Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (4 page)

“What's that supposed to mean?” Mike asked quietly.

Larry realized his hands were clenched, almost into fists. He knew Mike Broad was scrutinizing him as though he were a bug under a microscope. What was he seeing? “It's supposed to mean that I assume you have some message from Alexandra . . . or at least know where she's hiding. . . . From all she's ever said about you”—he looked at Janice—“I know you're very close. Did she let you in on whatever is bugging her?”

Before Janice could answer, Mike asked, “Why do you think something was bugging her?”

Larry looked weary. “Mike . . . It is Mike, isn't it? I've known Alexandra
for ten years, ever since she came to this town. The Dorothy Lohman Agency sent her to the studio where I was working, and I got the job of doing some test shots of her. I could tell she was lying when she said she had experience. I've always been able to tell when she's faking it. And I can tell you now that the last time I saw her in that airport three days ago I knew she was upset about having to do the retakes. She looked exhausted. If I'd had the brains to follow my hunch, I would have driven her home myself.”

“Where do you think she went?” Janice asked, her voice rising.

“I thought she might have gone to a spa for a few days to get some rest and calm down. But that doesn't explain why she hasn't called anybody.”

“But why would she run out on anything that important?” Janice sighed.

“Because she never should have accepted that booking in the first place,” Larry snapped. “Fowler Cosmetics has a terrible reputation in the business. They offer big money, but they're never satisfied with the results. Then they pick a fight with everyone—agency, talent, production company, PR firm—everybody who is associated with the campaign.

“Alexandra was doing fine. She didn't need this job. It was all about Grant Wilson's ego and desire for big commissions. He strong-armed her into doing it. Because of the bad deal they agreed to, Grant Wilson and the ad agency will be paid only a fraction of the money they spent producing the commercials until they're all okayed. Now he's worried about losing his fees, to say nothing of the fact that Alexandra's reputation will be badly damaged if they dump the campaign.

“We've been given an ultimatum. Either we reshoot the last commercial or we forget the whole damn deal . . . and what's more, we have to do the shoot by next Monday. The one good thing is that we have enough background footage of Venice that we can finish it in New York.”

“But Alexandra must realize that,” Janice protested. “Don't you know her well enough to believe she'd never walk away from that responsibility?”

Larry stood up and looked at Alexandra's portrait. A moody frown creased his forehead. “I turned your sister from a high school kid from small-town USA into a top model. The first day I met her, she knew all the dumb tricks in the book and thought she was so smart. She still thinks she learned to pose in front of a mirror.”

Irritably he turned the dial on the air conditioner. “I recommended her to editors. I took her around, introduced her to people, got her on the right accounts, kept her away from the sleazes, and she was doing great until . . .”

“Until what?” Mike asked.

“Until she got involved with the biggest sleaze of all, Grant Wilson. Three years ago her agent retired and Wilson persuaded her to go with him.”

Janice sprang up. Larry Thompson's words seemed to be beating against the sides of her head. “We'd better go, Mike,” she said. “It's obvious Mr. Thompson doesn't know where Alexandra is. It's equally obvious that although he's worked with her for ten years, he doesn't know that she's incapable of letting anyone down. She'd die rather than have that happen. We're just wasting our time here.”

Larry Thompson reacted as though she had slapped him. “Perhaps, Janice,” he said defensively, “the reason I choose to believe that Alexandra is deliberately staying away is because I don't want to face the alternative.”

Janice's eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“That's enough, Thompson,” Mike snapped.

“It would seem obvious that you've just put your finger on what I mean if we accept the premise that Alexandra would rather die than let her friends down.” Larry's expression changed, became bleak. His voice was suddenly husky. “I keep asking myself if there was any
reason she was looking so exhausted, even unfocused, those last days in Venice. She looked terrible. A year ago some nut was stalking her. Leaving messages on her phone. Pasting notes on her front door. They never caught him. Was she afraid that he was shadowing her again? And if so, why in hell didn't she turn to me for help?”

•  •  •

Emma was just getting ready to leave when they arrived back at Alexandra's apartment. She looked at them and said, “You don't know where Miss Alexandra is.” It was a statement of fact. After a brief hello to her, Janice headed to the bedroom. Mike suspected she was close to tears.

“Seems sort of foolish to come in every day when Miss Alexandra isn't here.” Emma sighed. “But that's the way she wants it. Today I did all the windows and took the brass fixtures off all those tables and the desk and shined them up. They look real nice. Place always looks good. Then she has a party and some of those friends of hers . . . I'll tell you. Cigarette ashes all over and spilled drinks.”

Mike studied the woman carefully. She'd obviously been trying to pass the working hours by doing unnecessary housework. He made his tone conversational. “I guess Alexandra has lots of friends,” he said.

“Some might call it lots of friends. I call it a lot of leeches.”

“Well, surely there are some close friends. . . . Grant Wilson?”

“He's a mean one.”

“Mean?”

“Treats a person like dirt under the feet. Heard him tell Miss Alexandra she should have a bell to ring for me to come running. A bell. Bet the only bell he's used to is a cowbell. Comes from some hick town . . . so does Miss Alexandra. But at least she don't act like she was born in the White House. He's a phony.”

“Who would you consider a close friend? Maybe someone she would turn to if she was upset?”

“Oh, let's see. She's got dozens of friends. The kind you read about in the gossip columns. But she wouldn't go to any of them, I don't think, with a problem. They're not the kind you tell your secrets to.”

“Emma, think. There has to be someone,” Mike insisted.

“Oh, sure, she has women friends—real friends. Why shouldn't she? But the one she was really close to . . . That would be Nina Harmon, and she got married last year and lives in London,” Emma responded.

“There's no one else in particular?” Mike pressed.

“Let me think about it,” she replied.

“Who else is here often?” Mike asked.

“Mark Ambrose. He owns that plane they chartered for all these Beauty Mask commercials they done this year. Fact he owns a bunch of planes. Has one of those charter airlines, it's called Executair. Miss Alexandra said he could probably buy and sell the lot of them. He's sweet on her, that's for sure. But she's not interested. At least if she is, I haven't noticed it. But on the other hand, you never know. Miss Alexandra is very private.”

“How about Larry Thompson? Does he come here much?”

“Oh, he's around. They go out to dinner. What a good-looking guy! He used to be a child actor, you know. He's a funny one. Not a big talker but takes everything in. Looks bored when he comes to parties. Did a beautiful sketch of Miss Alexandra last year. Gave it to her. She started to rave about it. Then he said that he wanted to capture her before the wrinkles got too deep. She started to cry and threw it at him. Then he started making apologies. Said he was just teasing. That she had to realize he was just joking. He said, ‘Just look in the mirror, for God's sake, Alexandra!' ”

Emma shook her head. “Well, I'll see you tomorrow. You didn't say nothing about dinner. But if you want, I'll stay and fix you something.”

Mike shook his head. “No. We'll be going out. Thanks.”

After Emma left, Mike phoned Executair Airlines. The office was at Kennedy Airport. He was told that Mr. Ambrose would be returning from Chicago late that afternoon and would be in the office until between seven o'clock and seven-thirty. The receptionist was very definite that she knew Mr. Ambrose would want to see Alexandra Saunders's sister.

“We'll be there at seven,” Mike said.

He went into the guest bedroom. Janice was lying on the bed. As he'd expected, her eyes were swollen with tears. She tried to hide them from him. He sat next to her and put his hand under her chin.

“Something in your eye?” he asked.

Her arms went around him as she threw her head on his lap. “Oh, Mike. Something's happened to Alexandra. You believe it too.”

He bent down and kissed the back of her neck, then deftly unzipped her dress. Tenderly he massaged her back. “Baby, something's wrong, that's for sure. But it may be as simple as the fact that Alexandra took off because she's not sure about wanting to marry Wilson or that she's worried that she can't ever do that repeat commercial to the client's satisfaction. If we don't hear from her soon, as I said, we'll contact the police and report that she is missing. But in the meantime I want to see the guy who has been flying them around. According to Emma, he's pretty crazy about Alexandra. Maybe he can tell us something. We don't have to leave for the airport until six-thirty. But right now what you need is a shower and a nap and . . .”

Janice turned over and looked up at him. She smiled faintly. “And . . .”

Mike pulled her up. “Guess,” he whispered, his lips against hers.

•  •  •

They drove to the airport in Alexandra's blue Lincoln convertible. Mike had talked the garage attendant in the building into letting them have it.

“You're very persuasive, Counselor,” Janice said. “I never thought he'd give it to you.” She sat very close to him.

Mike glanced at her. “You look good,” he said. “I like that dress.”

Janice looked down at the blue-and-green print. “It is pretty, isn't it? It's a Pucci. Alexandra sent it to me for Christmas. She told me she bought the same one for herself.”

The airport had seemed huge to her that morning. Now, seeing the lines of passengers waiting to check in and the arriving passengers struggling to carry their heavy suitcases, and hearing the recorded announcements of flight arrivals and departures, it seemed to her like the hub of a private universe.

Mark Ambrose's unpretentious office was on the second floor of the main terminal. The receptionist at Executair Airlines, a woman perhaps in her late fifties with graying hair, introduced herself as Eleanor Lansing. “Mr. and Mrs. Broad . . . Mr. Ambrose just arrived. I'll tell him you're here. I know he's very anxious to see you.”

Janice wasn't sure what she'd expected the owner of Executair Airlines to be like. Whatever her mental image, it didn't fit the man who strode into the reception room. Marcus Ambrose looked more like a bouncer at a bar than a pilot. His shoulders filled the doorway as he came through it. Reddish brown hair with a tendency to curl lay damp on his forehead. His eyes were dark brown and accentuated by heavy dark eyebrows. Separately, none of his features was outstanding. Together they formed a ruggedly attractive face.

His gasp was audible as he stared at Janice. His face paled and he came forward quickly. “For a minute . . . I thought . . . You're so like her. And that dress . . . It's hers, isn't it?” He grasped Janice's arms. “Where is she?”

“Take it easy,” Mike said curtly. “You're hurting my wife.”

“Oh.” Slowly Ambrose released his grip. “I'm sorry . . . It's just . . .”

He suddenly seemed aware that the receptionist was staring at him. “Come inside.” As soon as the door was closed to his private
office, he turned to them. “Have you heard from her? Has she been with you? Do you know where she is?”

Wearily Janice stared at her hands as Mike explained Alexandra's failure to meet them. Like the others, Marcus Ambrose knew their arrival was expected and anticipated by Alexandra.

“I just can't figure it out,” he said. “Everything was fine in London and Paris. Then in Venice trouble started. The first few days there was a lot of technical stuff to do—product shots, background, that sort of thing. Alexandra had a little free time. She and I went sightseeing together. She was in great spirits. Talking all the time about you two . . . how anxious she was to see her sister and meet the guy she'd married. I bet I could write your biography.”

“How well do you know Alexandra?” Mike asked.

Marcus Ambrose smiled. “I've known her for a couple of years, ever since Grant Wilson started chartering one of my planes for his location shots. I piloted the flights myself and had such a ball that ever since I always keep those bookings for myself if I possibly can. And, I admit, for the past year Alexandra has been the real reason.”

Another worshipper at the shrine. Janice wondered, with all the men who claimed to care for her, why would Alexandra have wanted to disappear?

Mike said, “Grant Wilson told us that while they were in Venice, he proposed again to her and he felt that this time she might be more receptive.”

“I doubt that. She wouldn't be crazy enough to get stuck with that cranky, uptight jerk. But Alexandra was getting tired and she didn't photograph well the last few days.”

“Were you at the shoots? Did you see her being photographed?” Mike asked.

“As a pilot, I have a lot of downtime. I enjoyed watching the shoots. She was on the set that last day and had to open that jar of Beauty Mask and start to smear it on her face. Well, they had her
opening jar after jar. But when she took it off, they didn't get the effect they wanted and she started getting nervous. Then Grant Wilson and Larry Thompson started shouting at each other. Between them, they had Alexandra too upset to pose. Finally she just ran off the set.”