by Ali Brandon
Or were they?
Now that a few minutes had passed, doubts began to assail her. She was certain she hadn’t been mistaken the night of the signing when she realized that Mavis—for all her flawless makeup and fashionable dress—was actually a male in women’s clothing. Of course, no one else had made mention of their suspicions that Mavis was something other than what she appeared to be, though that might simply have been good manners on their part. But to tell the truth, so artful had his Mavis persona been, she might never have made the connection had she not recognized his ring.
But she had to be right. The baritone voice she remembered from that night, so similar to Morris’s, was proof enough, while the large hands were another giveaway. And surely she wasn’t imagining now the striking resemblance between the Botoxed-looking Mavis and the equally smooth-faced Morris.
While she struggled with those questions, the last of the mourners passed the casket. Now, two of the funeral-home staff closed the lid and draped a white cloth over it. Darla felt relieved that Valerie was safely tucked away and not likely to rise from the dead anytime soon.
A young, movie-handsome clergyman in full vestments took the lectern. The reverend was a trained orator, and the sprightly organist who played between the formal prayers could have sold out a concert hall. Even churchgoing was an event in the Hamptons, Darla decided as she joined the rest of the mourners in gustily singing along with those hymns she knew.
At the conclusion of the formal service, the reverend spoke for a few solemn moments on the brief life of Valerie Vickson Baylor. Then he relinquished the lectern to the same older man whom Darla had noticed heading into the church with his impossibly thin consort. She was surprised when he introduced himself as Howard T. Pinter, owner and publisher-in-chief of Ibizan Books.
“We discovered Valerie Baylor,” he proclaimed in suitably doleful tones as he took a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, “and she, in turn, brought glory to Ibizan Books.”
Unfolding a paper he pulled from a second pocket, he went on in this vein for some moments. Then Pinter beckoned forward from the pews a small parade of men and women who expounded for exactly three minutes each—Darla began timing them after the first two—on Valerie’s life. She listened intently at first, hoping to hear something that Jake or Reese might deem important. By the fourth fulsome speaker, however, she knew that no scandals would erupt from this admiring crowd. And so she let her thoughts drift back to Valerie’s brother, and the other unexpected revelation that had come of their momentary encounter.
Twins, Morris had said.
After the first shock, she could easily see the familial resemblance between him and the dead author. And knowing what she did about Morris’s alter ego, she found herself wondering just what had been the relationship between Morris-as-Mavis and his/her sister. Valerie obviously knew of her twin’s proclivity for dressing as a woman. The fact she kept Mavis as part of her entourage could mean that Valerie accepted, perhaps even approved, of Morris’s other life. On the other hand, she had seemed to treat Mavis with barely concealed contempt, while Mavis hadn’t seemed to harbor much affection for her in return. But Darla could not forget the obvious shock and grief that Mavis had displayed when learning of Valerie’s death.
Perhaps there had been genuine love after all. Or maybe Morris’s acting abilities went beyond a talent for female impersonation.
Abruptly, Darla’s thoughts began to take a darker turn. When it came down to it, no one had been fully accounted for during the thirty or so critical minutes before Valerie’s death. Was it possible that Morris might have been the same hooded figure who had struggled with Valerie outside that final time? Could he have been the one present when she’d taken her tumble into traffic . . . perhaps had even pushed her himself?
The notion grabbed hold of her and wouldn’t let go, even as she reminded herself that the incident had not been ruled anything other than an accident. But why would Jake have told her to keep her eyes open, she wondered, if she and Reese didn’t think something was suspicious about the situation?
For it all makes terrible sense, she realized. Hadn’t she read somewhere that when a person was murdered, it was most likely that his killer had been a close acquaintance rather than a stranger? But what would have been Morris’s motive to murder his sister?
Money? But the family was already well-off. Jealousy over her fame? Given his double life, surely fame was the last thing that Morris would want. Or maybe it was something more basic? Had Valerie threatened to expose Mavis as Morris’s alter ego, and he had taken desperate measures to keep his secret safe?
And yet, except for the one lapse during the signing where Mavis had let loose with a rude descriptive, Valerie’s twin had appeared a mild and polite person, even reserved. Somehow, she didn’t see in him the strong emotion it would take to commit such an act.
So caught up was she in her speculations that she almost missed it when Morris himself abruptly rose from his pew. Looking elegant in his well-tailored black suit, he moved with languid grace as he made his way to the lectern.
“He’s such a handsome gentleman,” the old woman next to Darla muttered, apparently forgetting her earlier disapproval with this opportunity for gossip.
She leaned close enough that Darla got a whiff of rose-scented cologne tinged with body odor. “It’s a shame he hasn’t married yet, but then he’s always been so shy, and always so devoted to his sister. Why, he never even moved out of his parents’ home, not even after poor Valerie ran off to a state university, of all things. And she then married that upstart from California. New money, you know,” she added in a stage-whispered aside. “But with his sister gone, maybe now . . .”
She trailed off meaningfully.
Realizing some response was expected of her, Darla managed a noncommittal smile and a little shrug, even as she tried to puzzle out said meaning. Was the woman implying that Morris had had an unhealthy attachment to Valerie, or was she trying to say that Valerie had somehow held her brother back?
Morris’s eulogy turned out to be almost startlingly brief. He bowed his head and stood in silence behind the lectern for several moments, long enough that people began to shift uncomfortably in their seats and glance at one another. Watching him, Darla found herself playing psychiatrist, wondering if he suffered from some sort of social anxiety or phobia. Maybe that was the reason for his Mavis persona, a way that he could hide in plain sight, so to speak. Finally, he lifted his head and spoke.
“As you might guess, this has all been a terrible shock for our family. I think I can safely say that I knew my twin sister better than any one of you, and that I am lost now without her. We spent our first nine months with our arms wrapped around each other, and for the first time in my life, my arms are now empty.”
With that stark yet oddly emotionless proclamation, Morris left the lectern and started back toward the family pew. He stopped to accept hugs from several people who were seated nearby before once more resuming his own place between his parents. Darla noted from her vantage point that he did not actually return any of those physical gestures—nor did he ever look back toward the closed casket that held his twin.
A few minutes later, the service was over. Darla rose with the rest of the mourners to watch as the pallbearers rolled Valerie’s casket toward the door and the hearse that waited outside. The graveside service would be for family only. So how could she contrive to meet with Morris again and see if she could get answers to any of her suspicions? She needed more than just the revelation that Morris and Mavis were one and the same to convince Jake and Reese that she might have stumbled across a viable suspect in Valerie’s death.
Not your job, Nancy Drew, she could almost hear Jake saying. She tried to think of a retort to that argument but came up empty. Fine. She’d tell Jake what she learned and let the woman pass on that info to Reese to do with as he would. Her work here was done.
Besides which, she realized, she didn’t want him to h
ave had anything to do with his sister’s death. She liked Morris . . . and Mavis.
That burden lifted from her, she turned her attention to getting out of there, impatient as she was now to drop the whole thing into Jake’s lap. Valerie’s family was gathered just outside the church to receive condolences. She ran that gauntlet of grief as swiftly as she could without looking rude. Plucking every clichéd phrase she could find from her mental file of appropriate things to say to the bereaved, she shook hands and exchanged air kisses with a dozen people who had no clue who she was but were content to accept her kind words. Finally, she came to Morris.
“A lovely service,” she told him as she clasped his hand. “I’m afraid I knew Valerie just a short time, but she made quite an impression. She will be missed.”
“Yes, Valerie had a talent for making . . . impressions,” he replied with a dry little smile. “I’ve been particularly touched by the outpouring from her fans. We’ve received letters from all over the world from people hoping that she left behind a few more manuscripts.”
“Did she?” Darla asked, genuinely curious.
She knew that most writers were usually well into completing their next manuscript by the time the most recent book hit the shelves. And though Hillary had claimed there wasn’t another one, maybe she simply didn’t know what Valerie had been working on when she died.
Morris, meanwhile, gave a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose we’ll find that out when I sort through her papers.”
“Oh, of course.”
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully.
“I’m not sure if you know this,” she went on, “but I’m the owner of the bookstore where Valerie held her last signing. All of our employees were devastated by what happened, and we’re hoping to donate some of our profits from her books to a literacy cause in her name.”
Darla had come up with the idea on the spur of the moment, but she found herself liking it. She’d let James handle the details. Emboldened, she continued, “We took several pictures of the event before . . . well, you know. If you give me your email address, I would be happy to send you copies of them.”
“That would be lovely,” he replied and reached inside his jacket.
Pulling out a business card and a pen, he scribbled something on the back and then handed the card to her. “Send the pictures there, if you don’t mind.”
She tucked the card in her purse. With an appropriately subdued nod, she replied, “I’ll be in touch. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vickson. I’m only sorry it was under such tragic circumstances.”
They exchanged a final polite handshake, and then Darla started down the steps. Everest was standing below at the walk, his expression distinctly disapproving as he caught sight of her. She met his gaze and gave an apologetic shrug as she drew even with him.
“I never did find Hillary, but Mr. Vickson kindly escorted me in,” she told him, neglecting to mention that the escort had been entirely involuntary.
Everest, however, seemingly read between the lines, for his scowl deepened. “I expected better of you, Ms. Pettistone. I trust when we get to the cemetery that I won’t find you in the back of the hearse with the casket.”
“No fear of that,” she declared with a shiver that wasn’t feigned. “Good-bye, Everest.”
She headed down the walk and reached for her phone to dial Jake. A crowd had gathered around the valet stand. With luck, Jake in her role as driver could could bypass the line and beat the crowd. Given what she had learned about Morris, she was liable to explode if she couldn’t share this bit of intelligence in the next few moments!
“So what the hell was that message about Valerie’s brother?” the woman demanded as she answered Darla’s call, sounding equally as eager to hear the news. “I tried texting you back, but I guess you’d shut off your phone already.”
“Can’t tell you now,” Darla replied with a look around. “Too many people. Just hurry and get over here.”
“Don’t worry, I bribed the valet directing the self-parking with that copy of Valerie’s book you gave me, so he put me in a nice spot right up front with the Rollses. I’m pulling out of the lot now.”
By the time Darla reached the curb, the Mercedes had nosed to the front of the line and was waiting for her. As she made her way through the knot of other guests awaiting their rides, she almost stumbled into Hillary Gables. The woman was clutching her ersatz grandfather’s arm as they stood on the sidewalk with the rest.
Darla gave the agent a bright smile through her veil.
“Hello, Hillary. Lovely service, wasn’t it? But I almost missed the entire thing. It seems my name wasn’t on the list.”
“Oh, yes, Darla.” Hillary returned her smile with a blank look, eyes unblinking behind her glasses. “I didn’t recognize you at first. So sorry about the list. You know how it goes.”
“Of course. I’d love to chat more and meet your grandfather, but as you can see my car is waiting. Maybe next time.”
With a wink and an even bigger smile for the old man, Darla turned on her heel. Before the valet could open the door, she’d climbed into the front passenger seat of the Mercedes. Jake, still in her driver’s outfit, glanced over at her as she buckled herself in.
“Let’s get a few blocks down the road,” the older woman said as she accelerated, “and we can switch places. In the meantime, spill. What’s up with the brother?”
“Give me a sec,” Darla replied as she kicked off her heels with a sigh and unpinned her hat, carefully setting it in the backseat. Then, feeling rather like the gossipy old woman who’d been sitting beside her in the church, she burst out, “Mavis is Valerie’s brother.”
“Uh, would you like to elaborate?”
By then, they’d reached a spot where Jake could stop the Mercedes. She slid over to the passenger side while Darla hopped out. After a quick look around for oncoming traffic, she tiptoed barefooted around the car and took her place behind the wheel. As they started off again, she began relating the events of the past hour, building up to the point where she’d learned about Morris.
“So Mavis, Valerie’s assistant, is actually Morris, Valerie’s twin brother,” Jake mused. “I assume some of them must have guessed she was a man, but I wonder if any of the rest of her entourage had any idea about the family relationship. That does open the possibilities a bit. But obviously, just because the guy is a cross-dresser doesn’t mean he killed his sister. That kind of stuff is for the movies.”
“So you don’t think Morris is any kind of suspect?”
“Never say never. For the moment, the only real question I have is whether he gave Reese his real name when he made his statement the night of the accident. If Mavis—or, rather, Morris—lied, that could be problematic. He might get charged with obstruction. At the very least, they’ll probably drag his butt back in for more questioning.”
“And if he told Reese the truth?”
“Then that’s that, unless we learn something else that puts him on a suspect list.” Jake paused, her expression thoughtful. “Of course, there’s nothing to stop you and me from scheduling a little gossip-fest with old Morrie. Since you two are best buddies now, do you think you can get her . . . him . . . back to the store for a little chat?”
“I told him about the pictures we took at the autographing, and he gave me his contact info so I can email them to him. Maybe I can tell him that I also found something at the store that might belong to Valerie. I’ll say that I’d prefer not to mail it and ask him if he can swing by to pick it up.”
“Good idea, but what could she have left behind? Remember, Reese had all her things couriered over already.”
“Maybe a vintage cigarette lighter?” Darla suggested, wrinkling her nose a little at the scent of smoke that clung to her friend. No doubt Jake had indulged in a cigarette or two while she waited. Even though she knew Jake would never smoke in her car, Maybelle still would need an airing out to be rid of the lingering odor.
The other w
oman nodded in approval.
“You could say you found a fancy lighter in the courtyard and thought it might be hers. But, of course, you wouldn’t want to mail it to him without knowing for sure, in case it belonged to a customer, instead. You could borrow some gaudy antique thing from Mary Ann’s shop to show him. While he’s there, we’ll chat him up for a while and see if he spills any secrets. But don’t get your hopes up, Nancy. Chances are the only secret Morris is hiding is that whole Mavis shtick.”
“It’s a plan,” Darla agreed. “Now, what about you? Any good gossip from your fellow chauffeurs?”
Jake snorted. “I learned about one ballplayer’s drug problem, found out a former child actress turned rock star is a closeted lesbian, and that two major players in the financial world brought their mistresses and not their wives to this little shindig. And those are the boring parts. But nothing about Valerie Baylor.”
They chatted more about the service and the fact that Hillary apparently—and deliberately—had left Darla off the guest list. But it wasn’t until they reached the garage again and had started out on foot toward the brownstone that Darla dug into her purse for the gold-embossed business card that Morris had given her.
She studied it more closely while Jake trailed a few steps behind her to indulge in a quick smoke. The title CEO was printed after his name, and “Morris Vickson Enterprises” was his company’s name, with no other clue as to the nature of said business. Since he apparently had time to accompany his sister while dressed as Mavis, did he actually do anything as CEO? His money might come solely from his parents, meaning he was living off their largesse with corporate title and company nothing more than a polite fiction.
Unless it was Mavis, not Morris, who was the moneymaker?
Darla frowned, considering that possibility. She wondered if, in his Mavis guise, he had any other clients besides his sister . . . wondered, too, how much money a professional makeup artist could bring in. Maybe he hired out Mavis through his company? Doubtless any number of positions existed in New York City’s fashion and television and theater worlds for a talented makeup artist. He might well be bringing in a decent paycheck.
