Lipstick and Lies (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

At the door to my room, I squinted. Someone had replaced the strand of hair I’d glued across the seam with a dark brown strand. A second invasion! How dare him!

I still had the tear-gas pen in my pocket, left over from the break-in. I presumed the intruder had already come and gone, leaving a strand of hair behind to taunt me or fool me, I wasn’t sure which, but I took out the weapon, shoved open the door, and flipped on the lights.

Whoever had entered my room had nabbed the cuckoo clock I’d foolishly left on the desk. I moaned, “You dirty rat.” Had the dirty rat also stolen the copy of
Personality Unlimited?
I raced into the bathroom, where earlier in the evening, before going out, I’d moved it. Eyeing the book, safely taped to the back of the porcelain tank on the commode, I savored a small ping of glory.

My thumb on the pen’s trigger, I searched the rest of the suite, checking curtains, dark corners, and the underbellies of the beds. Satisfied I was alone, I double-locked the door, then peeled off my clothes, leaving them where they dropped. Gas-pen in hand, derringer beneath my pillow, I wearily crawled into bed. One eye refused to shut, but a few vigilant minutes later it surrendered as I gave in to something resembling sleep.

***

Soft gray light filtered through a crack at the center of the heavy drapes. Beside me, the clock ticked loudly from the table. I yawned lazily, blinking several times, before rolling over to read the time. Six a.m.! Recalling the day ahead, I hurtled from my bed.

A quick, cool shower later, I began throwing on clothes, recycling the dark slacks and saddle shoes from the night before, but drawing the line at the black turtleneck, still reeking of faux extermination chemicals and lying as if it were dead on the floor. A gray sweater-set would do fine, I thought, consulting the mirror before plopping down at the desk.

My grip on the telephone receiver tightened in increments corresponding to the seconds ticking by while I waited for the operator to connect me with my Uncle Chance.

“Hullo. Is that you, my little Miss Puccini?” he asked at last.

I chuckled. “Yes, it’s me. And I’m short on time, sorry. Was your colleague able to dig up anything on the Swiss clock?”

It was my uncle’s turn to chuckle. “It’s not Swiss.”

“What?”

“The Swiss are known for clock-making and watch-making, and because so many of the cuckoo clocks use the Heidi Haus design, they’re also credited with inventing them. It’s a misconception. Cuckoos originated in the Black Forest area of southwest Germany.”

My uncle loved history and he loved antiques and he loved sharing what he knew on the subjects. Fortunately, my uncle also loved me. Remembering I was in a rush and needed only the icing, not the cake, he got down to business.

“Now about your clock. The name inside the housing, G. Becker, refers to the clockmaker Gustav Becker. You said Freiburg was imprinted below G. Becker. Of course I can’t say for sure unless I see it, but my colleague found an engraved plate from an 1852 exhibition there featuring his work with a whimsical design similar to what you described.”

“In other words,” I speculated, “it’s likely my clock is a genuine Becker. And my assumption about its origins was wrong.” Was my belief that the clock held a clue to Liberty’s disappearance off the beam then as well?

“What’s unusual is that it has a serial number. At the time your clock would have been made, serial numbers were generally found only on clocks of better quality. And if you’re wondering if the registration can be traced,” he added, reading my thoughts, “forget it. German records are not accessible. And even if they were, that clock could be eighty, ninety years old. Lots of ledgers to sift through.
If
they still existed.”

Uncle Chance asked me to describe the clock’s design again. I had to do it from memory, of course. I mentioned the chalet clock in the staff room as well.

“Flowers with rhinestone centers.
That’s
unique. Makes them sound dreadfully kitschy. Even for cuckoo novelty clocks. Very un-Becker-like…”

My scalp tingled.
Rhinestones.
Was that the connection?

We said our good-byes and I rushed to the door, more anxious than ever to get to the salon. My hand was on the knob when I remembered the crumpled piece of stationery in my pants pocket. My FBI costumer had thoughtfully selected slacks with roomy pockets for storage. Digging deep, I removed the balled-up paper.
What had she been writing?
I peeled open the ball, gently ironing it with the palms of my hands.

The page contained only two lines of writing. My breath caught reading them.
Dee, I know how deeply you loved Philip. Can you ever forgive me for hurting you—

It was an apology, maybe the beginning of a confession! Were the rumors true then? Kiki had had an affair with her sister’s fiancé?

I thought for a second. Even if true, what had made Kiki decide to admit it now? My heart grew heavy thinking about what the disclosure would do to Dee. Her psyche was so delicate and tortured already.

I sighed, folding the crinkled paper, and slipped it into the pocket where
Personality Unlimited
was now stashed. I’d taken the notepaper hoping to compare Kiki’s handwriting with the phantom message inside the book. The test would have to wait until later.

***

A small lamp on the appointment desk lit my path as I skirted the counter, my destination the room in back where light glowing from the open doorway suggested Clara had already arrived.

Unlike the pumps I’d worn the day before, my saddle shoes did not have cleats and my footsteps were nearly soundless. I crossed the heart of the salon, the shadowy forms of empty client chairs and hairdryers in the near distance off to my left.

In the back room Clara stood at one of the sinks, head bent, her hands clutching the porcelain edges, sobbing. Was I too late? Had the FBI notified her about her husband?

I rapped the door frame with a few light taps.

Clara’s hands flew to her face. She spun around. “Whaa…Whooo…” she sputtered, peering through splayed fingers. “Oh, it’s you…”

“Are you all right?” I asked, easing into the room.

“I’m okay,” she said, unsteadily. “Give me a sec, will you?”

My gaze cut to an empty spot on the wall where the cuckoo clock strewn with rhinestone flowers had once hung. Clara blew her nose, ran some water, and splashed her face.

“Better,” she said, her voice muffled by a washcloth she dabbed over her skin.

“What happened?”

She took a gulp of air. “Otto went off the edge again. This time he said he was going t-t-to leave me.”

Knowing the FBI was picking him up, maybe at this very moment, I almost said he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Instead I asked, “Why? I thought last night you were going to straighten things out. Come clean about your investment adviser.”

“I did. I told him there was no affair. That V-V was merely helping me leverage my money. But that riled him up more. I don’t understand. He and V-V are old friends.”

I blinked. V-V was Clara’s investment adviser? V-V and Renner were friends? In his office, Renner had denied knowing V-V. Why?

Before I could formulate any sort of response, Clara asked, “What brings you here so early?”

For this, I had a canned answer. “Finished breakfast, had a few minutes to spare before shoving off on another round of interviews. Thought I’d drop by, reschedule my appointment.”

“Oh, right. Yesterday, we had to cancel. The book’s out front.”

I placed a firm hand on her arm. “We don’t have to do it now. The other operators will be arriving soon. Maybe it would be better to take a moment to compose yourself, maybe splash on a little more cool water?”

“Thanks, probably not a bad idea. Plus I do need to get things put away before the day gets too crazy.” Her gaze flicked to the two bundles of laundry wrapped in stiff green paper on the counter. The package Liberty had with her in the library had been wrapped in similar paper.

“How long have your husband and V-V known one another?” I asked, watching her open a drawer and remove a pair of scissors.

“Oh, they go way back to Otto’s bachelor days. After Otto and I first became a couple, they drifted apart for a while. Now they manage to get together about once a week, have a beer, swap stories about the old country.” She cut the string on one of the tightly bound packages.

“Oh? Your husband was originally from Ukraine, too?”

Clara’s eyes skipped away then skipped back. “Well, no. Otto’s German. Came here as a young man. But he doesn’t like to bring it up. Everyone is so wary of immigrants these days.”

“Uh-huh…”

She raised her chin. “It’s nothing to hide. Otto is a U.S. citizen.”

My smile was strained and I hoped my knowledge of what her husband
did
have to hide was not plastered all over my face. “Of course.”

The hair on my arms prickled. What had she said?
They swap stories?

The Countess had described an occasion when she’d seen Otto Renner visit his wife at the salon. He’d given her flowers and she’d given him a book. V-V had also lent me an English translation of the E.T.A. Hoffmann book Kiki had mistakenly brought to the Club for her Faire. Then, there was the volume of
Personality Unlimited
which I had hand-delivered to Liberty, aka Glossy, that harbored a secret message and was currently nestled deep inside my pants pocket. The way books were being whisked around the Club at such a dizzying pace seemed overly coincidental.

“V-V has a thing for fine literature,” I said. “How about your husband? Besides exchanging tales about the old country, do they also exchange books?”

She looked at me. The heavy mascara normally caking her lashes had all but washed away. Without it, her face appeared more childlike and innocent than ever. “V-V brings in books for Otto all the time. So does Kiki. I take them home, bring them back.”

She pulled paper away from a stack of snowy towels. Lifting up on her tiptoes, she tried pressing the heap onto a shelf, just above her reach.

“Here, let me, I’m taller.” I laid my hands over hers and gave a shove.

She wiped her hands down the front of her smock. “Thanks.” Her fingers caught the corner of what looked like a brochure in her pocket. She removed it, folded it in half, and returned it.

My eyes widened, registering what the brochure actually was. “You said V-V was helping you build a little nest egg. I’m not too smart with money myself. Mind if I ask what you’re investing in?”

Clara smiled, her swollen eyes closing as her features softened into a look of ecstasy. “An island resort.”

“A
what
?”

Her eyes flew open. “Well, not really a
resort
. More of a health spa and casino. You see, there’s a Navy base on an island in the Detroit River…”

“NAS Grosse Ile,” I whispered.

Her half smile made her look sly. “Why, yes, that’s right.”

My glance fell to her smock. “Yesterday, you said you had a client who’s the wife of a Navy officer. Did V-V ask you to get a map of the base from her? Is that what’s in your pocket?”

She glanced down. “Uh-huh, the architect needed it for the sketches.”

“Sketches? Sketches of what?”

“I just told you. Our project. It’s only a vision now. We need more funding, so we’re soliciting additional investors. But we need a professional rendering first. A must, according to V-V, if we expect anyone to actually consider putting money up.”

Were we on the same page? How did a map of Grosse Ile Naval Air Station relate to a spa project? “Wow,” I said, thinking I suddenly got it. “Is your group planning to build a recreation area on Grosse Ile? Something like Belle Isle Park?”

NAS Grosse Ile and Belle Isle were both islands situated about a half-mile offshore in the Detroit River. Separated by several miles, Grosse Ile was on Federal land, while the smaller property of Belle Isle, to its north, was city-owned. Belle Isle was packed with things to do. Walking paths, athletic fields, bridle paths, canoeing in the summer, skating in the winter, a symphony shell, a conservatory, an aquarium, a zoo—the features went on and on. Mobs of people frequented the park, especially in the summer when Detroiters desperate to escape the downtown heat sought an oasis.

“No, not like Belle Isle,” Clara huffed. “We’re not after families. We aim to be a private facility, a getaway, for adults.” Green paper rattled noisily as she opened a second package, containing neatly folded client kimonos. “A golf course, fencing club, and casino…” Her voice trailed off. She waved her hand. “Well, you get the idea. Like I said, I can’t tell you everything. We’re in the early stages.”

“And
your
role?”

Her face lit up. “I’ll be in charge of the spa.” Clara’s voice grew progressively more excited as she described the facility’s three-tiered design, conceived to accommodate the customized spa indulgences she and her staff would offer. In addition to the more traditional beauty treatments such as facials, massage, and hair styling and coloring, instruction in nutrition and diet, as well as classes in gymnastics and exercise, was also part of the vision.

She cleared her throat and tried toning things down. Not altogether successfully.

“The base has landing strips and hangars,” she whispered. “V-V has proposed starting an air shuttle service to accommodate guests from outside the Detroit area. We’re borrowing ideas from famous spas in Europe, but who knows? Europeans may soon be looking to us for inspiration!” She raised her hands and flipped them outwards, palms up. “Why not?”

“Indeed, why not?” I said, doing my best to sound convincing. “So you, er, V-V thinks the military will vacate the island, then?”

She nodded. “He’s confident it will happen. One of the investors he’s lined up, a big wheel, has big time connections.”

I wondered whether V-V and their potential fellow investors knew about the plot to bomb Detroit.
That
would be a way to effectively evacuate the island, I thought wryly.

Clara sighed and looked suddenly morose. “I’d like to think it will all work out. Otto should retire…” She patted the puffy flesh around her eyes, lightly. “Soon.”