Lipstick and Lies Read online

I glanced at the ruby and diamond ring, then nodded in the general direction of her cell. “But your special needs and comforts are being met.”

  “The privacy? The little luxuries?” she whispered in a shaky voice. “Not enough. Not nearly enough.”

  The four cells in our cellblock spilled into the common area, a caged open space shared by the inmates. It was where we took our meals and where, before I retired for my nap, the Countess and I had huddled in private. Unfortunately, before I was able to bring up the industrial spy, Otto Renner, Irina and Billie returned to our table, bringing the intimate exchange to an end. Afterwards, I had moseyed back to my bunk under the guise of wanting to read. What I really wanted was some quiet time to digest what I had learned in our initial session, and to plan my next move.

  The doors to our cells had been opened in the morning and, barring any trouble, would remain that way until lock-down this evening. Personality Unlimited in hand, I stepped out of my cell and lingered at the threshold. Across the common area, outside the bars, a matron in a white shirt and dark skirt was on routine inspection. She scrutinized our activities from the catwalk, a narrow walkway encircling the common area’s perimeter. Our monitor had beady eyes and a sour, pursed mouth.

  “All okay in there?” The matron threw me a severe look. I answered with a cooperative nod.

  Irina was lying on her back on the floor. She did not reply. The matron asked more directly, “Irina, you all right?”

  Irina’s eyes were closed. They flew open. “Uh-huh, yes, Matron. How nice you ask. I work on my posture. Must to lie here ten minutes. I do this and Countess she says I will soon stand straight and tall, like…” She hesitated, an image forming, and smiled broadly. “Like man who wear tall hat and lead band, marching in parade.”

  To my surprise, the matron returned Irina’s smile, exposing an unfortunate top gum line with more open spaces than teeth. The smile vanished. “Hmm, improvin’ yourself is a good thing, but watch out. Don’t go letting Hitler’s handmaiden in there boss you ’round too much or else you’ll be marchin’ straight-backed, imitating those goose-steppers in jackboots we been seein’ parading through the newsreels lately.”

  Irina rolled her eyes, and the guard swept her gaze next door to where the Countess and Billie were talking. I stepped into the common area, eager to take a look myself.

  The top bunk of the Countess’ iron-framed bed had been removed, giving her quarters an added sense of spaciousness. She sat, primly perched, near one end of the mattress. Behind her, Billie was brushing her hair into a scraggly ponytail, holding it this way and that as if trying to find just the right style for doing time. While Billie fussed, the Countess chattered incessantly, her voice muffled by the bowed position of her head.

  No wonder they had isolated her from the others, I thought, taking stock of her booty of special privileges, noting that besides providing docile cellmates and allowing her to wear jewelry, the Bureau had supplied her with a small stack of books. And while we all wore our own footwear, in my case, cotton socks and saddle shoes, the Countess wore leather pumps in a snappy red. The portion of her leg visible beneath the hem of her navy jumpsuit shimmered. My jaw dropped. Was she also wearing silk stockings?

  At a question from Billie, she raised her head. Her pretentious voice suddenly carried and we were treated to an ersatz hair-care tip, currently all the vogue in Europe. “Chamomile tea and lemon juice for color. Beer or raw eggs for body,” she recommended.

  With a snort, the matron lumbered off. Irina remained on the floor. She had closed her eyes again.

  “Heard you talking with the matron, Irina,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed a problem. Something wrong with your posture?”

  Her lids fluttered. She smiled broadly. “Miss Pucci. How nice you up. No, it is not problem. Countess she say, way we walk and pose it tell much about us. I got habit always to stand one-legged, like stork, one foot wrapped round other. Look insecure, Countess say, like I going to topple over. I try instead stand proud, hands at sides, feet flat on ground. Make better impression.”

  I’d been favoring slumped shoulders, myself. I straightened up.

  Billie tucked a final tendril of hair into the curve of the upsweep she had created. “There you go, Countess honey.”

  The former spy patted her hair. “How verr-y clever of you, Billie.” She crossed the seven-by-twelve-foot cell and paused before a metal plate bolted to the wall above the sink. She tilted her head, straining to see her reflection. “Exquisite! Billie, this time you have ahb-solutely outdone yourself.”

  She stooped and casually dragged out a fur coat from beneath her bed. I stifled a gasp. Mink, I guessed, observing its glossy sheen, watching as the Countess, with the aplomb of a bullfighter, swept the coat like a cape around her.

  “A little cah-old in here, don’t you know.” She sashayed into the common area, the fur’s hem swinging heavily at her sides. Her practiced eye swooped over me. “Now, whatever shall we do for you, Miss Lewis?”

  I wanted to say, “Lend me the fur. Anyone would look like a million bucks in it!” But before I could react she zeroed in on my hair.

  “Ahh, so interesting,” she said, lifting a small section. “The orange coloring shows flair and is lovely contrasted with the porcelain complexion and green eyes. The jagged cut…” Her hand cupped her chin while, squinting, she eyed me top to bottom. “Well, it is unusual and the short length is good atop your trim figure. The Untamed Look I would call it. Perhaps, when you are out of here you will consider a henna rinse to deepen this flamboyant shade into a rich auburn. More sophisticated, don’t you know?” She reached for my hands. “Your nails, hmm…” She scrutinized my self-manicure, then flipped my hands palms-up. Her eyebrows arched. “These are not the hands of a thief.”

  If she was fishing for a reaction, she got one. Blood rushed to my face; I felt suddenly hot. “I tried telling you this morning. I didn’t do it. I was set up.”

  Her eyes narrowed and something in her look said, I don’t believe you.

  Billie hooted with delight. “Like I said before, honey, we all been set up.”

  The clanking of keys and the slamming of metal signaled the return of the vinegar-faced guard. “Preacher’s here to see you, Irina. C’mon out of there.” She jimmied a key into the lock of the cellblock door. “You, too, Billie, c’mon. Your lawyer says he’s got news.”

  The surprised expressions on the faces of Billie and Irina as they filed out will stay with me forever. They were out on the catwalk before the Countess could fully grasp the situation. Yanking the remains of her cigarette from its ivory holder, she flicked the butt to the floor. “This is unfair,” she said, stomping it out. “No one is permitted to visit me.”

  The matron was poised at the outer door. She turned and spoke over her shoulder. “Can’t understand why you’re so upset. You requested private accommodations.”

  The solid metal door opened and the trio tramped out.

  Whatever falsehoods the Countess claimed she had seen in my palms were forgotten. She clasped her arms across her chest and began to pace. She tramped to the far end of the common area and returned, the hem of her heavy coat swaying.

  “Separate housing is a necessity. I was threatened. I was fearful!” She shook a fist at the outer door. “It is not fair, I tell you! You are using my fears as a means to isolate me. You keep me from advisors, from my fiancé, and I am left with nothing. Nothing but broken promises.”

  She stalked the painted gray floor like a captured lioness, crossing from one barred wall to the next. I retired to one of the tables. At last, pausing, she grasped a pair of metal bars, her body convulsing with her attempts to shake them. A dreadful sob escaped. Slumped against the grated wall, she slithered to the floor, crumpling into a furry heap.

  Agent Dante had cautioned me about the Countess. Desperate, crafty, without any loyalty, she would take advantage of anyone to further her own interests. She was emotional, too, he had warned, cautioning me not to give in to
her high dramatics. Yet, listening to her sobs, I could not escape a twinge of pity. Not for her impassioned performance as a wronged counterspy, but for the woman in her who believed that she’d been used and betrayed. I’d experienced my own share of heartache over broken trust. Moreover, I tended to believe there was some truth to her claim that the FBI had led her down a primrose path. To win her cooperation and with “the greater good” in mind, the Bureau might have implied, without the handshake, that they would cut her a deal. But even so, Dante had been emphatic: there had been no firm deal, no promises.

  The Countess was ripe for a shoulder to cry on, and I was here to listen. I slipped from my seat and went to her. “You’re not alone,” I said, patting her shoulder, savoring the downy plush of mink engulfing my fingers.

  She cried harder and I continued patting until, as quickly as it had started, the weeping stopped. She looked up, nose running, eyes red. Snuffling loudly, she dipped into the folds of fur and removed a lacy handkerchief, the kind you would never expect to actually use. She blew into it noisily.

  “What will you do?” I asked, dropping to the floor to sit next to her. “About the FBI, I mean. They’re a powerful organization. Don’t you have to do what they want?”

  “I did. For a year and a half.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. It was hard labor, mentally exhausting. Think of it. In the entire time I did their bidding, I had no privacy. I was followed, they tapped my conversations, watched me through a peephole in my apartment, even when I was with my fiancé. Imagine!” She shuddered. “I did what they asked. I helped them capture seven spies. Now they must keep their end of the bargain. They must free me. Now!”

  Her lower lip quivered. I thought she might start crying again, but she continued. “On their last visit, three days ago, they had the nerve to suggest—no, threaten—I must cooperate. Plead guilty. Ha. I will not! Such a plea would result in a long prison term. There, someone would surely kill me…” She sighed. “If I do not die of depression first.”

  I tried again. “But—”

  “I have already said no buts. I will tell the world they have threatened me. That I have been mistreated. Yes, even tortured.” She made a dramatic sweeping gesture. “This place is torture. I have nothing left to lose.”

  I cleared my throat. “Maybe you should reconsider. Play along with the feds. It’s possible they only want to keep you in custody until all of the pleadings are in. I read in the paper that two of your gang members have already pled guilty. If there’s a trial, they’ll need your testimony. But if the rest plead guilty too, there won’t be one. If you cooperate, maybe they’ll set you free then.” I was lying through my teeth, trying to outgun an enemy spy, one who had fired more than her share of double-dealing ammo already. How sweet the offense.

  She eyed me warily. “You know a lot about my case, about the feds and their ways.”

  “Rumors about home front spies are a hot topic of conversation at work. I read the papers,” I emphasized firmly. My lips felt dry. I licked them and lowered my voice. “It’s said that a couple of Abwehr agents connected to your case eluded the FBI’s net. Do you know? Is it true?”

  Her eyes were mere slits. “You talk about spies at work? With Mrs. Snodgrass?”

  “Well, yes…”

  The Countess, with her squinty eyes, resembled a cat about to pounce on a rat. “Tell me more, please, about how you came to be accused of stealing from her.”

  “Like I told Billie, Mrs. Snodgrass has so much jewelry she must have misplaced a few pieces.”

  “And they arrested you, brought you here, put you in a cell next to mine because they thought you stole her jewelry?” Entangled in the fur coat, she fought to free herself. Eyes blazing, she scrambled to her feet. “You’re a liar! Someone pulled strings to get you in here. Why? Who?”

  “Hear me out,” I pleaded. “My situation is your situation, remember? It’s all a big mistake…”

  The Countess paced again. “Who are you? Why have they left me alone with you?” She pressed her back against the cell bars and looked around, a desperate animal trapped inside a cage. “Have you been sent to harm me? Matron! Help!”

  With the clanging of keys and groan of a door, the matron appeared. But not because the Countess had beckoned. “Lewis, your lawyer’s here to see you.”

  My lawyer?

  “How’d you manage it?” the jailer asked, nudging me out the door and projecting her voice toward the Countess. “A lawyer from the Detroit Free Press—” The guard pressed her lips together, making one of those hmm-hmmm sounds people use to make you think they’re impressed. “Best damn counsel in town.”

  Chapter Four

  Special Agent Dante swung the Ford Deluxe around a garbage truck blocking the entrance to an alleyway. The Countess had seen through my false identity and I was staring out my side window, brooding. Dante nosed back into the traffic along Gratiot Avenue and I peered into the alley, catching a glimpse of a large-boned Negro woman wearing dark coveralls and a bright red bandanna, wheeling a trash can toward us. Struck by the woman’s serene expression and her tall, purposeful walk, I was reminded of how the manpower shortage had changed women’s lives. In my case, I was beginning to understand that sometimes the opportunities would come back to bite us. The FBI had given me an out-of-the-ordinary chance to strut my stuff and I’d muffed it. Now what?

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dante concentrating on the congestion ahead. Minutes ago, purporting to be an attorney from the newspaper, he had arranged my release from jail. We were en route to the FBI field office, a short drive away. An awkward silence had fallen between us and I could only imagine the worst: he was quiet because he was sorting through the mechanics of returning me to my WASP unit. Pronto.

  I was not sure how much Dante knew about what had transpired between the Countess and me, or what had inspired him to show up at precisely the right time. Or even why he had used the ruse involving the Free Press. But at the moment, if gaining understanding meant rehashing my botched assignment, I was not interested.

  The queen WASP would be tickled, I mused glumly. Her stray would be buzzing back to the nest. We continued along Gratiot, Dante absorbed in his stony silence, me picturing my boss, aloft, doing somersaults in her private souped-up Staggerwing biplane. Abruptly, the hedge of low-rise granite buildings along my side of the car gave way; Woodward Avenue was just ahead. An elegant streetcar, its glass and brass aglow in the glare of the sun, glided along the track at the boulevard’s center, bearing down on the passenger island just short of the intersection we had slowed to cross. The streetcar braked. Sparks flying from the connector rod rained down from the overhead wires as the Ford bumped, crossing the tracks. The reel of Miss C’s aerobatics show, playing in my mind, fluttered and snapped.

  “Your timing at the cellblock,” I said. “What made you show up when you did?”

  Dante looked over like I must be joking. “Our prisoner was spinning out of control.”

  “You warned me she was dramatic,” I countered. “She’d begun seeing me as her ally. Another minute, I might have calmed her down.”

  “Dramatic? She’s delusional. Only a psychiatrist would know the proper thing to do.” Dante had been scowling. His expression softened. He glanced at me. “Our bogus Countess is a smart cookie. We knew winning her trust would be tough, but we had to start somewhere. And you urged her to cooperate. We appreciate that.” Turning back to the road, he spoke in an exaggerated tone. “They are being unreasonable. I helped them catch spies. I made them look good. Now they must carry out their end of the bargain. They must release me. Now!” He laughed. “She’s too much.”

  My breath caught. Dante had said they would be nearby in case I needed help. He hadn’t said they would be eavesdropping. “The cellblock was wired?” My voice squeaked.

  Dante’s forehead creased. “Yes, of course.”

  “Why? Were you afraid I’d mess up? That I would miss something?”


  “It had nothing to do with you or your abilities. It’s standard procedure. Besides, listening through a wire is nothing like being there in the flesh. Nuances of speech, body language, those things are as important to understanding what a person might be saying as the actual words coming out of their mouth. And the equipment has its own set of limitations. Interference from noises, a voice slipping out of range, the person talking turns her back to the receivers. But you—” Dante looked at me with genuine appreciation and I felt a rush of warmth meeting his gaze, “you were there with our royal prisoner. You had the advantage of observing her expressions and body language.”

  “But if you knew you’d be listening in beforehand, why not tell me?”

  “Didn’t want you feeling self-conscious or nervous. Turned out, you were brilliant.”

  I smiled tenuously. “What about Billie and Irina? Yanking them out, was that part of the plan?”

  He nodded. “A little private time to give our genteel spy a chance to spill her guts.”

  In truth, I hadn’t given much thought to what the Countess had actually said. “Hear anything useful?”

  “The Buchanan-Dineen, Barclay-Bly relationship is a new twist.”

  “Really? And it’s important?”

  Dante shrugged. “Barclay-Bly has a record.”

  “A record?”

  “Uh-huh. We have a file on her.”

  “A file? The FBI is keeping dossiers on members of a hoity-toity women’s club? Why?”

  “Not all members. Kiki Barclay-Bly.” Dante’s cherubic lips tightened. He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about the next part of your assignment. I need another round of approvals, but Agent Connelly’s already working the cogs. Once we get the nod,” he looked over, “and we will, I’ll bring you up to speed on how Barclay-Bly might play into our case. Meantime, we’re going to need more dirt on Renner.”

  I straightened up. I wasn’t being routed back to my WASP duties after all.

  “Probably best to start at the beginning,” he continued, “with Blount and what brought him over to our side. Blount was a night shift, eleven-to-seven regular. In his capacity as a protection guard, he simply looked the other way whenever Renner wanted to sneak out a blueprint. His privileges also gave him access to executive offices. If Renner wanted some bit of information, say from production or personnel, Blount simply let himself in after hours, found the desired notation in the proper manual or document, and photographed it.