Lipstick and Lies (16 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Dante had promised that the press credentials and other materials necessary to pull off my journalist cover would be waiting for me at the front desk, along with the keys to an FBI-requisitioned car. But first a stop at the beauty parlor.

The salon reeked of rotten eggs. Someone was getting a permanent wave. I breathed through my mouth, letting my nasal passages adapt more slowly. The waiting area with its wicker furnishings and fern print wallpaper was reminiscent of a small lanai and I skirted through the area thinking I might be more suitably attired in a grass skirt and lei.

At the reception desk, I peered into the main part of the salon. A lone patron absorbed in a magazine sat beneath the metal bonnet of a hairdryer attached to one of several orange vinyl-covered chairs along the wall. When no one came out to help me, I went to the folding screen and checked the manicurist’s station. The gooseneck lamp had not been turned on and from the tabletop’s tidy appearance I guessed Liberty had not yet arrived.

My high heels were fitted with metal cleats to preserve the leather. They tapped sharply as I crossed the linoleum flooring in quick small steps. To my left were the three client chairs where the beauticians applied their magic. In front of the chairs, the wall of mirrors separated the public area from a private annex in back, reserved for staff. At least those were my thoughts as I closed in on the room, attracted by the barely audible sounds of conversation.

The voices were those of a man and a woman. The man’s voice sounded familiar. Nonetheless, I was more than a little shocked to see V-V, with his hands on Clara Renner’s shoulders.

He twirled around, his handsome features distorted by his surprise. Clara’s pink smock clung suggestively to the curves of her hourglass figure and her crown of auburn hair was tousled. Her mascara-laden lashes fluttered as she pressed backwards against the counter near the sinks.

More striking than ever in tall riding boots, jodhpurs, and a tweed jacket, V-V looked as if he’d come straight to the Club from his morning ride. Clara’s rapidly blinking eyes fixed me with a dubious stare. They made an odd couple standing next to one another, he looking so tall and proper; she so short and fiery. I hadn’t heard what the twosome had been discussing, but having caught them together, I was naturally curious.

V-V wore an ascot beneath his open-necked shirt. He adjusted it slightly. “Miss Lewis,” he exclaimed, his accent dramatizing my name, making me smile. “How lovely that you are here.” He gave me a slow once over. “And how
lovely
you are turned out.”

I blushed beneath my hat. “Thank you. I’m off to an interview.”

“How fortunate that you stopped here first.” He collected a book from the nearby counter. “I was about to come looking for you. Yesterday you showed an interest in Hoffmann’s short stories. I came across the English version of my favorite volume, the one we were discussing. I should like to lend it to you.”

“How kind.” Remembering what Liberty had said, I ventured a glance at his fingers. Any residual scars had faded with time and the skin was pulled so neatly over the end of the bone that it was not obvious but, yes, the three outer digits were definitely shorter than normal and absent their nails.

She had also alluded to an affiliation with V-V. I wondered if he had been trying to glean information relating to the Naval Officer’s wife from Clara before I arrived.

“The story we talked about, ‘Mademoiselle de Scudéri,’ is included in the collection,” he said, handing it over.

“Ah, the haunting mystery. I shall enjoy it very much.” My remarks had sounded like a poor attempt at mimicking his formal speaking style. No, more like a cheap imitation of Bela Lugosi. But V-V was not offended.

“You remembered. I am delighted. My darling Kiki wanted to bring it to you herself. But as I was just explaining to Mrs. Renner, she is unable to make it in to the club today.”

I had been looking forward to digging into Kiki’s relationship with the Countess. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Is she ill?”

V-V shook his head. “Not exactly. She has been on the go too much. She is exhausted.”

Dee’s concerns about her sister’s work habits had been on the money then. I patted the book’s cover. “It was doubly kind of you to remember this under the circumstances. I’ll read it and report back.”

Clara had been standing by quietly. “It’s what’s expected from Herr General Anastase Andreyevich Volodymyr Vivikovsky.” Smiling broadly, she clipped the forehead of her heart-shaped face in a crisp salute.

The remark puzzled me, but V-V looked proud. He squared his shoulders.

Clara and I had not been properly introduced. He did the honors. Clara, who obviously delighted in teasing him, laughed again—a sweet chortle, really—and turned to me. She spoke in a breathy, little voice that coming from someone else might have been irritating.

“I’ve been behaving like a schoolgirl. I apologize. My comment about the Herr General must have confused you.” She grinned. “I call V-V Herr General because he tries to dictate our choice of reading material here in the shop. He disapproves of the movie screen magazines, thinks we should subscribe to more literary stuff. He likes to drop by now and then with what he calls worthwhile publications.” She turned to him, eyebrows arched. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Improve one’s looks, improve one’s mind?” I contributed, spontaneously.

V-V laughed. “Yes, an excellent slogan for the salon. Mrs. Renner, you should use it.”

I smiled. “I was looking for the manicurist. Have you seen her?”

The two exchanged a private look. They seemed worried.

“What? Something wrong?”

Clara glanced at V-V then looked across the small room. Two chairs, engineered to tilt backwards to corresponding sinks, took up most of the space. Shelving above held an array of bottles and jars. Near the shelving was a dark wooden Swiss chalet cuckoo clock.

“Glossy’s late,” Clara said, her small voice breathier yet. “That’s unusual for her. Especially when she has a client booked.”

“But I’m early…” I double-checked the clock, this time noticing that the ornamental flowers surrounding the chalet were all hand-painted in pink with rhinestone centers. I turned back to Clara. The pink looked as if it had been custom matched to her smock.

“I was referring to Mrs. Kelly, under the dryer,” Clara said. “When Glossy didn’t show, I called her boarding house, thinking she might have overslept. It’s nearby and the landlady’s an old friend.” She looked at V-V as if seeking his approval before continuing.

“What is it?” I asked, sounding exasperated, playing up my rights as the inconvenienced client. “If something has happened, I should be told. After all, I have an appointment.”

“She wasn’t there when I called.”

“Wasn’t there? Then where is she? Is she coming in to work or not?”

V-V, responding to my growing agitation, rose to Clara’s defense. “Mrs. Renner does not know. Neither does the landlady.”

I was not supposed to be acquainted with Liberty, aka Glossy. I forced myself to continue sounding indignant and detached. “What? How can that be?”

V-V spoke in measured tones. “When Mrs. Renner telephoned, she spoke to the landlady, who went to call Miss Fingers. Her door was unlocked. Someone had broken into Miss Fingers’ room. All her belongings, clothing, papers, everything, were strewn about.”

I shivered. Someone had just invaded my room also. I shivered again.

“Oh my. And Miss Fingers, what about her?”

My concern was genuine, but V-V responded as if he thought I was merely being irksome. “Please, Miss Lewis. Mrs. Renner is already upset. She does not know where Miss Fingers is. It is why I was consoling her when you arrived.” His eyes pleaded for a show of sympathy.

Clara was upset? What about me? Liberty was my close friend.

Ah, but if V-V was her partner on the case, he’d be worried too. I tried reading his expression. Something in his look reassured me. I had been holding my breath. I exhaled, telling myself she was fine. Staging a ransacked room could be just part of her cover.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.”

Clara glanced at the wall phone below the clock. “Mrs. Brown planned to call the police, right after we hung up. Said she’d fill me in once they’ve checked things out.”

“I’m supposed to see you this afternoon,” I said. “Think Miss Fingers might have a free slot afterwards?”

Clara had begun emptying the amber solution from a clear plastic bottle shaped like a ketchup container into the sink. Tilting her head, she tried stealing a look under my hat. “I’m sure we can make it work.”

V-V was ready to leave. “Mrs. Renner, as always, it has been a delight.”

Clara’s arms were resting at her sides. He took one of her hands and pressed it to his lips. She giggled. “And you, Miss Lewis,” he said, turning to me. “Perhaps after you have read ‘Mademoiselle de Scudéri’ we will have the opportunity to discuss your reactions.”

“That would be lovely,” I replied, automatically parroting his formal speaking pattern again. “And, please give my best to your wife. Let her know that I still hope to chat with her about the Book Faire, would you?”
And tell Liberty to get in touch,
I added silently, willing him to read my mind.

He snatched my hand, brushing it with a parting kiss. “Indeed, I shall.”

***

Today’s clerk was the same woman with the receding chin and horsy figure who’d been on duty at the Club the day before when I’d checked in. She returned with the packet I’d been expecting, giving me a shifty-eyed look as I took it.

I found a private spot along the wall and examined the envelope. No wonder the clerk had seemed wary. The flap was secured with a bold CONFIDENTIAL seal. Just as Dante had promised, the credentials—press pass, driver’s license, bogus newspaper—were all inside. I parted the envelope farther, wanting to glimpse my byline below the column head. I smiled. God bless the ghost writers back at headquarters. The subject of my phony interview was Mad Max. They’d chosen well.

Max was a WAC I’d gotten to know on stopovers at Wright Field in Dayton, Ohio. Only nineteen, she was a certified airplane mechanic and engine specialist, and one of the experimental airfield’s top mechanics. I crossed the lobby, dropping onto a wing chair tucked into a far corner. Unable to resist reading what I had written about her, I surveyed the room then pulled the newspaper from the envelope. Fabulous! With no effort on my part whatsoever, I’d written a great piece covering Mad Max’s war contributions.

I replaced the article, unable to keep from smiling at the author’s discretion in deciding to avoid any mention of her tattoos. My pulse quickened at discovering a letter-sized envelope, addressed to me, containing a personal memo from Dante.

“Sorry, we need to postpone our plans again. Something unexpected has come up. Meet us at headquarters this afternoon, after your appointment with Mrs. Renner. We’ll brief you then.”

Something unexpected?
Daring to dream that it involved Liberty, perhaps Roy, maybe even the two agencies at last coming together on the same page, I was already feeling excited when I read the memo’s last lines and felt a bigger kick yet. “Not sure how you’ll finesse it, but remember
don’t let Mrs. Renner change a thing.
You’re already perfect, just the way you are.”

Chapter Fourteen

A stop at Plant Protection Headquarters was mandatory for anyone calling at Willow Run. A beefy beet-faced guard with an undershot jaw manned the visitors’ lobby from behind a curved counter. His hooded eyes followed me as I snaked between a couple of tall, leafy plants in ceramic pots then skirted a row of uninviting chairs on my approach to the counter.

The guard’s royal blue jacket was worn open over a gray shirt and black tie, the coat’s front panels partially concealing a bowl-shaped paunch. On the drive in, I’d passed the Orange Lantern, the roadhouse near the plant’s perimeter where Renner and Blount met for their final session before Blount was murdered. The joint did a brisk business with employees who liked to drop by after work. Judging by the number of cars parked there this morning, the men coming off the graveyard shift were no exception. Venturing toward the guard, observing his florid skin and morose expression, I could picture him hunched over the tavern’s bar, nursing a beer, venting his gripes.

At the counter I glimpsed the man’s badge. Officer Flynn. “What’s your business?” The gruff greeting matched his bulldog face.

I stated the nature of my visit and Flynn asked me to open my pouch. He dumped the contents. The back of his hand, thick with tufts of dark hair, crawled through my belongings, a tarantula after prey. The creeping hand stopped. I resisted the urge to turn and run, watching the stubby fingers seize my powder compact, then my lipstick tube. He clasped them by the fingertips as though wary of contracting an exotic disease, as he inspected them. The cosmetics, elements of my undercover girl kit, were set aside. I began humming softly to myself, trying to appear outwardly cool while a few more items suffered his groping attention. At last, seeming satisfied, he tagged the pouch and returned it, leaving me to stuff my possessions back inside while he registered my name in a log.

A visitor’s number was jotted on a temporary badge indicating my destination. Badge pinned in place, bag tagged and coded, I turned and was ambling toward the door when a “Halt!” from Flynn stopped me. My heart raced. I spun around to face him. “Wwwh-at?”

“Not so fast,” his voice boomed through the deserted lobby. “You’ll need an escort. Searls,” he called over his shoulder, “get out here.”

A pimply, tow-headed guard emerged through a partially open door behind the counter. He followed at my elbow, eventually climbing into the passenger side of the FBI Ford I’d left parked in the lot outside. Luckily, this model had no two-way radio or other identifiable equipment.

The Plant Protection building stood between the main inbound and outbound gates. I nosed out of the building’s lot, curving along the plant’s interior byways, following Searls’ direction. He knew a lot of people and as he waved to them, I became conscious of the platoons of protection men, on foot or motorized scooters, patrolling the roads and parking lots.

Searls directed me to park in a spot only yards away from where two days earlier I’d met with Miss C. Renner’s office was in the foot-portion of the L-shaped plant. We got out, passing the detached Administration Building on our way to the entrance.

A guard posted inside checked my pass and we started down a corridor long enough to land a Lib. I let my tow-headed guide lead the way while I lagged behind, reading the etched lettering on the glazed glass doors on either side of us. We were passing through Research and Development, I realized, aware that the secret plans for the night-bombing device Renner had somehow pilfered and copied had been produced behind one of the doors. Which one, I wondered?

The endless hall spilled into a centralized secretarial pit before continuing on through a doorway on the opposite side. The hub contained several rows of desks occupied by women typing. The flow of people streaming in and out of the area was constant, and when we arrived the preoccupied secretaries did not even bother looking up. A balding man in a brown suit entered through a set of double doors off to the side. A loud burst of machinery and truck noises came in with him, momentarily cutting off the continual clack-clacking of typewriter keys. I turned, catching a glimpse of a loading dock before the doors closed.

Searls left after introducing me to Beth, an attractive, bubbly brunette. Beth wore a navy pleated skirt woven with white hash marks and a white open-neck blouse. A tiny blue sapphire on a delicate gold chain rested in the crook of the neckline’s V.

Accompanying her down another vast corridor, I stared at more closed doors. Behind them, Renner’s Tool Design team worked on the jigs, fixtures, casts, and molds needed for the new or modified parts developed by the engineers in the R&D wing. Dante suspected that Renner took secret plans out of the plant by hiding them inside his brace. Having just experienced some of the plant’s security measures firsthand I wondered again, how was it possible?

I said, “Research and Design usually work hand in hand, especially during the development phase. But your teams work in separate wings. How do they coordinate what they’re doing?”

Beth frowned then smiled. “Only a reporter would ask something like that.”
Not necessarily,
I thought, returning Beth’s smile as she elaborated.

“The Research and Design groups operate under an umbrella department called Development Engineering. The department has conference rooms where they get together on the second floor. Oh, and engineers from both groups regularly visit the Loft.”

“The Loft?”

“Uh-huh. All of the masters, or original drawings, are kept up there.” Beth looked over. “You ought to see the place, if you can. It’s a huge room with lots of windows to catch the light. Drafting tables are everywhere, but there are never enough. All engineering changes have to be done there and with the recent increased demand for bombers and our stepped-up production, the changes are constant. The engineers spread out, work on the floor, if they have to.”

She was echoing Twombley’s words. I nodded.

I knew a little something about the arbitrary policies associated with design work from my previous job in an aircraft plant. “What about cabinets with flat files for storing the originals? Are they in the Loft, too?”

Beth took my insights for granted. “Uh-huh, they fill the entire center of the room.”

It went without saying the drawers would always remain locked. “Are there special circumstances under which an engineer can check out a master?”

She laughed. “No, it’s not a lending library. The originals are kept under guard and can never leave the Loft. That’s why it’s so congested.”

How then had Renner removed the plans to borrow them overnight?

“What about managers? Are they governed by the same rules?”

“Of course. But managers supervise the modifications. They don’t actually do the drawing.” Beth came to a halt. She nodded to the door in front of us. “Except for Mr. Renner. He’s old school. Insists on doing the department’s high-level drawings himself.”

Goose bumps skated across my shoulders. “Aaah…”

She opened the door and we stepped smartly into a small anteroom. Mrs. Kovacizki stood in an open doorway on our left.

“Why, Beth,” she said. “Good morning.”

Mrs. Kovacizki was a short dumpling of a woman, with a rounded face, delicate nose, and rosy circles blooming on full cheeks. Her light hair, threaded with silver, was pulled off her face, then braided and secured in a coiled crown atop her head. She wore a brown cotton sack dress with a leaf motif in muted fall tones. The frock made her look motherly, rather than professional, as she folded her hands over her rounded middle.

“I was about to get some dictation Mr. Renner left for me last night in the say-ay…” Her eyes darted and she hesitated.

My heart sank. She had been about to say
safe
.

“But what a nice surprise,” she continued. “And who did you bring with you?”

Beth grinned. “Pucci Lewis, the reporter who’s going to write about Wanda.” She was referring to Wanda Sands, the subject of my purported interview.

Proper introductions followed with Mrs. Kovacizki insisting that I call her “Mrs. K,” like everyone else. “Oh, but this is wonderful,” she beamed. “Otto’s, er, Mr. Renner’s report will have to wait.” With a swoosh of her hand, she dismissed her boss, her assignment, and the location of the safe.

“No, please. Get that dictation tape you were after first. I don’t want to interrupt.”

The ends of Mrs. K’s desk and typewriter stand had been pushed together to form an L, with the typewriter stand abutting the door to Renner’s office. Circling her desk and dropping into her secretarial chair, she acted as though she hadn’t heard me.

“It’s a zoo out there,” Beth said. “I have to get back to my station.” On her way out, she reminded me I would need an escort when I wanted to leave. “Call me when you’re ready.”

Mrs. K gestured to a pair of wooden chairs across the desk from her. “Have a seat.”

A window in the wall behind her stretched from waist to ceiling. Venetian blinds, which could be shut for privacy, had been pulled up. I selected the chair affording a panoramic view inside her boss’ office.

I squared my satchel on my lap. Mrs. K’s eyes were a vivid blue, nearly the same hue as Beth’s sapphire, and if I read the twinkling in them correctly, she was bursting to share something with me.

“Beth’s like a daughter to me,” she said. “This may be a big place, but with some it’s like we’re family.”

She was being coy. “Uh-huh.” I smiled, inviting her to continue.

“Well, we are family. What I mean is Beth is my daughter’s best friend.
One
of my daughters, that is. The one you’ve come to interview.”

My spine straightened. “Your daughter is Wanda Sands?”

“Yes,” Mrs. K chortled, clapping her hands.

A sinking feeling had begun settling over me. Mrs. K was
in favor of
my writing the article. Was it possible the interview would actually be arranged? Dante had been so sure of Renner’s opposition that we hadn’t bothered discussing such a scenario. Now the possibility loomed before me. And I had done nothing to prepare.

“You might want to read an article I brought along to assess my writing style first,” I said, unzipping my pouch, fumbling for the article about Mad Max.

Mrs. K dismissed the idea with a limp-wristed wave, claiming someone from “upstairs” had already sent along one of my stories for review. “It was a fine piece. You’re an excellent writer.”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled modestly, although I remembered being impressed by the true author’s talent as well. “What about Mr. Renner? He needs to bless the interview before I can actually start, right?”

“Well, of course. But that’s merely a formality. Otto will agree.”

“How do you know?” I swallowed. “I mean that’s wonderful, but how can you be so sure?”

“Women deserve more recognition for the way we’ve stepped up to the line.” She giggled. “Assembly line, that is. Otto is always saying so himself. And Wanda is an inspiring example. She quit working once she married, but when Ted was shipped overseas, she needed a distraction. She applied here. In our family we try to sidestep unpleasantries by keeping busy rather than dwelling on them,” she explained. “Especially when it comes to matters over which you have no control. Like war. Once Wanda got over the shock of working full-time again, well, she wanted to give it her very best. So she enrolled in a factory course.”

“At the airplane school?” Searls, my pimply-faced escort, had pointed the facility out to me. Built adjacent to the plant, it was nearly as large as the Administration Building. The school’s tuition-free curriculum, developed for the factory’s mechanics and other technicians to help them keep up to speed, was also open to any other interested employees.

She nodded eagerly. “Yes. The sessions are staggered to accommodate all shifts. Wanda took every engineering drawing class offered. She was only a draftsman when she started but after nearly two years of specialized courses—” Mrs. K paused, practically shivering with pride, “she was one of only two women selected for Tool Design. Now she’s designing long drill jigs for parts of our B-24s’ wings and hulls.”

“She’s accomplished a lot. Think she’ll stick with it once her husband comes home?”

“It’s the education that’s valuable. After all, there’s no way of knowing what will be in store when her Teddy comes home.” She slumped a little in her chair. “If he does.” Silence followed.

“You said you have another daughter, Mrs. K?” I asked, filling the awkward gap.

Her bosom swelled. “Yes. Gisela is an assembly-line inspector.”

“Here at Willow Run?”

“Yes. At first she thought of being a riveter but, ugh, that’s noisy, dirty work. And Gisela is small, like me.” She smoothed the front of her dress, pulling the leaf-print fabric taut over her globe belly, and laughed. “But not so round. It was Otto, in fact, who encouraged her to try for the position.”

“Hmmm.” While Mrs. K rattled off the preparatory courses Gisela had taken, mathematics, precision instruments, rivet theory, care and use of various metals and so on, I began committing the layout of Renner’s office to memory.

Mounted on the wall straight ahead was an oversized blueprint of the plant floor, color-coded to identify production and non-production areas, including offices. Nearby, a large drafting table faced two tall exterior windows. To the left, I could see an edge of his desk. The rest of it, as well as the rest of the room, was blocked by the section of wall housing the office doorway.

Mrs. K had paused as if awaiting my response. I had only been half-listening.

“So, Gisela has a unique job as well,” I said. “What does she inspect, exactly?”

“Because she’s small and can get into places other inspectors can’t—to put a testing gauge on a part, for example—she’s usually on the wing sections.”

“With the dwarfs?”

Mrs. K blinked. “Why, yes. Their size makes them invaluable for working inside the main wing on the final assembly phase. Gisela spot checks their work.”

I nodded. “I saw one of them on my way here. Blond, bowl cut…”

“Chaplin,” Mrs. K said. “He works with Gisela. Actually, for her.” Mrs. K smiled. “Drops by here now and then. Surprised me more than once. I’m small, he’s smaller.” She hesitated. “Say…maybe you could interview Gisela, too. Write a story highlighting sisters who are employed in unique but different positions in the same plant.”