Beauty Dies

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  “You have to understand. My company is spending over twenty million dollars in ad campaigns featuring Sarah Grange. We are shooting this week. You’ve got to understand the position I’m in.”

  “I am noted for my discretion,” Claire assured him.

  “And it’s not just the campaign. I also must protect my clients. I’m like a psychiatrist; I can’t afford to divulge their secrets.”

  “I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “What about them?” He flipped his hand toward me and gazed up at Boulton.

  “Boulton is absolutely trustworthy and Miss Hill is one of the most tactful women I know.” This was said with a perfectly straight face.

  “I can’t. I just can’t …”

  “Boulton.” Claire spoke his name in a bored flat voice. He drew his gun and pressed the barrel against the back of St. Rome’s neck.

  St. Rome went white. “You call this discretion?!”

  “No. Intimidation.”

  “Sheridan Reynolds bought the dress for Cybella.”

  “And who is Sheridan Reynolds?” she asked patiently.

  “Tell him to put the gun away.” His fingers trembled against his chest. “This is cashmere. I don’t want it ruined.”

  “Thank you, Boulton.”

  “I’ve never seen a man lose his charm so quickly,” St. Rome observed testily as Boulton returned the gun to his holster. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you. The whole city knows. Cybella was Sheridan Reynolds’s mistress. To be honest, I tried to talk him out of buying her the dress. Much too youthful for her. Heterosexual men have no sense of what is appropriate. They fall in love with these women when they’re young and beautiful and keep buying for them as if they stayed that way.”

  “Mr. Reynolds is married?” she asked.

  “Aren’t they all, darling? Married to a ton of money. When she isn’t having nervous breakdowns, Elizabeth Reynolds also buys from me. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the dress to her.”

  “How long had Cybella been his mistress?”

  “Forever. But it wasn’t till she was older that she had settled for the life of a mistress. You know, waiting for Reynolds to see her. Alone on the holidays. I think that was part of her depression. I’ll never understand women.” He sighed and crossed his legs in imitation of those he did not understand. “Women are masochists.”

  “All of us?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes.” He looked at me with eyes that would never desire, only assess. I felt as if he could see through me into my past, see all the men I had dated, gone to bed with, including Bobby Polinsky, and the one I had married and divorced. I felt as if he could name all the men that had hurt me.

  “I dress women, darling. I give them their façade, the image they want to hide behind. They are all masochists. And the more beautiful the woman the more masochistic.”

  “And what about Nora Brown’s relationship with Cybella?” Claire asked.

  “My, you have been busy little bees. She, too, loved Cybella. It was a toss-up as to who Cybella would choose. She settled for being Sheridan’s mistress. Women are such masochists.” He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “They think heterosexuality is safer when it’s really just a bore. I think Cybella killed herself out of boredom.”

  “Where does Sheridan Reynolds live?” Claire asked.

  “Please, can’t you find that out yourselves?”

  “Where does he live?” Boulton demanded.

  “That outré building, The Avenue 8000.”

  “The discovery of Sarah Grange seems to have brought new life to your career,” Claire said.

  “Not just mine, darling. Bonton was losing readers like rats from a sinking ship. Nora was on the verge of being beheaded or dethroned or whatever it is they do to these editors. And up she pops with Cybella’s daughter. She starts running articles about Cybella and Sarah. She uses her on the cover and convinces me to use her as the St. Rome Woman. Nora is back in power, the new Diana Vreeland.” He paused, eyeing Claire. “Nora has assured me that Sarah has done nothing wrong. I’m gambling my reputation on that being true.”

  “Did Sarah tell you how the red dress got into the video?” she asked.

  “I haven’t talked to her yet. Nora assures me the video was shot before Sarah even found her mother, and that the sad creature was the one who had the dress. That is all I care to know.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. St. Rome.”

  He uncrossed his legs and stood. The gossipy voice turned steely. “If you annoy my clients or damage my reputation in any way, you will hear from my lawyers. Do we understand one another?”

  “Show Mr. St. Rome out, Boulton. Miss Hill, call the Avenue 8000. I want to talk to Sheridan Reynolds.”

  I got the number from information.

  “Avenue 8000,” a man proclaimed.

  “Sheridan Reynolds, please.”

  “Who shall I say is calling?” He dribbled his vowels in my ear as if he’d been trained at the Sorbonne.

  “Claire Conrad.”

  “Just a minute.”

  “Sheridan Reynolds’s residence.” Another man’s voice, trained but not French.

  “Claire Conrad would like to speak with Mr. Reynolds.”

  “He’s not available at the moment.”

  “When will he be available?”

  “I’m Paul Quentin, Mr. Reynolds’s assistant. May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Just a minute.” I put my hand over the receiver. “The assistant wants to know what this is regarding?”

  “The death of Cybella.”

  “Straightforward.” I removed my hand from the receiver. “The death of Cybella.” Long silence. “I wonder if you could have him call Miss Conrad at the Parkfaire Hotel. ASAP.”

  “I’ll give him the message.” Paul Quentin never regained his full voice.

  Eleven

  THE BENTLEY ROLLED DOWN Forty-second Street. The morning light had drained the blood and life out of the area, leaving a dirty gray skeleton. Some homeless people, who had stuffed themselves in large boxes for the night, were still sleeping. Shopkeepers washed down the sidewalk in front of their stores. The naked women in the giant photographs plastering the theaters and the buildings looked like a man’s worst dream. The nighttime had softened, even bewitched, the images of their flagrantly exposed bodies, rendering these women as soft and as pliable as pillows. But daylight showed the ravages of weather and time. The large breasts and thighs were chipped and peeling. The hot sultry eyes and opened mouths were streaked with black as if tears had mixed with mascara. Pink skin had faded to a sickly bluish white. These were the images of women that men ran away from, promising never to return. Until the next time.

  “No wonder Nero Wolfe never left his brownstone,” Claire said sadly, peering out the car window.

  Boulton found a garage a couple of blocks away from the Duke Hotel. We made an odd group. Claire, an imposing erect figure all in white, striking the pavement with her ivory walking stick as she strode down the sidewalk. I, hurrying next to her, now and then catching my bewildered reflection in the discount store windows. Not an unusual expression for me. And Boulton walking behind us looking as if he were going to colonize Manhattan. New Yorkers, who never turn their heads to look at anything for fear it might chip another piece off their soul, craned their necks and stared.

  The sign over the glass-and-wood door vapidly blinked DUK HOT, giving the hotel an Oriental flair. We made our way into the lobby. The floor was bumpy under my feet. The edges of purple and black linoleum tiles curled. A woman screamed from somewhere deep in the building. The hotel clerk, unmoved, sat behind a Formica counter. He wore a gray sweatshirt with the hood up. The curved peak on the hood made him look like a drab elf. He sipped his morning coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched us with rabbity red eyes over the top of his newspaper. The woman screamed again. The man gave his paper a good shake, yawned, and took another sip. A handsome boy slept it off on an old p
urple velvet settee. An old woman, hair as white as paper, got up from her chair and teetered toward us. Expectation flickered in a face wrinkled with disappointment.

  “Sit down, Violet. You don’t know these people,” the clerk said.

  Violet slowly obeyed and continued her waiting. I thought of the Bovine Lady at the Parkfaire. I thought of my mother waiting with a rosary in her hand.

  “A young woman named Jackie lives here. We’d like the key to her room,” Claire said.

  The clerk bit into a chocolate doughnut and tried to look thoughtful. “Can’t do that.”

  Boulton took a twenty from his pocket and laid it on the counter. “The key is just a courtesy. I can enter any room in this place without a key, and I will until we find her room.”

  The man set his coffee cup on the bill. “I want no trouble and no damage. Room’s on the second floor. Number 2. Stairs are down the corridor in the back.” He handed Boulton the key.

  Again the woman screamed.

  “Don’t you want to see what’s wrong with her?” I asked him.

  “I know what’s wrong,” he said, licking a chocolate crumb from his thin pink lip. He gave his paper another shake.

  We crossed the square patch of lobby and moved down the long narrow hallway. One greasy bulb shed a feeble light. I could hear people behind their closed doors, coughing, moaning, slamming drawers, trying to prepare for the day. A lone male figure leaned against the wall. He stepped in front of Boulton. His face was sweaty with fear and need.

  “Sammy?” he whispered, his body shaking.

  “No,” Boulton said, pushing him away. He shrank back.

  We took the stairs. The woman’s scream echoed closer. At the top of the landing a door banged opened. A half-naked woman clutched a few shreds of clothes. Her pendulous breasts hung down on a bloated stomach.

  “I’m being raped,” she said in a voice thinned by her constant cries. “Help me, help me.”

  Claire stopped. Her body grew rigid as her eyes fixed on the woman and the room behind her.

  “Help me.” The woman whimpered, moving back to her bed and pulling a dirty sheet around her.

  The look in Claire’s eyes grew distant, as if she were seeing beyond the woman into another place, another room.

  “I couldn’t,” Claire said.

  “Help me, help me.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Boulton moved toward Claire. “Madam,” he said firmly.

  “Help me, help me,” the woman moaned.

  “There wasn’t time.” Claire’s voice was frighteningly hollow.

  “Close the door, Maggie,” Boulton said quickly.

  I reached in and pulled the door shut. The woman sobbed quietly. He put his arm around Claire, steadying her.

  “There wasn’t time, there wasn’t time,” she repeated over and over to the closed door.

  “Boulton, what is it? What’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  “She’ll be herself in a moment.”

  “There wasn’t time.” Claire’s voice grew tired. Slowly she looked from the door to Boulton, then said: “Either you’ve had a passionate desire to throw your arms around me or I’ve had one of my spells.”

  “Sometimes, madam, I cannot control myself.”

  A wry smile formed on her quivering lips. “Thank you, Boulton.” She moved away from him and fixed her gaze, now sharp again, on me. “Close your mouth, Miss Hill.”

  I closed my dry mouth.

  “I see no reason to discuss this any further,” she said.

  I looked at Boulton. His butler face covered any emotion, any answer. I had never seen Boulton or Claire touch, let alone comfort one another. I knew I wouldn’t find out what had happened to her unless she chose to reveal it. But I found his ability to comfort her touching. I found myself responding to that ability. We proceeded down the hall to Jackie’s room as if nothing had happened. Boulton unlocked the door.

  Gray light filtered through a narrow window over an unmade bed scattered with fresh pink carnations. A pair of lavender high heels leaned into each other on the floor. A white bra dangled over the back of a small wooden chair. Next to the chair was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. A mirror hanging above a dresser held the image of a half-open door, still moving. I turned and Claire stepped to one side. In one swift movement Boulton had his gun in his hand.

  “Come out, slowly,” he commanded.

  The door swung wide. Goldie stood in the bathroom, his large hand clutching a bunch of carnations. The gold pyramids on his fingers shimmered. His narrow eyes were red and swollen. Tears gathered in the fleshy crevices of his large face. His lips were slack from too much Wild Turkey.

  He squinted. “What are you people doing in my Jackie’s room? Get out.”

  “Goldie,” I informed Claire. “Bouncer at Peep Thrills.”

  “Get out!” he yelled.

  “Move over to the bed and sit down,” Boulton said.

  Goldie stood, head thrust forward, staring at Boulton, like a bull wanting to charge but unable to move his limbs.

  “Go on,” Boulton said.

  Goldie’s dazed eyes came to life. He lurched, then rushed Boulton full force, shoving him back against the dresser. It was like two trains colliding in the small room. Carnations exploded from Goldie’s hand, fluttering down on us. He grabbed for Boulton’s gun. I backed into the corner between the dresser and the door. Claire pressed against the wall. I fumbled in my purse for my gun. Claire’s stick came to rest on my wrist.

  “Trust Boulton, Miss Hill.”

  Trust?

  Boulton shoved Goldie, who staggered back toward the window. His feet crunched the lavender shoes, snapping off a heel. Goldie grabbed a chair. Boulton ducked and the chair sailed right at me. I ducked. It hit the wall, came down on my head, bounced onto the floor. The white bra was now draped at my feet. Ineffectual. Out of place. As Goldie spun to his right, reaching for the bottle of Wild Turkey, Boulton smashed his gun into the side of his head. Goldie went down hard on the bed and the carnations. The bed screamed out from the force of his weight. He dropped the bottle. The smell of booze mixed with a sickeningly sweet smell of flowers. Boulton raised the gun again.

  “That’s enough,” Claire said. “I want to be able to talk to him.”

  “Quite.” Boulton stepped back. He turned and looked at her. “Are you all right, madam?”

  “Fine,” Claire said, picking up the chair and placing it next to Goldie. Acting as if nothing unusual had happened, she tested the little wooden chair with her stick, then enthroned herself. I rubbed my head.

  Just a moment of violence. And it was over. But I felt unnerved, more so than when I had looked at Jackie. Death was final. But violence was incomplete, always waiting to erupt. I watched Boulton, who stood, gun in hand, ready for the next eruption. That’s what I didn’t like, what I didn’t want to get close to. It was in him, it always would be. I had trouble reconciling this with the man who had just put his arms around Claire Conrad.

  “All right, Maggie?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Go through her things, Miss Hill,” Claire said.

  I opened the top dresser drawer. Once again I was searching through a dead woman’s intimate apparel. Only this time it wasn’t ecru silk and lace. Jackie’s neon-colored bras and panties were cheap, designed with a need to titillate so desperate that they looked tired and joyless in their little wooden box of a drawer. I closed it.

  “I’m a private detective,” Claire said. “Jackie saw my picture in the newspaper and came to me for help.”

  “She needed help, she came to me,” Goldie mumbled.

  The second drawer contained a few T-shirts with CHANEL stamped across the front. There was no label. Some Jamaican street vendor selling fakes was the closest Jackie’d ever gotten to an original. I ran my hand under the T-shirts, felt something, came out holding a dead cockroach.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Goldie watched me with eyes stunned b
y loss and booze. “Whadda ya looking for?” Blood trickled down the side of his head mixing with sweat.

  Ignoring his question, Claire asked, “How did you find out about Jackie’s death?”

  “Linda.”

  “When did she tell you?” Claire asked.

  “After I threw these two outta Peeps. Then I went down to the morgue and saw Jackie.” He groaned. “I saw her.” The groan ended in a howl. He rocked back and forth. His big flat hands clasped his huge thighs.

  It’s always been difficult for me to watch a man cry, maybe because it takes such a physical effort for them to turn their pain into tears. Claire picked up the bottle of Wild Turkey and handed over what was left of it. He took a long swallow.

  I opened the closet door and stared at a fake leopard coat, three skimpy dresses, and a pair of black boots run down at the heels. I thought of the cuddly fake fur at Bonton. It was a joke created for rich women who could afford the real thing, but knew the times were against them. Slipping my hand in the pockets of Jackie’s coat, I knew she wanted people to think hers was real, a gift from a very important man. There was nothing except a button and some shreds of tobacco. I ran my hand inside the boots. Nothing.

  “What are you looking for?” Goldie rubbed his face.

  “Tell me about the porno videos you make.” Claire said.

  He took a quick swallow from the bottle. “I’m jush a bouncer.” His words slurred.

  “I find that hard to believe.” Claire’s voice was patient. “Don’t you, Boulton?”

  “Very hard to believe.” His voice was devoid of emotion.

  Goldie raised his large head and tried to focus on Boulton. “Go to hell.”

  Boulton grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him to his feet. He was almost deadweight. “Make it easy on yourself. Tell her what she wants to know.” He shoved him back down. The bed moaned.

  “I make some extra on the side. So do the girls. Our cush … customers like to buy the videos. Good for everybody. So what?”

  “Tell me about the one you made with Jackie and the model.”

  “They all think they’re models.”

  “This young woman is a model. Successful. Famous.”