My Lady Lipstick

by Karin Kallmaker

  “What did you bring me?” Lisa put a cup of coffee on the table in front of Paris and dropped into the opposite chair. “I made that a couple of hours ago. Up to you if you drink it.”

  Paris sipped. Contrary to Lisa’s description, the coffee was hot and fresh. “What every growing girl needs. Can you use some brownies? I know I’m early. I’ll have the usual tomorrow.”

  Lisa made a hmm sound that Paris had learned meant that the calculator in Lisa’s brain was adding up the potential profit. Pity the fool who thought the tanned, blond surfer girl exterior meant there was no business sense on the inside. “It’s going to be a slow night.”

  “I had an anxiety incident.”

  “Sorry to hear that. All better?”

  “Mostly.”

  “They look awesome.” With a Betty Boop coo in her voice and shimmering tears in her eyes, Lisa asked, “Would fifteen be okay?”

  It was tempting to say yes to anything Lisa suggested, but they’d played this game before. With a Spock eyebrow lift, Paris corrected, “I think twenty. And the cup of coffee.”

  The corner of Lisa’s mouth twitched. “Spoilsport.”

  “Does that big blue eye thing ever work?”

  “Oh honey, you’d be surprised.” Lisa was peering into a baggie. “Why are they shaped liked that? What went wrong?”

  “I got distracted. Sorry they don’t look so great.”

  “They look like a Stoli White Russian with a chocolate chaser to me.”

  Paris appreciated Lisa’s creativity. “That does sounds delicious. What cute name will you give that concoction?”

  “The ‘Adulting So Hard.’” Lisa flashed her a brilliant smile. “I know it’s the first of the month, but I haven’t picked a March special yet. Bring me more next week, just in a box is fine. No need to wrap them for single sale.”

  “Sure.” Paris’s attention was caught by a new arrival. Small and pale skinned, she looked like a recent arrival from the Emerald Isle itself. If the saffron and green pleated skirt wasn’t proof of heritage, there was a tweed flat cap holding down the abundant, wildly tangled orange-red curls.

  “You have a customer.”

  Lisa was already rising to her feet. “She’s been a regular for the past couple of weeks. There’s a new production rehearsing at the Ferley Playhouse she’s in. It’s always the same order—soup and a half pint.”

  “Lunch of champions.”

  She watched Lisa chat amiably with the newcomer about how wonderful it was at last to see the sun. Paris had heard often enough that former Floridian Lisa didn’t like the bitter Boston winters, but Lisa always added that her Alaskan-born wife knew how to keep her warm, wink-wink.

  The most important fact Paris knew about Lisa was that she’d been a whistleblower against a large hotel chain in a dispute on union pay for waitstaff. She’d pointed out they were not paying wages for required prep time. They’d fired her. She’d sued. The quick settlement had bought the bar.

  Good thing, since Paris was sure Lisa would never get work in a hotel again, not in New England, anyway. When a woman stuck her head above the weeds, there was no shortage of people willing to throw bricks at it. And if she interfered with profits, they never forgot her name.

  She sipped the coffee and quelled the prickles of tension that threatened again. When a shadow fell over the table she jumped.

  The redhead was holding out a folded piece of paper. “The bartender said this belonged to you. I found it on the floor inside the door.” The lilt in her voice confirmed she wasn’t a native New Englander.

  “Crap!” Paris snatched the letter out of the woman’s hand. “I can’t believe I dropped it.”

  “I thought it was trash and unfolded it to make sure. Hamilton tickets, sounds grand.”

  Paris didn’t hide her annoyance that the woman had read it. “It’s really none of your—”

  “I know. I’m a speed reader. Helps with auditions and acting. Anyway, I hope you have a great trip.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  The full lips split into a broad smile. “Yes you did. I couldn’t help but absorb the whole thing, but it was still rude of me. So now we’re even.”

  Hoping her nervous swallow didn’t show, Paris held out her hand. “I’m Paris.”

  “Diana.”

  Though the handshake was brief, it had the surprising effect of abating Paris’s anxiety completely. Impressions rushed in—light freckles dusted Diana’s cheeks. Her eyes were insanely green. The lipstick was winter-ripe cranberry and the fingers that had brushed her palm were exquisitely manicured and tipped with the same red. The tweed peacoat fit the slim figure perfectly and its large buttons were covered with the same suede piping that outlined the collar. Classy buttons meant couture, as Paris had found out doing research for her high-fashion thriller, Hands Off the Merchandise.

  Diana had that…that…thing. That same whatever it was that Lisa had. That thing that made a plain woolen scarf sing with casual elegance.

  “So you’re Anita Topaz?” Diana’s puzzlement was plain on her face. “The writer?”

  Double crap, Paris thought. “It’s a pen name. And I would really prefer no one else know Paris Ellison is the real person behind the name.”

  Her hmm sounded a lot like Lisa’s, as if they were sisters from different mothers. Luckily, Diana seemed only mildly intrigued. “Good for you. You’re not what I would have pictured for the Queen of the Bodice Rippers, and that’s probably shame on me thinking writers look like their characters.”

  The more Paris heard her voice, the more aware she was that Diana’s accent was unusual. Definitely not American, and not Canadian either. It didn’t sound quite English or Welsh, or have the inflections of Irish cadence her landladies still had. Maybe a mix of all of those with something else?

  Intrigued against her will, Paris temporarily abandoned her plan for a quick goodbye and heading home at full speed. “It’s true. I’m not personally a heaving bosoms kind of woman. On book covers, I mean.” She didn’t add how annoying it was that since Reynard had assumed control the covers had become increasingly pink, the gowns even more low-cut, with the woman dwarfed by a man who looked like he could snap her in two. Her first three books had been taglined, “A Smart Bodice Ripper.” Under Reynard the word “smart” had disappeared, as well as the nuance that the phrase was ironic—her books didn’t have bodices and clothing was only ripped when the person wearing them thought it a dandy idea.

  She added truthfully, “The covers are chosen by marketing pros, and they seem to know what people want to see.”

  “When people see what they expect to see it makes them comfortable.” Diana pulled on supple leather gloves. “I have to get back to rehearsal. Could you tell me where the nearest postal box is?”

  Surprised Diana hadn’t seen the building that lay between Mona Lisa’s and the Playhouse, she began, “The post office is a few blocks—”

  “A drop box is fine.”

  “It’s pretty well hidden from the street by the hedges, but I know they pick up from it at three. It’s not on your way.”

  “I like diversions.”

  It might have been the whack on the head earlier that made it hard to focus on anything but those impossibly green eyes. Paris heard her own voice offering, “I’ll show you.”

  “That’s perfect.” Diana cinched up her scarf and declared, “Master, go on, and I will follow thee.”

  “To the last gasp with truth and loyalty?”

  Diana blinked in surprise. “Have I found someone who likes Shakespeare as much as I do?”

  “I don’t know how much you like Shakespeare, but my mother loved Romeo and Juliet.”

  “Hence, Paris for your name?”

  “That and Casablanca.”

  “We’ll always have Paris,” Diana mused as they left the bar. “She sounds interesting, your mother.”

  “She was.” Forestalling an automatic expression of sympathy that would flick at
a nerve that would always be raw, Paris quickly added, “I’m no Juliet, and I’m also glad not to have gone through life as Romeo either. Turn right at the corner.”

  Paris had caught a broadly mimed wink of approval from Lisa as they had gone out the door. She hoped Diana hadn’t seen it. Paris had never picked up women in Lisa’s bar, or even wanted to. Hell, Lisa would want all the details on the next visit.

  It wasn’t as if Diana pinged what little gaydar Paris had ever had. It had been a matter of high humor among Paris’s former colleagues that she had said, “No way!” when informed that Jodie Foster was gay. She was definitely going to blame leaving with Diana on the konk on the head. It was now throbbing for real.

  “It’s a block over.” Paris pressed for the pedestrian light when they reached the corner, then scrambled to keep up as Diana jaywalked. They skirted cars waiting for the light to turn and reached the other side without mishap. “So what play are you rehearsing?”

  “An adaptation of Tartuffe. The director is hopeful that with some backing there’ll be money for off-Broadway. It’s very political and given the times there could be interest.”

  “But you have your doubts?”

  Diana seemed startled at the question. “Was I that obvious? I’ll have to work on that.”

  “You seemed hesitant is all.”

  “If it does make it to New York, it won’t be with this cast. We’re good enough for working out the bugs, but that’s about it.”

  “Turn in to the parking lot here.” Paris led the way around the high hedges that surrounded the small drugstore. “They hid it well.”

  “I’d have never seen it. Thank you.” Diana pulled a small, thickly padded envelope from a surprisingly capacious inner coat pocket.

  Paris caught sight of an address in Utah before the package disappeared. It was so light it almost didn’t make a sound as it landed on the mail already in the box. “Hope it gets there safely.”

  “Me too. Well thank you. I really do have to hurry. Do you go to Mona Lisa’s often?”

  “Twice a week.”

  “Then maybe I’ll see you there again.”

  “Maybe,” Paris echoed. And she stood there rubbing the bump on her head and watching the petite figure make its way to the corner and then out of sight.

  Chapter Two

  Diana Beckinsale put two blocks between herself and the helpful but unsettling Paris before she paused in her brisk pace to savor the moment. The wind snatched at her cap but the bobby pins held. She imagined her package whisked away instead, carried over the green expanse of the ridiculously large American continent until it floated to a gentle rest on the desk of the one person she was certain would recognize the contents.

  As soon as she could confirm that it had arrived she’d trash the burner cell phone, bow out of playing Dorine and be home in plenty of time for her brother William’s wedding ballyhoo. It was a shame—Tartuffe was heaps of fun, and choosing to set a play about avarice behind fake piety inside the West Wing of the White House was brilliant. But, as much as she adored performing, Diana wasn’t looking for that kind of notoriety.

  The only oddity of the whole Boston job was that woman, Paris. Diana really hadn’t had any intention of prying, but once opened it was impossible for her not to take in the contents of the letter she’d found. Queen of the Bodice Rippers Anita Topaz was actually a tatty, hoodie-clad twenty-something? Okay, she might be thirty—her taut, light brown skin would resist wrinkles for years. Not that Diana had ever seen a photo of the writer for comparison, but it was surprising nonetheless. When she’d first entered Mona Lisa’s and assessed the occupants, she’d mistaken the figure for an underaged boy hiding his face in a bar.

  When Lisa had pointed her that way to return the letter, Diana had been gobsmacked. As she’d approached the huddled figure she’d realized for starters that her presumption of gender had been wrong. She also hadn’t expected large, deep brown eyes greeting her not with gratitude but open suspicion. The instant snarl in those eyes left Diana with the impression of a formerly gentle dog that had been kicked so often it growled a constant warning at the world to keep its distance.

  In the chaos of her reactions she’d mistakenly given the woman her real first name. Not that it mattered, she assured herself—they were unlikely to meet again.

  What mattered on this brilliant, wonderful day was that her feet hardly touched the ground, so elated was she by a job well done and now completed. The beautiful day had burst into pure glory as the package had slipped from her hand.

  She came to the mud-filled gap in the sidewalk she’d been going around for the last several weeks. Between the sun and her exhilaration she decided it was time to show it who was boss. With one running step for momentum, she jumped it cleanly. And laughed at herself for putting her arms up as if seeking a perfect score for the dismount.

  “Nice move!”

  Diana turned to find Jeremy, who played the titular Tartuffe, applauding her. “Thank you kind sir.”

  He gallantly tucked Diana’s hand under his arm as they crossed the street to the theater. With decades in local theater and a love of performance for its own sake, Jeremy had no illusions about the scope of his abilities. He made rehearsals lively and wasn’t fond of behind-the-scenes drama. Of all the small, local productions Diana had crashed for cover, this one had been among the most pleasant.

  As she shed her coat off stage and found her curled and ragged script where she’d left it before the lunch break, Diana flashed again on the puzzle of Paris’s surprising identity. The woman had been dressed like someone one paycheck from homelessness. Diana didn’t know much about publishing, but a writer with a name she recognized from supermarket shelves, well, wouldn’t she be more like a Meryl Streep in She-Devil? With a mansion on pristine headlands, diamonds glittering from a hat pin? More like Diana’s own relatives for that matter, with casual wealth dripping from every spa-tightened pore?

  She wondered about the incongruity of the Paris Ellison-Anita Topaz puzzle until the smell of old dusty seats and stage floor varnish pushed all thoughts but the production out of her head. She did like the play and the players. It would be hard to walk away this time.

  * * *

  Hours later Diana’s back was the only thought in her head. As she climbed the steep, linoleum-covered stairs to her attic apartment, every step was accompanied by a pulse of tear-inducing pain. Her ebullient mood had masked the warning signs. The Nurofen tablets she’d hastily swallowed before leaving the theater had helped, but the annoyed and loudly complaining vertebrae hated the stairs. Well, it was only for a few more days. The privacy and week-to-week cash rental were exactly what she had required.

  Her first stop was the bottle of Tylenol-3 she kept in the cupboard next to the fridge. The milk was a little iffy, but she didn’t want to wait until she’d heated a tin of soup to take the medication. It would blunt the edge. Getting off her feet plus a good night’s sleep would do the rest. She made a mental note to wear flats or trainers tomorrow.

  The rock-slab of a chair at the tiny dinette table gave her immediate relief and for a moment she closed her eyes and willed the pain to subside. She’d had years on the gymnastics circuit to learn how to play hurt. Ten years after her last competition she was still playing hurt.

  When the pain had faded from a hot red to a tolerable yellow on her personal meter, she eased the wig off with the help of a cotton swab and baby oil, and set it carefully on its pedestal. The windy day meant she had new snarls to brush out later. Feeling better by the minute, she wrestled her way out of her boots and carried them to the closet alcove. Her Irish lass attire fell onto the laundry pile alongside last night’s perfect costume she’d worn for an off-stage performance only she would remember.

  Last night, she thought. Pure joy. All of it.

  A wig of short black hair, a ubiquitous button-up white shirt, black slacks, and apron, and carrying a tray—presto! She had become part of the wallpaper in a busy restaurant. Ente
ring the kitchen unchallenged was a simple matter of confidence. In a hotel the kitchen linked to everywhere and security was limited. Nobody noticed room service waiters. Tray lifted to block her face from the security camera, a quick knock, a few moments with her treasured Sissone pressed against the electronic lock and she’d entered the room. The object of her desire hadn’t even been in the hotel safe, just tucked in a jewelry case with other far more precious items. The case had been in the top dresser drawer, right on top.

  One of the easiest jobs she’d ever done.

  Happy to relax into warm yoga pants and her faded red Arsenal sweatshirt, she filled a saucepan with tinned mushroom soup and put it on the larger of the ancient stove’s burners. It would take a while before it reached tepid, let alone truly hot. Even though their ubiquity was a Yankee mystery, she was happy to spot a packet of oyster crackers in the jumble on the table. They would hold her over while she took off her makeup.

  The dinette table was only big enough for her makeup mirror and supplies. Witch hazel and cold cream worked wonders. The Irish lass her own family wouldn’t recognize disappeared in minutes.

  Color contacts out and the heavy makeup off at last, she became the brown-eyed towhead that Evelyn, Countess Weald, would acknowledge as the product of her first marriage. They loved each other, to be sure, but Diana’s frequent and lengthy absences helped hearts grow fonder.

  Naked of all artifice and the last of the cold cream wiped away, she switched off the mirror. She’d worn so many masks for so much of the last few years that sometimes the real self she was looking at seemed a stranger, and it unsettled her.

  Feeling much lighter and aware that the codeine was moving the pain from yellow to green, Diana plucked a sepia-toned photograph from its anchor point in the corner of the mirror. She studied the high forehead and long plaits of black hair that framed the woman’s somber face. At the neck of what was probably a deerskin ceremonial dress was a small brooch of ordinary stones and turquoise beads strung and twisted to clasp a small dark feather. The faded coloration of the very old photograph had turned the beads a uniform dusty brown.