Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (3 page)

Mike said, “I see why you've hesitated to take action. Let's leave
it at this. We're in Alexandra's apartment. Call us there if you learn anything or hear from her . . . and of course we'll do the same.”

“Agreed.”

They turned to go. For the first time Janice noticed that a large portrait of Alexandra was hanging on the wall by the door. She was wearing a pale green Grecian-style gown. Her long, blonde hair was hanging loosely to her waist. She looked enchantingly lovely. Grant studied it with them. “Alexandra posed for that several years ago. Larry Thompson took the pictures. He's a great photographer and a very good artist and drew this portrait from the stills he'd taken. He did one for himself. I saw it, and at my request, he did one for me.”

Larry Thompson, the photographer. He was the next name on the list of people Mike and Janice had decided to see. He was the director who had filmed all the Beauty Mask commercials.

They said good-bye to Grant, walked down the long corridor and made a right turn toward the elevators. Mike stopped just as he was about to push the down button. “Honey, wait a minute. I just want to check something.”

“What?”

“Nothing much. Be right back.” He hurried back to the office they'd just left; the door was slightly ajar.

He could see Grant Wilson standing in front of Alexandra's portrait. With both hands he was grasping the frame. He was staring at Alexandra's face. Then with a gesture of futility he clenched one hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall.

Mike hurried back and rejoined Janice at the elevators. “What did you want to check?” she asked.

“I wanted to ask what exactly is the last date they have to reshoot the Venice commercial. But I decided not to ask him now.”

As he took Janice's hand with a reassuring smile, he wondered what impression was seared most on his mind . . . the beautiful smiling face of Alexandra in the portrait . . . the face so like Janice's . . .
or the despair-ridden eyes of Alexandra's would-be fiancé as he stared at it.

Outside the building Janice expected Mike to signal for a cab. Instead he steered her across the street to The Plaza Hotel. “We haven't had any lunch. That pre-landing breakfast was pretty small,” he said firmly.

•  •  •

An hour later they were reading the very small nameplate above the bell of Lawrence Thompson's 48th Street town house. Together they studied the exterior of the brownstone, noticing the graceful latticework around the windows and the small upstairs balcony which was bordered with geraniums.

“This is the Turtle Bay section,” Mike told her. “One of the lawyers who lectures at Columbia has a place here. Only he's on the next block. Calls it mock Turtle Bay. This house would probably sell for twenty or thirty thousand dollars.”

“I wouldn't be the buyer,” Janice said. “I think it looks gloomy.” She pushed the buzzer hesitantly. No one answered. After a moment she looked at Mike. He shrugged, turned the handle and opened the door. They went into a small, stark, untidy reception room. A rickety desk strewn with models' pictures was at an ungainly angle in one corner. Camp chairs stood folded against a wall. A few others had been opened haphazardly and were the only available seats. A large sign announced:
MODELS ARE SEEN ONLY BY APPOINTMENT. PLEASE DO NOT RING THE BUZZER. LEAVE YOUR COMPOSITE. WE'LL CALL YOU
.

Janice said, “I can tell you already I won't like Larry Thompson.” Leaning over the desk she pressed the buzzer firmly. From inside somewhere she heard the faint sound that assured them it was working. Through thick double doors that led to the next room they could hear children shouting and a dog barking.

Minutes passed. No one came. “If at first you don't succeed,”
Mike murmured. He reached past her and firmly thumped the buzzer again.

One of the double doors opened slightly and a distracted-looking fortyish woman with large owl glasses poked her head through.

“For heaven sake, can't you read the sign?” she demanded. “Just leave your composites. We're in the middle of a shoot and no one's going to see you now.”

“This is certainly our day for welcomes,” Janice whispered.

Mike stepped forward. “We want to see Larry Thompson,” he told the woman. “We'll wait till midnight if necessary. It has nothing to do with modeling.”

The eyes behind the owl glasses narrowed thoughtfully as they looked at each of them and then fixed on Janice.

“You look familiar. Ever work for us?”

Mike said, “Please tell Mr. Thompson that Alexandra Saunders's sister is here to see him.”

Even with the racket coming from behind the partly opened door, the woman's gasp was distinct. “I thought . . . You can tell.” She looked at them shaken. “I'm Peggy Martin. Of course Larry will see you. We've been moving heaven and earth to find Alexandra. Look, why don't you just come in here if you don't mind and sit in a corner until we finish this blasted shoot.”

She opened the door wider. “We're doing a floor wax ad and it took the whole damn morning to wax the set with the product. Then one of the kids spilled a bottle of milk on it before she was supposed to. The dog knocked it out of her hand and we had to start all over. Took two hours to redo the floor. . . . It was all gummy from the milk. We'd no sooner finished when the dog peed on it. God, what a day.”

They followed her inside. The studio was a huge, cavernous room. At one end cameras were gathered around a simulated kitchen. Four little boys and three girls in rain gear and boots were scampering
around the edge of the set. An energetic-looking Saint Bernard was racing back and forth, barking furiously.

Peggy waved them to chairs and hurried across the room. “Now look, kids,” she said firmly. “Larry wants to get this shoot finished. Come on, all of you. Calm down!”

Four women were sitting in a corner near the cameras. One of them got up and started toward the children, a washcloth in her hand. From behind a camera a shout came. “What do you think you're doing, lady?”

The woman turned. She threw back impressive shoulders and jutted out her jaw. “Harold's face looks dirty. I thought I'd give it a wipe with the cloth.”

Peggy blocked her way. “Mrs. Armonk, please. Harold is supposed to look dirty and muddy in this shot. The whole idea is that no matter how many kids or dogs come through your kitchen, your Superb-Waxed floor shines on. Which of course is a lot of hogwash. Look, why don't you and the other kids' mothers wait in the dressing room . . . all of you.”

Disgruntled, the woman turned and Janice and Mike watched as she and her companions reluctantly went out a small door behind the set.

“Lights okay, Larry.” A gray-haired man with a creased face and an eyeshade made the statement with resignation in his voice.

The camera was facing the set, and the man behind it was standing directly opposite Janice and Mike. He was wearing a sports shirt. Dark brown hair framed a classically handsome face. About six feet tall, he had a sinewy build that combined with a determined jaw to give an unmistakable impression of latent strength.

“Okay. Hey kids, no more horsing around. This time we're really going to get the shot. Now, all of you go over to the door, and when I yell, come running across the kitchen floor and make sure that
mutt is on the side near the camera. Harold, you hold his leash. Kathy, you carry the milk bottle and don't drop it again.”

“Okay, Larry.” The chorus of treble voices sounded cheerful. For an instant there was dead silence, then one of the little girls called, “Larry, is it okay if I go to the bathroom first?”

“God . . .” the lighting man sobbed.

Larry climbed out from behind the camera. “Honey, if you just hold it for another five minutes, I've got a great prize for you, that teddy bear you like so much.”

“Then I'll wait,” she promised.

He squinted into the camera, made a tiny adjustment, then shouted, “All right, ready . . . RUN.”

Shouting and pushing, the models ran across the set, the dog under their feet barking furiously. Janice and Mike watched as Larry Thompson repeatedly clicked the button in his hand.

“Great,” he yelled, “you're great. Now come back from the other side. Faster. The dog . . . get him on your right, Harold. Kathy, drop the bottle now . . . okay . . . good . . . that's it. You're all swell kids. Now get out of here.”

He turned to his assistant. “Remind me never to buy any of that lousy wax for myself, will you.”

Mike leaned over to Janice. “Right now I'd like to be prosecuting a truth-in-advertising case.”

Janice smiled fleetingly, then tensed. Peggy had gone over to Larry Thompson and was whispering to him.

It was interesting to Mike how the news that Alexandra Saunders's sister was present could make so many people so disturbed. Larry Thompson straightened up, glanced hurriedly in their direction and just as quickly turned away. He strode through another door out of the studio without looking at them again. Peggy Martin came back to them.

“Larry will be right with you. He's supposed to be at a meeting at the agency in a couple of minutes and has to make a phone call.”

They watched as the model children came out from the dressing room. Peggy Martin hurried over to them. “Mothers, don't forget to sign releases,” she ordered. “That will be for . . . let's see . . . what time were you booked . . . eight this morning . . . that's eight hours at thirty dollars an hour.”

One woman said, “Scott's rate is forty dollars an hour.”

“Yes,” Peggy reminded her briskly, “but on this booking we set a limit of thirty because we knew it was going to be an all-day job. Check with your agent. She okayed it.”

Then they were gone. As the children passed, they gave Janice and Mike a friendly wave. “Two hundred and forty bucks,” Mike muttered. “I worked a construction job all week every summer through college and law school and thought I was a big deal making one hundred a week breaking my back. And they made that in eight hours . . . my God.”

“Don't forget Scott's usual rate is forty an hour,” Janice pointed out. “His mother's disappointed he didn't make three hundred and twenty.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. Peggy was hurrying back toward them. Without the children and the dog the huge room felt suddenly quiet and empty. She took off her owl glasses as she flopped in a chair next to them. “Your sister is one of my favorite people in this whole world,” she said.

Janice leaned forward eagerly. “Do you know her well?”

“Oh, sure. Larry uses Alexandra all the time. He does loads of high-fashion ads as you may know. Now he directs a lot of television commercials. He's been going abroad with the Beauty Mask bunch, and Alexandra is their model for their big campaign. She is the nicest person. Most of the gals in this business who do well begin to take themselves too seriously, but not Alexandra. But where the heck is
she now? I've got to warn you; Larry's doing a slow burn. They need to do a retake on the commercial they did in Venice. The client is screaming. Grant Wilson is a wreck. Larry's got a boiling point of minus two where work is involved.”

Janice glanced at Mike. “I think we'd just be wasting Mr. Thompson's time seeing him. I was hoping he could tell me where my sister might be.”

Peggy looked alarmed. “For Pete's sake, don't go until you've seen him. He'll have a fit. Let me check and see how long he's going to be.”

As she reached for the extension phone, the intercom buzzer sounded. “There's Larry now.” She spoke into the phone. “I'll send them right up.

“Larry's waiting,” she said. “He lives on the upper two floors. Better take the elevator. The stairs are steep.”

The elevator was in the foyer. They stepped into it and Peggy reached over and pushed one of the buttons. “I'm going to scram,” she said. “This has been one hell of a day. Tell Larry he can get me at home if he asks you where I am. And give my love to Alexandra when you see her.”

•  •  •

Larry Thompson finished the last of the sandwich that was his belated lunch. He braced himself as the whine of the elevator informed him that his visitors were on the way up. He was sitting in his study, and it was a far cry from the frenetic confusion of his studio below. Oak floors glowed with a soft patina. Dark brown bearskin rugs lay in front of the fireplace. Gothic windows opened onto the balcony. The massive armchairs had a Spanish motif. White walls served as a quiet background for oil and watercolor paintings. Most of them were Larry's own work. The one over the fireplace was of Alexandra.

The elevator stopped moving. The door slid open and the young couple stepped out. Larry felt as though he'd been hit by a thunderbolt.
He'd hardly glanced at them sitting in the corner of the studio, but now he could see that this girl was breathtakingly like Alexandra. That hair, and those eyes and the straight nose . . . but there was a difference. She had more of a vibrant quality. Her skin tone was not better than Alexandra's, just different. They both were beautiful women.

Larry realized he was staring. He jumped to his feet. “I'm sorry. But when you think your eyes are playing tricks on you, it doesn't help your manners much.” He extended a hand to Mike. “Larry Thompson.”

Mike shook his hand. “Mike Broad. Janice Broad, my wife. Janice, as I guess you know, is Alexandra Saunders's sister.”

Larry smiled tightly. “If I'd met her in Hong Kong, I wouldn't need to be told that.” He motioned them to a seat.

Larry remembered Alexandra had said a few weeks ago that her kid sister was getting married. They would be on their honeymoon. Young love. And if they were real lucky, they might be happy a good six months, he thought bitterly. “Okay, what's the deal with Alexandra?” he demanded. He could swear the look on the girl's face was genuine. Sheer astonishment. The guy, Mike Broad, was cagey. His expression didn't change.