Under the Skin

by Vicki Lane

  Nellie Bly paced nervously up and down the shaded gravel path through the trees on the far side of the bathhouse. Renzo had stuck at her side till the last minute. Indeed, he had become so seemingly enamored of her company—Ha! enamored of the money he thinks I have—that she had begun to despair of his leaving her for his game of golf. Only the fortunate appearance of Mr. Parsons as they strolled back to the veranda had freed her.

  She glanced at the little watch pinned to her shirtwaist. Four-ten—She was to have met Amarantha here at ten till but, though she had run almost all the way, had not arrived till five after. If all went according to plan, both DeVine sisters would be occupied with soaking and massage till five. And with that oily Lorenzo safely knocking gutta-percha balls about the nine-hole Wana Luna golf course, Nellie Bly, plucky investigative girl reporter, could go to work.

  If only Amarantha had given her the key earlier! But the mountain woman had insisted she couldn’t “lay her hands on them keys” till after dinner. And now, the whole endeavor—

  The crunch of gravel interrupted her thoughts and Nellie Bly whirled round. A deep sigh of relief escaped her at the sight of the tall, white-clad figure of Amarantha.

  “You wasn’t here when you said and I had to see to Miss Dorothea DeVine. They’s both of them in the tubs now—”

  “Good, good! But—” Nellie glanced around to make sure there was no one to remark upon this strange rendezvous of a guest and a staff member. Then, lowering her voice to an urgent whisper, she continued.

  “Do you have the key? Oh, please, be quick! The brother should be safely engaged with his golf for several hours but I can’t be sure the sisters won’t wish to return to their rooms when their hour here is over.”

  It was 4:25. Amarantha had promised to keep the sisters at the bathhouse at least till five—longer if she could manage it. But to be completely safe, Nellie Bly needed to be well away from the DeVine suite by 5:05.

  She had hurried from the bathhouse as fast as she could without exciting comment, made her way down the long and mercifully deserted hallway to the DeVines’ suite, and slipped inside unseen by anyone. She stood in the main room, looking from side to side for some sign of what she sought.

  There was the plush-draped table around which they had all sat, right hands clasped to their neighbor’s left wrist to ensure that no one of those present could be responsible for the faraway voice, the angel kiss, or the glowing hand that had floated above the table in a ghostly blessing.

  Nellie frowned. There had been a moment—Lorenzo, who had been on her right, had asked to be released so that he could adjust the draperies at the window. He had returned to the table—or had he? The darkness had been absolute. A hand had offered itself … surely she had felt a man’s coat sleeve as she resumed her grasp?

  Quickly she turned up one side of the heavy cloth and secured it with several of the yellow-backed novels lying on the tabletop. Kneeling down, she subjected the underside of the table to close scrutiny, even running her hands over its surface.

  Nothing. More time gone. She backed out from under the table, stood, and restored the tablecloth and books to their original state.

  CRACK!

  A sound from the direction of the window made her jump. She turned her gaze to the innocuous cushions of the window seat and the folds of the draperies. Could a person have concealed himself in that alcove? The DeVines had made much of the fact that they did not employ a so-called “spirit cabinet” in their séances. But could not this window seat have served? A concealed operator, manipulating luminescent items on black wires …

  CRACK!

  She moved to the window seat, curious to find the source of the sound. But though she shook the draperies and moved the cushions to look under them, there was nothing.

  Now 4:37. More time wasted. She glanced out the window which overlooked a decorative lily pond and a part of the small golf course. Surely that figure at the tee box just beyond the pond was Lorenzo.

  He swung and hooked the ball, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, moved aside for the other man to take his turn.

  Oh, crikey, she thought, I’ve got to find something that’s proof of how they work their séances. Maybe in the bedrooms—”

  CRACK! CRACK, CRACK, Crack, Crack, crack …

  The sounds began just at her ear and then seemed to flow across the room to a small hallway. Puzzled, but somehow completely unafraid, Nellie followed.

  Now the cracking sounds were frantic—almost like castanets. And they were coming from within the bedroom. Once again the key worked and Nellie Bly stepped into a room fragrant with the scent of lilacs. There was a confusion of female clothing slung across both beds and draped from the cheval glass while a clutter of toiletries crowded the single dressing table. To the side stood two steamer trunks—one of them emitting the same cracking sounds.

  Locked! Amarantha’s key was no good here. Would the sisters have left the key here in the room? Or did they carry it with them? Where did women always hide things?

  CRACK! The sound came from an elegant chiffonier standing at the side of a huge wardrobe.

  In a moment, Nellie Bly had opened the top drawer and was feeling beneath the folds of the fine linen handkerchiefs—

  CRACK! CRACK!

  No? The next drawer perhaps …

  Kid gloves—white, dove gray, black. Nellie Bly ran her hands beneath them, exploring the drawer.

  Nothing. Perhaps among the chemises—but wait!

  As she withdrew her hand from the stacked gloves, there was a tiny tap. Not the whisper of thin kid falling but of something solid, muffled by the soft leather.

  CRACK! The sound was almost exuberant as she drew forth a long brass key from a white evening glove. She looked again at her watch—4:54! Eleven minutes.

  She flung herself at the steamer trunk, her hand shaking so that the key rattled in the lock. Rattled … and turned.

  As she raised the lid, Nellie Bly laughed aloud. Yes! It was all here, from the heavy paper speaking trumpets to the stuffed glove painted with some phosphorescent paint. There was a thing like a collapsible fishing pole with black fishing line, and yes, oh, the clever dogs! Here was a length of a man’s coat sleeve with shirt cuff and links attached. Easy for one of Lorenzo’s sisters to slide onto her arm in the dark and—

  “My dear Miss Cochrane.”

  She started up. Lounging against the door, Lorenzo DeVine was regarding her with an appraising look.

  “I thought I glimpsed your elegant form at the window and, conceiving you were eager to see me again, I cut short my match and hurried back, hoping we might enjoy a pleasant interlude before my sisters returned.”

  He strode into the room, his walking stick under his arm. “But I find that you are not as simple as you seemed.”

  The walking stick clattered to the floor and at once he was on her, one hand over her mouth, the other twisting her arm behind her. The pain was excruciating. And through the roar of blood in her ears, she heard him say in a voice that was at once amused and chilling, “Now, what shall we do with you, my dear Miss Cochrane?”

  Chapter 34

  The Kindest Cut

  Saturday, June 9

  We wound our way through the low-ceilinged floors to almost the very top of a parking garage in downtown Asheville. As I’d suspected, there was, indeed, a street festival of some sort going on and the garage was almost full. The air was full too, with the sounds and smells of music and cooking from a dizzying variety of ethnicities.

  Somehow I hadn’t been surprised when, after visiting three shops and trying on eight dresses, Gloria was still searching for the garment that met all her requirements.

  “Coral, I think, though yellow could work. But coral has always been such a favorite of mine. And sleeveless, because it might be warm, but maybe with a light jacket for later in the evening.”

  A thought struck her. “Lizzy, what are your girls wearing? Are they going to be bridesmaids—oh, and what about Phillip
’s daughter? And then there’s Amanda—Are they …”

  At the thought of a kind of chorus line decked out in matching bridesmaid dresses, I suppressed an unladylike snort. “No, Glory—this ceremony is going to be pretty much bare-bones. We do have friends coming to play some music before and after. But, basically, Phillip and I will stand up together and say some words. And then the judge will say we’re married. No bridesmaids or flower girls or ring bearers and, for bloody sure, no one to, quote, give me away—just friends and family to share our happiness and stay around for a bit of a celebration.”

  After several more fruitless stops, at last Gloria found the object of her desire in a little boutique that was tucked away down a crooked one-way street lined with enticing shops of every ilk. Enticing to Gloria, that is. I’d never realized what an endurance sport shopping can be, and I was dragging behind, dreaming of the iced coffee concoction I’d soon be enjoying at the bookstore. Gloria, however, was clicking along the sidewalk in her high heels like a long-distance runner with her second wind.

  “Lizzy, don’t you think this dress is absolute perfection!” She patted the huge shopping bag that dangled from her elbow. “It’s so worth all the looking when you end up with just the right thing. That delicate balance between pink and orange has always been my favorite. So festive too! It’ll set off your dress and look good against the greenery. But, you know—I’m not happy with the way those copper highlights Nigel put in my hair look with the coral. I think they need to go; a silvery, moonlight sort of blond would be better, don’t you think?”

  The narrow sidewalks were already awash with tourists and shoppers as well as some spillover from the street festival crowds a block away. The muted roar of many people filled the air, while the percolator sound of reggae fought with the twang and thump of a bluegrass band, while over all, the amplified voice of an announcer repeatedly asked spectators to move behind the yellow barricades as the parade would be coming that way soon.

  Before I could weigh in on Gloria’s highlights, however, I was halted by a gaggle of ladies-who-lunch types emerging from a doorway just between me and Glory. Blocking the sidewalk, they stood in a chattering knot, trying to determine whether to go on to the QuerY gallery or to do the Art Museum first. I was puzzled by the fact that all of them were wearing purple and every last one had on a bright red hat of some sort, mostly fancy models with wide brims but there were a few baseball caps too—one completely covered with sparkling red sequins.

  By the time the club or sorority or whatever it was had dispersed (the QuerY won out) like a flock of chattering red-crested birds moving on to another feeder, Gloria was half a block away, peering through the glass door of another storefront. A quaint hanging sign over her head showed a pair of golden scissors and the words: THE KINDEST CUT.

  When I caught up to her, she was frowning at the CLOSED sign on the door. A note posted just beneath it said that Nigel was relocating to the DC area. He thanked all his customers for their friendship and their patronage and invited them to check out his website for news of his new salon.

  “I don’t understand—When I made my appointment the other day, he never mentioned that he planned on moving …” Gloria leaned in close to the glass of the door, peering through a slit left at the edge of the closed blind. “Oh, good—he’s in there. I’ll let him know I’m here. Why don’t you come back in about forty minutes? I’d love for Nigel to take a look at your hair, Lizzy—he might have a suggestion or two.”

  As Gloria moved aside and began to rap on the doorframe, I could see for myself a tall man with a ponytail waving a blow-dryer over his client’s blond mop of curls. He didn’t seem to hear my sister’s knocking nor her “Nigel—it’s Gloria. I have a three-fifteen.”

  But then the blonde in the chair nodded her head in the direction of the door and the ponytailed man put down the blow-dryer and brush he’d been wielding and headed our way, his mouth a thin line of annoyance—or was it some other emotion?

  I heard the click of a lock and the door swung open. At the same moment, the cellphone in my purse sounded its jingling tone. As no one but Phillip and my family have my number—and none of them ever call just to chat—I tend always to answer the rare calls right away—and always with a bit of trepidation.

  Scrabbling through the odds and ends in my shoulder bag, I located the little leather holster that held my phone and stepped away to answer.

  “Forty minutes!” Gloria called cheerfully before disappearing through the doorway. The door shut behind her just as I finally managed to hit the right button to answer the call.

  “Sweetheart, where are you?”

  Phillip’s voice held an unmistakable urgency and I braced for the worst.

  “Glory and I are in downtown Asheville; she’s just gone into Nigel’s salon and I’m headed to the bookstore. Is something wrong?”

  I had moved away from the door and was standing by one of those little glass-fronted boxes of the type restaurants use to display menus—a vitrine, I think they’re called. Inside were several clippings pertaining to Nigel’s past triumphs: his course of study with Vidal Sassoon, a picture of Nigel holding a trophy of some sort and standing next to a young woman with a strange asymmetrical hairstyle … a kind of outdoor brag wall.

  On the other end, Phillip was hesitating—and, no doubt, running his hand over his bald scalp as he always did when he had something he didn’t know how to say.

  “The thing is … now I don’t want you to get rattled; I know you two are having a nice day together but the thing is …”

  Another picture in the vitrine caught my eye. It was a picture of half a dozen people standing in front of the Hot Springs Spa. The photo was on a page cut from one of those glossy lifestyle magazines and it was part of an article about the spa, dated two years ago. The people pictured were the staff—and in the article a great deal was made of the qualifications of the spa’s hairstylist: Nigel.

  Phillip’s voice was drowned out by a roar of applause and the oompah of a marching band passing by at the end of the street. I looked again at the picture and started toward the door of Nigel’s salon. The person who had abducted Gloria had to be someone familiar with the spa. And it was Nigel who’d been responsible for sending both Gloria and Joss to the spa …

  And Gloria was in there with him. As soon as the blonde’s hair was done, she’d be on her way and Gloria would be alone with Nigel.

  No, I couldn’t let that happen.

  The tinny chatter in my ear was unintelligible and the noise on the street was getting louder.

  “Phillip, stay on the line. I’ve got to go get Gloria.”

  Dropping the open phone into the little pocket at the top of my shoulder bag, I put my hand on the shining brass latch of the door. As long as that customer was in there, I doubted that Nigel would … would what? I had no proof that he was responsible for the incident at the spa in Hot Springs but now it seemed likely that he was more deeply involved than I’d thought. Still, no one had been harmed. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed to have been a charade to allow Joss to rescue Gloria.

  We could sort that out later. The important thing was to get Gloria back outside. As soon as she was out the door, I could tell Phillip about Nigel’s connection to the spa and see what he thought.

  I tried the latch and to my surprise, the door wasn’t locked. Assuming a casual demeanor I was far from feeling, I pushed the door open and stepped in.

  Gloria was perched on one of the chairs in the waiting area, leafing through a glossy magazine and speaking to Nigel who was standing behind the blonde and putting some finishing touches on her coiffure. His tanned face was strained and he seemed nervous—like a trapped animal.

  I bet he thinks she’s onto him and his little scam. Probably that’s why he had the closed sign up—trying to avoid her. Well, serves him right.

  “No, I made an appointment and here I am. I would not prefer to come back later. I don’t mind waiting till you fini
sh up there.”

  Now the stylist was simply standing—staring at the back of the blonde in the revolving chair. “You shouldn’t have come in, Gloria.” His voice was flat and emotionless. “I did try.” And he put out a hand to swing the chair around.

  As the blonde’s face came into view, I was suddenly struck by a feeling of—not déjà vu but recognition. Surely I knew this woman from somewhere, some previous encounter. A past customer, perhaps? Had I done the flowers for her wedding?

  Her clothing was mostly covered by one of those pink capes hairstylists always drape their clients in, but I could see the hem of a flowered skirt, a pair of white, rather thick-ankled legs and red low-heeled sandals.

  Nigel stepped forward with a hand mirror and the blonde studied the back of her head in the wall mirror at her back.

  “Yes,” I heard a familiar voice say. “Yes, that’s who I really am.”

  The blond head turned toward me. At the same time, her … his other hand came from beneath the concealing cape, aiming a revolver in my direction.

  “Well, if it isn’t my sweet aunt Elizabeth,” said Joss. “And my own loving little mother.”

  Chapter 35

  The Bolitar Ploy

  Saturday, June 9

  Was she even listening? Phillip shook his head in frustration. Adjusting the cellphone at his ear, he spoke louder.

  “Elizabeth, did you hear what I said? The sheriff just called—the one from Joss’s hometown. The parents got in touch with him to say that Joss has completely flipped out— The shrink they’d taken him to says it’s a delayed reaction from the blow to his head. The way he shuffled when he walked—that was a tip-off that there was damage. But anyway, Joss is convinced that he really is Gloria’s child and everyone—his parents, the shrink, you, me—are all plotting to keep him and Gloria apart. He got violent with his parents and then stormed out and they haven’t seen him since—and here’s what has me worried, sweetheart: They’re pretty sure he took some of the father’s handguns and a rifle.”