Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Where were Janice and Mike? She had to let them know she was alive. She’d call the apartment and hope Emma or Janice would pick up. She couldn’t leave a message with the answering service. But Janice must know by now that I wasn’t the one who was murdered. But how could she not have known? Unless . . .

  Alexandra stood up and quickly grasped the arm of the couch to keep from falling. The thought that had caused her to become weak-kneed with horror was that someone might have mutilated Lisa’s face, if he realized he had killed the wrong person.

  Steadying herself, she walked into the kitchen, where the only phone in the cabin was kept.

  She picked up the receiver and listened for the dial tone.

  There was none.

  Too late she remembered that Lisa had told her that she turned off the phone after the ski season.

  I’ll drive into town, she thought. Lisa and I had dinner at that little Italian restaurant in the center of town. I’ll use the phone there. She went into the bedroom, looked down and with wrenching pain realized she was wearing the robe and pajamas she had borrowed from Lisa. She considered skipping a shower but decided not to do that. She knew that a shower would refresh her and would take only a few minutes.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in Lisa’s slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, Alexandra went outside. She opened the door of Lisa’s car and turned the ignition. The motor started to engage, then sputtered and died.

  No matter how often she turned the key, the engine refused to start. I can walk, she thought, then realized with dismay that she had not borrowed shoes from Lisa and only had these three-inch heels. She would start down the road, and if she passed another cabin, she would ask to use their phone.

  She got out of the car just as the dark sky exploded into torrential rain. She made a dash for the house and got back inside as the yard was brightly illuminated by a bolt of lightning. A loud bang was followed a few seconds later by a clap of thunder. With horror, she watched as a massive oak tree collapsed and fell across the gravel driveway.

  I can’t go out in this, she thought. Then, as had been happening since the last few days in Venice, an overwhelming feeling of drowsiness washed over her. Stumbling, Alexandra made her way into the bedroom and threw herself on the bed. “He’s probably still looking for me,” she mumbled. “He knows about this cabin.” As she fell into a deep sleep, the electricity in Windham went off.

  • • •

  A search warrant in hand, Detectives Twaddle and Lyons were let into the studio apartment of Lisa Markey by the building superintendent, a Hispanic man in his early forties.

  The walls of the small interior were painted bright red and the ceiling borders were stark white. Together they made a suitable background for the Picasso prints on the walls.

  A couch with red-and-white-printed upholstery was undoubtedly a pullout, Twaddle decided.

  Everything was in perfect order. It was obvious that Lisa Markey had been a tidy young woman.

  There were framed pictures on the table next to the couch. One of them was of Lisa at a restaurant with a couple who were probably her grandparents. Twaddle picked up the frame and studied it. Lisa Markey bore a great resemblance to the pictures he had seen of Alexandra. In this photograph Lisa’s hair was a light shade of brown, but he could see that if she was wearing a blonde wig she could easily have been mistaken for Alexandra, especially from a distance.

  And the intruder had come up to her from behind and probably did not see her face until it was too late.

  What a terrible waste of a young life, Twaddle thought, but a sense of urgency made him put the photo down quickly.

  Ben was opening the door of the closet, which turned out to be unexpectedly large. The clothes were hung in groups of blouses, jackets, skirts, slacks and dresses—most of them for cocktail wear. Across from the hanging garments a row of shelves held shoes and pocketbooks. A rack over the hanging clothes was the place where Lisa had stored her luggage.

  “It’s impossible to tell if clothes are missing,” Ben observed. He pointed to the shelf over the hanging garments, where two suitcases, one large and one small, were stored. “The question is, is anything missing? Look at those two suitcases—there’s an empty space between them. Maybe there was a third one.”

  Hubert Twaddle nodded, pleased with Ben’s observation. “Let us visualize this. Alexandra took a cab from Kennedy Airport to the home of her good friend. Why didn’t she go home? Because she was afraid. Where is she now? Where would she have gone?”

  “You mean she came here and Lisa Markey helped her to hide somewhere?” Ben asked.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean. Alexandra left her suitcases at the airport. We know that she was visibly upset and nervous, but Ben, think—to leave her luggage was an act of desperation, nothing more, nothing less. She wanted to hide. Her good friend Lisa lends her clothes and promises to meet her sister and her sister’s new husband at the airport. We need to have another talk with the building superintendent now and learn as much as we can about Lisa Markey.”

  • • •

  The superintendent lived on the ground floor.

  “Something happened to Miss Markey, didn’t it?” he asked bluntly when they pressed the doorbell of his apartment on the lobby floor.

  “I am not at liberty to discuss our purpose in being here,” Twaddle answered. “There are some things we need to know about her. First, does she drive a car?”

  “Yes, she keeps it in the garage here in the building. You can’t miss it. It’s an old Chevy. I don’t know why she doesn’t get rid of it and lease a new one. Does pretty well as a model, I think. She seems to me to keep pretty busy.”

  “Can you ascertain as to whether her car is in the garage?” Ben asked.

  “Sure, I’ll phone down.”

  As they waited in the hallway the super stepped back into his apartment. Not more than a minute later he was back.

  “Miss Markey took it out Tuesday morning. But she didn’t get into it. She gave it to another lady.”

  “I think we’d better talk to the garage attendant,” Twaddle said quietly.

  They went outside onto the street. After the heavy rainstorm last night the weather had turned pleasantly warm again. Now the street was crowded with pedestrians, some strolling as though enjoying the sunshine, others darting in and out in a hurry to their destinations.

  Twaddle and Lyons went down the ramp to the garage. It was not a large one and the single attendant was sitting in the booth reading the newspaper. A short, bald man with a drooping mustache, he looked to be in his late sixties.

  The superintendent must have already alerted him that they were coming, because his first greeting was a question.

  “Is anything wrong? Did something happen to Miss Markey?”

  “As I explained to the superintendent, I am afraid I cannot answer any questions,” Twaddle said firmly. “But I need some information from you. We understand that Miss Markey checked her car out but did not get in it. Can you describe the woman she lent it to?”

  “She was blonde, about Miss Markey’s height. Slender like Miss Markey. I couldn’t see her face. She was wearing big dark glasses.”

  Twaddle and Lyons exchanged glances.

  “I think that description is sufficient,” Twaddle said. “But I have another question. Was either woman carrying any luggage?”

  The garage attendant frowned.

  “Let me think. Oh, sure, Miss Markey’s friend had a suitcase. Not a big one. Miss Markey had a heavy insulated bag—the kind you put food in. I took it from her and put it in the trunk. It was heavy. I kind of joked about it, asked her if she was going on a picnic.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said her friend was just getting away for a few days. Then I told her that I didn’t like the fact that when I tried to start the car, it took a few times to get the engine to turn over. Maybe she should have it checked.”

  Ben Lyons looked up. A car was coming down the ramp
to the garage. The attendant and certainly Hubert Twaddle heard it too.

  “Did you hear them discuss where Miss Markey’s friend might be going?” Twaddle asked quietly.

  “I can’t be sure, but Miss Markey has some kind of place in the Catskills. She loves to ski, so maybe her friend was going there, because Miss Markey said to her something like, ‘If you can find any snow, my skis are in the closet.’ ”

  As the attendant turned away to give a ticket to the new arrival, Twaddle hurriedly asked, “Are we the only ones who have asked if Miss Markey’s car was here?”

  “Yes, only you guys.”

  Twaddle handed him his card and a ten-dollar bill.

  “This is very important. If anyone else asks about Miss Markey’s car or where she might have gone, call me immediately. It is imperative that you not give out any of the details you have told us. If anyone asks, just say that you are not permitted by building management to provide information about tenants.”

  • • •

  After leaving the Medical Examiner’s Office, Janice and Mike returned to Alexandra’s apartment. Janice’s fleeting hope that her sister would be there was dashed when they entered the quiet living room. Emma Cooper had already left for the day.

  Mike said, “Let’s go through all of Alexandra’s papers and also her luggage to try to find some clue as to where she has gone.”

  A quick look through the suitcases revealed nothing.

  In Alexandra’s bedroom, they began going through her desk. Mail that had arrived since her departure to Europe three weeks ago had been sorted by Emma into neat piles on the surface.

  But as they opened the drawers, they realized that Alexandra was the kind of person who tossed letters and pictures and memorabilia she had received into haphazard piles. Playbills from Broadway shows, gossip columns torn from newspapers, guest lists from affairs she had attended, photos of herself with friends and old appointment books were all jammed into the desk drawers.

  “We’ll never find anything here,” Janice said, her voice strained with anxiety.

  But in the bottom drawer she found a handsome, leather-bound book. Opening it, she realized it was Alexandra’s journal.

  Feeling that she was violating her sister’s privacy, Janice opened it and began to read. The entries were brief and had begun ten years ago when Alexandra first arrived in New York.

  I had read about the Dorothy Lohman Agency, that she didn’t mind people who walked in off the street to see her. She would say yes or no just like that! She looked at me and said “I can use you!” She called up Larry Thompson and he said to send me over. I thought he’d probably be an old man, maybe fifty or sixty, but I don’t think he’s even thirty.

  His fiancée was there. Her name is Audrey. She’s a model and absolutely gorgeous. I felt like such a hick out of the cornfield next to her. But then he started to take pictures of me and he asked if I had been posing in front of the mirror. Before I could answer, he said, “Don’t bother to lie.” Then he started barking orders. “Look this way, turn that way, smile, stop smiling, look over your shoulder. Now I want a deer in the headlights expression.” When he was finished he said he’d send the pictures to Dorothy.

  The next entry was weeks later.

  Dorothy told me that I was damn lucky that Larry Thompson was interested in me. He’s been recommending me to big-time clients. I told her that I was scared of him and she said he’s like that with everybody—it’s just his way.

  Janice skimmed through the entries, smiling at some, including when Alexandra did a car commercial.

  It was a Buick commercial in Maine. And it began with the announcer saying, “It’s a beautiful day filled with sunshine and the newlyweds are going for a ride in their new Buick.”

  The male model and I were to come out of the house together beaming at each other. The car in the driveway with a white bow on the hood. It rained for four days straight. We sat around and played Monopoly and watched television. God knows what it cost the Buick people.

  Three years ago, Alexandra had written about her agent’s retirement.

  Dorothy’s been like a mother to me. I may be signing with Grant Wilson. Larry is furious. He hates Grant Wilson but I think he’s wrong. Wilson’s proposing me to the Hammer and Stone Furniture Company for a series of ten commercials. If they want me, it’s too good to turn down but I’ve heard that Grant Wilson has a nasty temper.

  A few weeks later Alexandra had written, I think Larry and his wife are having problems. She’s been seen with some multimillion-dollar corporate executive but claims it’s just a business relationship.

  A month later Alexandra wrote, To quote Rona Barrett, “by mutual agreement Larry Thompson and his wife, Audrey St. Clair, are filing for divorce. They insist it is amicable. But rumors are that tycoon Nelson Sheridan is waiting in the wings.”

  Nine months later Alexandra wrote, Larry and Audrey have reconciled. She has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Nelson Sheridan disappeared from view. Larry insisted she come back home so that he can take care of her.

  As she read Janice felt as though she was walking with her sister through the ten years they had seen each other so little.

  Alexandra could be caustic when she wrote about celebrities—and sympathetic to others whose careers were not working out. She mentioned helping out some friends who were having money problems. I know they’ll probably never be able to repay me but that’s not what it’s about.

  Sometimes there were no entries for two or three years. And then an entry would start, I’m mad at myself that I didn’t keep up with more frequent entries but nothing particularly new to report. As usual I go out a lot but so far nobody I can visualize looking at over the breakfast table for forty or fifty years.

  But the entry of two years ago was the one Janice had wanted to find.

  Met Lisa Markey at a shoot today. Genuine, funny and honest. She told me she knows she’ll never be another Suzy Parker but she gets lots of jobs posing for the Sears and Roebuck catalogs. She said it’s a riot the way the fashion editor will pin a dress or a jacket or slacks so they look great on camera. But when they take out the pins! Talk about a bunch of shapeless rags.

  A year and a half ago Alexandra had written, Audrey died today. I am so sorry for her. She was so furious at what was happening to her that she made Larry’s life hell. I saw him yesterday. He looks twice his age.

  A week later she had written that Lisa Markey told her that her grandfather had died and left her his ski cabin.

  Alexandra had gone skiing and loved it. She hadn’t said with whom. I even thought it might have been with a guy, Janice recalled.

  Janice continued reading from the diary.

  Lisa was so excited. She had her first helicopter ride. Said it was thrilling. They were shooting a Sea and Ski commercial in the Catskills. Told her I was jealous. I’ve always wanted to ride in a helicopter.

  There were more and more references to Larry Thompson, Janice observed.

  Larry looks better. He went to visit some friends in France and I think it did him a world of good.

  Larry and I went out to dinner. I started to complain about how miserable it is to work for Grant Wilson. If I expected sympathy, I didn’t get it. He said “I was trying to warn you.” I was ready to throw something at him, but then he smiled. And I knew that as usual he was trying to get a rise out of me.

  Another entry read, Audrey has been gone a year. Larry was at dinner at 21 last night. And according to Rona Barrett he was paying special attention to socialite Robin Reeves.

  I wonder if Alexandra is in love with him, Janice thought. It certainly sounds like it to me.

  Mike had dumped the deep top drawer on the bed and had been going through it item by item. She began to close the diary as Mike handed her a picture of Alexandra and another pretty woman holding their skis. Their resemblance to each other was remarkable. It was taken while they were in front of a ski lodge. Over the lodge was a sign that said WINDHAM.
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  “Mike, if Lisa Markey has a ski house in Windham—”

  Mike cut her off. “I was thinking the same thing. That could be a place to look for Alexandra.”

  • • •

  Hubert Twaddle and Ben Lyons had just reached their desks minutes earlier when the call from Mike came in. Twaddle had just finished ordering a squad of detectives to immediately start ringing the doorbells of all the apartments in Lisa Markey’s building to see if anyone knew the address of the cabin.

  Twaddle did not waste time.

  “What kind of picture is it?”

  “It’s the kind of picture they take at resorts and sell to you. It’s in a cardboard frame. It has a ‘Welcome to Windham’ sign on it.”

  “Windham, are you sure it says Windham?” Twaddle asked urgently.

  “Yes, of course. It’s spelled out. W-I-N-D-H-A-M. According to an entry in her diary, Alexandra was there a year and a half ago—”

  Twaddle interrupted him.

  “Mike, that is very important information. Thank you for it.”

  He hung up abruptly and turned to Ben.

  He had earlier left instructions that the backgrounds of the three men who had arrived at the airport with Alexandra on Monday be thoroughly checked. They were still waiting for the reports.

  Twaddle’s phone rang again. It was the garage attendant at Lisa Markey’s building.

  “You asked me to call you if anybody came asking about Miss Markey or her car. Someone did.”

  “Did you get his name?” Twaddle snapped.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “What did he ask about Miss Markey?”

  “He said he had a lunch date with her and that she didn’t show up. He said he rang the doorbell of her apartment and nobody answered. He said he was worried about her and asked me if she had taken her car out. Just like you told me, I said that I was not permitted to give out personal information about the tenants.”

  Twaddle detected a hesitation in the man’s voice. “Did you give him any information at all?”

  “He was so upset. He was afraid something had happened to Miss Markey. He said he worried about her driving that old car. I told him she lent it to a friend who hadn’t returned it. So don’t worry about her.”