“Good then.” V-V beamed. “And since the weather is so grand perhaps soon you will even consider remaining at home for an entire day.” He glanced from Kiki to Dee and back again. “Yes, this is a marvelous idea. Dee could pay us a visit and the two of you could take the electric boat out for a cruise on the river. It would be like old times. Remember?”
V-V’s face was like that of a child getting his first glimpse of the family Christmas tree. Bells went off in my memory. “Nutcracker and the King of Mice,” I blurted, startling everyone, including myself. All eyes turned on me. I blushed. “My Gran had an E.T.A. Hoffmann book. Nutcracker and the King of Mice. When I was small she liked to read from it at Christmas.”
“Ahh, beautiful dolls, glittering jewels, marzipan castles in a sparkling woods.” V-V smiled, the lines around his eyes fanning out from the corners.
I had always liked the tale, especially the part when the Nutcracker, who is about to be killed in a duel with the Mouse King, is saved by Clara, the unexpected heroine. V-V’s succinct summary made the story sound queerly sappy.
“It’s a festive romp,” I insisted.
“But Hoffmann enjoyed the irrational and mysterious as well. In fact, many think that Hoffmann’s darker tales enabled him to exercise his imagination to its fullest potential.” V-V smoothed the book in his hand. “This volume of short stories, for example, contains ‘Mademoiselle de Scudéri,’ a personal favorite.”
Kiki shuddered. He laughed. “My wife finds the tale too gruesome. Still, many consider it one of his greatest works. Some experts claim it is the first known murder mystery. But I do not treasure it merely for this.” His expression softened. “The story is set in Paris, where I first met my lovely wife.” He looked at her.
I smiled. When it came to spooky books I secretly sided with Kiki. But I was also a sucker for romance. “I love a good mystery. I’ll look for it.”
“At one time we had an English translation in our home. I shall try to find it.” He leaned across the desk, gently brushing his wife’s lips with his. He gallantly held out an arm. “Come then, Dee. A little refreshment now, shall we?” She smiled and latched on.
Kiki fingertips were at her lips. At first, I thought she might be savoring V-V’s kiss, but her eyes suggested she was occupied with something not so romantic. Dee noticed. Her smile faded. “Cheer up, sweetie. A good night’s rest will do you wonders. And wait until you hear what Miss Lewis has dreamed up. Could be just the thing to redeem your image. Win back votes!” With her last rah-rah comments, Dee pumped one arm in the air like a pep squad leader.
Kiki removed her fingers from her lips and sent her sister a slip of a smile.
“That’s better,” Dee said. “See you tomorrow.”
They left and I looked over at Kiki. Her head was bowed and she held her forehead cupped between her hands. Sensing she needed a moment to herself, I quietly surveyed the tall piles of leather-bound volumes stacked on the floor behind her. Next, I let my gaze wander to a portrait of a servant girl with a porcelain jug sitting serenely at a well. A decent interval later, my gaze drifted back to Kiki.
At last, she massaged her eyelids and raised her head.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Sure. But they’re right. I’ve been working too hard. Sit, why don’t you?”
I took the armless chair across from her. The brocade fabric felt slippery and cool against the back of my thighs. “It was good of your sister to introduce us. Her passion for my project means a lot.”
Kiki looked over my shoulder toward the door. “I’m worried about her. She’s already had several drinks, am I right?”
I wasn’t a snitch. I shrugged.
“Dee’s had some personal difficulties. I hope you understand.”
“Your parents’ accident?”
The change in her eyes was barely perceptible. “You know about that?”
I didn’t answer, stalling as I picked at a nub in my skirt, silently admonishing myself. Dumb slip! Now she probably assumed that I—the reporter—had been snooping into her past. But I hadn’t. I’d heard about the senior Barclay-Blys’ accident in my FBI briefing. They’d died in an automobile mishap three years ago. In their will, they’d left a two-hundred-acre plot along the Rouge River, near Dearborn, to Kiki. Subsequently, she and V-V had built a spectacular home they called LaVue Rouge, along the river’s bank.
My paranoia over Kiki’s jumping to conclusions about how I’d obtained the personal information turned out to be precisely that: paranoia. Better yet, in keeping mum I’d won some points.
“It’s nice of you to protect her,” she said with a sigh. “Dee tends to talk too much while under the influence. Especially about family. It’s partly what concerns me.”
“I understand,” I said with empathy. “And sometimes, well, you can just read the grief in her face. They must have been very close.”
Kiki nodded and surveyed the room. “There’s another piece to the story. It’s common knowledge around here anyway, and it may help to explain. Dee suffered another blow about a year ago. She was engaged to be married. But Philip, her fiancé, deserted her on the day of the wedding.”
Connelly had been only too happy to broadcast Kiki’s unfortunate break-ups. But there was no mention of this sad affair. “How awful.”
“Worse than awful. She was at the church, dressed in her gown, when she found out second-hand. All the more tragic as Philip was her first and only love. I never understood how much he meant to her until she spiraled into this decline.” There was a long sigh. “But then how could I? I was too busy chasing after what was around the next corner, never stopping long enough to think about anyone else but myself.”
I shook my head. “You’re being too hard on yourself. He was the cad. She’s obviously better off without him.”
She smiled ruefully. “True. But she was a near recluse after the jilting. Lately, though, this political rough spot I’m navigating has been a silver lining. By coming here, getting involved in trying to help, she’s taken some baby steps toward rejoining the living. Hopefully, in time, she’ll be able to do it without the crutch of alcohol.”
“She’s painting again. That’s another positive, too, right?”
Kiki smiled. “Yes, and she must really like you to confide that. She’s actually quite good. In the past, she’d get consumed in the process. A better choice of addictions—” She opened the side drawer of her desk. “We’d best get to why you’re here. If you’re set on reporting about our Faire there’s a brochure in here somewhere I think will help.”
She removed the spoils of her small skirmish with V-V, set it on the desk and reached back into the drawer. I squinted at the book’s faded title. I blinked and looked again. Personality Unlimited! The book the Countess had lent me in jail. Incredible. The self-improvement guide’s circulation was broader than I would have ever imagined.
“Say, that’s the book Grace Buchanan-Dineen refers to as her bible, isn’t it? I read about it in an account of her arrest. You mentioned you’re going through a rough spot. Did you mean the flak you’re taking because of your involvement with her?”
Kiki had found the desired brochure. Her hand shook slightly as with great deliberation she placed it on the desk before her. “The Club is sensitive to any discussion about the Countess. Certain members consider the publicity generated by her brief affiliation with us to be a blight on our reputation.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to step over any line, but her arrest, the arrest of her co-conspirators, what she did, what they did, the news has been in all the papers for weeks.” I looked at her directly. “I’m not after a scoop. You can tell me off the record, if you’d like. You knew her. I’m curious, what was she like? Did you get along?”
Kiki looked poised to say something, then willfully held it back. I waited. A moment later, she waved a hand. “Oh, all right. Why not? It’s just another one of those juicy bits everyone around here can’t quit jawing on anyway. Truth is she
was exactly what she billed herself to be. A talented, informed speaker. Worldly, very bright. And yes, I put her up for consideration. So, yes, I’m under fire. But the decision of who we bring in as a guest lecturer is not mine unilaterally. The invitations are by committee. However, once the decision is made it’s my duty to make sure guests are able to find their way around the club. It’s what I do with all of our speakers, so yes, I spent time with her, showing her around.”
“But why are fingers pointing at you, then? You had no way of knowing she was a spy. She didn’t exactly tip her hand, did she?”
I watched her face closely. It reflected nothing more than her exhaustion. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh.
“It’s politics. My competition carries a lot of influence. As to whether the Countess gave any inkling into her true motives, she did not. It’s ironic, though. The same women who a couple of months ago hung onto her every word, did a one hundred and eighty degree turn once she was arrested.” Her mouth formed a sardonic smile. “Bunny Metcalf for example. She was a big fan. Yet I just read an article in the Free Press, quoting her.” Kiki stuck her nose in the air, affecting a self-important voice. “I didn’t care much for her. She was typically continental and effervescently superficial. Right away, I thought she didn’t ring true.”
Just like her sister, Kiki had a good sense of humor when she let go. She laughed and I laughed with her.
“Did you become friends with the Countess?” I asked.
“We all liked the Countess. Quite honestly, the way she’s being persecuted strikes me as odd. People seem to have lost sight of what she did for our government.”
I whisked to the edge of the slick brocade cushion. “Our government? You mean what she tried to do for Hitler, don’t you?”
Kiki gave me a disgusted look. “The Countess acted on behalf of our government as a counterspy. Her efforts may have…no, probably did save some lives.”
“But she—”
“What I’m trying to say,” Kiki interjected, “is that this country was built on the principle that a person is innocent until proven guilty. The accused spies, the Countess, they haven’t had their day in court yet. I think ‘we the people’ should withhold judgment until we hear them out and until the court comes through with its verdict. Don’t you agree?”
“I-I do.” Had I not been aware of the FBI’s suspicions concerning Kiki’s loyalties, I would have endorsed her summation of the rights of the Countess and the others even more wholeheartedly.
Kiki shoved the brochure across the desk and checked her diamanté platinum bracelet-watch. “My husband will be back shortly and I still need to run down to the beauty shop. Maybe you’d like to look this over while I gather up my things.”
She began packing papers into a needlepoint tote near her feet and I skimmed the bulletin. The week-long schedule of events was extensive, with author presentations and corresponding book signings interspersed between luncheons, teas, and other miscellaneous readings. I glanced up and saw the center drawer was partially open. I watched as Kiki removed a bottle of clear nail polish, staring at it as if considering whether to take it. In the end, she returned it and locked the drawer. Surveying her desk a final time, she absently brushed aside her bangs. A crescent-shaped strawberry birthmark on her forehead appeared, then disappeared as the curtain of hair fell back into place.
She lifted the tote and came around the desk, momentarily resting against its edge. “Say, what about the new twist Dee said you have for the Book Faire?”
I pitched my brainstorm for funneling the Faire’s earnings into the war effort as we strolled toward the library’s exit.
“It’s a terrific idea. We’ll simply use last year’s decorations.” Kiki’s eyes twinkled. “Better yet, we’ll do nothing. Put up no decorations whatsoever. Use the theme, Don’t you know there’s a war going on? Believe it or not, some people around here act as though they hadn’t noticed.”
Call me a cynic, but I believed her.
“I’m glad you like the concept,” I said. “Dee’s suggestion for using this publicity to help turn around the Club’s negative association with the Countess has great potential. And I can provide the coverage to help. That is, if you’ll agree to an interview. Will you?”
“Of course,” she said. “Say tomorrow after lunch?” I nodded. She continued, “The Faire’s inventory is stored in the Solarium. It’s on the way to the beauty shop. If you like, I’ll take you there. You can poke around, get a sense of what our collection holds.”
Clara Renner, wife of the Willow Run spy, was a hairdresser in the Club’s salon. I could hardly skip the chance to meet her. “Actually I could use a trim. Mind if I tag along?”
She assessed my hair. She looked puzzled, then shrugged. “Not at all.”
We were descending the grand staircase leading to the lobby when V-V found us. Giving his wife a peck on the cheek, he glanced at the bag in her hand. “Ah, darling,” he said, reaching to relieve her of it. “You are ready to go.”
A corner of Personality Unlimited protruded from the tote’s mouth. Kiki snagged the contentious book as her husband took the bag. “I still need to deliver this.”
I hated controversy. Especially as I was now involved. It was my fault Kiki had been delayed. “I’m going there. I’ll take it,” I offered.
“I’d be ever so grateful,” Kiki said, obviously relieved.
***
For the second time in less than a day, the Countess’ bible had landed in my hands. I strolled, flipping pages, but could find nothing out of the ordinary in its contents. If anything, I was left with the same impression of the volume’s vacuity I’d experienced while thumbing through it in jail.
The salon was tucked into a remote corner of the first floor. A sign on the plate-glass door read Shear Heaven. I found myself in a small waiting area with wicker furnishings and fern print wallpaper.
“Mrs. Renner is unavailable,” said a squeaky-voiced blonde at the receptionist’s counter. She motioned over her shoulder to the main part of the salon where three client chairs, anchored to a linoleum floor, lined a wall hung with corresponding oval mirrors. From the receptionist’s glance, I gathered that the small woman with tousled auburn locks standing at the station closest to us was Clara Renner. She was spinning curlers into the hair of a client.
The telephone rang. “Excuse me,” the receptionist said. She crooked the receiver between her shoulder and ear and began paging through her appointment book.
A hearty laugh from Clara Renner was followed by giggles from her client. I looked over, observing them while the receptionist finished her call.
Mrs. Renner was short, about five feet tall, with a zaftig, hourglass figure. A clingy pink smock accentuated her curves. Maybe it was her name, maybe it was her figure, but together with her heart-shaped face and the heavily made-up eyes, I pegged her as a ringer for the actress Clara Bow.
More bursts of laughter escaped as the beautician continued curling her client’s hair. I tried picturing the sexy, good-natured, seemingly unaffected Mrs. Renner with the solemn middle-aged factory manager who had hurried past us at Willow Run. The image refused to gel.
The receptionist got off the phone. She looked surprised that I was still there. “I’d like to schedule a haircut with Mrs. Renner,” I said.
“Mrs. Renner is working on her last appointment of the day,” she replied, then appeared to notice my hair for the first time. Her eyes shifted. She leaned forward and in a high-pitched whisper confided that while cuts by Mrs. Renner were in high demand, the call she had just taken was a cancellation. “If you’d like, I can let you have the slot,” she added in a soft peep. “It’s for tomorrow afternoon.”
It was risky letting a stranger cut one’s hair. It seemed especially foolhardy in a joint like the Cosmos Club. But there was not much to cut or to spoil. And I would be doing it for my country.
No sooner was my time marked in the book, than the telephone rang again.
&n
bsp; “Is the manicurist available?” I asked before the blonde could answer it.
There was an exasperated sigh. “She’s with a client.”
I waved Personality Unlimited, speaking swiftly as she snatched the ringing instrument. “I was asked to deliver this to her, personally.”
The blonde nodded over her shoulder to a folding screen off to her left. She began speaking into the mouthpiece and I headed for the partition.
A fleshy, large-boned woman was seated with her back to me at the manicurist’s table. Silhouetted in the bright light of a nearby gooseneck lamp, the woman was engaged in hushed conversation with the manicurist seated across from her. When it became apparent they hadn’t noticed me round the screen, I cleared my throat. The manicurist leaned sideways to peer around her client. My heart lurched. Liberty Leach!
My friend and roommate from OSS training looked straight at me. Neither one of us so much as blinked. She didn’t; I couldn’t. I was paralyzed with surprise.
Liberty’s normally wavy, golden-red locks had been dyed a mousy brown and styled to look stringy. Her goofy, horn-rimmed glasses were the same pair she’d used as part of her disguise when we had teamed up on a field test. What was she doing here?
The client had turned her head and was watching me, impatient to see what I wanted. Behind the woman, Liberty shook her head and mouthed, “You don’t know me.”
I took a shaky step forward. “Uh, library asked me to deliver this.” Another step and I was at the table. I held the book out, uncertain where to place it.
Liberty took it and placed it on a shelf beneath the table. “Thanks.”
The client’s fingers were submerged in clear plastic dishes. She stared at us, wiggling her pinkies in the sudsy water as Liberty extended her hand. “Glossy Fingers,” she said evenly. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
“No, can’t say that we have.”
Chapter Seven
The Cosmos Club was on Madison Avenue, a tree-lined street midway between the County Jail and the Federal Building a few blocks away. Built in the Georgian style, the stately four-story building had trails of ivy hugging its brick walls and curling around its tall, painted windows. A grand dame of the block, the venerable structure had a blue canvas canopy and a doorman at its entrance. An hour earlier when I’d called to report in, Dante had suggested we talk while grabbing a bite to eat. I waited under the awning until his Ford pulled up.
Lipstick and Lies Page 9
