“WHY DIDN’T YOU AIM for the car’s tires, Miss Hill?” Claire asked the next morning over breakfast.
“Maybe she was aiming for the tires, madam, but hit the headlight instead.” Boulton poured her coffee.
“I was aiming for the car’s grille and hit the headlight instead. Maybe I’m not cut out for this line of work.”
“On the contrary, you have a knack for the profession. Doesn’t she, Boulton?”
“A definite knack, madam.” They smiled at me.
“She’s not smiling, Boulton,” said Claire.
“No, madam.”
“When the two of you are being nice to me at the same time, I have this need to count the silver.”
“The spoons are all there,” she said.
“If I have such a knack, why don’t I understand how you knew that Sheridan Reynolds was paying off Linda Hansen? I mean, I understand why, it’s the video and he doesn’t want any publicity about Sarah Grange. But how did you know that last night before I talked to Linda?”
“Process of elimination. Our beautiful model and Nora Brown have no reason to extort money from him. And Sheridan Reynolds paying off Linda Hansen has nothing to do with the video, Miss Hill.” She sipped her coffee.
I tried to look intelligent. “It doesn’t?”
“There is only one possible reason he’d be paying her off. Remember, it’s his wife’s money. He does what she tells him to. Bring the car around, Boulton. I want to go to Bedford Place.”
I turned Cybella’s key in the door. The dead bolt released. Claire and I stepped inside the apartment. The air was heavy in the living room. Dust had settled on the crystal paperweights, the lamps, the objets d’art. The sterling silver picture frames were beginning to tarnish and the silk shades looked as dried and brittle as an old woman’s bones. The bright yellow cushions on the sofa needed plumping.
“Decor was a necessity for Cybella.” Claire surveyed the room.
She crossed to the fireplace and studied the blowup of mother and daughter. I stared out the window at the East River. A tugboat, which looked as if it had sailed right off the pages of a child’s book, bumped along its dirty waters. On the other side of the river’s bank a Pepsi-Cola sign smeared red letters across the landscape.
“Where is Sarah’s bedroom?” Claire asked.
“The door next to you.”
She opened it and we went in. The bed was unmade. Panty hose, like shriveled legs, were abandoned on rumpled sheets. On the dresser a couple of half-full bottles of water stood among small empty bottles of makeup. A dried mascara wand pointed toward a few discarded lipsticks. Tops off, the lipsticks had been smeared down to pink nubs. A pearlized blue plastic compact had been left open. The pressed face powder was rubbed away, revealing the tin lining. Four small face sponges, soiled with layers of beige makeup, were scattered like chunks of dirty flesh on the floor.
Inside the closet, a cheap cotton blouse seemed to cling to its hanger for life. Navy blue gabardine slacks, shiny from too much wear, hung from a belt loop. A dress, burdened with bows and buttons, lay on the floor, as if in a swoon. Claire poked her walking stick into the corners of the closet.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Linda Hansen told you that Sarah kept a box of fashion magazines in her closet. Sarah’s only connection to her mother.”
“Maybe Sarah took the box with her to Nora’s.”
Claire pulled the blouse off the hanger and looked at it. “Homemade, and washed over and over again until it’s almost yellow.” She checked the hem of the slacks. “Held together with tape. These are the clothes of someone with very little money. No, Miss Hill, I don’t think Sarah took the box of magazines with her.”
“Maybe she threw it out when she left Buffalo.”
“People who are starving hoard the little food they have instead of eating it. It is the same if you are starved for a mother’s attention. You hoard what little piece of memory you have and you don’t give it up easily.”
“But Sarah was with her mother,” I said.
“No, Miss Hill.” Her shrewd eyes stared into mine. “Where is Cybella’s room?”
I showed her. She opened the door and we walked in.
Claire held up her hand, motioning for me not to move. We stood as still as the room. Her eyes took in the bed, the vanity lined with crystal perfume bottles, the small antique bookcase, the silver-framed photographs on the marble-top nightstand. All of it seemed to be fading under a fine layer of dust.
The mirrored closet held our images. Claire, tall and poised, tilted her head to one side, listening to the pressing silence, her white pantsuit a stark contrast to the yellow tones of the room. I, in my beige slacks and beige and white plaid jacket, stood with my feet wide apart. My chin jutted forward, as if daring someone to try to knock me over. Claire raised her walking stick, pointed at our reflections, and smiled, then threw open the closet doors. Our images vanished.
Once again Cybella’s perfume permeated the room. Its very power seem to crack the stillness and disperse the gathering dust. We stared at the designer clothes arranged so methodically in their clear plastic bags. I unzipped the bag containing the evening gowns. Empty bodices and limp skirts still waited for Cybella’s body to bring them to life. The St. Rome dress wasn’t much more than a slice of red fabric. It felt cool and slippery in my hands.
“Jackie must’ve loved the feel of this against her skin,” I said.
Claire took her walking stick and poked it into the dark corners of the closet.
“The box of magazines is not here.” Claire moved to the vanity and sat down on a stool draped in a gold-threaded fabric. “Cybella needed her clothes. She needed her perfume, her jewelry. She needed to be photographed. She needed to look at herself in the mirror. She needed its affirmation. She needed to be reassured that her guilt didn’t show.” Claire opened a drawer and stared at an array of makeup neatly arranged. “She needed to paint her lips red. Brush her cheeks with a youthful blush. Only then could Cybella convince herself that she would not have been a good mother. That giving up her child was the right thing to do. That her love for Sheridan Reynolds was all that mattered.” She closed the drawer. “Then Cybella could put on her red dress and go out. Then she could pretend that, after all these years, it wasn’t for nothing.”
Claire stood and ran her hand along the gold damask cover on the bed.
“Cybella needed her possessions. She needed what could not hurt her. She needed a beautiful daughter.”
“What do you mean?”
Claire turned and looked at the bookcase. She pulled a book from the shelf and opened it.
“Cybella did not seek enlightenment. She was afraid of it. Afraid it might reflect her empty, narcissistic life back at her.” She read the inscription page then returned the book to the shelf.
“Why does the lover always try to transform the object of his or her desire into his or her own image?” she mused. “And why does a mother always want her daughter to reflect her?” She held up her hand and again we listened to the silence.
“Cybella’s photographs were still. And a mistress, because of her precarious position, must be silent. Yet she reached out to Elizabeth Reynolds only to discover she had given up her child not for the man she loved, but because of his wife and her money. Then finally she reached out to her own daughter.” Claire’s eyes met mine. “Or so she thought. Close the closet doors, Miss Hill. Let her rest.”
In the Bentley Claire told Boulton to take us to Linda Hansen’s. She lived a couple of blocks off Central Park West. When we found a parking place Claire said, “Come in with us, Boulton.”
“Are you expecting trouble?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. The outer door to Linda’s building was unlocked. Her apartment was on the first floor toward the back. I knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately.
“Oh, God, Maggie, go away.” Linda tried to shove the door shut, but Boulton was already halfway in, forcing her back.
“Claire Conrad just wants to ask you some questions,” I said.
“I don’t have anything to say.” She moved restlessly around the small room. A soft butter-colored leather sofa looked like the kind you pull out into a bed. A kilim rug covered most of the bleached wood floor. A telephone and answering machine sat on an art deco–style table. Cigarette butts filled an ashtray next to the phone, pink lipstick thick on the filtered ends.
“Sheridan Reynolds hasn’t arrived yet?” Claire asked.
Linda eyed her suspiciously. She looked younger, more vulnerable in the daylight. Without the smear of pink lipstick, the shape of her mouth was softer. She had on a T-shirt and her short tight leather skirt. Add a strand of pearls and she would’ve made Bonton. Maybe not. There were still the pockmarks.
“Ask your questions and get out of here.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips.
“Where is your bedroom?” Claire demanded.
“You’re standing in it. It’s what they call a studio apartment, something I’m sure you haven’t experienced.”
Claire threw open a door opposite the sofa.
“Just a fucking minute.” Linda moved toward her. Boulton grabbed her. “What are you looking for?” Fear narrowed her eyes.
It was a deep closet with built-in drawers. Provocative dresses and a couple of short leather jackets and skirts hung neatly on their hangers. With her walking stick Claire lifted a blanket off the floor, revealing a cardboard box.
“Will you get this for me, Miss Hill?”
I picked up the box and carried it to the sofa. It was half filled with magazines. I looked at a copy of Bonton from the year 1966. A young Cybella, her lean figure clad in a gold sequined gown, smiled from the cover. Her eyes were heavy with black liner and false eyelashes, her lips a pale pink. The long dark hair was backcombed into a wild mane, her body curved seductively as if molded by an invisible lover’s hands. I gave the magazine to Claire.
“Everything you told Miss Hill that night on the way to Cybella’s apartment was true except for who you really are,” she said. “These magazines are your only connection to your mother.”
Claire methodically began to lay out the magazines on the floor.
“I’m keeping them for Sarah Grange.” Linda’s voice was flat.
“You made one mistake. In the car going to Cybella’s, you told Miss Hill too much. A writer would enjoy the information. A detective might be suspicious of it. Most people say as little as possible to us. Even if they’re innocent, they always have secrets they don’t want discovered. But you needed to set the scene so when Miss Hill met our beautiful imposter, there wouldn’t be any doubt.”
“I’m not Sarah and I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The floor was covered with about twenty magazines, each with Cybella on the cover. Like a chameleon, she changed with every new dress, wig, makeup job. Each photographer saw her differently. She had never been just one woman. Only her dark haunting eyes declared a vulnerable individuality.
“Besides, I’d think Cybella would know her own daughter,” Linda added.
“Motherly instinct is highly overrated,” Claire replied. “Cybella had not seen you since you were a small child, maybe even a baby. She wanted to believe that giving up her daughter had not caused that child any damage. She wanted a daughter as beautiful as she had once been. That belief overpowered everything.”
“A box of magazines proves nothing.”
“True. And the last thing I want to do is go to Buffalo to prove I’m right. Miss Hill, Boulton, search the apartment for some kind of identification.”
Boulton moved into the tiny kitchen, which was separated from the room by an imitation pink granite counter.
I ran my hands inside the pockets of her jackets. And patted down the linings. There was nothing. I went into the bathroom. It felt damp. I could smell the freshness of soap and shampoo. I opened a drawer. Her makeup was arranged as neatly as Cybella’s.
“I found it,” Boulton said. “A birth certificate and a Buffalo driver’s license. Not so cleverly taped to the back of the refrig …” He stopped.
I came out of the bathroom. Linda stood there with a gun pointed at Claire. Tears streaked her face. Pockmarks glistened. “What are you looking at, Maggie?”
“You.”
“Well, don’t. You’re not going to see any resemblance to Cybella.”
“You have your mother’s figure and your father’s gray eyes,” I said.
“That gun is more of an irritant than a threat.” Claire perched calmly on the arm of the sofa. “If you were going to kill someone, you would have shot Miss Hill last night when you had the chance.”
“I just want you to leave. Now!” Her hand trembled.
“Besides, Boulton can take the gun from you anytime he wishes.”
Linda’s gaze darted to Boulton. Claire swung her walking stick, knocking the gun from her hand. Boulton picked it up.
Closing her eyes, Linda leaned against the wall. “I used to walk down the street and pretend I heard a woman calling out my name. I’d turn and imagine Cybella standing there, holding her arms out. But I never once in my worst nightmare thought Cybella would mistake somebody else for me.”
“What is the imposter’s name?” Claire asked.
She opened her eyes and studied Claire. “If I tell, will you leave? I just want to see my father face-to-face for the first time, take his money, and get out of here.”
“You can’t run away. Three people have been murdered,” I said.
“Yeah, and guess who’s going to be blamed for it?”
“I don’t think you killed anybody, Miss Grange,” Claire offered.
“Don’t call me that. I’m Linda.”
“What’s the imposter’s name, Miss Hansen?”
“Marina Perry.”
“You told Marina Perry you were Cybella’s daughter?” Claire asked.
“A little more than a year ago, after my grandparents died, I came here. I needed money. I got a job at Peeps. It was the closest I’d ever come to being a model. I took the name Linda Hansen. Marina worked at this shop. We hung out together. Sometimes when Marina held her head a certain way she reminded me of Cybella. Just for a moment.” She took a cigarette from the table and lit it. “I got drunk one night, told her the story of my life. She didn’t believe me. All the girls at Peeps lie about themselves. I didn’t want her to think I was like them. So I kept giving her more and more details. I was such a pushover.”
“You told her about Nora Brown?”
“I showed her one of the few letters Cybella had written to me when I was a child. She mentioned Nora. Couple of weeks go by and Marina disappears. It happens, people disappearing. I didn’t think much of it.” She paused, staring at the magazines, at her mother’s face. “I was glad Marina had left. I’d exposed myself. I don’t know how long … four months later, I’m walking down the street past this newsstand and there on the cover of Bonton is Marina Perry. Only she’s not Marina Perry. She’s Sarah Grange. Cybella’s daughter. She’s me.”
“You called Nora Brown?” Claire asked.
“No. I just told the secretary that Sarah Grange should call Linda Hansen. Marina agrees to meet me. She’s driving this black BMW and says it’s mine, says I can have a new apartment if I don’t say anything.” She looked around the room. “You like it, Maggie?”
“You paid too much for it.”
“Marina Perry is very bold young woman,” Claire observed.
“She had nothing to lose. If her scheme worked, great. If it didn’t, so what. She’d be back selling cheap underwear to women like me.”
“I assume the video was Goldie’s idea.”
“He saw the BMW, knew I’d moved into a better apartment. He thought I had some kind of action going that he wasn’t in on. Goldie could protect you, he could also hurt you. He made me tell.”
There was a knock on the door. All three of us turned in unison and peered at it. Boulton’s gun appeared in his hand. Linda lunged. Boulton jerked her back.
“It’s my father,” she said frantically.
“Your father has a gun,” Boulton whispered to her.
We stood, not moving. I was aware of the sound of traffic. The refrigerator groaned. There was another quick knock. Claire turned to me and mouthed the words: “Answer it.”
I walked woodenly to the door. Put my hand on the knob. It felt cold. I opened it.
His smile was charming. But his eyes widened. He was surprised to see me. Of course he would be. I wasn’t in my proper place.
“Paul Quentin,” I announced.
He turned and beat it down the hallway, out onto the street. I was right after him. He ran as gracefully as a quarterback toward the park. I plowed between two women. Quentin kept on running, never looking back. He wouldn’t. His kind never do. He crossed Central Park West. The light turned red, and I stopped hard at the curb. Quentin stood on the other side of the street, his hand in the air, hailing a taxi. I moved out into the street hoping for a break in traffic. Cars swerved. Horns blew. Middle fingers became erect. I stumbled back to the sidewalk. Quentin’s eyes never once looked in my direction. I did not exist. Jackie did not exist. Soon Alison would not exist.
The light changed and I bolted. He turned on the balls of his feet, took a few long strides toward the stone wall that lined the park, leaped over it, and disappeared behind some trees. The people sitting on the wall watched him. Now they watched me crawl over it.
In the park, I stopped to catch my breath and to see if I could spot him. Fragile branches curled toward the sky. Two young men wearing studded leather jackets smoked and shared a bottle. Their dirty dark hair was carefully waved back. Elvis lives. A couple of joggers ran past them. A drunk staggered toward me, his face as battered as an old American car. Young girls in school uniforms carrying books giggled and gossiped. No Paul Quentin.
I moved deeper into the park. Squirrels darted. A bird sang. Twigs broke underfoot. Not my foot. I turned. The drunk with the battered face stood watching me. He staggered back, then forward, reaching out for me. “Betty? Betty?” he cried.
He grabbed at the air and fell.
“Betty, Betty,” he moaned into the ground.
I stood surrounded by trees and a drunk slobbering in the dirt who thought I was Betty. Wonderful. I ran toward the sound of cars close by and came out onto one of the transverse roads. Paul stood, his broad-shouldered back to me, still trying to get that cab. I moved slowly toward him. Hands clutched my shoulders.
“Betty, Betty!” the drunk screamed in my ear.
Paul spun around. The drunk’s hands slipped off of me.
“Betty, Betty,” he cried desperately.
Paul turned and started to run. I reached, grabbing the tail of his coat. He stumbled sideways. The coat slid off his shoulders and an envelope fell out. The drunk grabbed my free arm, pulling me backward as Paul hurtled forward; the coat slipped from my grip. The drunk jerked me off-balance and we crashed to the ground, tumbling on top of each other. I caught a glimpse of Paul running. So smooth.
“Betty, Betty.” His breath was foul.
“I’m not Betty.” I shoved my hand in his face.
“Just let me look at you,” he panted. He raised his ragged body up off mine like a spent lover. His hands pinned my shoulders down.
A woman with an evil-eyed dachshund walked by. “Why don’t you two get a room?” she snapped, pulling the dog away from us.
I brought my right knee up hard into his groin. His eyes glazed. His mouth flopped open.
“Betty,” he groaned. He fell onto his side, gagging.
I got to my feet and picked up the envelope. In it was Sheridan Reynolds’s hundred thousand dollars. I shoved it into my pocket. My heart was pounding. My legs were killing me. So Sheridan Reynolds had sent his assistant to do a father’s job.
“Betty, Betty,” the drunk panted.
“Oh, shut up!”
“That’s what you always said to me, Betty.”
“I am not Betty. We don’t all look alike. We don’t all have short arms and short legs and big tits and long necks and thick beautiful hair and model clothes nobody can afford and sit on stools in Plexiglas cages. We are not fantasy! We die a little when you leave us and we die forever when you plunge a knife into us.”
He cried into the dirt. Oh, God, I was losing it.
The Bentley, as quiet and as dark as night, pulled onto the edge of the road. The door opened and Claire leaned out. I could see Linda Hansen in the backseat with her. “What are you doing, Miss Hill?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Employing you is worse than owning a pit bull. Get in the car, please.”
I stared down at the drunk who was pulling himself into a sitting position. I looked in the envelope. The smallest bill was a hundred. I shoved it in his dirt-covered hand.
“From Betty,” I said.
“That’s my money!” Linda yelled.
“Miss Hill!” Claire threatened.
I got into the front seat. I handed Claire the money and leaned back against the seat. Boulton plucked a few leaves from my hair.
“Nora Brown’s office, Boulton,” Claire said.
“We’re not going after Quentin?” I asked.
“He will only run as far as the Reynolds residence, Miss Hill. He has no place else to go.”
“Who is Paul Quentin?” Linda asked.
I turned and looked at her. “You don’t know him?”
“No.”
“He’s your father’s assistant. Your half sister’s fiancé,” Claire explained.
“Father, mother, half sister, fiancé. Those words mean nothing to me.”
“Mr. Quentin liked to go to Peep Thrills and watch Jackie,” Claire added.
“That’s doesn’t mean I know him.” She turned toward the window. “I wanted to see Sheridan Reynolds, look into his eyes like he was just another needy man and not my father. So he sends me his assistant. Men are bastards.”
“How did you find out he was your father?” Claire asked.
“I was scared. I not only thought I could be blamed for the murders, but thought I might be next. I wanted to leave town but I needed more money. So for the first time I called Nora and told her who I was and that I had proof and I wouldn’t say anything about Marina if she helped me out. Nora didn’t have any money. She broke down. Cried. As if she already knew about me. She told me who my father was. After all these years I learn my father’s not French and he’s not dead. He’s alive and wealthy and could care less about me.”
“Why didn’t you ask Marina for more money?” I wondered aloud.
“I was afraid. What if she killed Jackie? She still doesn’t have anything to lose.”
Abruptly we came out of the park. Traffic converged on us. Being swept out of the relative quiet of the park was as jarring to the senses as falling out of bed.
“I used to buy madeleines,” Linda said. “I thought eating them made me very French. Except I never was French. Have you ever had one, Maggie?”
“Yes.”
“They’re very soft in the center.”