Beauty Dies

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “Go on,” Nora directed.

  “I did know Jackie. From the lingerie shop. A few months ago I ran into her on the street. We got to talking. She was really impressed with my success. I brought her up to Bedford Place to show her around. We did a little coke and hung out.”

  “Jackie never mentioned she’d been to Bedford Place.” Claire turned to the next page of my notes.

  “I’m mentioning it.” Sarah’s voice was nasty. “She told me she was doing some pornos. She made it sound kind of exciting.” She ran her long fingers through her long hair and crossed her long legs. “She kept at me, asking me if I’d like to be in one. I agreed. I don’t know why, but it just seemed a kind of out-of-it thing to do. You know, fun.”

  “You did it for a lark? Or in memory of Mr. Feller the pharmacologist?” Claire asked, finally focusing her penetrating eyes on Sarah.

  Unsure, Sarah decided to study some strands of her hair. Nora gave her handbag a quick jerk as if it were disobeying and said, “Mr. Feller is an example of Sarah being forced into using her sexuality, which is all she felt she had, to gain some kind of identity. Sarah is not that different from Jackie. And Jackie sensed that. Used it.”

  “How did Jackie acquire the evening gown?” Claire asked in a bored voice, extending her long legs and leaning back in her chair. Only the finger with the lapis gave an impatient tap.

  “She said she wanted to wear something pretty,” Sarah said. “I showed her Cybella’s clothes and she picked the red evening gown. I didn’t look at the label. I didn’t know it was a St. Rome.”

  “Did Jackie?”

  “If she did, she didn’t say anything. I was discussing all this with Nora and I discovered that I was really angry at Cybella.”

  “Because she had abandoned her,” Nora added.

  “I always felt it was something I did. Something about me that made Mother leave me with my grandparents.” She was trying for some kind of introspection, but her eyes looked like they were searching for a mirror. “I thought if I could be like her, then she would love me. But no matter how hard I tried to be her daughter, she didn’t want me.”

  “Sarah’s need to do this video was because of the emotional tug-of-war between a mother and a daughter,” Nora said. “Sarah understands it now.” She gave the crocodile a pat.

  Sarah nodded in agreement. Both of them watched Claire, who was now concentrating on the ceiling. Boulton wheeled in the tea.

  “Well, they finally got their story worked out,” I said to nobody in particular.

  “Weren’t you worried that a pornographic video could be used against you in some way?” Claire asked Sarah.

  “I just didn’t think.” Sarah’s eyes followed Boulton.

  “That is the first example of veracity we’ve had.”

  “Are you calling her a liar?” Nora demanded.

  Claire didn’t respond. Boulton served tea. I took a pass. Sarah made a big deal about her weight, then took the fattest scone on the plate. Her eyes still on Boulton, she bit into the scone as if it were her lover’s face. Claire sipped her tea. I watched Sarah seduce some more of her scone. I watched Boulton watch Sarah.

  “What did Cybella say when you showed her the video?” Claire asked.

  It took a lot of strength but she forced her eyes from Boulton back to Claire. “I didn’t show it to her.”

  “What’s the good of retaliation if nobody knows you’ve retaliated?”

  “I was kinda embarrassed about it. And …”

  “And she didn’t want anybody to know. We do silly things out of pain and anger. She was suddenly afraid that Cybella would show the video to me, that I would be upset with her.” Nora stroked Sarah’s hair. It was a tentative gesture, like stroking a lion.

  Sarah smiled seductively at Boulton. He still had his butler face on, but just barely.

  “We’ve tried to help you the best we can.” Nora set her teacup on the table.

  Sarah was now caressing her lips with her napkin.

  “That was very good,” she said to Boulton, as if they’d experienced mutual orgasm.

  “It’s déclassé to speak to the butler,” I said.

  “This is America.” She stood up, giving him a good look at what was available in the United States, undulated around the drinks table, and poured herself some more water.

  “Teatime is over,” I said to Boulton. He didn’t flinch but his right hand curled into a fist.

  Claire turned and peered at me. She said nothing but I knew I had stepped out of bounds. Discretion was still a distant goal. She nodded to Boulton, who wheeled the table out of the room. I was going to hear from both of them later, but right now I felt fine. I had committed Sarah interruptus.

  “Let’s go, Sarah.” Nora stood, giving her skirt a good brushing with her hand.

  “Sit down,” Claire commanded.

  They remained standing.

  “The front door is locked. Unless Boulton or Miss Hill unlock it, you will not be able to leave. If you prefer to remain standing, do so.”

  They sat on the sofa.

  “This is ridiculous.” Tugging at her skirt, Nora crossed her legs.

  Claire leaned forward, fixing Nora with her dark blue eyes. “I do not believe one word you and Sarah have said to me. Miss Brown, you have all the psychological and intellectual depth of your capricious and inane magazine.”

  Nora moved angrily on the sofa. Her mouth opened to speak.

  “Do not say one more word,” Claire warned.

  Nora closed her mouth with such force, I thought we would have to pry it back open.

  “Jackie was never in Bedford Place. Nor was she in Cybella’s bedroom picking out a St. Rome dress to wear in a porno video because you were annoyed with your mother.” Her eyes came to rest on Sarah. “I detest stupidity.” She struck the floor with her walking stick.

  “The truth is not always to our liking.” Nora had her lips working again. “And sometimes it falls short of our so-called high standards. But it is still the truth.”

  “Jackie never mentioned Bedford Place to me,” Claire said. “If she had been there, she would have gladly told me about it in every detail. Nor did she ever mention knowing Sarah before the video was shot.”

  “Because she failed to tell you about these things does not mean they didn’t happen.”

  “I think Sarah was forced to do that video because of something she knows or did. Something neither one of you want discovered.”

  Sarah’s coffee-colored eyes turned opaque. Claire leaned back in her chair and watched Nora. “I think that’s why you went to see Goldie this morning. The same Duke Hotel clerk who saw Sarah also saw you.”

  Nora didn’t move. I could almost feel her weighing her options. “I didn’t kill him,” she finally said. “He was dead when I got there.”

  “I asked her to go see Goldie,” Sarah confessed. “He wanted so much money. He kept asking for more and more. I just didn’t have it.”

  “I thought you were worth millions,” I said.

  “Only if she has staying power,” Nora said. “I was hoping to reason with the man. He wanted four hundred thousand dollars as a final payoff.”

  “Where does Linda Hansen fit in?” Claire asked Sarah.

  “I paid the money to her. She gave it to Goldie.”

  “Why was he really blackmailing you?”

  “We told you,” Nora said. “Because she did the video.”

  “Cybella meant a great deal to you, didn’t she, Miss Brown?” Claire asked gently.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Miss Hill was in Cybella’s bedroom. She’s an avid reader—Miss Hill, that is, not Cybella—so of course she looked at the books you gave her.”

  “She didn’t love the books I gave her. She didn’t love me.” She looked evenly at Claire. “Yes, I loved Cybella. Are you shocked?”

  “People fall in and out of love every day. The only shock is that they continue to do so.”

  “
May we go now?”

  “One final question.” She turned to Sarah. “Who is your father?”

  “I never met my father. He was French. He died when I was very young.”

  “Is that true?” She asked Nora.

  She nodded.

  “Show them out, Miss Hill,” Claire said, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes.

  I unlocked the front door. Nora swept past me into the hallway. Sarah showed me her perfect teeth. “It must be fun to have a butler all your own. Too bad you can’t talk to him.”

  I closed the door on her ever so gently. After pointing a gun at her forehead and taking away her tea, I didn’t want to appear inhospitable.

  Back in the living room I sat down at my desk. “They’re lying,” I said. “Even about who her father is.”

  “Sarah believes the dead Frenchman is her father, Miss Hill, because that is what she has been told.”

  Claire stood and prowled near the window. “So Paul Quentin admits to knowing Jackie.” I could tell by her stance she was looking for pigeons. “His involvement changes the entire case.”

  “He killed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe Jackie was going to tell the Reynolds family that he was her customer. There’s a ton of money to be made by marrying Alison.”

  “And yet when you threatened to tell the Reynolds family about Jackie, he wasn’t upset. In fact he was very confident of their support. And how did he know to be waiting outside our hotel for her?”

  “He was following Jackie.”

  “We are back to the same problem. If he was following Jackie with the intent to murder, why didn’t he do it before she got to the Parkfaire?” Claire slowly raised her walking stick. “Why did he let her stand out there while you were up here eating your breakfast? Why didn’t he kill her then?” She swung at the window. A pane of glass shattered. The pigeon remained on the sill scrutinizing her.

  “Call somebody, Miss Hill,” she said through clenched teeth.

  I reached for the phone, got hold of those-who-pick-up-after-us and told them we’d be needing a new pane for our window. Claire paced in front of my desk, waiting for me to hang up.

  “One more thing, Miss Hill: you interrupted my tea. Until you start paying for Boulton’s salary, please leave his instructions to me.”

  “It won’t happen again.”

  “You embarrassed him.”

  “Boulton? Impossible.”

  “I want you to apologize to him. I know he’s sulking. I can’t stand it when he sulks, it disrupts the household.”

  “Apologize?!”

  “Yes, Miss Hill, apologize. Oh, I almost forgot. The police are also very upset with you,” she said accusingly.

  “About what?”

  She thought for a moment, then waved her hand vaguely in the air. “Something about your leaving the scene of a crime.”

  “You told me to leave. You told me you’d take care of it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to calm them. Just don’t give them any pertinent information.”

  “Calm them?”

  “They should be here any minute. A Detective Alvarez and a Detective McGuire. Why do they always travel in pairs like lovebirds? I’ll be in my room. I need to think. There’s no reason to call me.” She strode out.

  Oh, hell.

  Nineteen

  I POKED MY HEAD in the kitchen. Gerta was washing the tea things. Her arms and legs were as white as flour against her solid black dress and her sturdy black shoes. Boulton wasn’t there. She shook her head at me. “He’s in his room, Maggie.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “He is very sensitive, Maggie.” She rinsed a teacup.

  “About as sensitive as a bullet.”

  She wagged her head again. “How can you call yourself a woman and not know how to handle a man?”

  “They call themselves men and they don’t have a clue about women.”

  “That’s because we cannot be handled. They can.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded sagely.

  “What do you suggest besides giving him chicken soup?”

  “You think I’m a silly old peasant woman.”

  “No I don’t. What do you suggest?”

  “Maggie, I know what went on in there.” She wiped her hands on her apron, then took my hand. I remembered my mother’s wet hands and her polka-dot apron.

  “I listened. You acted out of jealousy.”

  “I just couldn’t stand watching Sarah throw herself around. Women give women a bad name.”

  She shrugged. “Then you give yourself a bad name.”

  “Talking with you is like talking to my mother. The conversation loses all sense of reality and we end up talking about bad names. And I don’t even know what that means.”

  She looked at me, shaking her head in disappointment. I was a hopeless case. “If you feel a pang of jealousy, then you must feel something for him. That’s all I’m saying. I’ve done my best. You don’t listen.”

  She turned back to the sink and the dishes she didn’t have to do. There was room service but not for Gerta.

  All right, I had felt something—not jealousy, something deeper and more defensive. The distance I kept between Boulton and me allowed any woman to step in except me. I went down the hall and knocked on his door.

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door. He sat on the edge of his bed cleaning a derringer that he sometimes tucked into his vest pocket. The vest and jacket hung on a chair. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up and his tie was loose. His great-great-grandfather’s comb-and-brush set were on the dresser. He is the only man I know whose great-great-grandfather was killed by Zulu warriors. He checked the gun, then looked up. “What is it, Maggie?”

  “I’ve come to apologize. It seems I have embarrassed you, and believe me, Boulton, I would never intentionally want to do that to you. I know you take orders only from Claire and I was out of line.”

  He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, gun in hand. “Which is it you despise the most?” His watchful brown eyes studied me. “The bodyguard or the butler?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “When you think of me—and you do think of me—am I the servant who polishes the silver, answers the door, and serves the tea? Or am I the macho bloke who carries a gun and is trained to take a bullet for Miss Conrad? Be honest.”

  “You think I look down on you because you’re her butler? If you must know, I’m a little intimidated by that fact. The closest thing I ever had to a servant when I was growing up were Rubbermaid products.”

  “Rubbermaid?” He looked at me blankly.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Do you know what I think? I think you’re too class-conscious to want to go to bed with a mere butler. So I think you do need a bodyguard, no matter what you said this morning.”

  “Look, I came in here to apologize. I don’t remember saying anything about wanting to go to bed with you.” I’d said variations on those words to other men and had meant them, but now they sounded hollow.

  “What’s this all about, if it’s not about the fact that you and I desire one another?”

  “You met my ex-husband. How different are you from him? Okay, he’s not a butler and he’s not English. But I’d like to desire a man who doesn’t carry a gun. I’m sure there must be one around.”

  A slight smile played on his lips. “Don’t you find it odd that now that you carry a gun you want to meet a man who doesn’t?”

  “Look, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t think it’s the best thing for us to get involved. I’m feeling very insecure right now.”

  “Insecurity. The last refuge of the American woman.”

  The doorbell rang. He reached for his vest and jacket.

  “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll get it. It’s the police. They want to talk to me. It seems I left the scene of a crime. God knows how that happen
ed.”

  He moved toward me with the gun in his hand.

  “You’re going to shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

  “Take this.” He handed me the gun.

  “You want me to shoot you?”

  “It’s empty.” He reached around me and closed the door. “I want you to hold the gun. I want you to know that I am unarmed and disarmed in your presence.”

  He put his hands on my shoulders and ran them down my arms. He bent his head down and rubbed his cheek against my hair. I put my arms around his neck. I could feel the back of his starched collar, his hair soft against my wrists, his chest hard against my breasts. His mouth found my mouth.

  The doorbell rang again. He stepped back. His lips wet from mine.

  “McGuire and Alvarez are not going to be so easily swayed by your charm.” He opened the door for me. I gave him back his gun.

  As I walked to the foyer, I tried not to smile. I tried not to notice that the earth had tilted ever so slightly. I was a mature woman who knew that this was just another kiss and, God knows, I had had my share of kisses and the men that went with them. I tried to pretend I was not just another deliriously happy besotted lemming. But God, this kiss was ripe with possibilities.

  McGuire and Alvarez had been at me for about a half hour. I was sitting at my desk. McGuire, a large, barrel-chested man with legs so thin they looked like a rock star’s, stood near the window. Alvarez leaned against the fireplace mantel. I, of course, had told them the first thing that came into my head and now I was stuck with it.

  “Let me get this straight,” Alvarez said, as his long tan fingers stroked his glistening black mustache. “You’re looking down at this dead man and Claire Conrad asks you to run to Bergdorf’s to pick her up a few things.”

  “‘Gloves,’ the little lady here said ‘gloves,’” McGuire added testily, glaring at me. He rubbed his chin. I could hear his hand scratching against the stubble.

  “Gloves.” Alvarez’s voice was smooth and patient. But his black eyes were disturbingly unreadable. “Just like that. You’re looking at a corpse and Claire Conrad wants a new pair of gloves?”