Beauty Dies

by Melodie Johnson Howe

  Elizabeth cried.

  “Let her go, Miss Hill,” Claire spoke softly.

  “You have no right,” I said to Claire. “It’s not our decision.”

  “It’s mine.” Alison slowly backed out of the cabin. “Good-bye, Maggie.” The door banged shut.

  Elizabeth Reynolds cried louder. I whirled around and aimed my gun at her. “Stop it! Stop it!”

  Her crying stopped.

  “I want you to hear this,” I raged. “I want you to remember it.”

  She stared at me. Face wet. Lips trembling. Eyes glazed against the world. In the silence, Boulton leaned against the screen door, examining the weapon in his hand. Claire turned and peered into the fire. The explosion of Alison’s gun split the night apart. Elizabeth Reynolds screamed.

  Twenty-nine

  FOUR DAYS LATER WE had finished breakfast and I was at my desk at the Parkfaire. Claire, all in white, seethed in her chair as she watched McGuire strut around the living room. Alvarez leaned against the fireplace, petting his mustache.

  After Alison’s death, Claire and I had stood outside the bungalow. The Shadow Hills patients waited in clusters, their faces as pale and as tight as a bunch of straitjackets. They watched the outside world intrude on their tormented isolation in a swirl of red lights and a parade of police cars. Elizabeth Reynolds stayed in her closed cabin, sobbing. A psychiatrist held her hand. I had watched the coroner’s men put Alison’s body into the ambulance. Somebody had to watch.

  We had spent the rest of that night into the early morning answering questions and giving information to a Detective Jacobs of the Greenwich Police Department. The next three days were spent talking to the heads-that-be at the NYPD. Paul Quentin, Sheridan Reynolds, Marina Perry, Nora Brown, and Linda Hansen née Sarah Grange were all brought in for questioning. Quentin was the only one held. Nora and Marina Perry were all over the tabloids. St. Rome was suing anything that moved.

  Now McGuire strutted. Alvarez petted.

  “Where are they?” McGuire demanded.

  “My new gloves are not pertinent to this case,” Claire said, watching him as if he were a pigeon on the sill.

  “Listen, lady, you withheld that video from us. Now I want the gloves. They’re evidence.”

  “I had no way of knowing the importance of the video until I found out who the real Sarah Grange was,” she said self-righteously.

  McGuire leaned over her. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

  “Prove it.” She took the handle of her ivory walking stick and shoved it against his chest. “Do not swarm over me.”

  Alvarez chuckled. McGuire shot him a look. He stopped chuckling. Boulton carried some luggage into the hallway. McGuire saw it and threw a tizzy.

  “You’re not leaving. There is no way you’re leaving!”

  Gerta came out with some more cases.

  “I have had an early morning conversation with Graham Sitwell and your commissioner,” Claire continued. “They both assured me I may return to Los Angeles. If there are any more questions to be asked, there is the telephone and the fax. I’m confident that you know how to use both.”

  “I want the gloves.” His voice was mean. “You withhold evidence and you don’t leave town.”

  “This is harassment.”

  “The gloves.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “The gloves, Miss Hill.”

  I got up and went into the hallway. Gerta opened one of Claire’s traveling cases and took out both pairs.

  “Such a shame. Never been worn.” She shook her gray head sadly.

  I handed them to McGuire, who jammed them in his coat pocket. Claire cringed.

  “You’ll be hearing from us,” McGuire said.

  Alvarez stopped petting his mustache and they left.

  Claire continued to seethe. The phone rang.

  “Conrad Suite,” I answered.

  “Maggie? Linda Hansen. I’m at Cybella’s. Marina gave me the keys to the apartment.” She sounded as if she’d been drinking. “I’ve been here all night. I need to talk to someone.”

  I had time. The plane didn’t leave till four. Why did I always have time? Oh, hell.

  “Linda Hansen wants to see me at Cybella’s,” I told Claire, hanging up the phone.

  “Miss Hill. Nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to prevent us from leaving.”

  “I understand.”

  Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look as if she believed me. “Boulton and I will be at the glove shop.”

  For the last time, I entered Cybella’s apartment. Linda, wearing jeans and a white cotton shirt, sat on the yellow silk sofa. A bottle of Jack Daniel’s—the only date that’s left for some women—stood on the coffee table. A cigarette burned in an ashtray.

  “I’m scared to go into Cybella’s bedroom.” The gray eyes were misty with booze.

  “Come on.”

  She followed me but remained on the threshold, the bottle in her hand. She took a quick swallow. “Oh shit, I don’t belong here. Marina was right. I’m a coward. I let my mother be used just because I couldn’t face her.” She staggered, then regained her balance. “I’m tired, Maggie.”

  “It’s the booze, Linda. It has a way of making you feel tired and sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m no better than Jackie. I’ll get myself knifed in the belly one night. I know it. Some bastard who won’t want to pay. I know it.”

  “You’re smarter than that. Two years of college smarter.”

  She looked at me and smiled. It softened her face, and again I was amazed at how young she really was. “Only one year,” she corrected me, “and you’re so fuckin’ middle-class, Maggie.”

  “That’s why you called me. I could use some of that.” I held out my hand for the bottle.

  She paused, then cautiously moved into the room, handing it to me. I took a swallow. It burned all the way down. She looked furtively around like a little girl who isn’t allowed in her mother’s room. She staggered and sat down on the end of the bed. I stood and opened the closet doors. The aroma of Cybella’s perfume was barely discernible. It had already begun to fade.

  “Can you smell that?” I asked.

  She sniffed the air. “I’m not sure. I think so.”

  I pulled out the expensive suits and the evening gowns and threw them on the bed. They cascaded around her. She pushed them away. “What are you doing?”

  “Look at them, feel them, smell them—they’re your mother,” I said.

  I opened the drawers to Cybella’s vanity table, grabbed some costume jewelry, and threw that on the bed.

  “Here are some books given to Cybella by Nora Brown. Did you know Nora loved her?” I tossed a couple of the books on the bed.

  “No.”

  “Your mother never read them. Now you, on the other hand, would probably enjoy them.”

  “Stop it.” Her head swayed. “Stop it.”

  “Get to know her. She was only flesh and blood. Not too intelligent, but clever. Superficial, but she was in a superficial business. She loved a man she shouldn’t have loved. He loved her. She ruined her own life long before she died. Maybe you can do better. Somebody has to do better. Get to know her, Linda, the best you can, then let her go.”

  Tears glistened on her pockmarked cheeks. “Oh, God, Maggie.” She fell back onto the bed amid Cybella’s clothes and jewelry. Turning on her side, she brought her long legs up toward her body. She was quiet. Passed out.

  I tried to walk out of the room but I couldn’t. I picked up the phone and called the Reynolds residence. A maid answered. I told her who I was and to put Mr. Reynolds on. I waited a while but he finally took the call.

  “I’m at Cybella’s. Your daughter is passed out on the bed. She’s trying to get to know her mother but she needs help. I thought maybe you could …”

  “My daughter’s dead.” His voice sounded empty as if there was nothing left inside of him.

  “This is your other daughter.”

  “How much mor
e money does she want?”

  “I’m not talking money. I thought you might come over here. Get to know her.”

  “Elizabeth wouldn’t like that.” He hung up.

  I tried to walk out of the room again, but I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the front door. I dialed another number. I was put through to the two female guard dogs.

  “Maggie Hill for Nora Brown.” They put me on hold without a word. Nora came on the line.

  “What do you want?”

  “Linda Hansen is passed out in Cybella’s apartment. She needs help.”

  Silence.

  “She’s Cybella’s daughter. The woman you loved, remember?”

  “I’m in a meeting. The board of directors fired me.”

  “I have the feeling you’ll bounce right back.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

  I took one last look at Linda curled among her mother’s beautiful clothes and sparkling jewelry. Everything that belonged to Cybella was there on her bed. I took the hundred thousand out of my purse and placed it on the vanity. I laid the keys to the apartment on top of it. I hoped Linda didn’t wake up before Nora arrived. I hoped she wouldn’t take the money and skip town. I hoped.

  I stared at my spectator pumps. The black patent leather curved around the white leather and glistened crisply in the morning light. Wing tips. I thought of Jackie. Her mother had dreams. I thought of Alison with her camera. Her mother had tears.

  To observe. To witness.

  A female arm with a lot of silver bracelets reached in and plucked the shoes out of the window. They were replaced by a pair of black satin shoes with gold, knifelike heels. I watched in horror. I couldn’t adjust. My heart broke. My spectator pumps. Gone. Oh, hell, Maggie, let the soul yearn.

  “Thinking of buying a pair of stiletto heels, Maggie?” Boulton moved next to me. “So you can stomp all over my heart?”

  I gave him a slow, sly look and patted the gun in his shoulder holster. “Your heart is protected, Boulton.”

  “Miss Conrad has ordered her gloves. She awaits,” he said in his best butler voice, gesturing down the street toward the glove shop.

  Our plane glided downward, skimming L.A. Its giant birdlike shadow reflected over all the flat-roof houses, the baby blue swimming pools, the tops of the shaggy palm trees where the rats lived, and the freeways where the commuters inched closer to home.

  Boulton sat across the aisle, next to Gerta. He brought his fine fingers to his somber lips and blew me a kiss.

  “Is Miss Hill going someplace, Boulton?” Claire asked.

  “I hope not, madam.”

  Yes, I thought, watching him, it’s good for the soul to yearn.

  “There will be work for Miss Conrad,” Gerta said, peering out the plane’s window. “I can feel it.”

  The sun was as round as a pregnant woman’s belly in the southern California sky and it burned with life. I put on my sunglasses.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank my agent, Chuck Verrill, for believing Maggie and Claire would rise again; Pam Dorman for her support; my dear friend Lenore Salzbrunn; and a special thanks to T. E. D. Klein.

  BEAUTY DIES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1994 by Melodie Johnson Howe

  Cover design by Tash Webber

  EPUB: 978-1-78396-130-6

  MOBI: 978-1-78396-131-3

  This ebook edition published 2014 by Elliott & Thompson Ltd

  27 John Street

  London, WC1N 2BX

  www.eandtbooks.com

  If you liked BEAUTY DIES

  Read more of Claire Conrad and Maggie Hill in

  THE MOTHER SHADOW

  Available now on Kindle

  Also available:

  THE DIANA POOLE STORIES:

  CITY OF MIRRORS & SHOOTING HOLLYWOOD

  Out now on Kindle

  Now read a special extract of the Mother Shadow:

  1

  A LOW, SMOOTH MALE voice infiltrated my sleep. The voice told me: “Virginity is making a comeback. Polls taken on high-school and college campuses find…”

  I opened my eyes and turned off the radio. Sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at my unshaven legs and the chipped red nail polish on my toenails, I waited for my usual morning sadness to slowly disappear. Ever since I was a little girl I have experienced a sense of loss upon awakening. I think of this loss, this sadness, as a bridge of melancholy which I must cross to get from the comforting darkness of unconsciousness to the painful light of morning.

  Since this was the morning of my thirty-fifth birthday, and I’d just been told by the radio that virginity was making a comeback, I knew my sadness was going to linger. My breasts felt heavy. How could these two little things feel so burdensome? Gravity. And how was it possible for virginity to make a comeback?!

  The telephone rang. It had to be my mother, who lives in Versailles, Ohio, on a street called Main. She would be calling to wish me a happy birthday, and to announce, not for the first time, that I was now a mature woman who must face the fact that not everyone can be a success in Los Angeles. Please come home.

  I found the telephone under yesterday’s clothes. “Hello?”

  “Miss Maggie Hill, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Ellis Kenilworth here.” Kenilworth was my current temporary employer. “Would you mind coming in earlier this morning? Say, around nine o’clock instead of ten?” His cool, educated voice was frayed with tension. “I will be meeting with a Roger Valcovich, and it’s imperative that you be here.”

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Kenilworth?”

  “For the first time, I’m trying to make things right. Miss Hill, I’ve grown to respect you over the short period of time we’ve worked together. I hope that feeling is mutual.”

  “It is.” I did respect Kenilworth. He was a true gentleman. In fact, he was the only gentleman I knew. His manners and courtesies were extended with admiration, not with a pat on the head.

  “And I always felt, if need be, I could rely on your discretion,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Nine o’clock, then. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye.”

  In my family, discretion meant that you kept your goddamn mouth shut. I hung up the phone. His choice of the word “imperative” was odd. For the last three months I’d been working out of Kenilworth’s mansion in Pasadena. I put his handwritten inventories of his coin collection into his brand-new computer. It was one of my easier temporary jobs. There was nothing imperative about it.

  I stared at my own computer. It was delicately stacked and balanced on the short, narrow bar top that separates my tiny kitchen from my tiny living-bedroom. The monitor was blank faced, the floppy disks empty. I was a writer. I had written one novel, which was published to overwhelming silence. I looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock. No time to shave my legs. Again.

  Heading toward the bathroom, I flipped on the television. Jane and Bryant were sitting on the NBC sofa, looking all shiny faced and spruced up. Before I turned on the shower, I heard Jane bouncily announce that her next set of guests were Mr. J. L. Henderson, a wife beater; Mrs. Alice Henderson, his twenty-year victim; and Dr. Arnold Meitzer, psychologist. But
first…

  Warm water…soap…Maybe I could wash virginity back into my life. I shut my eyes.

  There was the image of my ex-husband, Neil. He was no wife beater. I was no victim. And yet…all that shared pain. Why did I marry a policeman? Do not go over this again, Maggie. Oh, hell, what are birthdays for if not to review your past failures and torture yourself with those failures? Almost as much fun as picking a pimple. I married him because I thought I needed his sense of structure, his authority, his knowledge of right and wrong. I immediately rebelled against all he had to offer me. Confusing me. Confusing him.

  I had liked his impersonal way of having sex. We didn’t make love. We fucked. But then he had an impersonal affair, and I discovered just how very personal betrayal can be.

  I got out of the shower and opened the door to let the steam out of my windowless bathroom. I heard Bryant declare that New York was going to let the local stations tell the viewers what was happening in their part of the country. I always thought that was really nice of New York. They didn’t have to let us know what was going on.

  I dried off the mirror. Serious dark-brown eyes looked at serious dark-brown eyes. High cheekbones reflected high cheekbones. My hair, the same color as my eyes, was cut just below my defiant chin. My nose avoided being cute by turning slightly down instead of up. I would have opted for cute. My mouth secretly embarrassed me: the lips were full and looked as if they were waiting for kisses. Men always looked at my mouth first. Rubbing cream into my face, which I knew didn’t do a damn thing, I decided there wasn’t time to blow-dry my hair.

  Back in the living-bedroom, I struggled into control-top panty hose, trying not to work up a sweat. A blond young man with a smirk appeared on the TV. He told me he was David Dunn. He had his eye on L.A. But first…

  I searched through my dresser for a forty-five-dollar French bra. I’d just bought it. I couldn’t afford it. A pure white lacy strap gleamed among the twisted mass of panty hose, slips, scarfs, sweaters, and underwear. The top of my dresser was strewn with makeup, costume jewelry, paperback books, notes to myself, dirty underwear, and my grandmother’s rosary. This wasn’t the dresser of a thirty-five-year-old woman. This dresser looked like it belonged to a fifteen-year-old girl. My sadness was deepening into depression.