Killer Look

THIRTY-EIGHT

I called Ty D’Auria, the owner of Citadel, a top-tier security firm built by a brilliant ex-detective who had cornered the business for the most important events in Manhattan at all the prime locations-specializing in events featuring art, antiques, jewels, and fashion.

Ty had promised to let Mike and Mercer in to pose as part of his staff tonight. I asked for the same privilege-I didn’t want a ticket to sit on the edge of the runway-and the assurance that he wouldn’t even tell them that I might be mingling with the ritzy crowd.

Done. I simply had to present my office ID at the basement service entrance and one of the guys from Citadel would walk me up to Dendur.

I never used much makeup, but I knew enough to put on a layer of instant bronzer to hide the pallor that the last month of my life had cast over my face. That suntan would fool anyone running into me. I put on rouge, dark eyeliner, and thick black mascara. I did a double-take in the mirror to make sure it was really me, and I smiled back at the woman who appeared to look so trashy.

Mike texted me midafternoon: “Tied up. Nothing to report.”

That was an oxymoronic message. Too busy to call me, but no news?

Everything seemed to fuel my instability. I could feel myself spinning out of control but also felt helpless to stop it.

I put on a baseball cap and my ski jacket, lowered my head on my way past the doormen so the makeup didn’t freak them out, and walked out of my building carrying a sail bag with my high heels and pantyhose.

Mrs. Stafford’s co-op was ten blocks north and a few east of mine. There was a store along the way called Ricky’s-part of a chain in the city-that carried every conceivable product related to skin, nails, and hair. I zigged and zagged on the avenues until I found the local branch.

“How may I help you?” the salesgirl asked.

“I’m looking for a wig.”

“Follow me. Could be your lucky day.”

“It hasn’t felt like it until you said that.”

“Well, we’ve got a whole section in the back that’s on sale. Half-price. All the leftover wigs and costumes from Halloween.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I love a bargain.”

“Tell me what you’re looking for. Color? Style?”

“I was hoping you’d have something sort of flapperish, if you know what I mean? Like the really good-looking sister on Downton Abbey,” I said.

“That was huge this year. All that upstairs and downstairs stuff. The show is so popular I can’t imagine what people are going to do now that it’s over,” she said, looking back at me. “You want a blond one? Like your own hair but shorter?”

“Black, actually. My dress is black.”

“You want the wavy look or a straight sort of bob?”

Once we reached the overstock area, the salesgirl reached into a huge cardboard box and came out with a handful of wigs.

“That one,” I said, pointing to a short black number. “My hair is naturally curly. I want to get away from that look for a night.”

“I can understand,” she said. “Ever done this before?”

“A wig? No, no. I haven’t.”

“It’s real quiet in here. If this is for tonight and you want me to help you get it on right, I’m happy to do that.”

“Very kind of you,” I said. “I accept.”

“So with tax, half price off, the wig is twenty-seven dollars. Is that okay?”

“Couldn’t be better,” I said.

My adrenaline was pumping. After all these weeks of being the new, confused, and always-nervous Alex Cooper, I was going to escape into a totally different identity.

“I’ll take off the tags and we can go over to the mirror against the wall,” the salesgirl said. “You okay if I sell you a tight net too? They’re only a few bucks, and it will keep your own hair in place much better. Looks way more natural.”

We were both laughing as the twentysomething pulled all the wisps of my blond hair under the netting. I faced her and bent my head down, and after she fitted the wig in place I straightened up and turned back to the mirror.

“Awesome!” she said. “You’re not the same woman I was talking to a few minutes ago. I bet you could fool your own mother.”

“That’s thanks to you.”

“You just need a headband. I swear I’m not trying to pad your bill, ma’am, but if you look at the photograph on the plastic bag, you’ll see that with this kind of wig-this 1920s look-you really need a headband with it.”

By the time I walked out of the store, I had a completely new air about me. The cubic zirconia band that fit across my forehead and under my bob was temporarily tucked in with my shoes and pantyhose.

I was about to cross the avenue and approach Mrs. Stafford’s building. There was a fancy liquor store on the near corner, so I stopped in and bought a bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. The single malt, served neat, was her favorite drink.

The doorman was my first test. He didn’t recognize me and seemed startled even after I gave my name.

The door was open and I walked in. Mrs. Stafford was in the library, catching the last of the afternoon sun in an armchair against the window.

“It can’t be you, Alexandra!” she said. “What’s happened to all those golden ringlets?”

I leaned down to embrace her warmly. “They’re somewhere under here.”

“You know how I love drama, but I’m glad you warned me you were coming.”

We talked for half an hour, a bit about my recovery, but she had a keen sense of understanding, so mostly about Joan and her husband, and plans for Thanksgiving and the Christmas holidays.

“Do you mind if I get dressed now?” I asked, after a respectable period of time had passed.

“You’ll find everything you need in the guest room,” she said. “Leave that awful canvas bag here with your ski jacket. You can always pass by here tomorrow to pick them up.”

“Not to worry. I’ll drop all my things with my doorman on my way to the museum. All I need is my ID and cab fare home. He’ll hang on to my key and my bag and my cell,” I said, making my way upstairs to the guest room.

I’d have the entire security staff looking over things. I wouldn’t even have need of the phone.

I had spent many nights in the guest room when Joan and I were much younger. It was easy to make myself at home.

I put on the underpinnings and then stepped in to the drop-waisted, low-cut straight dress. It was an elegant black chiffon fabric with a black silk bodice. The Savage Couture label was intact, and a small black wolf’s head-the ubiquitous logo-was worked into the lavish design of bugle beads that covered the garment, front and back.

The skirt was short and the strips of cloth that shaped it gave it what designers called the ‘car wash’ effect-like the strips that smacked an automobile’s surface to dry it as it passed through the machine.

I took a couple of twirls in front of the mirror. The dress was frisky and fun, and there was no sign of Alexandra Cooper anywhere in sight. It was a hell of a lot more chic-and easier to move around in-than the floor-length toga I had wasted my money on.

I went downstairs to the library, where Mrs. Stafford was engrossed in the day’s Wall Street Journal.

“What a hoot,” she said, standing up to turn me around. “I’d love to come with you, Alexandra. You’re going to have a grand evening.”

“From your mouth, Mrs. Stafford.”

She walked over to her desk and picked up a large suede pouch. “My Joanie was right,” she said, dumping the contents of the bag into her hand. “You do need pearls with that number.”

“Don’t be mad,” I said, holding my arms straight out and shaking my head. “I’d never go anywhere with a piece of your jewelry. You can’t do that.”

“Be still, Alex. It’s my travel jewelry. No one needs to know,” she said. “They’re fakes, but good-looking fakes. The real pearls are in the vault.”

“I don’t trust you entirely on that,” I said. “I know how generous you are with all your things.”

“Well, you’ll just have to trust me,” she said, walking over to me and doubling the long strand around my neck. “You look naked without them.”

I kissed her on both cheeks.

“I can’t have you being naked in public, can I?” she said, taking her seat again.

“Then we’ll have to toast to my coming out-as whoever this is.”

“Oh, just be Joan. Joan Stafford. Everyone will be confused, but it’s just one evening.”

I had brought the bottle of scotch downstairs with me. “Still your favorite?” I asked, holding it up for her to see.

“Divine. Use those glasses on the shelf behind the desk.”

I opened the bottle and poured us each a healthy snort of Macallan. I carried her glass to her.

“Cheers, Mrs. Stafford,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“Courage, Alexandra. That was always my father’s toast,” she said. I knew that she was thinking of my current life circumstances, not about her father at all. “You must always have courage.”