Lipstick and Lies (15 page)

“Sounds more serious than a mere gossip after attention. Now what?”

Liberty’s mouth twisted. She was chewing her cheek again. “I have a meeting set for midnight, tonight. I’ll know more then.”

I sat back with a sigh. “Liberty, I’m here investigating someone at the club. Well, a couple of people.”

“
You are?
Who sent you?”

“FBI.” It was Liberty’s turn to be rendered speechless. “Amazing, isn’t it?” I continued. “Here we are, doubled-up, working for two different agencies and the right hand doesn’t know what the left is doing. Who knows how quickly the spies lurking around here could be caught if certain people would work together like they’re supposed to.”

Liberty remained silent. I raised something else puzzling me. “We could be in my room. Why are we meeting in the library?”

She gestured with her eyes toward the ceiling. “This is better.”

She thought the VanderKloots’ suite was bugged? My stomach tightened. “Sooo…you suspect other agents are operating here?”

Her eyes shifted. “Perhaps.”

We had been assigned to the Club by different agencies, but I wasn’t clear why. I couched my next comments carefully. “Kiki and V-V’s debate over bringing
Personality Unlimited
to you was odd. Are they suspect?”

“V-V can be ruled out. He’s a war hero.”

“Really? But he’s from Ukraine…”

She laughed. “Uh-huh. They have wars and heroes.”

She divulged that V-V had once been a freedom fighter and had participated in an uprising in 1917 after Lenin and his Bolsheviks took over. “He was just fifteen at the time.”

I thought of the scores of young men suffering and perishing in the current war and shook my head. “So young.”

“In the small countries threatened by megalomaniacs like Lenin and Hitler they’re willing to risk everything to preserve their culture and homeland. Satellite countries bordering Russia, like Ukraine, are especially desperate.”

I recalled from my history lessons that over centuries of war the borders of most of the smaller nations in Europe had been drawn and redrawn many times. She went on to explain that V-V’s underground group was part of the White Russian Army, the faction that eventually booted Lenin out. Afterwards, Ukraine had declared itself independent from Soviet rule but the fighting continued and in the end the Red Russian Army returned to power.

“Anyway, you’re right,” she concluded. “The experience transformed his life forever. You noticed the fingers on his left hand, didn’t you?”

I shook my head, slowly. “No…”

“He was captured. They tortured him. And like I said, he wasn’t much more than a kid. But he never broke, never squealed about where his comrades were hiding, even when they chopped the tips of three fingers off, one at a time.”

“Holy moley…How do you know all this?”

She shrugged. “It’s in his record.”

“So, V-V’s working with you, is that it?” Her eyes flashed, but she said nothing. Still, I had my answer. “How about others around here? Clara Renner. Any hunches?”

“Clara’s been cleared.”

Well, not by my agency,
I was tempted to retort. I circled back to another woman the FBI had a vested interest in. “What about Kiki?”

Liberty shrugged. “I hope to have a better read after my meeting.”

“Who’s the meeting with? The admiral’s wife?”

“Can’t say.” Liberty bent to retrieve a paper-wrapped parcel. The parcel, about the size and shape of a shoebox, had been stowed beneath the desk. She saw me staring. “It’s for my meeting. Remember, you promised not to say anything about this to anyone. If word gets out to the wrong person, my meeting, everything I’ve…
we’ve
…pieced together could fall apart.”

I ran the facts through my mental abacus. Two separate cases, two different agencies, two women agents, the right hand operating independent of the left, all of the pieces converging in the same place, the Cosmos Club. The convoluted formula seemed doomed to disaster, but, technically, our assignments did not overlap. G-2 was investigating a Naval Officer’s wife who was selling or giving away secrets involving Grosse Ile. I was at the club running down any connections to Otto Renner that would help the FBI build a solid case against
him
. But Liberty hadn’t named Renner or his wife Clara as suspects in her case; I hadn’t gotten the impression she even knew about him, or that he was under scrutiny by G-2. Neither Blount nor his murder at Willow Run had come up either.

The lines were thin, but a
brief
delay might be defensible.

“You have to wait,” Liberty implored before I could share my decision to hold off. “I’m not the only one with big hopes for this meeting tonight. Roy thinks it’s our chance to get the names we need…”

“Roy? Roy Jarvis?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Roy Jarvis—the lieutenant I solved a case with in Hollywood—is
here
?”

She nodded and the cross earring flipped wildly. “Yes. Okay, your turn. What’s the FBI’s interest in this place?”

I was still too busy processing Roy’s tie to her case to answer. All at once, Liberty frowned. “Merriman, what are you doing here?”

Her voice was normal, but we’d been talking in such low tones it was as if she had shouted. I jerked in my seat and twisted around. The elderly string bean who’d greeted me in the foyer earlier was only a couple of feet from my back. So close, in fact, I could make out the club’s motto on the gold crest of his jacket.

No one spoke. Liberty rose from her chair. Keeping my backwards gaze glued to Merriman, I got up, too. Why hadn’t I heard him come in? How long had he been there?

Merriman cleared his throat. “Miss Fingers. May I have a word with you please?”

My attention was riveted to his pale, deeply creased face. At a loss over what was going on, I turned back to Liberty. She flashed our visitor a grin.

“Yes, I know, staff is not supposed to be in here after hours. But I was asked to pick up this package from the salon. Miss Lewis couldn’t sleep. We bumped into one another in the corridor. She asked if I could recommend a book. We came in here and got to talking. I only just this moment came up with an idea. Would you be a dear, please, and give us a few more seconds to find it?”

Merriman harrumph-ed, but backed away, stationing himself beside one of the camel-backed sofas. Liberty and I went to the bookcase.

“Sorry I let him sneak up on us like that,” she said under her breath, “but I was so engrossed, I didn’t see him come in.” Her eyes, magnified behind the thick lenses, locked onto mine. “Remember your promise.”

“Okay,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. “When I come in for my manicure, you have to let me in on what happened. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“What about him?” I nodded over my shoulder. “Think he heard anything important?”

Liberty’s finger traced a row of leather bindings. “Nah, I doubt it. He’s hard of hearing. But I’ll check. Don’t worry.”

She selected a giant volume, tugging it off the shelf. “Ah, here it is. Just the thing.” She handed over the tome, adding
sotto voce
, “Careful who you trust.”

I nodded, but in spite of the ominous warning I had to smile at the antidote she had chosen for my insomnia.
Etiquette: In Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home
, by Emily Post
.
She knew me so well.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then, Miss Lewis,” she said as I headed for the door.

I peered back over my shoulder. Lifting her parcel, she flashed a confident grin and strutted toward Merriman. I watched her slip her free arm through the string bean’s crooked elbow. The situation was under control. In fact, I almost felt sorry for the doorman.

Chapter Twelve

Room service. Such extravagance was not my norm, but the late night serving of Mrs. Sarvello’s manicotti had not filled the gully left by the skipped meals and the energy I’d expended the hectic day before. This morning I awoke ravenous. Faced with another hellish agenda, I’d thought advanced fueling would be wise. The gal delivering my breakfast tray had assured me the VanderKloots used the service regularly. So why did I still feel guilty?

My upbringing. I’d cut my teeth under a roof where selfishness was considered a sin, and ostentation of any sort, fancy clothes, glitzy accommodations, exotic travel, was thought to be a sign of moral depravity. Even the parsonage walls had whispered virtuous guideposts. Seated miles and miles away in the VanderKloot suite I could hear their quiet echo:
Respect hard work, suspect pleasure
.

I dropped my newspaper onto the dish strewn tray, intending to deposit it in the hall.
Allied Forces on All Fronts Turning the Tide of Battle
. The paper’s bold headline was a beacon of good news amid the jumble of food scraps and dirty dishes. I’d eagerly devoured details from the account while consuming breakfast.

In Russia, the Red Army was fighting back in a major thrust westward. To date more than 500 towns had been wrested from Axis control, liberating about half of the 580,000 square miles of territory the Germans had seized since their initial 1941 invasion. Soviet forces had maneuvered to within 80 miles of Kiev. Kiev, I recalled, was in Ukraine, V-V’s homeland. I wondered how the patriots he’d once been aligned with were reacting. While they would be relieved to be rid of the Germans, I expected they would not be happy with their Russian replacements.

In the Pacific theater, U.S. Naval forces were inflicting heavy damage to Japanese island bases. Less than two weeks ago, our Navy and Army planes had attacked Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands. This week, after losing 600 additional men, the Japanese had abandoned the central Solomons altogether.

There was big news in Italy, too. Weeks had passed since our truce with Italy was signed, yet German troops continued to occupy the country, offering fierce resistance. Our forces were slugging it out, moving in a northerly direction, away from the toe of the boot-shaped land. Allied troops had already crushed Hitler’s fortress in Salerno; Naples was next to be liberated. Then on to Anzio.

While the banner news lit a small glow of pride in me, I wondered if Liberty was up on the latest. If the heroic push continued, OSS objectives in Italy might be scaled back. Her talents and underground connections would no longer be essential and her dream to go there would be quashed. I smiled. Liberty was driven, but should the winning streak continue I suspected that even she would not begrudge the dashing of her plans.

I shifted my load sideways, resting it on my hip, while I opened the door and slid the tray to the floor. A soft noise and slight motion drew my attention next door. I froze. From my doubled-over position, I observed a pair of black men’s shoes crossing the threshold. I gasped. This was a woman’s club! What was going on?

Someone from the staff, silly, I told myself, beginning to straighten up. I never made it. The owner of the shoes threw his weight at me. My left elbow hit first, then my hip. Pain, shock, indignation gripped me. I lost focus. At a whooshing noise across the hall, my head swiveled. But it was too late. The door shut, closing off the stairwell and blocking any chance of identifying my attacker. Precious seconds passed while I struggled to pull myself upright.

I dashed into the stairwell. At the railing, I looked down at the twisting flights below then checked the remaining set, rising to the floor above. My assailant had vanished.

Back in my room, I searched the premises, checking behind curtains and beneath the beds. At the armoire, I threw open the doors. My heart hammered. BYE BABY was smeared in bold greasy letters across the interior mirror! I whirled around, afraid of the shadows behind me. Blount’s killer knew I was on the case. He knew I was here.
How?

I shook off my panic. The Club’s staff must not see this. I bolted the door, returned to the mirror. The sharp oily scent and slightly gray color suggested the letters had been smeared on with shoe black. I darted into the bathroom, prepared a steaming, soapy washcloth, and scrubbed, my blood roiling. How dare someone invade my room?

I revisited the armoire’s innards. Last night, excited and overtired, I hadn’t noticed anything strange. Now it was obvious. Someone had snooped through my clothes and left them carelessly wedged to one side.

The FBI’s suitcase was on the floor near the back. I hoisted it up onto the bed, aware of a searing tenderness deep in the muscles of my hip and arm.

The FBI lab had come up with a handsome piece of inventive luggage. I found the minuscule slot below the suitcase’s latch and jimmied, gently, with a hairpin. The concealed panel gave way with a satisfying click. I sighed, relieved. Gran’s derringer and leg holster were safe inside the compartment, in the fitting devised to keep it locked in place.

The rosewood grip felt smooth and cool against my palm while I inspected the small pistol. Convinced it had not been tampered with, I snapped it back into place. My supply of bullets and other items stored beneath the false bottom were in order as well, but the mystery of the smeary threat remained.
When could the thief have entered undetected?
Last night while I’d been in the library with Liberty was the obvious answer. And the logical suspect was the man who had been sneaking out of the room next door and knocked me over.
Who was he?
My scalp tingled.
The old man Merriman?
But what would he be doing in one of the guest rooms? Especially one that was unoccupied. I knew this for a fact because I’d been assured that the suites on either side of mine would be vacant during my stay. Besides, Merriman was ancient. He practically creaked when he walked. He wouldn’t have the strength or the agility to broadside me and disappear so quickly. But then, I’d been bent over, an easy target.

My hip ached. I rubbed it. But why would he attempt such a mad escape? He was an employee. My breath caught. What if my assailant was not elderly at all, but someone under cover? Liberty had been working at the club for several weeks. I would ask her if she’d picked up anything, I decided, rushing to get dressed.
After
she spills the lowdown on her midnight meeting.

Clothes Make The Woman.
The motto, one that would normally trip from Miss Cochran’s lips, occurred to me as I surveyed the suit I’d selected for my disguise as a professional journalist. I did not personally own a suit, but this one, provided by the FBI, was lovely. The nubby aubergine crepe fabric would make the green of my eyes stand out and help diffuse the color of my hair.

My skin tingled as I recalled Liberty had said Roy Jarvis was somewhere nearby. She was lucky to be working for him. Looking back to my assignment with him in Hollywood, it seemed strange that in all the time we’d spent together, I hadn’t known which intelligence branch he represented. Now, thanks to Liberty, I knew for certain it was G-2.

I buttoned the jacket and gave it a tug, adjusting the fit. Tailored, with lines that cinched the waist then flared out over the hips, the jacket’s peplum-cut style was one I’d always liked on others. The look, I had to admit, catching a glimpse in the wardrobe’s mirror, was flattering on me as well.

So Roy was here in Detroit, I mused again, unable to dismiss him from my mind. What a coincidence. And how lovely. Roy was smart and also physically very attractive. He was so handsome that when we first met I mistook him for my movie idol, Joel McCrae. Over time I’d grown accustomed to his stunning outward appearance and begun appreciating what was inside. Ten years my senior and the strong silent type, he had salt-of-the-earth views and a solid temperament that made me feel close to my roots. The jury was still out on whether that was a good or bad thing, romantically speaking. But either way, as a colleague I respected him and considered him a friend.

Still, the Hollywood mission that had brought us together was just two months ago. His memory of me and what I had accomplished there would still be fresh. Why had he picked Liberty to assist him in Detroit, instead of me?

From inside my conscience, the tweezer-tongued harpy reared up. “Your curiosity is petty and irrelevant,” she scolded. “Besides, you’re immersed in something critical to the future of our country already. You also have a date with the man in charge later tonight.”

Me? A two-timing tart?
I shook off the harpy, slipped on Liberty’s bracelet for luck, and pulled the felt hat that completed my working girl outfit over my short locks. This afternoon I would be getting my hair done and having a chat with Clara Renner. What could I possibly do, or say, to inspire her to speak openly about her husband’s whereabouts during the time his associate was being stabbed to death? We had not even formally met.

I did one last check in the mirror. How would I last all day in heels? I never wore them anymore. I sighed, girding myself. It was for the cause.

Executing a graceful pirouette, I realized that I felt more ladylike than I had in a long while. The feeling held firm even as I recalled the threat, now erased, that someone had smudged across the mirror. I tipped my hat at a jaunty angle, vowing to find who had written the message. Zippered pouch beneath one arm, leather gloves clutched in a palm of the other, I strode briskly from the room.