Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (7 page)

“Have you ever met the pilot of the plane, Marcus Ambrose?”

“Oh, he's been around. He calls her a lot.”

She frowned and bit her lip. “There's one thing you probably already know because we spoke to the cops about it. Miss Alexandra had someone stalking her last year. He'd leave creepy messages on the phone saying how much he loved her. Then he pasted notes on the terrace door at night. It was scary. The calls and notes just stopped. They never found him.”

“Mrs. Cooper, thank you. You've been a great help. Those young people are resting in the guest bedroom. By now the police will have completed this phase of the investigation. May I suggest that you tidy up the living room and, late as it is, prepare a light snack for them? From what Michael Broad told me, they have not eaten since lunch.”

Emma sprang up. “Happy to help. When you think that poor girl is still on their honeymoon . . .” Obviously grateful to be able to take some action, she got up and with purposeful steps left the room.

Twaddle had stood up with Emma. He waited until she was out of earshot, then said, “We will interview the building employees who were on duty. I suspect they will not be able to tell us anything. The door to the back terrace cannot be seen by the doorman. Tomorrow morning we will interrogate the three men who seem to be most closely involved with Alexandra Saunders: Grant Wilson, Larry Thompson and Marcus Ambrose.”

Friday

Grant Wilson lived on Fifth Avenue, in the apartment house next to the one where Jackie Kennedy had moved shortly after her husband's assassination. It gave him a secret thrill to occasionally leave it at the same time she was leaving hers and have a chance to wish her a pleasant day.

It had just happened this morning, and he was savoring the memory of the glamorous former first lady as he started his mile-and-a-half walk to the office. Then he was stopped by the doorman running after him to say that two detectives from the District Attorney's Office urgently needed to see him.

His mouth suddenly went dry with fear. He turned. They were
standing at the entrance to the apartment building. Not wanting to say anything in the presence of the doorman, Wilson invited them up to his apartment before he demanded to know why they were there.

Before they had a chance to answer, he burst out, “It can't be that something has happened to Alexandra?”

Hubert Twaddle had already wondered if this might not be the response from the head of the modeling agency. After all, Wilson's star model had been missing for three days. He had left countless messages begging her to be in touch and reminding her that the Beauty Mask campaign was in jeopardy. Now, seeing the sudden pallor that came over Wilson's face, Twaddle concluded that the man might be genuinely afraid of what he might hear.

“Clearly you have not heard the news, Mr. Wilson,” Twaddle said. “Miss Alexandra Saunders was murdered in her apartment last night.”

Wilson sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. “Not Alexandra,” he said, his tone unbelieving.

For the next hour, step by step, Twaddle and Ben Lyons heard from Grant Wilson the same story they had heard from Michael Broad. Alexandra had not been seen since Monday night when their chartered plane had landed at Kennedy Airport. Wilson had been in constant touch with both Larry Thompson, the photographer, and Marcus Ambrose, the owner of the charter airline, as to where Alexandra might have gone.

“Where were you last night from seven o'clock on?” Twaddle asked.

“I was at a black-tie dinner at the Lotos Club. It's on 66th Street just off Fifth Avenue.”

“Were you there all evening?”

“Yes, of course. It began at six-thirty.”

“What time did you leave?”

“When the dinner was over, about ten o'clock. I went directly home from there.”

Ben knew what his partner was thinking. If Wilson had left the Lotos Club around 10
P.M.
, he had plenty of time to go to Alexandra's apartment around the time of the murder.

“Do Thompson and Ambrose know about Alexandra's death?” Wilson asked dully.

“I do not know if they have heard it on the news,” Twaddle answered. “If they haven't, they will hear it from me very soon.”

•  •  •

Larry Thompson had a late breakfast meeting with an account director of Lehman Advertising Agency and his two assistants. Over eggs Benedict, coffee and cigarettes they informed him that he had been chosen to be the producer of a series of commercials for the most popular breakfast cereal in their client's array of products. It would be a lucrative engagement for Larry except for the fact that all the commercials would involve having young child actors in them. Thinking of the chaos of yesterday's shoot, he knew it would be a difficult assignment but career enhancing.

He also knew that for the money he would be getting it would be worth it. Even so, Larry was barely able to contain himself as the account director and his assistants decided to again refill their coffee cups.

Had they found Alexandra? he kept wondering. When would they find her? It was a question that haunted him as he said a final good-bye to the agency men and took a cab to his townhouse on East 48th Street. At the front door, he found a note taped to the doorknob. Detective Hubert Twaddle requested that he phone him immediately.

It was a warm morning, but even so, as Grant Wilson had earlier, Larry found himself breaking into a cold sweat. Impatiently he
turned the key in the lock and, not waiting until he went up to his apartment, grabbed the phone in the studio and dialed the number on the card.

Unable to reach either Thompson or Marcus Ambrose at home, Hubert Twaddle and Ben Lyons had returned to their desks in the detective section of the District Attorney's Office. Ben studied Twaddle's face as he told Thompson that Alexandra Saunders was dead. But, as usual, neither by voice nor demeanor did he give Ben the slightest hint of what kind of reaction he was getting from Thompson. It was the kind of inscrutable expression that Ben wanted to develop for himself.

“We will be at your studio in twenty minutes,” Twaddle concluded, and hung up the phone. He turned to Ben.

“A second grief-stricken and shocked associate of Miss Saunders. This one claims he was home all evening,” he said dryly. “Now, since Mr. Ambrose's secretary has just left word that he will be in his office at one o'clock, we will go directly to Kennedy Airport after we see Mr. Thompson. The Medical Examiner's Office said that the autopsy will be completed and the body ready for formal identification by three o'clock. We will pick up Miss Saunders's sister and brother-in-law at two-thirty. And now let's pay Mr. Thompson a visit.”

•  •  •

Larry Thompson's assistant, Peggy Martin, came to work at 10:30 
A.M.
happy in the fact that it was going to be a normal business day. Not that yesterday's models had been bad kids. It was just that Kathy dropping the milk bottle too soon had caused a delay while they cleaned and rewaxed the floor.

Peggy went inside and to her surprise found Larry sitting by the phone in the studio, his hand still on it. For a moment she thought he might have had a stroke. She rushed over to him and shook his
arm. He turned to look at her, his eyes staring. He said “Peggy” tentatively, as though he wasn't sure who she was.

“Larry, what's the matter?” Peggy demanded.

“Alexandra is dead,” he said, his voice a monotone. “Peggy, Alexandra was murdered last night.”

“No, that's impossible,” Peggy said, then recognized the futility of her words. She realized that there was nothing she could say to him now. Instead she took the phone from Larry to call the modeling agency and cancel the afternoon booking.

“Peggy, that's going to cost Larry plenty,” the agent said. “When you don't give twenty-four hours' notice, you pay full rate.”

“So bill us,” Peggy snapped and slammed down the phone. She turned to Larry as the buzzer sounded. She rushed from the studio through the foyer and opened the door. Two men, their expressions hard to read, were standing there. They wasted no time on pleasantries.

“We are Detectives Twaddle and Lyons,” Ben said. “We are here to see Mr. Thompson.”

Peggy led them into the studio and placed two folding chairs across from where Larry was sitting.

“I'll be right outside if you need me,” she said, her eyes now filling with tears.

Larry Thompson did not greet them. Twaddle told him who they were as he scrutinized Larry's expression. Before they began to question him, Larry said, “You told me Alexandra was murdered. How?”

“Miss Saunders's body was found in her apartment. We are speaking to anyone who might have seen or spoken to her Monday evening. Was there anything unusual in her mood or behavior after she got off the plane?”

“At first I thought that the strain of the Beauty Mask campaign had gotten to be too much for Alexandra. But when I heard that she didn't meet her sister's plane yesterday, I couldn't believe it. She
talked about nothing but how much she wanted to see her and meet her new husband. When she didn't come to the airport, I knew something was terribly wrong.”

“Did you see or hear from Miss Saunders after leaving the airport Monday evening?”

“No, I did not.”

“Where were you last evening starting at seven o'clock?”

“I was home by myself.”

“Did you to speak to or telephone anyone from seven o'clock on?”

“No, I didn't. We'd had a rough day on the set and I was worried about Alexandra. I wanted to be here in case she phoned.” Then he burst out, “Have you any idea who could have done this to Alexandra?”

“Not yet,” Twaddle told him. “But I assure you we will soon.”

He got up and Ben followed suit. “We will be in touch with you, Mr. Thompson,” Twaddle said. As they walked to the curb and got in the car, Twaddle commented, “Such a splendid performance from a former child actor. But no supporting cast to verify that he was home last night.”

•  •  •

Promptly at one o'clock Twaddle and Lyons arrived at the Executair Airlines office at Kennedy Airport. As they took in the décor of the reception area, their thoughts were interchangeable. One didn't need a decorator's eye to see that every piece of furniture—the desk, chairs, bookcases, filing cabinets—had been ordered from a catalog. There was not a single picture on the walls. The thin, faded blue carpet was of the indoor/outdoor variety. Certainly any profits from this airline were not wasted on frills.

Ambrose's secretary, Eleanor Lansing, had an anxious expression on her narrow face. Mr. Ambrose was on a long-distance call, she told the detectives, and would they mind please having a seat. As
Twaddle and Lyons waited, they heard Miss Lansing answering inquiries on the phone. She ended each conversation with the same tagline: “We have a perfect safety record.” In between calls, Twaddle attempted to engage her in conversation and learned that Marcus Ambrose had started the business six years ago. There were six other pilots and yet it was Ambrose's hobby to frequently take the controls himself when interesting people booked a charter.

“Wasn't it awful about that beautiful model, Alexandra Saunders, who was murdered?” She sighed. “I heard it on the radio when I was having lunch. She was part of a group that regularly chartered our planes . . . just shows you never know.

“I never met her. I wish I had. Someone else made all the arrangements for that trip. The charter Miss Saunders was on was booked by the Wilson Modeling Agency.”

The door of the inner office opened. Ben was sure Twaddle would have loved to continue talking with Eleanor Lansing, even though he would never give the slightest hint of disappointment that a conversation was over. Instead, Twaddle rose to his feet and solemnly acknowledged the muted greeting from Marcus Ambrose. The man's face was flushed, his eyes were half-closed and his hand was trembling when he extended it.

Ambrose's private office had been furnished with the same disinterest as the reception area. He waited until he'd closed the door before turning to the detectives and asking, “Do you know who did this to Alexandra?”

“The investigation into her murder is continuing. We are trying to discover where Miss Saunders might have gone when she left the airport on Monday evening,” Ben replied.

“I had offered her a ride home and she accepted it. But then after I stopped here for ten minutes, I returned to meet her at the terminal, in the arriving passengers area. She was gone.”

For the next half hour Twaddle and Ben repeated the questions
they had asked earlier that morning. Ambrose's statements were identical to those he had given to Mike and Janice. He had been at the filming of the final commercial in Venice. Alexandra neither looked nor felt well.

“Do you have any idea why she would have left the airport without taking her luggage?” Twaddle asked.

“I thought she might have seen one of the paparazzi and didn't want to be photographed looking the way she was. She certainly knew I would take care of her luggage.”

“Were you and Miss Saunders personally involved?” Twaddle asked.

“I only wish. I won't deny that I was trying, and as I told her sister, in her free time we did some sightseeing together and I was beginning to think she enjoyed being with me.”

Fifteen minutes later when Hubert Twaddle and Ben Lyons were in the car, Ben volunteered, “I don't think we got very much out of that interview.”

“Let us not be too sure of that,” Twaddle answered. “But I believe the background investigations of Mr. Wilson, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Ambrose may make very interesting reading when we get back to the office.”

•  •  •

Even though Emma had prepared scrambled eggs for them after the police left last night, Michael had decided not to awaken Janice. He had covered her with a blanket and let her sleep through the night.