“Is Miss Conrad all right?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Anything?”
“Not that I could tell.”
He moved from the shadows and his eyes searched mine.
“What’s wrong, Maggie?”
I needed to know that it was all right between men and women. I reached out my hand. He took it.
The woman screamed.
Twenty-five
“THE REYNOLDS RESIDENCE, BOULTON.”
“Who did the woman see, madam?” he asked, pulling out onto the street.
“Not who, Boulton. It’s what she saw. Light.”
I looked at her. “She always sees lights. Car lights in her mind.”
“And yesterday she saw a light and it wasn’t in her mind. It was real and it shattered her compulsion. I want you to come with us, Boulton.”
The doorman at Avenue 8000 was behind his granite console controlling his monitors. “Mr. Reynolds and his daughter are both out,” he informed Claire.
“What about Paul Quentin?” she asked.
“Does he expect you?”
“Tell him he will either expect me or he will expect the police.”
He picked up the phone and discreetly repeated Claire’s threat.
In the elevator Claire instructed me: “Miss Hill, I want you to steal the film in Alison’s camera. The camera she carries in her tote bag. If there are any used rolls of film, take those too.”
“She always has the bag with her,” I said. “But I’ll take a look. I don’t know anything about cameras. She has state-of-the-art equipment. How do I get the film out?”
“I assume there’s a button to push.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s always a button to push. Isn’t there, Boulton?”
“Always, madam.”
“I mean, why steal the film?”
“The bright light, Miss Hill.”
The elevator doors opened, and Paul Quentin stood there, all clean and pressed after our run in the park. He had a death grip on a glass of scotch. The blue eyes shone like ice, but he was still able to give us one of his exquisite smiles.
“You didn’t need to threaten me with the police. I have no reason not to see you.”
“You finally caught a cab,” I said. “Why’d you run?”
“I always run. I hate to be tacky, but the money …?”
“We have it, Mr. Quentin,” Claire informed him. “How long has the family known that the woman who said she was Sarah Grange is an imposter?”
“They didn’t know until the real Sarah, I believe she calls herself Linda Hansen, informed us yesterday. Elizabeth was suspicious. She couldn’t figure out why the model never contacted us. Of course, Elizabeth is always suspicious.”
“Mrs. Reynolds also wanted to draw my attention to the model and away from her own family. That’s why she met with me, why she told me the model was Sheridan’s daughter. Isn’t that true?”
He smiled inappropriately, then gulped some more scotch.
Claire strode into the living room and sat impatiently in one of the black velvet chairs. “Where are Sheridan Reynolds and Alison?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are they together?”
“Yes.”
“A wedding is much better than blackmail, isn’t it?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“It’s so much more respectable. It assures that what you know about the deaths of Cybella, Jackie, and Goldie will all be kept in the family. That would please Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds, wouldn’t it? And you would be guaranteed a life of wealth.”
“I’ve made no attempt to hide the fact that I am interested in money. But that doesn’t mean I know anything about these deaths.”
“Tell me about Jackie.”
“I already told your assistant everything I know.”
“Listen to me carefully, Mr. Quentin.” Claire’s voice was strangely calm and menacing at the same time. “I am a woman who abhors violence. So is Miss Hill. But Boulton has a vicious streak. Don’t let his careful studied appearance fool you. I would hate to see you harmed in any way.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“With physical violence. Yes.”
His eyes brought Boulton into focus. “I’m a nonviolent person myself.” He took a quick sip, listed toward the window, and stared out at the heavens. “I was utterly captivated by Jackie. I couldn’t get enough of her. At first I’d meet her at the Duke but I didn’t like the surroundings. So we began to meet in elegant hotel suites. She was so exquisitely trashy. So perfectly common. I loved watching her in those rooms. I was fascinated by the contrast. She would do anything I wanted. Anything.” He faced us. “I adored her. I didn’t kill her. And I have positioned myself so that no matter what happens in this family I will survive. Even if it’s just Elizabeth Reynolds and me.”
“Just like a cockroach,” I said.
“Alison knew about Jackie, didn’t she? She knew about the hotel suites.” Claire stood and began to pace.
“I might have told her.”
“She followed Jackie. She thought Jackie was meeting you at the Parkfaire. But she wasn’t,” Claire said to no one in particular.
“You’ll have to ask Alison,” Quentin replied primly.
She stopped pacing and demanded, “Where is her darkroom?”
He hesitated. “Why?”
“Tell her,” Boulton warned.
“Second door down the hall off the foyer.”
Claire nodded at me and I headed down the hall. The darkroom was as clean and as inviting as an operating room. I looked through cupboards and drawers. There was no tote bag, no cameras. I went down the hall opening doors: a den, a man’s bedroom, bathroom. A dark, musty room with dust sheets thrown over the bed and the chairs. Elizabeth Reynolds’s, I assumed. A pale blue bedroom with an open shoe box on the bed. White peau de soie high heels nestled in their white tissue paper. Shoes to match a wedding gown. The tote bag rested on the floor next to her dresser. I took the camera from the bag. I hated cameras. People smiling. Smiling even if they’re miserable. Immediate revision of the moment. Smile if you’re having a terrible vacation. Smile, then get divorced. Smile … my finger slipped, pressing a button. The flash went off in my eyes. I froze. I couldn’t see a thing. Gold rings shimmered. Depression crawled through me. I put the camera back and carried the tote bag out to Claire.
“I don’t like where this case is going. What do you expect to see on this film?” I handed her the tote bag.
“The woman at the Duke Hotel. Car lights can momentarily blind the vision, Miss Hill. So can a flash of light. The kind of quick dazzling light that comes from a camera. It was a defensive move. So the woman could not identify anybody. Isn’t that right, Mr. Quentin?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What happens when you get that film developed and find out there is nothing but chimney pots, hinges, and door knockers on it?” I asked.
“I don’t think that will be the case, do you, Mr. Quentin?”
He didn’t answer. He was between smiles. Not a pretty sight. She handed the bag to Boulton. “Use her darkroom. How long will it take to develop the film?”
“A half hour, forty-five minutes at the most.”
Claire studied the tote. The lines deepened around her mouth. “Just a minute, Boulton. Doesn’t Alison always take this with her?” she asked Quentin.
“I guess she forgot it. Why?”
“Where is she? Where have they gone?” she demanded urgently.
“I told you, she left with her father. That’s all I know.”
“You’ve been waiting here, drinking. You said even if it’s just you and Elizabeth Reynolds. What are you waiting for?”
“For Sheridan and Alison to return.” The hand with the drink trembled. Ice tinkled.
“I don’t think so. I think you’re hoping they don’t return. Break his fingers, Boulton.”
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“Jesus Christ!” Quentin staggered back, dropping the glass. It shattered on the limestone floor like a small star colliding with the earth. Boulton gripped his arm. Before he even touched his fingers, Quentin’s knees buckled.
“They’ve gone to Cybella’s. Sheridan wanted to see her apartment for the last time,” he whimpered. “That’s what he told me.”
“This is very important, Miss Hill. I want you to go to Bedford Place. I want you to keep them there, if we’re not too late. Wait for my call.”
“Be careful, Maggie,” Boulton warned. “Remember he has a gun.”
“You’re wrong about Alison,” I said.
“I’m never wrong, Miss Hill,” she said, sadly.
Twenty-six
SITTING IN THE BACK of a cab racing down Park, I thought of Alison taking my picture.
Don’t move, Maggie.
Smile, Maggie.
Expensive apartment buildings gave way to expensive office buildings.
Alison was creative. She had a chance to survive, to be something other than an angry woman, a needy, desperate, rejected woman. A woman who waited. A woman who killed. Claire had to be wrong.
I left the cab, and the cold spring wind blew right through me, as if my existence didn’t matter.
The dead bolt clicked, and once again I pushed open the door to Cybella’s apartment. Before walking in, I listened. No sounds. I took the gun out of my purse, stepped quietly inside and closed the door. The living room showed no signs of visitors. Dirty face sponges were still strewn across the floor in Marina’s room. Her clothes from another life remained sheltered in the closet. I went back and stood outside Cybella’s bedroom, listened again. I pushed the door. It swung back, banging against the wall, the ruffles on the linen pillows billowing with the movement of air. But that was the only reaction to my grand entrance. I moved toward the bathroom. I peered inside at marble walls and a marble tub the color of flesh.
Maybe Sheridan and Alison had come and gone. Maybe they weren’t even coming. I sat on the vanity stool and waited. In the mirrored closet, I looked at myself holding the gun. I held it like I almost knew what I was doing, but my eyes and mouth took on a humorous, ironic look as if I were going to tell a witty story. The silence creaked. I waited. The silence creaked some more. A door opened and closed.
Heavy footsteps.
I moved swiftly into the bathroom and positioned myself behind the half-open door.
Sheridan Reynolds came into the room. He looked like a man peering over the edge. Removing his overcoat, he tossed it on a chair and stared down at Cybella’s bed. Gently, he touched the silky damask cover. His fingers tightened around the fabric. Slowly he pulled the cover to him as if he were pulling Cybella into his arms. He buried his face in the spread, then dropped to his knees. He stroked the bed poignantly as if stroking her naked body. His mouth opened and a deep dry sob escaped. Still on his knees, he leaned against the end of the bed and cried.
Again the sound of a man crying left me feeling uneasy. It is the sound of our fathers losing control. It is the sound of the world cracking apart. I wanted to stay where I was. I wanted to leave him with his pain, his loss. Then Alison appeared in the doorway, her arms folded against her breasts, her lips pressed in a tight line. She watched her father through eyes filled with bitterness and hurt. She looked like her mother. I moved into the room with my hand tight around the gun.
“Claire Conrad wants to see both of you,” I said.
Sheridan stumbled to his feet and faced me. His eyes were swollen from tears.
Alison didn’t move.
“What are you doing here?” her father managed to ask me.
“We’re going to wait for Claire,” I said. “Sit on the end of the bed, Alison.” She did as she was told.
“Take the gun out of your pocket and place it on the floor,” I told Sheridan.
“I don’t have a gun on me.”
“You had a gun on you last night.”
“Well, I don’t have one now.”
“Then take off your jacket.”
“I will not. You going to shoot me? And her?”
“If you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot you in the arm or the leg. Then I’ll have to call the paramedics and they’ll call the police. Wouldn’t you rather talk to Claire Conrad? Now take off your jacket and drop it on the floor. Slowly.”
He finally did.
“Now sit on the end of the bed.”
He slowly sat down. I grabbed the jacket and pulled it to me. The gun was in the right-hand pocket.
“You must understand, Cybella’s death was an accident,” he said. His hand softly stroked the coverlet. “Oh, God. I thought I could handle it, take care of everything.” He stood.
“Sit down.”
“I just want to wash my face.”
Still able to see Alison, I stood in the bathroom doorway. He wet a towel, then buried his face in it. His shoulders jerked convulsively. “I never had a chance to mourn for Cybella properly.”
I would have felt more for him had he left out the word properly. There was something self-righteous about it. He stepped from the bathroom wiping the back of his neck with the towel.
“Sit back down on the end of the bed,” I told him.
“Let me go away with my father.” Alison finally spoke.
The phone rang. Sheridan leaped to his feet.
“Sit down!” I yelled, grabbing the receiver.
“Miss Hill?” It was Claire. “I’m holding a photograph of the Woman Who Cries. Are they with you?”
“Yes.”
“We’re on our way.”
I hung up the phone.
“This is ridiculous. You have no right to hold us. Where is Claire Conrad anyway?”
I wasn’t listening to him. It was Alison I wanted to hear. “It’s a waste, isn’t it? All your talent? All your hope and promise?”
“Hope and promise?” The hazel eyes blinked.
“Tell me about Cybella. You remember her, your muse?”
“Don’t say anything, Alison,” her father warned.
Her eyes lost their alertness. She took on the look that abused children sometime have, the look that says, I am no longer a part of this moment, this situation. I am in my own world where no one can touch me or hurt me. “I pushed her over the railing.”
“Let us go,” he said. “Please.”
“I looked over the railing,” Alison continued, as if he had not spoken. “I saw all the doormen rush to her. I took the elevator down. There was so much commotion, I just walked away without anyone noticing me. I wish someone had.”
“Let me take care of this myself,” Sheridan pleaded.
“Like you’ve taken care of all your women?” I demanded.
He leaped to his feet, snapping the towel at my face. The heavy wet end bit like a whip under my right eye. He snapped it again. I thrust out my arm to block it. My gun fell from my hand. The towel stung my neck. He bent over and reached for his coat jacket. I kicked at his side. He rose, swinging his jacket hard against my head. I took the weight of the gun in his pocket full force. Alison’s small delicate face was frozen in time like a cameo. He swung again. My knees buckled. Sheridan must have been a popular guy in the men’s locker room. The white carpeting turned dark.
Twenty-seven
I OPENED MY EYES. The darkness spun. I closed them. Quiet. No distant sound of traffic, no car horns blasting their one long fuck you. Too quiet. I missed those horns. I opened my eyes. Stomach turned. Mouth dry. I licked my lips. Pain shot through my cheekbone. I raised my hand to my face. The right side was swollen. Not to worry. I had use of my arms. My legs? Maybe. I was flat on my back. The bed was soft. Would my legs work if I stood on them? That was the question. Bed? Cybella’s? I slowly sat up. The darkness dipped. I got my feet to the floor. Uncarpeted. Not Cybella’s. I sat, panting like a dog, trying to keep my stomach down, my body upright.
A door opened somewhere in the blackness. Light slashed a path r
ight to me. Alison walked along the ray of light like an angel on a golden tightrope.
“Maggie?”
I looked down the golden path and saw her father in the next room sitting at a desk. Men are always sitting at their desks. Rome burns. Maggie dies. Men sit at their desks.
Alison peered down at me, then walked back to the door and shut it. We were plunged into darkness. Panic seized me.
“Close your eyes, Maggie, I’m going to turn on a light,” she said.
Not on your life. I kept them wide open. Light blasted the room. I was blinded. My eyes closed all by themselves.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I balanced myself on the precipice of the bed and opened them. Blinking, I adjusted to the brightness. My right eye ached.
Alison sat in a chair across from the bed, her small face colorless and strained. In contrast, her hazel eyes had an unnerving brilliance. The abused child had disappeared. “I want to talk to you.”
I became aware of the room. The walls were papered in some kind of ivy print. The floor was dark oak planks with a red and green needlepoint rug. The bed was all goose down and pillows. She sat in a chair that was covered in a green trellis-print fabric. Everything was perfectly mismatched. Another expensive room.
“Where am I?”
“Our country home.”
“Any particular country?”
“Near Greenwich. This is my bedroom.”
“What time is it?”
“Around seven.”
“In the evening?”
She nodded, and curled her legs under her. One girlfriend getting ready for a long chat with another. “I want you to understand what I did. I care what you think about me.”
“Is that why you brought me here? Alison, I don’t know what I look like but I bet I’m not looking too pretty.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie. My father was desperate.” She adjusted a tortoiseshell barrette that held back her unruly hair. She uncurled her legs, stood, opened a dresser drawer, and pulled out a pink sweater. She threw it over her shoulders. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yes.”
When I looked the room over again, this time it wasn’t for decor but for escape routes. There was one large draped window. Besides the bedroom door, there were two other closed doors. I assumed one led to a closet, the other a bathroom.
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