Beauty Dies

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  Claire threw open a door opposite the sofa.

  “Just a fucking minute.” Linda moved toward her. Boulton grabbed her. “What are you looking for?” Fear narrowed her eyes.

  It was a deep closet with built-in drawers. Provocative dresses and a couple of short leather jackets and skirts hung neatly on their hangers. With her walking stick Claire lifted a blanket off the floor, revealing a cardboard box.

  “Will you get this for me, Miss Hill?”

  I picked up the box and carried it to the sofa. It was half filled with magazines. I looked at a copy of Bonton from the year 1966. A young Cybella, her lean figure clad in a gold sequined gown, smiled from the cover. Her eyes were heavy with black liner and false eyelashes, her lips a pale pink. The long dark hair was backcombed into a wild mane, her body curved seductively as if molded by an invisible lover’s hands. I gave the magazine to Claire.

  “Everything you told Miss Hill that night on the way to Cybella’s apartment was true except for who you really are,” she said. “These magazines are your only connection to your mother.”

  Claire methodically began to lay out the magazines on the floor.

  “I’m keeping them for Sarah Grange.” Linda’s voice was flat.

  “You made one mistake. In the car going to Cybella’s, you told Miss Hill too much. A writer would enjoy the information. A detective might be suspicious of it. Most people say as little as possible to us. Even if they’re innocent, they always have secrets they don’t want discovered. But you needed to set the scene so when Miss Hill met our beautiful imposter, there wouldn’t be any doubt.”

  “I’m not Sarah and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  The floor was covered with about twenty magazines, each with Cybella on the cover. Like a chameleon, she changed with every new dress, wig, makeup job. Each photographer saw her differently. She had never been just one woman. Only her dark haunting eyes declared a vulnerable individuality.

  “Besides, I’d think Cybella would know her own daughter,” Linda added.

  “Motherly instinct is highly overrated,” Claire replied. “Cybella had not seen you since you were a small child, maybe even a baby. She wanted to believe that giving up her daughter had not caused that child any damage. She wanted a daughter as beautiful as she had once been. That belief overpowered everything.”

  “A box of magazines proves nothing.”

  “True. And the last thing I want to do is go to Buffalo to prove I’m right. Miss Hill, Boulton, search the apartment for some kind of identification.”

  Boulton moved into the tiny kitchen, which was separated from the room by an imitation pink granite counter.

  I ran my hands inside the pockets of her jackets. And patted down the linings. There was nothing. I went into the bathroom. It felt damp. I could smell the freshness of soap and shampoo. I opened a drawer. Her makeup was arranged as neatly as Cybella’s.

  “I found it,” Boulton said. “A birth certificate and a Buffalo driver’s license. Not so cleverly taped to the back of the refrig …” He stopped.

  I came out of the bathroom. Linda stood there with a gun pointed at Claire. Tears streaked her face. Pockmarks glistened. “What are you looking at, Maggie?”

  “You.”

  “Well, don’t. You’re not going to see any resemblance to Cybella.”

  “You have your mother’s figure and your father’s gray eyes,” I said.

  “That gun is more of an irritant than a threat.” Claire perched calmly on the arm of the sofa. “If you were going to kill someone, you would have shot Miss Hill last night when you had the chance.”

  “I just want you to leave. Now!” Her hand trembled.

  “Besides, Boulton can take the gun from you anytime he wishes.”

  Linda’s gaze darted to Boulton. Claire swung her walking stick, knocking the gun from her hand. Boulton picked it up.

  Closing her eyes, Linda leaned against the wall. “I used to walk down the street and pretend I heard a woman calling out my name. I’d turn and imagine Cybella standing there, holding her arms out. But I never once in my worst nightmare thought Cybella would mistake somebody else for me.”

  “What is the imposter’s name?” Claire asked.

  She opened her eyes and studied Claire. “If I tell, will you leave? I just want to see my father face-to-face for the first time, take his money, and get out of here.”

  “You can’t run away. Three people have been murdered,” I said.

  “Yeah, and guess who’s going to be blamed for it?”

  “I don’t think you killed anybody, Miss Grange,” Claire offered.

  “Don’t call me that. I’m Linda.”

  “What’s the imposter’s name, Miss Hansen?”

  “Marina Perry.”

  “You told Marina Perry you were Cybella’s daughter?” Claire asked.

  “A little more than a year ago, after my grandparents died, I came here. I needed money. I got a job at Peeps. It was the closest I’d ever come to being a model. I took the name Linda Hansen. Marina worked at this shop. We hung out together. Sometimes when Marina held her head a certain way she reminded me of Cybella. Just for a moment.” She took a cigarette from the table and lit it. “I got drunk one night, told her the story of my life. She didn’t believe me. All the girls at Peeps lie about themselves. I didn’t want her to think I was like them. So I kept giving her more and more details. I was such a pushover.”

  “You told her about Nora Brown?”

  “I showed her one of the few letters Cybella had written to me when I was a child. She mentioned Nora. Couple of weeks go by and Marina disappears. It happens, people disappearing. I didn’t think much of it.” She paused, staring at the magazines, at her mother’s face. “I was glad Marina had left. I’d exposed myself. I don’t know how long … four months later, I’m walking down the street past this newsstand and there on the cover of Bonton is Marina Perry. Only she’s not Marina Perry. She’s Sarah Grange. Cybella’s daughter. She’s me.”

  “You called Nora Brown?” Claire asked.

  “No. I just told the secretary that Sarah Grange should call Linda Hansen. Marina agrees to meet me. She’s driving this black BMW and says it’s mine, says I can have a new apartment if I don’t say anything.” She looked around the room. “You like it, Maggie?”

  “You paid too much for it.”

  “Marina Perry is very bold young woman,” Claire observed.

  “She had nothing to lose. If her scheme worked, great. If it didn’t, so what. She’d be back selling cheap underwear to women like me.”

  “I assume the video was Goldie’s idea.”

  “He saw the BMW, knew I’d moved into a better apartment. He thought I had some kind of action going that he wasn’t in on. Goldie could protect you, he could also hurt you. He made me tell.”

  There was a knock on the door. All three of us turned in unison and peered at it. Boulton’s gun appeared in his hand. Linda lunged. Boulton jerked her back.

  “It’s my father,” she said frantically.

  “Your father has a gun,” Boulton whispered to her.

  We stood, not moving. I was aware of the sound of traffic. The refrigerator groaned. There was another quick knock. Claire turned to me and mouthed the words: “Answer it.”

  I walked woodenly to the door. Put my hand on the knob. It felt cold. I opened it.

  His smile was charming. But his eyes widened. He was surprised to see me. Of course he would be. I wasn’t in my proper place.

  “Paul Quentin,” I announced.

  He turned and beat it down the hallway, out onto the street. I was right after him. He ran as gracefully as a quarterback toward the park. I plowed between two women. Quentin kept on running, never looking back. He wouldn’t. His kind never do. He crossed Central Park West. The light turned red, and I stopped hard at the curb. Quentin stood on the other side of the street, his hand in the air, hailing a taxi. I moved out into the street hoping for a break in
traffic. Cars swerved. Horns blew. Middle fingers became erect. I stumbled back to the sidewalk. Quentin’s eyes never once looked in my direction. I did not exist. Jackie did not exist. Soon Alison would not exist.

  The light changed and I bolted. He turned on the balls of his feet, took a few long strides toward the stone wall that lined the park, leaped over it, and disappeared behind some trees. The people sitting on the wall watched him. Now they watched me crawl over it.

  In the park, I stopped to catch my breath and to see if I could spot him. Fragile branches curled toward the sky. Two young men wearing studded leather jackets smoked and shared a bottle. Their dirty dark hair was carefully waved back. Elvis lives. A couple of joggers ran past them. A drunk staggered toward me, his face as battered as an old American car. Young girls in school uniforms carrying books giggled and gossiped. No Paul Quentin.

  I moved deeper into the park. Squirrels darted. A bird sang. Twigs broke underfoot. Not my foot. I turned. The drunk with the battered face stood watching me. He staggered back, then forward, reaching out for me. “Betty? Betty?” he cried.

  He grabbed at the air and fell.

  “Betty, Betty,” he moaned into the ground.

  I stood surrounded by trees and a drunk slobbering in the dirt who thought I was Betty. Wonderful. I ran toward the sound of cars close by and came out onto one of the transverse roads. Paul stood, his broad-shouldered back to me, still trying to get that cab. I moved slowly toward him. Hands clutched my shoulders.

  “Betty, Betty!” the drunk screamed in my ear.

  Paul spun around. The drunk’s hands slipped off of me.

  “Betty, Betty,” he cried desperately.

  Paul turned and started to run. I reached, grabbing the tail of his coat. He stumbled sideways. The coat slid off his shoulders and an envelope fell out. The drunk grabbed my free arm, pulling me backward as Paul hurtled forward; the coat slipped from my grip. The drunk jerked me off-balance and we crashed to the ground, tumbling on top of each other. I caught a glimpse of Paul running. So smooth.

  “Betty, Betty.” His breath was foul.

  “I’m not Betty.” I shoved my hand in his face.

  “Just let me look at you,” he panted. He raised his ragged body up off mine like a spent lover. His hands pinned my shoulders down.

  A woman with an evil-eyed dachshund walked by. “Why don’t you two get a room?” she snapped, pulling the dog away from us.

  I brought my right knee up hard into his groin. His eyes glazed. His mouth flopped open.

  “Betty,” he groaned. He fell onto his side, gagging.

  I got to my feet and picked up the envelope. In it was Sheridan Reynolds’s hundred thousand dollars. I shoved it into my pocket. My heart was pounding. My legs were killing me. So Sheridan Reynolds had sent his assistant to do a father’s job.

  “Betty, Betty,” the drunk panted.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “That’s what you always said to me, Betty.”

  “I am not Betty. We don’t all look alike. We don’t all have short arms and short legs and big tits and long necks and thick beautiful hair and model clothes nobody can afford and sit on stools in Plexiglas cages. We are not fantasy! We die a little when you leave us and we die forever when you plunge a knife into us.”

  He cried into the dirt. Oh, God, I was losing it.

  The Bentley, as quiet and as dark as night, pulled onto the edge of the road. The door opened and Claire leaned out. I could see Linda Hansen in the backseat with her. “What are you doing, Miss Hill?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Employing you is worse than owning a pit bull. Get in the car, please.”

  I stared down at the drunk who was pulling himself into a sitting position. I looked in the envelope. The smallest bill was a hundred. I shoved it in his dirt-covered hand.

  “From Betty,” I said.

  “That’s my money!” Linda yelled.

  “Miss Hill!” Claire threatened.

  I got into the front seat. I handed Claire the money and leaned back against the seat. Boulton plucked a few leaves from my hair.

  “Nora Brown’s office, Boulton,” Claire said.

  “We’re not going after Quentin?” I asked.

  “He will only run as far as the Reynolds residence, Miss Hill. He has no place else to go.”

  “Who is Paul Quentin?” Linda asked.

  I turned and looked at her. “You don’t know him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s your father’s assistant. Your half sister’s fiancé,” Claire explained.

  “Father, mother, half sister, fiancé. Those words mean nothing to me.”

  “Mr. Quentin liked to go to Peep Thrills and watch Jackie,” Claire added.

  “That’s doesn’t mean I know him.” She turned toward the window. “I wanted to see Sheridan Reynolds, look into his eyes like he was just another needy man and not my father. So he sends me his assistant. Men are bastards.”

  “How did you find out he was your father?” Claire asked.

  “I was scared. I not only thought I could be blamed for the murders, but thought I might be next. I wanted to leave town but I needed more money. So for the first time I called Nora and told her who I was and that I had proof and I wouldn’t say anything about Marina if she helped me out. Nora didn’t have any money. She broke down. Cried. As if she already knew about me. She told me who my father was. After all these years I learn my father’s not French and he’s not dead. He’s alive and wealthy and could care less about me.”

  “Why didn’t you ask Marina for more money?” I wondered aloud.

  “I was afraid. What if she killed Jackie? She still doesn’t have anything to lose.”

  Abruptly we came out of the park. Traffic converged on us. Being swept out of the relative quiet of the park was as jarring to the senses as falling out of bed.

  “I used to buy madeleines,” Linda said. “I thought eating them made me very French. Except I never was French. Have you ever had one, Maggie?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re very soft in the center.”

  Twenty-three

  BOULTON WAITED BY THE car.

  The Bonton receptionist was putting her lipstick on from memory. Claire, Linda, and I walked right past her.

  “Just a minute. You can’t go in there,” she yelled after us. The phone’s demanding ring drew her back.

  The racks of clothes were gone. The women labored in their cubicles. The two secretaries were standing when we reached Nora’s office.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the one with the hair the color of bad white wine asked. Her fingers twisted around an expensive pen.

  “Miss Brown will see me,” Claire said.

  “She’s not here.”

  I pushed around her and tried the door. It was locked.

  “Where is she?” Claire asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Miss Hill, get the police on the phone,” Claire commanded.

  “Police?” the two secretaries responded in unison.

  I hate it when she does that. I never know if she means it or not. I reached for the phone.

  “Just a minute,” the secretary said, taking the phone from my hand and punching two numbers. “Ms. Brown? That woman, that detective—”

  “Claire Conrad,” I helped.

  “—is here. She’s threatening to call the police.”

  Claire took the phone out of her hand. “Miss Brown, I have Sarah Grange with me.”

  The two secretaries gaped at Linda.

  Claire hung up and announced, “She’s on the fourth floor.”

  We took the elevator down to the fourth where gray doors lined a white hallway. Claire opened the one marked studio.

  Except for lights shining on a backdrop of pink paper, curving down from the ceiling like a giant tongue lapping at the floor, the room was dark. A photograph
er, a silver chain bracelet on each wrist, peered through a camera on a metal tripod, two assistants behind him. Marina Perry stood in the center of the pink paper wearing a tight ankle-length black dress. Lights drenched her skin in a blaze of purity. A large fan off to one side blew her hair back from her carefully made-up face. Some kind of country-and-western rock blared from a CD player. The male singer cried out in twangy, sexy agony.

  St. Rome and Nora sat in director’s chairs at the edge of the pink paper, as if it were a lake and they didn’t want to get their feet wet.

  “I want the strap of the dress to fall off her shoulder,” St. Rome said, unaware of our presence. “Like the entire dress is about to fall off her.”

  And this from a man who had never desired a woman.

  A girl with dyed red hair and too much red lipstick tiptoed in stockinged feet onto the pink paper and pulled the strap down. She paused, peering out at St. Rome. Receiving no further instructions, she scurried back into the darkness of the room like an animal frightened by light.

  “Move to the music, darling Sarah,” the photographer coaxed.

  She began to form various poses and facial expressions.

  “Lean over,” the photographer cajoled. “A touch more cleavage, darling. I said, lean over. Let us see the damn things.”

  She leaned over, revealing the plump curve of her small breasts. Her dark eyes widened with astonishment as if she’d just discovered she had them. Her lips parted, displaying white teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. It was almost the same color as the paper.

  “Keep moving,” the photographer told her. She obeyed. “Sexy. Sexy. Lick your lips. Sexy. Too much hip. Chin down, darling. I love it. Arms look awkward. Better. Hair is in her face. Darling, can’t you see when your hair is in your own face, for God’s sake? What happened to sexy? I want sexy. I want sexy,” he cried. “Is sexy so difficult?”

  Nora turned in her chair and saw us. Her face was as pale as a small moon in the darkness. She nodded and we followed her into a long, narrow, brightly lit room. A makeup counter and mirror ran the length of one wall. Electric hair rollers heated in their case. Blow-dryers lay on their sides like bloated guns. Jars and tubes of makeup were scattered on the counter. Pieces of tissue bearing lipstick traces littered the floor. The smell of hair spray and deodorant lingered. Bra and panties were tossed on a chair. St. Rome dresses were jammed together on a rack. A thin man with bleached blond hair sat chewing on the end of a brush and reading a magazine with Ivana Trump on the cover. She too was leaning over and looking as if she had just discovered her breasts.