Lipstick and Lies Page 8

  Dee looked stunned. Then she clapped her hands together. “Marvelous! Brilliant! What a hoot!”

  I had not made up the project, nor did the scheme’s originators consider their efforts frivolous or a hoot. Still, I had to smile. I held up my hands in mock surrender. “They claim there’s a need.”

  “Okay,” she said, serious again. “So what’s hot about this club?”

  “My aunt is a member, for one thing. And, well, there’s the upcoming Book Faire. It’s what I wanted to see your sister about.”

  Dee’s eyes narrowed. “Lots of clubs have book events. Nothing out of the ordinary there.”

  “But your Book Faire raises money. For the war effort, right?”

  Dee’s eyes rolled heavenward. “Hard-ly. The funds are used to purchase decorations for the annual Christmas Ball.” She paused, momentarily slack-jawed. “Say, what a swell idea. Why not contribute the proceeds to the cause? We’d be doing something worthwhile. Kiki would love that.”

  Just what I’d hoped. “Can you tell me where to find her?”

  Dee reached for the drained glass on the floor. She stood, tottering slightly. “I can do better than that. She’s in the library. I was going there to see her. You can tag along.”

  We paused at the sideboard near the doorway, giving Dee a chance to deposit her empty glasses. “They only hold a thimbleful,” she said, raising the petite stemmed glass she’d grabbed as a replacement, gauging its amber contents.

  “After your sister’s Book Faire is over maybe she can organize an event to raise funds for more substantial glassware,” I suggested lightly.

  Instead of laughing, like I expected, Dee knitted her eyebrows. “When this phase is finally over, I’m going to see that Kiki takes a vacation. The strain has been awful.”

  I nodded sympathetically while declining her invitation to join her in a sherry. Belatedly, I noticed the remnants of dull colored stains embedded beneath her nails and around the cuticles of her hands. She took a sip from her glass—“so it wouldn’t spill over”—and noticed me staring.

  “They look terrible, I know,” she said, correctly guessing the reason for my ogling. “I’ve taken up painting again. Good therapy, I’m told.”

  We left the lounge and followed a corridor straddled by carved cabinets displaying bric-a-brac in porcelain and alabaster. High above us, crystal chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. The library was on the second floor. We arrived at a corner staircase where a broad deep-toned runner descended stairs of polished mahogany. The banister and the paneled wall opposite it gleamed with a golden-red finish.

  We paused on the landing. Brushing the railing’s smooth finish, Dee chortled softly. “When Kiki and I were young, we lived in a house with a staircase exactly like this. One time we borrowed Mother’s silver trays and used them as toboggans. Bumped and bounced our way down each and every step.”

  I regarded the steep downward pitch. “You’re kidding. And you lived to talk about it?”

  Dee laughed with delight. “Sure. Big trays, little girls. Our elbows, maybe a few other parts, were bruised, but no broken bones. The trays suffered the worst of the battering. Mother retired them afterwards, I think.”

  “She must have been furious.”

  Dee looked puzzled. “No, Mother was never upset. Thought it was amusing, probably.” She smiled at the disbelief on my face. “It’s true. Mother adored us. In her eyes, we could do no wrong.” Her hand smoothed the banister again. The ritual, maybe the recollections, seemed to sober her. “Many times, as an adult, I’ve wondered if somehow things would have turned out better if we’d been taken to task now and then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dee hesitated, seeming to consider what she should tell me. “Earlier you said that as a reporter you like to dig for the unusual. In her heyday Kiki liked going against the grain, too. By doing nothing to rein her in, our parents, I’m afraid, paid a dear price in the end.”

  We slowly descended the stairs. I withheld further questions, and simply listened. Through sherry-lubricated lips, Dee admitted to having been the quiet, obedient daughter, while Kiki, the wild child, had always pushed the boundaries. The ultimate test of their parents’ love, she said, was Kiki’s brush with the law over a party held in her riverside apartment during Prohibition.

  “Something to do with bootlegged booze,” she said, halting on the staircase and surveying the room below as if it drew memories from her.

  Dee touched on other “phases,” as she called them, of Kiki’s early adulthood. In one phase, her sister was a rolling stone, constantly on the move, in search of adventure and excitement; another time, her behavior was the polar opposite. She rarely left the family home. When she did go out, Dee said, she liked to dress in long scarves and flowing gowns venturing no farther than to dance, nymph-like, about the grounds of the family estate.

  There was no mention of the “phase” during the mid-thirties when Kiki fell in with an eccentric crowd and began espousing radical views, the period when, under the watchful eye of the FBI, her friends were observed entering German Bund meetings. Still, by the time we finally reached the second floor, I’d heard enough to convince me that the information contained in the government’s report concerning Kiki’s “glory days” was accurate.

  ***

  On the second floor landing, a fine porcelain vase, laced with gold and resting on a trestle table, held sprigs of eucalyptus sprouting from among fall-toned mums. Their pungent scent followed us even as we rounded a corner and started down another richly appointed corridor.

  “But your sister changed,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to imagine someone who had once been so unconventional feeling at ease among the formal trappings. “What caused the shift?”

  Dee stopped and set her glass down on a narrow table beneath a gilded mirror. “The usual, I guess. Maturity, death, trauma.”

  Dee wore a black dress, elegant in its simplicity, and all the more chic on her trim figure. I stood behind her, studying her reflection in the glass while she smoothed her thick eyebrows and adjusted the large pearl studs on her ears. Perfectly matched to the strand around her neck, the pearls glowed with a soft pink luster.

  “And marriage?” I asked. “Was getting married part of the transformation?”

  “Of course. Kiki and V-V have been together for nearly ten years. They were married in Paris. I’ll remember the occasion always. We—Mother, Father, and I—received an Eiffel Tower postcard announcement. ‘We’re married! I’m hopelessly in love,’ it said.”

  “Really? That’s it? You weren’t invited?”

  Dee found a tube of lipstick in a pocket hidden in the seam of her dress. “No. We hadn’t even heard of V-V until then. But we’d been through similar occasions before. It was Kiki’s third wedding.”

  Agent Connelly had mentioned the multiple marriages. Still, I managed to look surprised. “Third?”

  “Kiki’s a big fan of marriage. Third time’s the charm, though, it seems. She’s settled. And very content, at last.” She began applying a fresh layer of cherry-red to her lips.

  “Anastase Andrey-yo-yo Viva…Vivi…” I paused and cleared my throat. “V-V has an interesting name. What nationality? Russian?”

  Dee smiled at my attempt to parrot the name. “Oh no, Ukrainian. But they met in Paris. He comes from quite the lineage.” The tube paused. “Friend of Kiki’s introduced them.”

  “Oh?”

  Dee blotted her mouth and smiled slyly. “If you have a chance to meet V-V, you’ll understand why she fell for him. And it’s not because of his background. He’s a knockout. Impeccable manners and charm…” She hesitated. The smile remained, but the light in her eyes faded. “The type of man who once he’s found you, never lets you go.” She picked up her glass.

  The heavy, double pocket-doors at the library’s entrance had been left open. A woman was rolling a pushcart of books over the threshold as we arrived. She lifted the back of the cart, maneuvering the load to turn it.
Several books tumbled off. While she bent to retrieve them, I peered inside.

  The rectangular room had floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with rows of books bound in dark leather. I counted four schoolhouse desks arranged in private nooks, and two Queen Anne desks positioned in opposing corners, all with occupants. The heavy drapes dressing the tall windows had been pulled against the ebbing afternoon light. Reading lamps with emerald shades cast warm spectrums of light, enhancing the ambience.

  Having restacked her cart, the librarian began rolling forward again. Coming abreast of us, she glanced pointedly at the glass in Dee’s hand before moving on.

  Dee angled her head toward me. “Rules are rules,” she chimed. “No food or drink inside.” Down the hall, a carved table rested against the wall. She headed for it and I entered the library.

  The crackling of wood burning in a fireplace drew my attention to a Wedgewood mantelpiece at the far end of the room. Near it, a man and a woman stood opposite one another on either side of an ornate antique desk. They were sideways to me, and I could only see their profiles, but I recognized the likeness to the mug shot in Dante’s file immediately. The thick fringe of bangs was a recent change, but it was definitely Kiki.

  The tall man with broad shoulders and strong features across from her was, I guessed V-V. A Continental-cut suit, draped softly over his muscular frame, made a refined contrast to his dark brown hair, worn on the longish side so that it brushed the collar of his shirt in back. He looked sophisticated but a bit rakish.

  The couple was engaged in quiet conversation. Each had a hand on a book lying on the desk’s polished surface. While they talked, the book moved back and forth as though it were a planchette on a Ouija board, guiding their hands not to letters of the alphabet, but to the dominant party’s side of the desk.

  Dee came up beside me. “Kiki?” I nodded to the couple.

  “Uh-huh. And that’s V-V across from her.” She absorbed the scene more fully. “Oh dear, and they don’t look too happy, do they?”

  “There does seem to be some friction.”

  “I’ve been warning her.”

  “Warning her?”

  “Well, warning might be too strong a word. But look—” Dee’s tongue clicked in a tsk. “She’s so pale and tired looking. It worries me.”

  I thought her observation reflected a maternal bent. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, in my view Kiki looked great. “Hmmm…”

  Dee misheard me. “Yes. And him. I’m worried about him, too.”

  “Who, V-V? Why?”

  “Kiki was a free-spirit at one time; these days she’s anything but. She’s so obsessed with getting this Book Faire off the ground it’s all she does, day and night. She’s neglecting her health, her husband—” Dee sighed, focusing on her sister. “They have a suite here. I’ll bet she’s been staying overnight again.”

  I observed the stubborn set of V-V’s jaw. “He doesn’t approve?”

  Dee frowned. “Well, I guess you could say, like the library, he has his rules. And until now Kiki has been a saint in putting up with them…” Dee faltered as her thoughts took a slow turn. “Maybe it’s time she held her ground. A woman should never submit to a man too completely.” Her melancholy tone grew so soft I had to strain to hear her. “Not even a handsome, charming, adoring man.”

  ***

  Dee and I wove past a handful of patrons occupying wing chairs upholstered in shiny brocades and dark velvets. The women, absorbed in their reading, barely looked up.

  Kiki wore a filmy loden-green scarf draped loosely around her neck. One end had been tossed over her shoulder, the other flowed in a soft line down the front of a lavender blouse worn with loose trousers of pewter silk. Above the elegant clothing, her wide-set eyes were fixed on her husband. Sensing our approach, her gaze shifted, lighting up as she saw Dee.

  Cued by the change in his wife’s expression, V-V pivoted and faced us as well. Dee had not been exaggerating. A tall, well-built man in his early forties, V-V was ruggedly handsome with a strong chin, a long nose, faintly arched, and a precise mustache, like Clark Gable’s. Relinquishing the battle over the book, he came toward us.

  “Dee, my darr-ling,” he said, drawing out the words, his rich accent resonating with warmth and charm. He spread his arms and drew Dee into his embrace.

  Behind the desk, Kiki opened a side drawer. The small volume the twosome had been tussling over disappeared inside.

  Dee introduced me to the couple, then began recapping the bird program. While the trio exchanged barbs about the women in attendance and assessed the event’s political ramifications, I used the opportunity to observe the sisters. Physically, they were a close match: medium in height, with trim figures. They also shared the oval shape of their faces and the wide set of their eyes. Both women had black hair. But that was where the similarities ended. Kiki’s dark tresses gleamed with the underlying blue sheen of a tint; Dee’s dark color was natural. It was interesting. The hallmark patch of white I’d thought so flatteringly dramatic on Dee earlier, sent a different message when she stood next to her sister. It made her look like the elder of the two when the truth was just the opposite. Dee’s tight chignon also added years while Kiki’s contemporary bob, cut sharply at a diagonal across her cheeks, erased time.

  Eventually, the conversation returned to me, and Dee acted as an unexpected advocate. First, she provided an excellent overview of the series I was writing, and then hinted I had an idea concerning the Book Faire, imploring Kiki to discuss it with me.

  Kiki bristled visibly at hearing I was a reporter. She responded with a thoughtful, “Hmmm,” seeming to consider the suggestion, but then did not bother pursuing it. A paper stack caught her eye. She dropped into her chair and began weeding it.

  V-V bridged the awkward moment. “Ahh, you are a writer,” he said, facing me. “Does this mean you are an avid reader as well?”

  “Why, yes.”

  He displayed a second book he had been holding at his side. “Do you know E.T.A. Hoffmann?”

  I tapped the index of my memory, spinning through authors’ names, attempting to trace where I had heard of Hoffmann. I drew a blank.

  “This one is Tales of Hoffmann,” V-V said. “A rare edition and a memento from my past. Kiki brought it to the club thinking I had left it out as a donation for her Faire.” He gave a deep-throated laugh. “A mistake. I would never willingly part with this.”

  I frowned. The volume had a foreign title.

  “It is a German edition,” he said.

  “German?”

  Kiki looked up. “We have a fine collection of works by international authors,” she said, sounding somewhat defensive. She gestured to a section of shelving labeled Foreign Works. “Detroit is an industrial capital. Executives in our plants collaborate with business leaders from around the world. Our members often put them up here as guests. Also, many of our local leaders, or their wives, are direct descendants of immigrants. We have ladies who are fluent in German, French, Hungarian, Polish, Italian, Czechoslovakian…the list goes on and on. Some members, or individuals in their families, know several languages”—she smiled hesitantly at V-V—“like my husband.”

  The new point of discussion seemed to thaw Kiki’s cool demeanor. “During our Book Faire, we hope to capitalize on this very same cross-section by offering foreign-language books in our sale.” She shook her head and regarded V-V’s keepsake. “Too bad you won’t part with it, dear. Such a rare edition would spike up our profits.”

  “But that wasn’t the book on the desk you two were fighting over,” Dee interjected. “What was that all about?”

  “Oh, that.” V-V’s gaze flitted to his wife. “I was only trying to save my darling a trip to the beauty shop.”

  “The beauty shop?” Dee looked confused.

  “But I told you, dear,” Kiki said, ignoring her sister and locking gazes with her husband. “I have to go there anyway, to make an appointment. I can take the book myself.”

&
nbsp; V-V reached to smooth the hair near her temple. “But your hair is lovely.”

  Kiki’s smile was forced. “Now, dear, I said I’m going there to schedule a manicure, not a hair appointment, remember? And it’s the manicurist who requested the book.”

  Her husband’s hand lingered on her bangs. She gently removed it. The polish on her already perfectly groomed nails caught the emerald glow of the desk lamp, glimmering in the reflected light.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” V-V raised his hands in resignation. “I only wanted to help.You are so overworked.”

  “My sentiments, exactly,” Dee said.

  A smile beginning in V-V’s eyes moved to his mouth. “To please us all, I will tell you what I shall do instead. First, I shall take Dee for an aperitif and leave you two lovely ladies to have your discussion. Then upon my return in say…” He raised his arm, exposing a gold watch beneath a monogrammed cuff. “In one half-hour, I shall chauffeur you home, personally. Meanwhile, I will call Cook and have her arrange a lovely dinner with fine wine. You will see, tonight we shall have a very relaxed, comfortable evening.”

  V-V’s eyes danced with delight. Kiki sounded suddenly overwrought. “Oh no, not tonight, darling. I simply must stay over. This will be the last night for a while, I promise.”

  I sympathized with Kiki. She had workhorse tendencies. And while V-V’s proposal might be exactly what a doctor would order to soothe her nerves, his domineering delivery had been irksome. More importantly, she had work to do and needed his support. Yet he acted as though he hadn’t heard, bull-headedly insisting on whisking her away.

  Dee took V-V’s side. “Kiki, your husband is right. Tonight you should relax. You look peaked. Take a break, please.”

  Kiki turned to her sister. Her look suggested she would tell her where she could stick her nose. But she didn’t. Her eyes softened. “Okay, you win.”