Oh, hell. Her mother had dreams.
Two
BOULTON OPENED THE DOOR.
“Jackie, this is Boulton,” I announced. “He’s going to search you. Where’s Claire?”
“Drawing room.” He stepped between Jackie and me, moving her against the wall of the foyer. His hands moved efficiently, expertly down her body.
“Hey, what the fuck’s going on here?” she demanded.
I closed the living-room doors behind me.
Claire was back in the Queen Anne, long legs extended, observing the tips of her black loafers.
“There’s a young woman who says that Cybella didn’t kill herself. Here’s the proof.” I held up the video.
Her gaze moved slowly from her shoes to the cassette. I could tell by her expression she found her own footwear more interesting.
“I’m walking back to the hotel,” I explained quickly, “and this girl appears out of nowhere and says, ‘Cybella didn’t kill herself.’ I think she’s just another crazy. I come up here and read about Cybella’s suicide.”
I gestured toward the door. “The girl’s in the foyer.”
“The only thing you were supposed to bring back with you were my gloves, Miss Hill.”
“All you have to do is listen.”
I opened the doors. Boulton, a firm grip on Jackie’s arm, guided her into the room.
“Do you always have your clients body-searched?” she demanded, trying to squirm out of his grasp.
Claire’s eyes riveted on me. “Client? Client!”
At least I had her full attention. “You spoke about Cybella so eloquently.” I picked my words carefully. “Remember how the room changed when Cybella walked in? I remember when I was eight years old and how I wanted to look like her. She affected us both. Isn’t that worth the time it takes to look at this tape?”
“No!” snapped Claire.
“Maybe just for once a beautiful woman didn’t die by her own hand.”
“Miss Hill, we have a plane to catch.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” Jackie said.
“Be quiet!” I barked.
“Don’t tell me to be quiet. Who the fuck do you people think you are, anyway?”
Boulton tightened his grip on her arm and Jackie sucked in her breath. Claire leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. When Claire closes her eyes, she’s either listening carefully to those around her or pretending they no longer exist. I didn’t have to guess which it was today.
“Show your video to the police,” I said to Jackie.
“The police? What world are you living in?”
“Come on.”
Boulton began to pull her back toward the foyer.
“No!” She dug in her heels and struggled in his grip. “If you jump down a stairwell, you don’t fall in a straight line. You bounce off the railings, the walls, until you finally hit the floor.”
Claire opened her eyes and held up her right hand. The chunk of lapis she called a ring shimmered darkly on her forefinger. Boulton released Jackie.
“You saw her being pushed over the railing?” Claire asked.
“I’m not saying I saw it happen.”
“What’s your name?” Claire asked.
“Jackie.”
“Jackie what?”
I held my breath.
“Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Murphy.”
“Her mother had dreams,” I added quickly.
“A firm grasp on reality might have been more helpful.” Claire studied Jackie. “If you didn’t witness Cybella’s death, then how did you know she was dead?”
“I read about it in the paper.”
“And how did you know where to find me?”
“She read that in the paper too,” I said. Jackie took the clipping, out, waved it, then shoved it in her purse.
“What do you do, Miss Murphy?” she asked.
“I’m an actress. I perform at Peep Thrills. Private booth. Just me and the customer. White blondes are special.” She tilted her head back and fluffed her dried bleached hair with her fingers as if she were in a Clairol commercial gone terribly wrong.
“And I’m not being a racist,” she added. “Let’s face it, there’s no fuckin’ equality in sexual fantasies.” She looked evenly at Claire, giving her time to absorb this observation. Claire peered back at her: sage to sage.
“Just to look at me costs a token,” Jackie continued, her hands on hips, back slightly arched, breasts proud. “For another token the customer can talk to me on the telephone while I perform. Tell me what he wants me to do, what he wants me to be. Or what he’d like to do to me while I’m doing what it is he wants me to be. Like I said, I’m an actress.”
“How did you become acquainted with Cybella?” Claire asked.
“I met her last week. We had coffee. She wanted to know why her daughter did this video.”
“Her daughter?” Claire leaned back in her chair. “I will regret this. Play the tape, Miss Hill.”
Jackie sat on the sofa, Boulton standing behind her. I opened the armoire, put the tape in the VCR, then sat back down at my desk and hit the remote control. The television screen flickered gray and then went to color. I blinked. The camera was very close-in on something round and pinkish. Slowly, I realized the pinkish mound was flesh. Soft flesh. Female flesh. The camera jerked back, revealing Jackie’s breasts, barely covered by a red evening dress. Sitting next to her on a bed was a lovely brunette about Jackie’s age. She had a wide sculpted face with high cheekbones and coffee-brown, passionless eyes. She wore black stockings, garter belt, panties, and bra. Legs crossed, the two women looked into the camera as if they were waiting to be asked to dance.
“That’s me in the red!” Jackie pointed to her image. “I got to wear the dress. It was so pretty.”
Claire grumbled, “The young woman next to you is Cybella’s daughter, Sarah Grange?”
Jackie nodded, never taking her eyes off herself.
The camera shoved in on the two women. Acting her part with gusto, Jackie unfastened Sarah’s bra, slowly slipping it from her small, firm breasts. Sarah was passive, her expression inappropriately aloof for being in a porno film. A disdainful smile formed on her lips as she slowly turned and began to remove Jackie’s red dress.
Female flesh merged. Breasts on breasts. Tongues licked. Hands grabbed. Fingers stroked. Jackie groaned dramatically. The camera closed in on Sarah’s face as she moaned in forced ecstasy. I decided it was best for my new career not to look at Claire.
Jackie leaned forward on the sofa, watching herself with a narcissistic intensity. Boulton’s eyes met mine in a look of strangely ambivalent sexuality. You cannot view pornography without becoming a part of it, even if it repels you. Its power is to make you the voyeur, the needy person in the dark peeking through windows, through parted curtains, through the crack of a half-open door. In other words, it makes you feel like an assistant to a detective.
I turned back to the TV. The camera lurched in on wet nipples, blond hair, an elbow, black-stockinged legs, thighs, buttocks, Sarah’s wet lips. I could hear Claire muttering while Jackie and Sarah did everything to each other except discuss women’s liberation. Suddenly the tape flickered to gray. I hit the remote control.
Claire did a slow turn, glared at me, then turned back to Jackie. “My dear young woman, your video makes no connection between Sarah Grange and Cybella’s death.”
“Do you know who Sarah Grange is? She’s one of the top models in New York. She’s worth millions. You find out why she did this video and you’ll have your connection.”
Claire leaned back, tapping the toe of her shoe with her walking stick. Jackie fell silent. Mucus ran from her nose onto her upper lip.
“Give her some Kleenex, Miss Hill.”
I took a box from my desk and handed it to Jackie. She blew her nose.
“Allergies,” she said, turning demure.
“Do not insult my intelligence, young woman,” Claire said. “Who set up
the video?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who told you to be in the video? Who held the camera? Who paid you? I assume you were paid?”
“The money was just there for me in the room.” She appeared confused by the barrage of questions.
“Not that I am a connoisseur, but this is obviously not a professional porno video. Who shot it?”
“I don’t know.” Her fingers nervously twisted the silk fringe of a pillow.
“Was it the person who struck you?”
The fingers moved quickly to her bruise. “He loves me.
“Of course.” Claire sighed. “Tell me about your meeting with Cybella.”
Jackie wiped her nose, then pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and lit one, cupping her hand around the match as if she were still standing outside in the wind. Her eyes avoided Claire. “I never met Cybella. I just said that so you wouldn’t throw me out.”
“Why are you really here, Miss Murphy?”
“I think I’m being followed.”
“Who is following you?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”
“Maybe it’s a customer, Jackie,” I said.
“No. I think it’s because I did this video. And now Sarah Grange’s mother is dead. They say it’s suicide, but it really isn’t, see what I mean? I could be next.”
Claire stood. “Give her fifty dollars and her tape, Miss Hill. We leave for Los Angeles at the appointed time.”
I got the tape and handed it to Jackie.
“What’s the problem?” she demanded.
“Jackie,” I pointed out, “you have no proof that Cybella was murdered.”
“Well, I’m not the detective, am I? That’s her job.” She gestured toward Claire, who was making a quick exit from the room.
“I’m sorry, Jackie,” I said.
“I knew she wouldn’t believe me. Here.” She tossed the video onto the cushion of the Queen Anne. “Something to remember me by.”
We rode down in the elevator in silence. The doors slipped open and we stepped out into the lobby. I handed her the fifty dollars.
“This make you feel better?” she asked snidely.
“No.”
She took the money. “I’ve been in better hotels than this one.” Giving the opulent decor a disdainful glance, she strolled across the lobby. Cowboy boots scuffed at the marble floor. She paused in front of the revolving door and adjusted her red jacket, arched her back, and squared her hips. Her tough street sexuality back in place, she pushed the door around and disappeared.
Back in the suite, I tried not to think of her. Around eleven o’clock Boulton stacked the luggage in the foyer and went to the garage, which was a block away, to bring the Bentley around. I called for two bellboys. Restless, Claire stalked from room to room.
As I packed my portable computer, she prowled near the living-room window. A pigeon, tottering on the sill, eyeballed her like a drunken sailor. No matter how much money you have in this city, you can’t rise above the pigeons. She swung her walking stick at the window. The pigeon flew.
“Filthy little beasts.” She turned on me. “There was nothing I could do for that girl. And you, Miss Hill, must not go around picking prospective clients off the street. It’s unseemly.”
“I didn’t pick her. She picked you. And one of these days you’re going to break that window.”
“Nonsense. I know exactly where to strike so that the pigeon flees and the glass remains intact.”
The doorbell rang. Gerta let in two bellboys. They arranged the luggage on their carts. As we followed them out of the suite, I tried not to look at the cassette on the Queen Anne chair. Oh, hell, maybe Mr. Orita could figure it out.
Looking as if we were going on safari instead of back to L.A., we made it down to the lobby. Desanto waited by the elevators, bowing and scraping his way alongside Claire as our procession headed out to the street.
I instinctively looked for Jackie but she was gone. Boulton pulled up in the black Bentley and got out. Desanto was still oozing around Claire while the bellboys and Frank loaded the luggage into the car. Boulton’s voice cut sharply through Desanto’s slobbering words.
“Across the street, Miss Conrad.”
Jackie stood holding on to a wrought-iron railing. She stumbled off the curb, the red cowboy boots dragged and scuffed against the pavement. She walked through the traffic as if invulnerable. Her blond hair, like a frayed halo, blew in thin wisps around her head. Boulton moved toward her, but she staggered past him toward me, hands out in front of her like a toddler learning to walk. I took hold of her, guiding her to the sidewalk. Her mouth opened. A bright red bubble formed, slid down her chin, and popped. Another bubble took its place. She collapsed at my feet. A woman entering the hotel screamed. Desanto flapped around, commanding the bellboys. I kneeled, squeezing her hand. Again her mouth opened. I leaned close, but heard only the gasping fight against death. Claire knelt next to me. Jackie went limp. Her eyes, still mean with determination, stared into mine.
“I’ve called the police,” the doorman said.
“We’ve got to get her into the lobby,” I said.
“Don’t you dare!” Desanto cried.
“Stab wounds in her abdomen,” Claire noted.
“No, no, I won’t have this,” Desanto wailed.
“We can’t leave her on the street,” I said.
“Two, to be exact,” Claire observed. “One appears shallow. The other deep.”
Gerta offered her traveling blanket. “Here, keep her warm.”
“It’s too late for that, Gerta,” Claire said, feeling for a pulse.
The bellboys returned, carrying two large Chinese screens, which they hurriedly placed around us.
Boulton peered behind the screens. “I found her purse across the street. You had better take a look at it.” He beckoned Claire.
She followed him. I stayed, holding Jackie’s hand. I could hear the howl of sirens like trapped animals. Claire reappeared and kneeled next to me.
“The newspaper clipping of us leaving the hotel. Where was it?”
“In her purse.”
“And the money?”
“Same.”
“Both are gone.”
“Let go of her, Maggie.” Boulton’s voice.
I looked at my hand. Her blood was as sticky as cotton candy on my fingers.
Let it go, Maggie. Let it go.
Slowly I released her hand. It lay on my palm. Her chewed fingernails were painted a rosy pink. I looked up at the screen. Chinese ladies, delicately carved of rosewood, peeked discreetly down at Jackie from behind their mother-of-pearl fans.
“Have the luggage returned to our rooms, Boulton. We’re extending our stay,” Claire announced.
Three
IT WAS A PERFECT martini.
The police were gone and I sat at the small bar just off the hotel’s lounge. All tweed and leather, the room was very subtle, very masculine. It was like being surrounded by a country gentleman’s embrace.
I took another sip, trying to get my emotions under control. An hour earlier I had told the police that I didn’t know Jackie, that we’d been leaving for the airport when she staggered toward us and died. The police had found some blood in the basement stairwell of the apartment house across the street. The building was empty, waiting to be renovated. There were no witnesses. There was no wallet or any kind of identification in her purse. There was no money and no newspaper clipping of Claire Conrad. The police assumed Jackie had died in a mugging, a dope deal, or a trick gone wrong. Take your pick. She had a lot of options. They took our names and addresses as a matter of course, put her in a body bag, and carted her off. Desanto had the screens removed and the sidewalk washed down.
Now it was twelve-thirty and I held a chilled crystal cocktail glass. I looked at the bill. My martini cost eight dollars and ninety-five cents. It was perfect. Everything was perfect in this hotel. Everything was per
fect if you had the money. Everything was perfect if you weren’t a dead young woman named Jackie.
I turned on the bar stool and looked at two fashionably dressed men, drinking expensive water, sitting at a table overlooking Park Avenue. Gold watches shimmered on their broad wrists. Jackie’s mother had dreams. The two men looked at each other, very satisfied, as if they’d just made a great business deal or just had great sex. Whatever it was, it was perfect, and it made me angry. Why did I always go for the anger instead of the sadness?
Across Park were two churches with a brownstone nestled between them. The Presbyterian church spiraled its steeples with Puritanical restraint toward the Manhattan sky and God. The Church of Christ, Scientist, round like a giant belly, appeared too fat and too weighted to Park Avenue to even bother to reach toward the heavens. Maybe if I believed, I’d be able to feel sadness instead of anger. I carry my grandmother’s rosary in my purse, but that’s only because she gave it to me, because she believes, and because I love her. My mother believes with a vengeance. She uses holy water like some women use Chanel No. 5. Still, that brownstone squeezed between the two churches did look protected. I hoped a young woman lived there, a woman who had dreams.
“Miss Hill!” Desanto’s voice made me jump. He hurried toward me, rubbing his hands together like Lady Macbeth.
“This is unacceptable,” he said in a high-pitched tone.
“I agree. No martini should cost eight dollars and ninety-five cents.”
“I don’t mean the martini. I talked to the floor maid. She said Miss Conrad is back in her rooms.”
“That’s right, we’re extending our stay.”
“You can’t do that. You know I promised the suite to Mr. Orita.”
“Give him another one.”
“He wants the Conrad Suite. He loves to sit in the Queen Anne chair.”
“Sorry.”
“How long are you staying?”
“As long as it takes.”
I raised my glass to him and finished off my drink. He jerked his head back and his chin did its disappearing act. His lips twitched with anger.
“If you weren’t with Claire Conrad, I’d order you out of this hotel right now,” he said, trying to keep his voice down.
Beauty Dies Page 2