You’re back?” She looked me over, frowning. “I thought Alain was going to take care of you. What are you doing here?”
I sat on a chair next to her, deciding how to explain. Wondering how crazy I’d sound.
“Honestly, Elle, he promised you’d stay at his place today. You look like hell. And you shouldn’t be on your feet. And look at your face—is it infected? Because it looks slimy and, honestly, I’m not qualified to deal with it.”
She went on. I waited for her to quiet down. But Jen came out before Susan stopped for a breath. Her eyes were less black and her nose less swollen.
“What’s Elle doing here?” Her eyelashes batted at me.
“Not sure.” Susan took a sip of lemonade.
“I couldn’t stay there alone,” I spoke up. “I took a taxi back.”
“So Alain doesn’t know you’re here?”
I shook my head. Bit my lip.
“You look frickin’ terrible. Do you hurt?” Jen eyed my face.
Only everywhere. “I’m fine.”
“Well, stay out of the sun,” Jen squinted at my glossy abrasions. “You don’t want scars.”
“I thought sunlight helped healing,” Susan said.
“Nope. Gives you wrinkles, scars, and cancer.”
They discussed the effects of sunlight. A pelican swooped by the railing. I looked down at the people lying by the pool, absorbing large doses of wrinkles, scars, and cancer. Chichi and Becky canoodled near the waterslid
e. No sign of Luis. I hadn’t seen him since Melanie’s—
I pictured the wrestling mask. The knife sticking into her.
“Elle?”
“What?”
“I just asked you if you knew when Dr. Du Bois would be by. He’s usually here by now.”
Oh. Damn. Alain would come by any minute to check on Jen. What would I do? Hide in my room? Explain that I’d freaked out and run away? Ask if he was a cross-dressing killer?
“No, sorry. I don’t know.”
“Hungry?” Susan got up. “I’m getting some fruit.” She opened the sliding door, headed into the suite, and we heard someone at the door, knocking.
Oh God. Was it Alain? I froze, facing the railing. Deciding what I would say. Maybe I’d say that I’d needed to get something from the suite. Or that I’d been uncomfortable staying in his house by myself. Or just that I’d wanted to come back, and leave it at that. After all, I didn’t owe him an explanation. Thinking of Alain made me queasy. Brought up gooseflesh on my arms. Had I made love to a murderer? A psycho serial murderer?
No. And anyway. I was here now, safe with my friends. I took a breath and stepped into the suite, ready to face him. But Susan was alone. She held out a plate of pineapple slices. “Want one?”
“Who was at the door?” I limped inside, wished I’d taken a pain pill.
“Nobody.” She picked up a slice, bit into it. “Just the maid. I told her to come back later.”
“A maid?” My spine felt like ice.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“Susan. Are you sure it was a maid?”
She stopped chewing, looked at me.
“Not just someone dressed like a maid?”
“Sorry. What?”
I went to the door, opened it slowly, checked the hallway. A maid’s cart stood outside the suite across the hall.
