My stomach fluttered. “Really? How’d you know?”
“Have you seen one of her manicures? The brush rarely stays on the nail so there’s always polish coating the skin alongside. And the way she shapes nails—” A burbling sound escaped her throat. “The lopsided look is a specialty.”
“Why do you let her stay on?”
“I like her. She needed a start. She also agreed to work for tips only until she could establish a following. The clientele here is mostly elderly. They don’t seem to mind, or notice, her mistakes. They come in to socialize. Glossy has traveled to nearly every country in Europe and can tell yarns about every single one of them. China even.” She grinned. “Besides, who could resist hiring a manicurist with the name of Glossy Fingers?” We laughed.
Clara wore a white uniform under her pink smock. The skirt had crawled up her thighs and the metal clasp of a garter hook, snapped through the wide band at the top of her rayon stocking, was exposed. She tugged the hem down over it. On the sofa across from her, I recalled Kiki’s numerous appointments in the scheduling book and shifted positions as well.
“You said the investigator asked about Glossy’s clients. Did she ever do Kiki Barclay-Bly’s nails?”
“Why, yes. Many times.”
“And while she’s here, do you do her hair?”
“No, I’ve only given her one cut. About three or four weeks ago, I think.”
“But her husband was canceling an appointment just this morning.”
“Uh-huh, her bangs need a trim.”
“What about her color? It must need regular touching up. Who does it?” I was pressing my luck asking so many questions, but it was imperative that I establish how well Clara and Kiki knew one another. I could only hope, as I’d heard was the case with many hair dressers, she took pleasure in dishing a little dirt.
Clara went along. “It’s a rinse. She does it herself.”
The telephone on the appointment desk jangled loudly. She sprang from her seat. “Who’s there? Who’s there, please?” The receiver slipped from her ear. She lowered it to its cradle and stared into space, obviously troubled. Suddenly, her face screwed into a look of frustration. “Men. Men!” she repeated in a trembling voice.
The declaration was broad brush, but I had already narrowed the possibilities of who she might be angry with down to one individual. “Was that your husband calling?”
Her chin trembled, but she jutted it out defiantly. “Ww-we’ve had our first fight. He’s made ten calls like that since he left. He’s jealous. Thinks I’m cheating on him. Wants to be sure I’m here, I guess.”
“The broken glass? The canceled appointments? Is he responsible?”
Her lips pressed into a shiny coral line. “He’s never done anything like this before. It’s stress.” With a sigh, she explained that the stepped-up production at Willow Run was forcing him to put in long hours and leaving little time for rest.
“Sleep deprivation is known to make people go wacky,” I said, speaking as someone who’d had the cautionary note drummed into her in flight school over and over.
I’d struck a chord. She nodded, grateful for my understanding. “It’s true. Last night he flew off the handle for no good reason. And today, well…this.” She gestured to the door. “After storming in here and in front of everyone—” her voice wobbled—“accusing me of being disloyal, he demanded that I stay away from the traitor who seduced me.”
“Traitor? Seduced you? Who?”
“I don’t know. He just barreled out and slammed the door so hard it shattered.”
Poor Clara. Their clients must have been agog. No wonder she and the other beauticians had decided to call it a day.
“I’d like to get my hands on whoever is spreading the rumor,” she added, the timbre in her voice growing.
“Rumor?”
“Yes. Someone told Otto they saw me in a man’s arms. Here, in the salon. What gall! If I had a lover and wanted to carry on, why would I do it in public? In my place of business?” She shuddered. “If I ever get my hands on the lunk head floozy behind the rumor, I’ll give her a free haircut.”
My eyes darted to the fern wallpaper. I was the lunk head floozy! I had told Renner about Clara talking privately with V-V, although I didn’t recall saying they’d been in an embrace.
“Don’t worry, he’ll realize his mistake,” I said. “Besides, if you’ve been together for an entire year and this is your first spat, that’s actually pretty good, isn’t it?”
Her generous mouth formed a lopsided smile. “I guess that’s right. Especially as I’m an O’Hara, through and through. Otto has been my calming force. And, up until now, a true romantic. Flowers, candy, love notes.” The smile grew. “On Monday we celebrated our anniversary with a candlelight dinner. He surprised me with this locket.” She tugged at a fine gold chain around her neck.
While she fished for his token of love, I did some quick calculations. Blount was killed Tuesday morning, around six. In other words, the morning following Clara and Otto’s romantic celebration.
Clara at last freed the treasure from beneath her smock. Heart-shaped, like her face, it had a small diamond in its center. I cooed, admiring the locket, but even to my untrained eyes, it looked cheap. Like Renner’s suit. It made me think that the Nazis weren’t paying him much for his traitorous deeds. Or that his earnings were being siphoned elsewhere. To a getaway fund, perhaps.
Clara wedged her thumbnails into the crack separating the heart’s halves, attempting to flip it open. “He put our pictures inside.”
“Hmmm, nice. So, Monday night you had dinner together. How about afterwards? What’d you do?”
She frowned. “What are you getting at?”
“You said he’s been under pressure, working late hours and all that. I was just wondering if he went back to the factory.”
She forgot about the locket. “Otto was in no shape to go back to work. That’s what’s so strange about all this. We had an incredible evening. Made love all night long.”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Clara giggled and blushed as well. “You asked for it.” She turned wistful. “It used to be like that every night, but now thanks to Ford and the war, it’s work, work, work. Even at home. Otto doesn’t know it, but a few times, late at night, I’ve seen him drawing at the kitchen table.”
I made an involuntary choking sound. It went unnoticed. “That’s it!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of it earlier?”
“What?”
“The reason he’s been acting so peculiar. At dinner, after we relaxed, had a little wine, he confided that he’s been having trouble keeping up with his boss’ demands. ‘I might be forced to retire sooner than expected,’ he said. I completely missed my cue. He’s worried about our security!” She paused, then positively glowed. “It’s ironic, but I think I have another piece of the puzzle, too.”
“Oh?”
“My mother left me some money. I’ve been exploring investments. One involves a business expansion. I’ve been speaking with a financial counselor on the sly, sorting things out, before I present the idea to Otto. I bet the lover he thinks I’m involved with is him!”
“Hmmm.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, but it didn’t matter. Clara shifted gears.
“Say, you have an appointment scheduled with me, don’t you?” She tipped her head, trying to see under the slouch-brimmed hat. “What do you have in mind?”
I’d been wearing the hat all day. I removed it. “You tell me. I’m open to suggestions.”
A perplexed look crossed her face. Then she remembered the chart on the sofa next to her. “A new color might be nice.”
She gave me the vinyl-coated card. I scanned the swatches of hair adhered to it, intrigued as much by the range of colors as by their names: Sable Brown, Ice Blonde, Toasted Almond, Moroccan Spice.
She nodded toward the back room. “I’ve got Navajo Black setting on Dee.”
I found the blue-black tint among the samples.
“Same color as her sister’s?”
“Uh-huh.” She turned to consult a wall clock behind her.
Someone in the salon had a thing for cuckoo clocks. This one, a more elaborate version of the Swiss chalet clock in the back room, featured an expansive deck and colorful, hand-painted figures of a grandfather, a blond dog, a girl and a boy, a pine tree—even sheep. Flowers in bright yellows, blues, and reds, many with glittery centers, were strewn in clusters around the deck. Boxes of the colorful flowers festooned the shuttered windows and the railing of a narrow deck. A silent cuckoo, looking at once startled and embarrassed, stood exposed in an open doorway over the balcony.
Clara caught me staring and laughed. “Cute, isn’t it? Too bad it’s broken…I always forget. Do you have the time?”
I consulted my watch. “Two-fifteen.”
“I’ll need to shampoo Dee in a few minutes.”
“But the salon’s closed. Why are you doing her hair?”
“She’d heard her sister cancelled and called, begging for the slot.”
It wasn’t that simple, I could tell. I waited. After a hesitant start, Clara gave up the rest of the story.
When Dee had arrived, Flo explained that they were closing. Dee started to leave, but then stumbled and fell. Clara was nearby on the telephone. She rushed to help her. But Dee was so disoriented Clara and Flo had trouble getting her back on her feet. At first, Clara worried Dee had been hurt. Then, after smelling liquor on her breath, she concluded Dee needed time to sober up before leaving.
I clucked sympathetically. “A year ago she was jilted, left at the altar. Did you know?”
She leaned forward and spoke softly. “Well, mind you, it’s only gossip between chairs, but several of my clients have suggested it was her sister’s fault. Philip, Dee’s fiancé, had a wandering eye. Rumor is, one day it landed on her sister. They had a fling but managed to keep it from Dee. Until now.”
My shoulders heaved. “Dee’s fiancé and her very own sister.” I straightened up. “Wait a minute. The ladies around here like to stir up trouble, especially when it comes to Kiki. They’d hang anything and everything they could on her. Who told you this? Do you remember?”
“Well, several clients did. And, yes, it’s hard to know if it’s true, but it’s what I heard.” She grabbed her pink-laced shoes. “Speaking of Dee, I gotta go.”
“I’ve got to run, too,” I said. “But, uh, one final question.”
“Yes…”
“Where’d you get all these clocks?”
“Why, from Glossy…Curious, the one in the manicure area—it didn’t work either—it’s gone.”
Acting on a wild hunch, I climbed up onto the couch and unhooked the elaborate chalet. The pinecone-shaped weights, dangling below, flopped madly. I steadied them, holding them gently in my free hand, and stepped down. Clara’s eyes were enormous.
“Don’t worry. I know someone who can fix this. He’s an expert, owes me a favor. I’ll have it back here before you know it. Promise.”
“I—I’m not sure…”
“I’m a guest, you can trust me. Say, Clara…” I cradled the clock. “I’m thinking about including Navy wives in my piece about Women in War Work. There’s a base near here called Grosse Ile. Do any of the wives come to this salon?”
Clara, already dumbfounded by what to do about my nipping the clock, looked even more unsure of herself. “I have a client whose husband is an admiral. A regular, been coming to me for years. But she’s very private. I’m certain she’d never agree to speak with a reporter.”
Liberty had painted an altogether different image of the Navy wife, saying she was a dangerous blabbermouth, spewing confidential information to anyone who would listen. Had Clara turned a deaf ear to her client’s loose lips? Or was it just the opposite? She recognized a perfect source and wanted to protect her?
“Not even if you made a personal request?” I pressed.
She fixed me with a harsh look. “I won’t ask. Like I said, there’s no point. She would never agree to talk with you.”
I had crossed a line. I shrugged and smiled brightly. “Okay, no problem. I’ll think of something else.”
Chapter Seventeen
The cleats on my heels clicked rhythmically as I crossed the headquarters’ garage on my way to the lobby. I kept my eyes peeled, finally identifying Dante’s car from the charms hanging from the chain on the rearview mirror. Funny how the mind works: the percussion of my cleats, together with the sight of the mementos, triggered a vision of the stick-figure drawing of Dante dancing with his sister and Leo. I’d seen the rendering at his flat, and the momentary passion we’d shared there came back to me as well. I recalled the warmth of his breath on my ear, and my shoulders tingled with the pleasant shiver skating across them.
Waiting for the elevator, I scanned the lobby. An elderly gentleman wearing a long coat and newsboy cap stood at one of the barred windows, talking with a postal clerk. The flyaway strands of his white hair and his stooped posture reminded me of Merriman, the Club’s string bean doorman, and the gnawing unease I felt about him returned.
Before leaving the Club, I’d dashed to my room with the cuckoo clock. Driven by a throbbing certainty that the clock held a clue to Liberty’s disappearance, I’d removed the small screws and lifted off the thin metal plate in back. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual about the inner mechanism, but I’d noted a series of numbers below the movement as well as the name G. Becker, above the word Freiburg, written in brown ink on the wooden housing. Placing a quick call to my Uncle Chance, I passed along the information. At his direction, I had also located a customs sticker pasted discreetly on the side. I’d assumed that Liberty brought the clock into the States while she’d been attending Swiss boarding school. But the sticker was dated just four months ago.
Uncle Chance promised to do some checking, and we agreed to talk again in the morning. By then, it was possible I would already have all the answers I wanted, directly from the source.
On the sixth floor, I was met by Dante’s secretary, who told me her name, Miss Tempest, and invited me to accompany her to a conference room where she said the men were waiting.
“This is bold of me,” she said, as we strolled an interior hallway, “and I hope you won’t mind. But the other gals and I have been talking.”
The secretary stopped beside one of the closed doors and faced me. Behind the bottle-bottom glasses, her eyes darted. She was younger than I’d thought, probably just nineteen. She was also prettier than at first glance.
“We, the other gals and I, want you to know that we’re behind you. We think what you’re doing as a pilot, and now as an operative, is, well, inspiring.”
“Why th-thank you,” I stammered. “It’s nothing, really.”
The secretary held my gaze. A certain sweetness in her expression made me think of Clara Renner. “Yes, it is something. You’re proving yourself against incredible odds.”
I thought I must be blushing. Anxious to turn the tables, I recalled my well-equipped luggage. “Are you the person I should thank for the phantasmagoric undercover wear?”
“It was a joint effort.” She made a grand sweeping gesture, acknowledging her cohorts stationed behind the doors along the deserted hall. “We all contributed ideas and everyone pitched in with the shopping.” Her expression grew solemn. “Um-m, we want you to know something else.”
“What?”
“Have you had one of Mrs. Sarvello’s home-cooked meals yet?”
I blinked. “Why, yes.”
“How about the soft shoe routine? Has Dante, uh, Agent Dante, told you about his sister? Let you know he tap dances?” Pounding footsteps, racing down the hall, froze the secretary’s expression. The hammering footsteps stopped.
“Thank you, Miss Tempest, I’ll take over.”
I knew the voice. Turning, I faced the agent whose prominent lantern jaw bore an uncanny resemblance to Dick Tracy’s. “Hullo, Special Agent Connelly.” I forced a smile
.
He returned my greeting with a stiff nod. Then his piercing gaze drilled Miss Tempest. “Lucky I caught up with you. We’re in the room three doors down. The reassignment was posted this morning. Didn’t you see it?”
Miss Tempest’s glasses had slipped down the bridge of her nose. She shoved the heavy frames back into position. Behind the thick lenses, her tawny eyes blinked furiously. “My vision is fine, thank you.”
Her voice was taut and her mouth twitched as if she wanted to add something else. Instead, she gave him a cool nod.
She turned to me. Maybe it was my imagination or a refraction of light hitting her Coke-bottle lenses, but I had the distinct impression she was trying telepathically to warn me about something. The attempt was too vague. Her allusions to Dante’s “seduction package” had been plain enough, though. She and the other secretaries wanted me to know that, true to his namesake, Dante had a devilish side.
Connelly’s complexion was beet red, the ruddy tone all the more flagrant against his stiff blond hair. He clasped my elbow and steered me to the appropriate room. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door, all but pushing me inside.
An immense walnut table filled the center of a windowless room. The leather chairs around it looked comfortable, as if selected with tedious discussions in mind. Presently, all of the seats were abandoned, their occupants having left tablets, pens, and pencils as placeholders. Along one wall, a credenza held a telephone and a water pitcher with a ring of glasses. A wooden plaque emblazoned with the FBI seal hung above the low cabinet while life-sized photographs of the Director and our President dominated the wall directly ahead. My earlier rapidly swelling spirits deflated. Neither Liberty nor Roy was in the room.
Agent Dante stood at the far end of the table, conferring with a Navy officer. He broke away and ambled toward me. I drank in his cuddly physique, his thick, sleepy lashes, and was about to zero in on his scrumptious mouth when the quiet echo of Miss Tempest’s warning interceded. A sudden chill, like an icy splash of water, hurtled me back to reality.
Lipstick and Lies Page 20
