The primitive writing and the incomplete phrase were the earmarks of an amateur. I moved the light around the page again, but could not find any additional writing. There were certain techniques critical to writing with secret ink. Number one, using a firm surface. It also takes practice. If the writer ran out of ink, the problem might go unnoticed. A common blunder when your ink is invisible.
I concentrated, reexamining the message in its entirety. The first part was clear: meet the recipient in the beauty salon at midnight. Liberty’s tryst had been scheduled for the same time, leading me to conclude the correspondence had to be for her. The message was not from Liberty, we had practiced using our ink sets together and I knew her handwriting, and that meant the message had been written by whomever she was supposed to meet. The last part, unfortunately, still made no sense. MUST NOT RETURN TO where? And OKPLATE? What was that? Code? Part of the name of the rendezvous spot?
I scanned the adjacent page, then hurriedly whipped through the entire book, giving each page a quick ultraviolet sweep. Nada. Zippo.
I needed to approach the problem from a different angle. Prior to Liberty, Kiki had been the last person in possession of the book. She had fought to keep it from her husband. She had wanted Liberty, and no one else, to receive it. Was that it? She knew it contained a message?
My brow furrowed. But if Kiki had written it, how had she obtained secret ink? Phantom ink was not something the average Joe or Jane could get his or her hands on. OSS agents were trained to write with it, and recognize it, but even they rarely used the stuff. Mainly the ink was utilized by Germans or, in a broader sense, Europeans. My theory didn’t make sense unless one or both of the women were enemy agents.
It was also possible the writer was a covert enemy agent and that Kiki had merely been the agent’s courier, acting to help entrap Liberty and lure her somewhere private. But why the beauty shop? If the sender had intended to harm Liberty, or kidnap her, why not choose someplace more discreet? I swallowed. Why had Liberty said the book held no clues?
I slapped the book closed. With my elbows propped on the desk, I ran my hands over my face, rubbing the skin until it hurt. Too many questions and I had no answers.
Kiki Barclay-Bly would have some. Dee had referred to the estate’s location. I would be passing right by it on my way to the Orange Lantern tavern, the appointed meeting place for the breakin team.
***
LaVue Rouge was a short hop off Michigan Avenue, the main road from Detroit to Ypsilanti. I knew the route well, having taken it on my previous trips to and from Willow Run.
The couple’s home was off the main road, but I’d found a map in the Ford’s glove box showing the back roads. Passing through Dearborn, I left Michigan Avenue and took a spur that eventually dumped me onto a narrow country road that followed a westerly course, parallel to Michigan. Silhouettes of maples and elms, as well as a few sparse pines, lined the thinly forested properties on either side. I knew from studying the map that the Rouge River ran along the strip of land off the driver’s side. I’d also noted that the stretch of river closest to the road was just short of where Dee had indicated the gate would be. My window was open and I had the Ford in low gear so that I could listen for river sounds.
The croaking sounds of a bullfrog concerto grew in volume. I lifted my foot from the gas and listened more carefully. At last, a gurgling noise. I braked.
High above, gossamer clouds whisked a full moon in waves of varying intensity. A sudden burst of moonlight illuminated a massive gate anchored on either side by stone pillars, the flourishes of curlicues and ornate tulips in the door’s grillwork exactly what Dee had described.
I followed a blackened drive, the course roughly paralleling the river, off to my left. A rutted lane intersected, also from the left. I slowed, trying to see where it went, but after a few yards the lane disappeared into an inky, moon-spotted landscape. A horse whinnied in the distance and a second horse neighed back, and I decided the lane must lead to the estate’s stables or barn.
A short distance later, I rounded a bend. Directly ahead, a monstrous home built in the style of an English castle dominated a clearing. Slits of golden light blazed from tall rectangular windows, three tiers high, forming an uneven pattern along the breadth of the structure’s elongated stone façade. High above, the moon was still veiled by fast-moving, vaporous clouds. The light changed and the silhouette of the mansion’s crenellated roof suddenly resembled a jack-o-lantern’s squared-off widespread teeth, gnawing at the sky. A string of fireplace chimneys created a second staggered row of teeth, while an angular turret at the tip of the southwesterly wing resembled the rook from a giant’s chess set.
My first impression of the house was so consuming that I didn’t hear the engine sounds of the approaching automobile until it was just ahead of me. The car’s headlamps were dark. They abruptly snapped on. The sudden bright light nearly blinded me. I had a terrible vision of returning my FBI loaner with its side bashed in. Imagining Connelly’s smug grin, I recovered, tugging the wheel and veering onto the lane’s narrow shoulder.
My headlamps momentarily flooded the passing car’s interior and I saw two men in the front seat. The driver was bald and had a thin, gaunt face; the passenger’s round features and wild thatch of white hair were a distinct contrast. I caught a flash of the passenger’s white lab coat and then they were gone.
The dust from the speeding car had not yet settled as I pulled into the horseshoe-shaped gravel driveway fronting the mansion, my nerves rattled by the close encounter. It was around eight o’clock, and I suspected I might also be jittery about calling on Kiki unannounced. The English translation of the E.T.A. Hoffmann book V-V had lent me was on the front seat, part of the excuse I had invented for my impromptu visit. Grabbing it, I exited the Ford, observing another automobile, a gray Studebaker, parked a short distance away in the driveway’s shadows.
I peered through a narrow pane of clear beveled glass bordering the arched wooden doors at the entrance. At the mouth of the foyer, tasseled sashes held drawn velvet drapes. Beyond the parted drapes, a pair of dim sconces created a murky hallway.
I pulled the turtleneck of the heavy black sweater required for the evening’s mission higher up my neck and crossed my arms, rubbing them against the cool night air. It was good to be in casual clothes again, but my lingering survey of the elegant entryway made me wonder how my relaxed appearance would be received. Indeed, whether I would be received at all. Was the doorbell working? I poked the pearl button again.
At last, a tall, thin maid wearing a black dress with a white collar and cuffs appeared in the hallway. She smoothed her ruffled white apron and flicked on the light, then pressed her nose to the glass and looked out. I recognized the fuzzy bouffant and small round scars riddling her skin. The maid staring out at me was Irina Popov, my former cellblock mate from Wayne County Jail.
“Irina,” I said squeezing inside the vast vestibule, stomach churning wildly. “What are you doing here?”
Irina’s hazel eyes were wide with surprise. “Praise the Lord, it is our jewel thief,” she said, clasping her hands together.
I praised the Lord, grateful that Irina’s hallelujahs had been reasonably restrained.
“Shh,” I admonished, glancing about for lagging greeters who might be curious about a nighttime caller. “What are you doing here?” I repeated.
“Agency sent me. Special assignment.”
Did she mean one of the intelligence arms? “Which agency?”
“I am eyes and ears for—” She paused. Her normally open expression grew suddenly hard. She straightened her back. “I been Merry Maids free agent for many years.” Her eyes narrowed. “And what it is you are doing here, Miss Pucci?”
Her recovery was smooth. Smoother than I would have expected from the recent immigrant and Holy Roller I’d met in jail. But give me a hundred to one odds Dante was the Merry employer who had planted her in the mansion and I’d take it.
“I’m
a journalist,” I explained, then openly admitted to having been in jail in hopes of getting a scoop on the Countess. In confessing to the ruse, I hoped to strike a balance between being honest enough to win Irina’s trust, possibly as an undercover girl-mate, and shady enough to play off our bond as former cellmates. I also let her know that I’d come to LaVue Rouge to interview Kiki and return a book.
“Your turn,” I said.
Her rapid-fire English tested my interpreting skills now and again, but I got the lowdown on what had brought her to the estate and what she’d been doing since her arrival.
This morning the couple’s maid had called in sick. Irina served lunch to “Mr. V”—as she referred to V-V—and to his friends, then cleaned up afterwards. “The Mrs.” had not left her room all day, but following V-V’s direction, Irina had ministered to her needs the entire day, too. Finally, about fifteen minutes ago, having delivered a tray to the master suite, she had collapsed into a chair. Then I’d rung the bell.
She held her apron by its scalloped ruffles, rubbing them like rosary beads between her thumbs and fingers. “I do not think The Mrs., she is able to talk with you,” she added tentatively.
I opened my mouth to ask why. A loud crash resounded above us. Startled, we glanced at one another. If I’d had to venture a guess, I would have said a chair, maybe a small table, had fallen over in one of the rooms upstairs.
I eyed the staircase. A carved oak railing climbed one side, ending at a landing with a bank of tall casement windows inset with stained glass. Above the landing, another flight of steps rose to the second floor where an open balcony looked down over the entrance hall.
I stepped deeper into the foyer and gazed skyward to a vast open space that vaulted past a third floor and stopped at a beamed ceiling from which an ornate chandelier dangled.
The hall was completely quiet again. I turned to Irina and shrugged. There was another crash, followed by a scream.
I bolted for the stairs. My flat shoes and casual clothing were emancipating. I took the steps two at a time. On the landing, the knob at the railing’s top acted like a fulcrum, catapulting me around the sharp turn and flinging me up the next flight.
I heard Irina on my heels. Pulled by another crashing noise, we raced for a room down a hallway to our right. We hesitated at the door.
“It is the master suite,” Irina said, her voice trembling with fear or exertion, or both.
I placed my ear against the door. I heard a whimper. With syncopated precision, I knocked, turned the handle, shot open the door.
***
The couple stood near the fireplace across the room. Kiki, clad in peach satin pajamas, moaned. Eyes closed, she fell into V-V’s open arms like a rag doll, one of her feather-poufed high-heeled slippers flying off backwards.
V-V’s startled gaze flicked to Irina, then back to me. He wore a paisley smoking jacket, and dark slacks, and was slipper-clad as well. Kiki’s limp body shifted and his slippered feet parted as he braced himself to support her.
“What happened?” I asked.
V-V rearranged Kiki and shrugged. “She was eating dinner, got up to stoke the fire. I was at my desk, working—” He nodded to a large desk against the wall. “I heard a crash…”
The fireplace tools had toppled over. Behind him, angry flames leapt from logs stacked on andirons, sending embers up the flue. Two delicate chairs were positioned near the hearth, but a small table had been knocked over. Nearby, spatters of red wine and meal remnants sprinkled a section of the white pile carpet. Shattered china and brass fireplace tools were strewn helter-skelter. The poker had landed slightly apart from the main disaster.
Grunting as he picked up Kiki, he demanded, “Why are you here?”
“We heard a scream.”
“You heard a groan,” he replied emphatically.
I held my tongue. I hadn’t come to argue.
Kiki’s head lolled against V-V’s arm as he carried her to a monstrous bed set on a platform that dominated the room. He stepped up onto the dais, his broad shoulders straining against the fine silk of his paisley jacket. “Don’t worry,” he said, addressing us over his shoulder. “It is just one of her spells. She will be fine after a little rest.”
Observing Kiki cradled in his arms, it was hard to imagine she would be anything but fine.
Irina mounted the platform and drew back the covers, exposing sheets of gold satin. Behind the bed, an extended flounce of pleated gold draped the wall.
V-V placed his wife on the sumptuous sheet. He turned and his chestnut eyes, sharp like a hawk’s, and caught mine.
“You were explaining why you are here?”
I nodded. “Your wife and I agreed to meet at the Club today to compare ideas and discuss innovations for raising money for the war effort. This afternoon my editor called. Wants me go to Chicago tomorrow to cover a new development. I wanted to be sure you got your Hoffmann book back. I thought I might also try working in the interview. Obviously, I’ve come at a terrible time. Sorry.”
He focused on my empty hands. His eyebrow lifted inquisitively.
I managed a smile. “The book is at the bottom of the stairs. I dropped it when your maid and I heard the crash. We ran up here to help.” I strolled to the elevated bed to get a better look at Kiki. “What kind of spell is she having exactly?”
V-V shrugged. “The doctor does not yet have the precise medical term for the disorder. There should be tests, of course, but she is always too busy. Meanwhile, he—we—refer to the condition simply as ‘spells.’”
Dee had been concerned that Kiki was working too hard, but she had not mentioned spells. “What does the doctor think is causing them?”
V-V’s broad shoulders sagged. “It is always the same. She works hard at the Club, she frets about her sister, she gets tired, a little melancholy, then gets a headache and she faints. Like this.” He reached for the satin covers, carefully arranging them around her still form.
I regarded Kiki’s face. Her normally porcelain skin was a ghastly gray and the thick fringe of bangs had flopped sideways, exposing the strawberry birthmark. In a final comforting gesture V-V brushed the hair back into place and bent to kiss her.
He straightened up. Irina had left the dais to begin cleaning up the mess at the hearth. The sounds of silverware and glass shards hitting the tray drew his attention, but then Kiki moaned and he turned back to her. While he hunched over her, soothing her with his words, like a crab on sand I inched quickly backwards until I was at a small writing desk I’d observed when I rushed in. I kept him in the corner of my eye as I panned the area surrounding a ream of engraved paper, hoping to find a sample of Kiki’s handwriting.
The sheet on top contained several lines of feminine handwriting, but it was too large to slip into my pocket without folding it first. Too much rustling, too much motion. My fingers twitched. Several sheets had been wadded up and left beside the stack. I chose the closest one, stuffing it into my pocket.
“She all right?” I asked, edging away from the desk.
V-V nodded and stepped off the platform. “Fine. She is sleeping now.”
At the fireplace, Irina’s forehead was deeply furrowed. She had seen me swipe the wad of paper, I guessed, sending her a pleading glance.
V-V addressed her. “Remain here and keep an eye on Mrs. V while I escort Miss Lewis to the front door.”
I faced Irina. “I’ll be back,” I mouthed, before turning to follow him.
As we descended the stairs, V-V asked, speaking distinctly and quite loudly, “So you’ll be returning directly to the Cosmos Club?”
I couldn’t fess up to my real destination. “Uh-huh, that’s my plan.” The Hoffmann book was right where I’d dropped it. “There it is,” I said, springing down the final steps, scooping up the volume. “Excellent—creepy—mystery, by the way. Thanks.” I spun around to hand it to him. It was only a shadow of movement, but in the corner of my eye as I reeled I saw one of the heavy velvet drapes near the door stir.
“It was very kind of you to drive all the way out here to return my Hoffmann,” V-V said, loping down the final steps. “And how timely…”
He lowered his voice. His eyes burned into mine. “I have been asked to convey a message. A certain friend wants you to know she is well. She has left the country. You know her destination. That is all.”
My pulse raced. “G-gee…” I stammered. “Great news. Thanks.”
V-V looked uneasy, as if he’d had misgivings about sharing the private communiqué. His gaze bored into mine again. “It is a pity my wife could not give you an interview, as you would have liked. But in coming here you have risked exposing a story upon which the very security of Detroit, the Midwest, possibly the entire nation, rests. Your friend begs you, keep her secret to yourself a while longer.”
“But…” I could not think of what else to say, nor could I move. Even as he opened the arched wooden door, signaling me to leave, saying he must get back to his wife.
Chapter Twenty-one
Turning the car out of the estate onto the deserted back road, I pondered Liberty’s request to maintain her secret a while longer. Too late. The cat was already out of the bag. And I did not intend keeping her affiliation with V-V or his disclosure that she’d left the country private either.
The reflection of lights in my rearview mirror tore me from my musings. The headlamps had materialized so abruptly that the automobile must have pulled out from a driveway or side lane. I sped up. So did the other car. Michigan Avenue was only another mile, and when I reached it I eased into the flow of light nighttime traffic. A glance in the mirror confirmed that my tail was still with me, keeping a discreet distance. I was unable to see the driver, but the vehicle was recognizable: the gray Studebaker I’d seen parked in the estate’s horseshoe driveway upon my arrival.
Lipstick and Lies Page 24