Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories

by Mary Higgins Clark

  He heard rather than saw the window being lowered on the van that was parked next to his car. An instinct of nearby danger made him whirl around, his car key in hand. Stuart Kling had a nearly infallible memory for faces, and in the final moment before he died, he identified his murderer. His finger plunged involuntarily on the remote control in his hand and the trunk of the car sprang open as he crumpled to the ground. A sheet of paper fluttered from the van and was anchored by the blood that poured from the wound in his chest.

  “TRAFFIC TICKET TO HELL” was what the stunned employee of the gym who ran out at the sound of the gunshot and reached Kling first was able to read before the printed letters on the paper became too stained to distinguish. Frantically the employee rushed to get the number on the license plate of the van as it roared out of the parking lot, but the plate was missing.

  • • •

  Three days after his meeting with Detective Joe O’Connor, Mark Baxter found a torn edge of a checking account deposit slip with a license plate number jotted on it in the large handbag his mother had regularly carried unless she was dressing up for a particular event.

  It was in the zippered section where she always kept her checkbook and wallet, and somewhat crumpled. In the past few days, as well as phoning O’Connor about his mother’s ambiguous reference to “something funny happening lately,” Mark had called him about a new handyman a neighbor had told him his mother has been using, a new deliveryman from the dry cleaner and several emails he found on her computer from a distant cousin who asked about getting together when he was in town.

  He was beginning to feel somewhat foolish because O’Connor had checked out all the leads and they had led exactly nowhere. It’s probably been buried there for months, he thought, vaguely remembering that a neighborhood kid had slightly dented his mother’s car when he parked too close to her in the church parking lot. But she’d decided to let it go because she was trading the car in anyway and didn’t want the kid to get in trouble with his parents.

  He crumpled the deposit slip, tossed it in the wastebasket and went home. The house where he had been raised, the house that had always been warm and welcoming, was now the scene of his mother’s murder, and the less time he spent in it, the better. On the way to his law office he listened to the radio and heard the news that Nassau County police lieutenant Stuart Kling had been murdered as he was leaving the gym where he regularly worked out.

  Kling, Mark thought. Poor guy. Why does that name sound familiar? The newscaster was saying that the prime suspect was a man Kling had arrested six years earlier who had just been released from a psychiatric hospital. I never used to think it was a lousy world, Mark thought, but I’m beginning to wonder.

  His first appointment was at eleven o’clock. Because of his rearranged schedule since his mother’s death, he had a busy day, but underlying all the meetings two things kept throbbing from below the level of conscious thinking. He should at least pass the license number he’d found in his mother’s pocketbook over to Joe O’Connor, and why did Stuart Kling’s name feel as though it should have great importance to him?

  • • •

  Tomorrow would finish it. Lisa Monroe Scanlon. After tomorrow she wouldn’t be alive to go into that handsome house in Locust Valley, that symbol of the early success of two talented young people. Tim Scanlon was a stockbroker, and at thirty-eight a vice president of a prestigious financial giant. Fred had looked in the window of Lisa’s interior decorating studio. Couches draped with a variety of expensive upholstery samples, chairs and antique tables. A mantel with candlesticks, a delicate painted clock. Floral prints on the walls.

  She did all right for herself, Fred thought. A husband, a family, a business. And her parents reveling in their adorable grandchildren, while my grandchildren were never called into existence.

  That day Jenny had gone to pick up Lisa. They had planned to go shopping together, but then Lisa changed her mind.

  If she had gone with Jenny, if there had been two of them in the car when the tire went flat, Jenny would be alive today.

  That night as Fred listened to the news reports of the shooting death of Lieutenant Stuart Kling, he cleaned and loaded the gun he would use to complete his task. He knew exactly when he would go into the house. Tomorrow morning. Tim Scanlon left at quarter past seven. The twins got on the school bus at 8:05. The bus was at the corner of their street, just a few houses down. The three mornings he’d watched, Lisa had walked with them to the corner and then scurried back home. She always left the door slightly ajar.

  If she did that tomorrow, he’d slip inside and be waiting for her. If she didn’t, he’d ring the bell and tell her he’d stopped with a gift for her. She’d let him in. After all, he was Mr. Rand, Jenny’s father.

  Then when the babysitter arrived at nine o’clock, she would find Lisa’s body.

  And I will go home, Fred thought. And visit Dr. Rawlston, my psychiatrist, and tell him that I do feel I am making progress in my struggle to accept my daughter’s death. I will tell him that seeing my daughter’s grave made a profound sense of peace come over me and I am sure it will stay with me. I will tell him that I no longer hate the people who caused Jenny’s death.

  I gave him their names, he thought. That wasn’t wise. For some reason he was suddenly uneasy. The euphoria that began the moment he squeezed the trigger and watched Stuart Kling crumple on the ground was evaporating. He had a feeling of people waiting in the shadows, approaching him.

  His cell phone rang. He did not answer it. He guessed it might be Helen. He knew she suspected that something different was going on inside him. He knew he had talked too much to her about the people who had caused Jenny’s death.

  She had urged him to call his psychiatrist. Would she have called Dr. Rawlston? Between them would they decide to call the police and suggest that Fred Rand was a deeply troubled man and perhaps certain people should be warned if he tried to contact them? And then they would learn that three of those certain people were already dead.

  Abruptly Fred finished loading the gun, put it in his briefcase, stood up and began to pack. It was time to get out of here. He’d drive to Locust Valley now. The house next to Lisa’s was obviously used only as a summer home. He could park in the back and never be noticed.

  Even if it meant that he would be caught, he had to complete the job.

  At eight-thirty, Fred Rand checked out of the motel in Garden City, got in his car and drove forty minutes to Locust Valley. Just after he turned off the highway, he stopped at a small restaurant and had dinner, remembering to slip a few rolls in his pocket in case he felt like nibbling during the night. At ten o’clock he was parked deep in the shadows of the house next to the Scanlon home. Tonight the sleep that had been denied him in the quite comfortable bed in the motel came easily when he leaned his head back and tilted the seat to a reclining position.

  He awoke at dawn and waited.

  • • •

  Mark Baxter slept restlessly. Kling. Stuart Kling. Why should he know that name? He woke up, puzzled over it and went back to sleep. This time he dreamed that his mother was in the bank and making a deposit. But instead of the amount on the check she was depositing, she had written a license number and was trying to make the clerk accept it.

  At seven o’clock when Mark grabbed a cup of coffee and kissed his wife and daughter good-bye, he did not drive to his office. Instead he turned the car in the direction of his late mother’s home. He knew that he had to fish the license number out of the wastebasket, give it to Detective Joe O’Connor and tell O’Connor that for some reason he should be remembering a connection with the murdered Nassau County police lieutenant.

  • • •

  Helen Rand had a sleepless night. She spent it berating herself that she had not attempted to reach Fred’s psychiatrist. At dinner she had talked about her concern to Gene and he had told her Bruce Stevens, a psychiatrist friend of his, could undoubtedly track down a psychiatrist with a name like Rawlings or
Raines or Renwood in the St. Augustine area.

  When Gene dropped her off, Helen had actually tried through the telephone information operator to obtain the psychiatrist’s number, but without the exact name, she got exactly nowhere.

  At seven-fifteen she called Gene at the hospital. “Please call Dr. Stevens, Gene. I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly terribly worried.”

  At eight o’clock she was speaking to Dr. Richard Rawlston who practiced in Ponte Vedre, some fifteen miles from St. Augustine.

  Quickly she explained her concerns to him, then waited, hoping against hope that he would, if not dismiss them, at least tell her that in his opinion there was no serious threat that Fred would do something rash.

  “You say Fred is in Long Island now and you don’t believe he is taking his medication, Mrs. Rand?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was a long pause, then the psychiatrist said, “I had been quite concerned about Fred, but then he told me that he was going on a cruise with friends and feeling much better. If that was a lie and he is in Long Island, I think there are three people who might need protection. I have their names. They are all people whom he blames for not preventing your daughter’s death. A security guard, an elderly woman, and a police officer.”

  “Yes, those are the people he blamed.”

  “Do you know where Fred is staying, Mrs. Rand?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then I think I have no recourse but to call the Nassau County police and notify them of our concern. I would like to give them your number in case they want to talk with you.”

  “Of course. I’m off duty today. I’ll be here.”

  Helen hung up the phone. And waited.

  • • •

  Mark was in Joe O’Connor’s office when the call from Dr. Rawlston came in. They had just traced the license number that Genevieve Baxter had jotted down on the deposit slip. It belonged to a Volvo that had been rented by Fred Rand of St. Augustine, Florida.

  “He took my mother’s life because . . .” Mark broke into sobs. “He blamed her! He blamed her!”

  “And Stuart Kling and Vinnie D’Angelo, whose body washed in yesterday afternoon. They suspected foul play in D’Angelo’s case,” Joe said grimly.

  “If only Mother had told me that night,” Mark said.

  “You don’t know how many ‘if only’s’ we hear in this business.” O’Connor picked up the phone. “Put out an all-points bulletin . . . armed and dangerous . . .”

  • • •

  At seven-fifteen Fred watched as Tim Scanlon left his home. Hidden in the heavy foundation shrubbery outside the kitchen window, he saw Tim drop quick kisses on his family, could even hear him calling from the vestibule, “Remember, I’ll be a little late tonight, honey.”

  No you won’t, Fred thought. You’ll be back here in a couple of hours. After you get the call about Lisa.

  In her bathrobe, her hair twisted up on the back of her head, Lisa looked very young, he thought, almost as young as she’d been in the days when she and Jenny were always together.

  You’ll be together soon, Fred thought.

  • • •

  The news that Fred had killed the three people in Long Island left Helen in absolute shock. For an hour she sat motionless, unable to grasp the awfulness of his crime. But then she realized that through the horror she was also feeling a terrible sense of being warned. Jenny’s voice was shouting to her.

  At ten of eight, she called Dr. Rawlston back. Her voice frantic with fear she asked, “Doctor, did Fred ever say anything about blaming Jenny’s friend Lisa for her death?”

  “No. He did tell me Lisa was her friend and was supposed to go shopping with her that day but changed her mind. But that was all he said.”

  “There’s a reason he might have held back, something he’s never been able to face. I’ve got to call the Nassau police. Who did you speak to there?”

  • • •

  Mark was just about to leave when Helen Rand phoned. He watched as the furrows on O’Connor’s face deepened. “You say her married name is Scanlon and you think she lives in Locust Valley. We’ll get right on it.” O’Connor hung up and looked at him. “There may be someone else on his list, Mark.”

  • • •

  “Okay, you two, have a good day.” With a final kiss, Lisa watched her twins climb onto the bus and hurried back home. Ever since the morning she’d locked herself out, she not only unlocked the door when she went to the corner with the twins but also left it slightly ajar.

  For those two minutes she left fifteen-month-old Kelly in the playpen with plastic blocks she couldn’t possible swallow and a rubber ball. Anything she could put in her mouth was out of reach.

  But this morning, it was clear that something had frightened Kelly. She had pulled herself to her feet and was wailing, “Mammmaaaaa!”

  Lisa picked her up. “Hey. What’s your problem?”

  I’m her problem, Fred thought. He was in the vestibule closet, aware he didn’t have to rush. He could wait five or ten minutes and savor his generosity in granting Lisa a few minutes more of life.

  And he certainly wouldn’t kill her while she was holding the baby. He wanted to see her more clearly and carefully pushed the door open a fraction wider, then realized it had made a noise. Had she noticed?

  • • •

  Lisa heard a familiar faint creaking of the vestibule door opening. There’s someone here. That’s why the baby is frightened, she thought. What should I do?

  Don’t let him know you’re aware of him. Pick up the baby and walk toward the door. Push the panic button.

  Oh, God, please help me.

  She had noticed. He could tell by the sudden rigidity of her body. “Lisa,” he said softly.

  Lisa spun around.

  “Put the baby back in the playpen and then walk away from it. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Sometimes bullets ricochet, you know.”

  Jenny’s father was standing there, a gun in his hand. Why was he here? She knew. Because he hates me. He hates me because I’m alive and Jenny is dead. She had felt strange after she met him that day. She remembered how she had prattled on and on about her life and watched his eyes grow bleak and angry. He was going to kill her.

  She tried not to show how afraid she was. “Please, I’ll do anything you say. Let me put the baby down and let’s walk into the kitchen.”

  “That’s very motherly of you. Too bad you weren’t as good a friend.”

  Lisa held Kelly tightly, kissed her and started to put her back in the playpen. Kelly wrapped her arms around her neck. “No, no, no.”

  Gently Lisa tried to disengage them.

  “Hurry up, Lisa.” Fred heard the wail of a siren. A police car was pulling into the driveway. “Hurry up,” he shouted.

  Frantically Lisa bent over the playpen, pulled the baby’s arms from around her neck and dropped her onto the plastic matting. The rubber ball rolled forward. A sudden incongruous image of Jenny and herself, the stars of the softball team, she pitching, Jenny catching, jumped into her mind and she knew she might have a chance to save herself. In one lightning movement Lisa scooped up the ball, bolted away from the playpen, whirled around, and with a powerful thrust of her arm threw the ball at Fred. The ball hit his hand and the barrel of the gun leapt up as he pulled the trigger.

  The bullet passed inches over her head and lodged in the wall. Before he could aim again the police were in the house wrestling him to the ground.

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, Detective Joe O’Connor called Helen Rand. “Thanks to you, Lisa is okay, Mrs. Rand,” O’Connor said. “Our guys got there in the nick of time. Lisa told us that she didn’t think she had a chance but then when she saw the ball in the playpen it reminded her of playing softball with Jenny. She felt as though Jenny was telling her what to do.”

  “Fred?”

  “Under arrest. Violent. Not sorry he killed them. Blamed them for Jenny’s death.
You know that.”

  Helen’s long-held control snapped. “He’s blaming them! Do you know who killed my daughter? Fred did. He had family money but he was always cheap. Jenny was his only child. He bought her a car when she was eighteen. Sure he did. An old car with bald tires. That’s why Lisa’s father wouldn’t let her ride in it that day. I begged Jenny not to set foot in it, but he told her to go ahead. He’d replace the tires when Sears had a sale. Tell him something for me. Tell him he killed his own child.”

  She choked back a sob. “I should have made him face the truth a long time ago. He was heartbroken after Jenny died. I felt so sorry for him but I should have made him face it.”

  “Mrs. Rand, you couldn’t have made him believe Jenny’s death was his fault. People like your ex-husband always blame everyone except themselves. And always remember that if you hadn’t phoned me, Lisa would be dead now. You saved her life.”

  “No,” Helen whispered. “You’re wrong. You just told me yourself. Jenny saved Lisa’s life.” She managed a smile. “Jenny was one terrific kid and it looks as though even now, wherever she is up there, she hasn’t changed a bit.”

  The Tell-Tale Purr

  There comes a time when in the name of common decency grandmothers ought to die. I confess that in the early stages of my life I had a halfhearted affection for my grandmother but that time is long since past. She is now well up in her eighties and still exceedingly vain even though at night her teeth repose in a water glass by her bed. She has a constant struggle every morning to get her contact lenses popped into her myopic eyes and requires a cane to support her arthritic knees. The cane is a custom-made affair designed to resemble the walking stick Fred Astaire used in some of his dances. Grandma’s story is that she danced with him when she was young and the cane/walking stick is her good-luck charm.