Evil in All Its Disguises

by Hilary Davidson

  “No need. Goodnight, Gavin.” My sandals clacked on the tile as I headed through the lobby. I was hoping to see another venomous snake, because I had a sudden impulse to pick it up and deposit it in Skye’s room.

  CHAPTER 6

  The kicker was, I knew I was an idiot. That thought kept me company as I rode the elevator up to the fifth floor and stormed down the corridor. I was a fool and I hated myself for it. In the back of my mind, I could picture my sister, Claudia, ruefully shaking her head at me. Deep down, you’re pretty superficial. She’d told me that so many times, the phrase was tattooed on my brain. She’d been right.

  I stopped at the end of the hall, in front of my door, then turned so that I was facing Skye’s. Suddenly, I had the oddest feeling that eyes were watching me. Trying to get my heartbeat under control, I stared straight ahead, as if I could make her open up. Maybe that was why the key card hadn’t worked—she’d bolted it from the inside. I pounded on her door with the heel of my hand, then rang the doorbell for good measure. Nothing but the echo of my own racket came back to my ears.

  “Coward,” I called, turning to unlock my own door.

  What did it matter to me, who Martin dated? The memory of our relationship was agonizing, not so much because of any particular incident—though the events around my sister’s death still pained me—but because I’d been so eager to believe that he was the man of my dreams. That was proof positive I’d watched too many movies from Hollywood’s Golden Era. I hadn’t had one moment’s doubt since our last parting, and my emotions toward him were equal measures of loathing and disgust. No, that wasn’t quite true: if they could be weighed on a scale, the tilt in favor of loathing would have been impossible to disguise.

  As I stepped into the living room, I grabbed Skye’s black leather bag, tossed it on the floor, and kicked it across the room. The bag hit the fragile leg of a decorative end table, slamming the marble top against the wall, in turn dislodging a painting that had its crash landing broken by the bag. I froze, staring at the cartoonish wreckage. Whatever glint of satisfaction I had was instantly crushed. Somewhere, somehow, Claudia was laughing at me and the faint hiss of that sound made me both nostalgic for her and ashamed of myself. I used to be much better behaved.

  I crossed the floor, set my own bag on the sofa, and lifted the gilded frame. I’d taken the scene inside it for a painting when I’d first seen the room, but now it was obvious that it was just a print with brushstrokes applied over it. The paper was so flimsy that it had ripped, even though the sturdy frame still held it. I hung it back up on the wall, noticing the plaster was covered in spidery hairline fissures. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to take the blame for that, too; it was bad enough I’d busted up a picture. I picked up the tabletop and set it back in place. The surprise came when I lifted Skye’s bag. It wasn’t any heavier than I remembered, but a large black rectangle poked out of it. I eased it out, turning it over in my hands. The piece was flat and thin, yet completely solid. How had I missed it?

  Setting it down, I knelt and reached into the yawning mouth of the bag. I pulled out the guidebooks and bits and pieces I’d noted earlier before finding something unfamiliar. It was a U.S. passport, one that was thicker than usual because it had been loaded with the extra pages that a travel writer needed, plus an assortment of visas and stamps. I opened it and saw a photograph of Skye, her face a little fuller and entirely free of the anxiety I’d glimpsed in the bar. Flipping through the pages made me remember how hard it had been to replace my passport when it went missing in Peru. So frustrating. So time-consuming. I got up and went to the desk, tucking Skye’s passport inside a drawer. It was a petty, mean trick to pull, yet oddly satisfying. My best friend, Jesse, wouldn’t approve, but I knew Claudia would.

  I rooted through Skye’s bag with a deepening curiosity. What else was in there? I found a nylon wallet that contained three credit cards—two in Skye’s name, and one belonging to her former fiancé, Ryan Brooks. There was also a New York driver’s license and some cash, both American dollars and Mexican pesos. It took me a minute to understand how I’d missed all this the first time around: that strange black rectangle was the false bottom of Skye’s bag. Under it had been a wide but shallow compartment. It was clever on Skye’s part, and I felt a grudging admiration for her. Travel writers got scammed at least as often as normal tourists did, mostly through opportunistic pickpocketing. Skye managing to keep her documents and money with her, yet out of reach from a thief’s eager hand, was smart.

  When I reached into the bag again, I retrieved two small, tinted vials of pills, both locked under childproof caps. There was nothing inherently sinister about them, but my hands quivered so that, for a split second, it sounded as if I were shaking a pair of maracas. Skye was sick, or at least she had been recently. The fact she’d left her medications behind made me worry for her. Was she so reluctant to see me that she’d decided she could do without them?

  The labels matched: both bottles were from Pasteur Pharmacy on East Thirty-Fourth Street in New York, and the prescriptions had been filled ten days earlier. One bottle was for something called promethazine, the other for trimethobenzamide. The instructions were disturbingly dull, giving no hint at what they were for. When I typed the names into a search engine, I found them quickly in the database of the U.S. National Library of Medicine: Promethazine is used to relieve the symptoms of allergic reactions such as allergic rhinitis (runny nose and watery eyes caused by allergy to pollen, mold or dust), allergic conjunctivitis (red, watery eyes caused by allergies), allergic skin reactions, and allergic reactions to blood or plasma products. Skye had mentioned allergies when I’d first seen her, so that fit. The other was more disturbing: Trimethobenzamide is used to treat nausea and vomiting that may occur after surgery. Surgery? Was that what Skye had meant when she said she’d been sick?

  My heart had been thudding when I’d entered my suite, but now its beat felt slow and faint. I was lightheaded and more than slightly nauseated myself. Minutes before, I’d been furious at Skye. Now, for the first time, I was truly afraid for her.

  CHAPTER 7

  It took me a while to find Denny Chiu. Gavin had already made it clear that he wasn’t concerned about Skye, so I went to the one person I was sure would share my apprehension. The front desk confirmed that Denny was in the suite next to mine, but she wasn’t answering her phone. I went to her door and rang the bell, planting myself there to wait. Finally, I spotted her in the hallway, coming toward me.

  “Lily? What are you doing out here? You should be sleeping!” Denny’s face was flushed and her expression was slightly dazed, but she smiled and air-kissed me on both cheeks. It was a lot more natural than Gavin’s gesture. “It’s so good to see you! You must be completely exhausted, but you look fantastic.”

  Denny herself looked fresh and chic, as if she’d just dressed, the opposite of me, who smelled like someone who’d been traveling all day. She was casual in jeans and a black silk T-shirt, sporting a red scarf at her throat and the de rigueur stiletto heels of a New York City–based public relations executive. Behind squared-off Prada frames, she had wide-set eyes with catlike lashes swooping upward. Her long, ebony hair cascaded around her shoulders, accentuating her delicate features. Whenever I saw her, she brought to mind the actress Nancy Kwan. The only unlovely thing about her appearance was a taupe bandage wrapped around her right wrist and forearm.

  “I’m a little tired,” I admitted. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Ugh. I sprained my wrist from grabbing my suitcase.” She glanced down at the bandage and shook her head. “First carpal tunnel syndrome, now this. I think my body started falling apart when I turned forty.” Her rueful expression switched to a smile. “How has everything been so far?”

  “The suite is lovely, and it was very thoughtful of you to arrange for dinner, Denny. But I never would have agreed to this trip knowing that Pantheon was a sponsor.”

  “You have no idea how sorry I am.” Denny knew me
well enough to realize why I wouldn’t want anything to do with Martin’s company. “It was totally out of my control. There was a problem at the sponsor hotel, and—”

  “Gavin already told me. Bedbugs.”

  Her eyes widened. “He said that? I’m going to kill him. Rule One is don’t scare the journalists.” She sighed. “Everything about this trip has been total hell. Two journalists dropped out at the last minute, and… oh, I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let’s just say this has been the press-junket equivalent of a swamp. Nothing is working out the way it’s supposed to. But don’t worry. I’m staying up all night fixing everything.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “We won’t do breakfast together in the morning—I thought you could do with some room service, and you’ve got a spa appointment at eleven. I hope that’s okay. I figured you could use a massage.”

  “That’s kind of you, but I’m heading off to another hotel in the morning.”

  “Oh! Of course! I’m such an idiot. Listen, the Fairmont Princess is gorgeous. They have a stunning hotel-within-a-hotel called Pearl, and I’m going to arrange to get you in there.” She lowered her voice. “I’m not a fan of Pantheon, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “I used to work in their London office,” Denny said. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a great experience. They actually inspired me to start my own PR company.”

  “I had no idea you’d worked for Pantheon.” The idea startled me.

  “Well, you were probably in college at the time. And I wasn’t there for long. I’ve never worked on staff for another large hotel chain. They burned me out on that front.” She shook her head. “Enough about that. Ruby and Roberta get in tomorrow. I think I’ll move the three of you to another hotel.”

  “What about Skye?”

  “Make that the four of you. But I am not moving that creep Pete Dukermann. There are limits.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I’d been angry at Denny, but knowing that her feelings about Pantheon mirrored mine mollified me, at least a little.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” And nauseated, but I kept that to myself.

  “You should go to bed. We’ve got tours planned for tomorrow afternoon, and on Sunday we’ll be doing the all-day trip to Taxco, the silver capital of Mexico. You need to get some rest.”

  “I will, but first I need to talk to you about Skye.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “We went for a drink at the hotel bar tonight, and she got up and vanished in the middle of it. She was acting strange before that…”

  “Strange, how?”

  “She was nervous, and she kept talking about her evil boyfriend, but she wouldn’t tell me his name. She was secretive about everything, and she burst into tears at one point.” I didn’t want to mention what Skye had said about getting revenge; that felt like a breach of confidence.

  Denny sighed. “I used to know Skye really well, but not anymore. She’s changed completely. She…” Her voice trailed off. “Look, I shouldn’t be telling tales out of school. Let’s just say there’s nothing she can do that would surprise me now.”

  “Well, she left her medication and her money behind with me.” I held Skye’s black bag up. It had its original contents, mostly. I’d held back the guidebooks, since I still didn’t understand why Skye had insisted I take one. After much internal wrangling, I’d left her passport in the desk drawer. It was low on my part, but it also made my ethical line clear: I didn’t mind creating a time-consuming problem for her—as far as I was concerned, she deserved it—but I wasn’t going to do anything that might jeopardize her health. I could always quietly return the passport later. “I want to put Skye’s bag in her room.”

  “Oh, good idea,” Denny said. “I’ll take care of that.”

  “I’d feel better putting it in her room myself.”

  Denny cocked her head to the side, examining my face. “You want to see if she’s in there, don’t you?”

  I nodded, realizing I’d just been busted.

  “Okay, I’ll call housekeeping. Wait here.” Denny went into her room and closed the door. A minute later she came out, and we waited for the maid to materialize. It didn’t take long; an elderly woman with her gray hair pulled back in a net opened the door when Denny pointed to it.

  I hesitated, but Denny charged right in. “Skye?” she called, her bright, cheery voice echoing through the rooms. Skye’s suite was a mirror image of mine. A long hallway opened to a living room—another riot of color—and instead of turning right to find the bedroom, this layout took a twist to the left. There was nothing to suggest anyone was staying there at all. Maybe I was projecting too much, but since she’d gotten to Acapulco before me, I expected she’d have settled in a little more. In the bedroom, all was serene, except for a pair of open-toed black pumps half-hidden by the bedspread. Obviously tiny—Skye and I had gone shoe-shopping together in the past, so I knew she wore a size five—yet seriously vampy, with a towering heel, they could only have belonged to Skye.

  “Skye?” Denny called again, her own heels clacking into the bathroom.

  I looked around the bedroom for any sign of Skye. There were only the shoes. Following Denny into the bathroom, I saw an empty counter and used towels.

  “Did she say anything about leaving the hotel?” Denny asked.

  “No.” I was mystified. Looking into the shower, I spotted hotel toiletries but nothing personal. When I turned around, I saw a toiletry kit hanging on the back of the bathroom door; that hadn’t been visible from the doorway. “Look,” I pointed.

  Denny plucked it off the hook. “It’s heavy.” She set it on the counter and opened the compartments while I watched. There was nothing sinister, just a tube of sunscreen surrounded by compacts filled with face powder, eyeshadow, and blusher.

  “Where are the rest of her things?” I wondered aloud. Walking back into the bedroom, I opened the closet, but it was empty. There was something forlorn about the pair of heels by the bed; they were almost ghostly, as if Skye had stepped out of them and vanished. The room smelled slightly of Skye’s perfume, but otherwise it felt as if there wasn’t a trace of her left behind.

  CHAPTER 8

  After leaving Skye’s suite, I went back to my own while Denny headed downstairs to talk with people and make some calls. I wanted to go with her, but she turned me down flat, insisting that I was unnaturally pale and must go to bed. Her concern over Skye’s disappearance eased the throbbing behind my temples a little. When I’d talked to Gavin, I’d felt as if I were swimming upstream, clashing with the current of his disbelief. I would have expected him to be more concerned about his boss’s girlfriend but, for all I knew, Skye was just another addition to Martin’s Ziegfeld Follies–like parade of dates. At least Denny knew Skye well, and she was as rattled by the idea of Skye suddenly checking out of the hotel as I was.

  While getting ready for bed, I finally opened the white envelope that had been lounging against my pillow all evening. The popping of the champagne cork had distracted me, and afterwards I’d forgotten about it. I tore it open and found a heavy white card, edged in gold, with the words from the desk of mr. gavin p. stroud engraved at the top. Mentally, I kicked myself for not opening it sooner; it would’ve saved me from being startled by Gavin in the lobby. Written on the card, in the same elaborate hand as the envelope, was this note:

  My Dearest Lily, it’s an honour to have you with us in Acapulco. I am so very happy to see you again.

  Fondest regards, Gavin

  Maybe that explained all of the Ava Gardner photos in the room, I thought. That idea made me shudder and I tore the note into a hundred pieces before crawling under the covers. I was bone-weary and sore, but I couldn’t sleep.

  I lay quietly for a long time, first with my eyes shut and then, when that obviously wasn’t working, I turned on the beside lamp and stared at an image of Ava Gardner on the wall. It was a studio
portrait, one of those perfectly posed and lighted visions that looked beautiful, yet held her personality and vibrancy so tightly in check that it almost seemed shot from inside a cage. In a way, it was: Ava hated the endless photo sessions that were demanded by her studio bosses at MGM. The candid shots of the real-life Ava Gardner from the same era were striking by comparison: her hair was mussed or her dress was creased, and often she wasn’t wearing shoes. But her vitality, her voracious appetite for life, and her carefree spirit were in plain view and they were overwhelming. In this photograph, Ava’s face was turned to the side so that it captured her flawless profile. While she was clearly recognizable and obviously beautiful, the image was stiff and formal and not like her at all.

  Pushing back the sheet, I got to my feet and went to it. Up close, I recognized the photo as a promotional still for One Touch of Venus. Ava had, of course, played the goddess of love. In the movie, she was a statue brought to life with a kiss. It was a silly, frothy romantic comedy, one that showcased Ava’s beauty but made little room for her considerable talent as an actress. It was also, oddly enough, the one Ava Gardner film I remembered watching with Martin; he was always in motion, and couldn’t sit still for the two hours it took to watch a movie. Skye’s words about us floated through my mind: You’re both so glamorous. Seeing the two of you together was a bit like watching a movie.

  There was something wistful in her voice, but I hadn’t sensed an undercurrent of jealousy. It was a strange observation, but she wasn’t wrong. My relationship with Martin was like something out of an old movie, complete with lovely props, wardrobes, and settings. If it had been on celluloid, no doubt it would have been perfect. In the real world, it was as tenuous as an old film reel, with a climax that was ragged and torn.